Darren Lemke - Gemini Man

Nothing happened. In the left side mirror, he saw Junior squeezing the trigger over and over, his face contorted with rage. Son of a bitch was finally empty. Henry had begun to think he had one of those magic movie pistols that never ran out of ammo. The roar of the engine behind him grew louder, rising in pitch as Junior closed the gap between them.

Another grim smile spread across Henry’s face. The kid might be out of ammo but he wasn’t—not yet, anyway—and he had no intention of wasting it on empty air. He swerved around the car in front of him and as Junior Hitman started to follow, he twisted around and shot the car’s left front tire.

As soon as he did, however, he was sorry. Henry caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver’s terrified face as the car spun out of control, tires screaming and sparks spraying up from the wheel rim grinding on the road. Junior Hitman veered into the next lane and kept going, not even glancing over his shoulder as the car collided with an SUV.

Great, Henry thought, pulling harder on the throttle; he’d just caused an accident and it hadn’t even slowed the kid down. His moment of guilt was suddenly eclipsed by déjà vu. This stretch of road looked awfully familiar. Were he and Junior Hitman going in circles now?

No, that wasn’t it, he realized, his heart sinking as he saw an even more familiar bright yellow house up ahead. Please let Baron and Danny be inside, or better yet, far away from here, Henry prayed. But of course they weren’t—still no breaks today. Baron and Danny stood together as he blew past, their faces utterly astonished. Yeah, they’d recognized him all right, and they were going to recognize Junior Hitman, too.

Henry took another turn and headed for the heart of Old Town again. Maybe if he could get Junior into one of the narrower alleys—

The police sirens seemed to be getting closer. Henry wondered what was taking them so long as Junior Hitman drew even with him on his left. A cold chill swept through him; he could see the intent on the kid’s face— his own face, his own expression, his own posture on the bike—and he was still trying to believe it was real when Junior Hitman jerked the handlebars and hit him.

Guys had tried this kind of Demolition Derby crap with him before; he had learned how to shift his weight along with the angle of the bike relative to the road. Henry felt a surge of intense gratification at the shocked expression on the kid’s face. I told you it wasn’t going to be that easy, Henry thought at him silently. And if you thought that was a shock, get ready for this . He swerved and knocked his bike into the kid, throwing in a hard left jab to his shoulder for good measure.

Junior Hitman went wobbly for a few seconds but he recovered his balance and kept the rubber side down, making it look as easy as flexing a muscle. Henry had been about his age when he had first learned the balance-counterbalance trick. It had taken a lot of hours of practice and he had sanded off a lot of leather and a few layers of skin in the process. Now he hoped having almost thirty years of experience on the kid meant he was thirty years better.

And if all else failed, Henry thought, he had the element of surprise. Junior Hitman hadn’t thought he’d have such a hard time with a so-called old guy. Easing off the throttle, Henry dropped back and came up on the kid’s left. Okay, youngster, let’s see how you do on your weak side. I’ve got twenty-plus more years of tricks, hacks and moves—what have you got?

Reflexes, Henry discovered as Junior Hitman smacked him with his bike again, throwing a left jab at his head. Henry felt the kid’s arm brush the top of his hair as he ducked, swerving away from the kid to stabilize himself. Except the kid came right with him like their bikes were tethered. He slowed, only to have the kid slow at the same moment, accelerated, and found the kid was right there with him like his reflection, or like they were doing some kind of synchronized dance at eighty miles an hour.

You little bastard, Henry thought at him, furious. But when he glanced over, Junior Hitman didn’t look smug or pleased with himself at getting under the old guy’s skin—he looked as if Henry was freaking him out.

Time to end this. Henry reached for the Glock in his waistband at the exact moment Junior surged forward and pulled over so he was directly in front of Henry.

Everything happened in only a few seconds, but later Henry’s memory played it back in slow-motion:

The back wheel of Junior Hitman’s Enduro suddenly rose up to eye level and wagged to the left. Henry sat back, trying to dodge it, and it smacked his shoulder. The sensation of spinning rubber shredding his shirt was brief but vivid as Henry went down with the bike, just as vivid as the feeling of the road scraping away his jeans and the upper layers of his skin. At that particular moment, however, the only thought in his head was the hope that he wouldn’t end up becoming an organ donor.

The outer side of his right leg felt like it had burst into flames but Henry shoved the sensation as far from his awareness as he could and concentrated on checking himself for broken bones. Nope, no fractures. He could file that with no wife, no son, no Paris, he thought, and rolled onto his belly, preparing to push himself to his hands and knees.

A crowd was gathering on the sidewalk, growing larger by the second. Apparently no one in Cartagena had ever seen a guy who’d just gotten his ass kicked and they were fascinated. Judging from their expressions, they were also squeamish. But not too squeamish to get him on video. Very few of them were actually looking at him directly; most were seeing him through their phone screens, although a couple of tourists had actual cameras. Monroe had been right; an hour from now, he’d probably be viral. Motorcycle Maniac Lays It Down To Save It. (Poor beagle.)

His grief for Monroe threatened to come bubbling up from where he’d buried it but Henry tamped it down again. There were other things to take care of first, the most urgent of them being to clear his head. He felt dazed and a little dizzy—no, a lot dizzy, he discovered as he struggled to his knees and then to his feet. Moving slowly, he straightened all the way up and immediately fell sideways, catching himself on a parked car. His inner ear didn’t seem to know the ride was over—it couldn’t decide whether he was still sliding along the road or spinning around in circles. The police sirens screaming in the distance like it was the end of the world didn’t help.

Then he heard the familiar sound of an Enduro engine, coming fast, much faster than those screaming sirens. Henry took a deep breath; apparently he and the kid weren’t done dancing. Dammit.

Henry limped away from the crowd into the middle of the street with the vague notion of drawing Junior Hitman away from the innocent bystanders; also the kid would have a harder time getting at him if he was standing in moving traffic.

Except the traffic wouldn’t keep moving. Drivers slowed down to go around him, or pulled over and stopped altogether, because this was not his day. Should he put himself between Junior Hitman and the crowd, or face the crowds himself so they weren’t in the kid’s sights? Too late—the crowd had grown so large they were all around him and he couldn’t think because the Enduro engine drowned out everything.

Henry’s vision suddenly settled down and let him see the bike was coming right at him. Like a spear, like a lightning bolt, like a missile, and son of a bitch, he couldn’t fucking move, not a step. He could only stand there, swaying a little while he waited for Junior Hitman to ride right over him. Maybe one of those distant sirens was an ambulance; with the way things were going, though, probably not.