John Gardner - Seafire

He was now about half a mile behind his quarry, and thought that far away behind him he heard the wail of a police siren. By this time he was touching speeds of just under a hundred miles an hour, which meant that the bike he was chasing was reaching a speed well in excess of 100mph. It flashed through his mind that, with a passenger on the bike, the torque on the machine must at times reach a dangerous level.

As it was, Bond could feel the forces of gravity on his own bike and upon himself. While it was exhilarating, there were moments when the wheels hit small indentations that caused the bike to lift and bounce. Even with the helmet and visor, his body was at times pressed back in the saddle, and he found his brain making decisions well in advance of reaching other traffic.

They hit a long incline. He could hear and feel the first strain on the engine, so he shifted down quickly, opening up the throttle again to maintain speed. Slowly, he realized, he was beginning to gain on his opponent.

They were on a three-lane highway now with no oncoming traffic, the main hazard being cars and trucks that did not bother to signal when changing lanes. The speed and power were exhilarating, and he had to focus his concentration, constantly dragging his mind back to the Harley now only a couple of hundred yards in front of him.

Without warning, he saw the bike suddenly veer off to the right, rider and passenger leaning over as the machine took a forty-five-degree angle, then righted itself and shot across the three lines of traffic, disappearing through an exit ramp.

Bond signaled and saw a large heavy van moving to the left behind him. He opened the throttle wide, leaned with the tilt as the Daytona began to angle over, heard the rasping horn of the van as it braked when he crossed directly in front of it to get into the far-right lane. The exit ramp came up very fast, and he felt the rear wheel begin to lose traction swinging outward. He shifted down, tapped the brake, and hauled the bike back to the straight and level as he shot into the exit.

Now he knew where they were heading, for he caught a glimpse of the green and white sign that said "Itálica." They were going into the very womb of the Roman Empire, the remains of the large Roman town where both the Emperors Hadrian and Trajan had been born. Ahead was a ticket point with a large notice in four languages saying the ruins were closed. He also saw the brake lights of the Harley as it whipped through the entrance, dipped, and headed up the path leading to the sprawl of skeleton buildings rising up the hillside. A great view to his right, and, slightly ahead, the steep slope that, like a bowl in the earth, contained the remains of Itálica's amphitheater. He was chasing a pair of modern murderers into one of Europe's cradles of history.

Once more Bond opened the throttle in an attempt to get even closer, but this was no place for speed. He saw the bike slew to the left, down what had once been a narrow cobbled street, but when he reached the turn there was no sign of his prey. He retarded the throttle so that the bike was barely idling, straining in the saddle to try and catch the sound of their engine, but the world had suddenly gone silent and his mind sprang forward, latching on to the worst possibility – that the couple on the Harley had a prearranged meeting here in the shadows. If that was the case, he had lost, so he might just as well get out now and save what was left.

Bond reminded himself that he had never given up on an assignment yet, reaching inside the leather jacket to slowly remove the ASP and one spare magazine. He switched off the Daytona's engine, then, with his back against the old dry and crumbling remains of the buildings, he inched forward. Instinctively, he felt that he was being watched.

It was some twenty yards to the end of the street. The first shot came as he reached the point where the cobbles ended and the remains of the buildings ran into what was virtually a T-junction. He heard the crack as the bullet hit the stone just to the left of his head, gouging a small crater, splaying dust that fell across his visor.

He ducked to the right, flicking the visor up and jumping into the ruined street that formed the crosspiece of the T, fanning his hands in a wide circle, gripping the butt of the pistol a shade too tightly.

There was movement to his left and he reacted, swinging his body in that direction without moving his feet, squeezing off the standard two shots. The figure was too quick for him, ducking back down an alley before the first bullet struck the wall where, a split second earlier, the man had been standing.

He turned again, knowing that the two men were trying to circle him, coming in a pincer movement. Sweeping his hands from left to right, back hard against the stone, he whirled in the direction of the target he had just missed. As he wheeled to his left a second time, something moved in the periphery of his vision. This time he was faster, hands coming up to a firing position and centering the guttersnipe sight of the ASP on the black-clad figure's chest.

The two rounds he fired both slammed into the target, ripping at the leather, sending a sickening gout of blood and viscous matter into the wall behind him. Now the odds had evened.

He turned left again, reached the junction where a line of uneven ruins made another rough street, parallel to the one in which he had left the Daytona. For a second his mind drifted and he felt that he was among ghosts, the men, women, and children who had once peopled this place; laughing, arguing, loving, and dying. Taking a deep breath he moved, stepping out cleanly, in a firing position, ready to take out anything that lay in his path.

The street was empty, but he could see that the man he stalked might easily be crouched within one of the undulating, fragmented buildings. The ground under his feet began to angle down. For a second he looked past the end of this row of bleached masonry and saw the beginning of the fantastic view that looked out right across the Guadalquivir Plain. This one lapse of attention almost cost him his life, for this time two bullets came from the left, shattering the stillness and hitting the old stonework to ricochet with a deadly whine within inches of his face.

He returned the fire, shooting only in the general direction from which it had come. In the quiet that followed he could hear the thudding of boots moving away from the clumps of stone.

He took off down what was left of the street, changing magazines as he did so, feeling a terrible draft of frustration as a motorcycle engine burst into life from nearby. The second killer had got to his – Bond's – machine, and he hurtled down the slight hill, pistol still in both hands as he came out on the edge of the ruins. He saw the motorbike moving slowly to his left, disappearing from view, toward the plain that stretched below.

As he reached the open he saw it again, rushing down a grassy slope, heading straight for the remains of the town's amphitheater, now an irregular oval of stone benches, with the big acting area far below. The Daytona was bumping almost casually down what had once been an aisle leading through the seating, the rider trying desperately to put on speed, but braking constantly to keep balance on the sheer angle of the hillside.

It was a long shot for a pistol, but his hands were steady as he brought the sights to bear. Later he realized that he must have fired off practically a whole magazine of ammunition. He felt the weapon jumping in his hands and saw the little explosions of dust around the motorbike, then the two shots that caught its rider in the back, lifting him into the air and returning him to the saddle, his body slumping over the handlebars. As the Daytona slewed to one side, now out of control, Bond reflexed, putting two more shots in the vicinity of the target.