Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [120]
While Swain and his men struggled to get a bead on him in the thick darkness, Jack threw off the line, shots gouging the dock above him. The forty-horse power Yamaha outboard roared defiantly and Jack took off, more shots punching the water behind him, Swain’s shouts in his wake.
“Go! After him!”
But Jack was already out of reach. The acceleration of the Novurania was flawless. There was no hesitation in the slightly choppy waters as the boat responded easily to the throttle control.
The shore was only a quarter mile away but there was nothing there save for desolation, no sign of civilization. Jack knew they would catch him on the two-mile run to the nearest roadway, especially with him losing blood. He had a better idea. Maxing out the engine, he steered toward the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, trying to squeeze as much speed from the RIB as he could.
Jack heard a motor fire up behind him and turned to see that two of Swain’s thugs had commandeered one of the boats from the other side of the dock and were already headed in his direction.
Good luck, he thought gravely. The boats were bigger but they were also slower. They didn’t have a chance in hell of catching him.
That didn’t keep them from shooting, however. The muffled sounds of gunfire punched through the night, bullets whizzing past Jack’s head. They probably sounded closer than they were though Jack couldn’t take that chance. He ducked and returned fire until his ammo was spent.
He kept goosing the throttle, heading for one of the towers of the bridge. He could see the lights of the bridge through the fog—dim, beautiful beacons on top of the main towers used to warn away low-flying aircraft. Having boated by the area hundreds of times, he remembered the built-in maintenance ladders that led toward the roadway above. He could hear the bridge as he saw it, the bounce of his own engine coming back at him as it struck the stanchion.
Covered by the fog, Jack tied a rope to the Novurania’s engine and climbed out. He had sent the boat toward Tiburon, some four miles to the west, then he clambered onto the landing where the workers’ ladders began.
More shots were fired—at the boat, not him—as he grabbed hold of the ladder and worked his way upward, slowly, painfully, rung by rung. Jack was halfway up when he heard his pursuer’s boat roar by, headed in the direction of the RIB.
As he reached the top of the bridge, Jack paused to slip off his belt and use it as a tourniquet. Then he threw a hand up trying to flag someone down, but all he got were squealing tires and angry horn blasts in return. The bright red blood staining his shirt wasn’t exactly a stoplight and the gun in his hand didn’t help much, either.
There wasn’t time to walk. A carjacking? Bring the damn thing full circle?
Then he remembered something else. He recalled seeing workers on bicycles up here. Maintenance personnel used them to move around on the roadway. He needed to find where they kept them.
He took off down the bridge roadway, looking left, right, and ahead as he shambled along. He found the bikes chained to a rail near the end of the bridge. The chain was held in place by a padlock—an old Wilson Bohannan, brass case, brass shackle. He’d finally caught a break.
Jack knelt beside the bikes, not caring whether anyone saw him or not. Let someone call the cops; at least Jack would get a phone call and he could let Tony know what was going on.
Holding the laser pointer in his mouth, Jack focused it on the Glock. The slide stop lever was set in a ridge in the trigger pin. He pushed on the trigger pin as he wiggled the slide stop lever. That enabled him to push the trigger pin and the upper pin free. Using the gun parts as a lock pick, he went to work. In less than a minute the chain was off. Sliding the pieces of the Glock into his pants pocket, he sat on an old two-wheeler that was badly rusted by the sea breeze. It worked fine, if noisily, and he churned down the road to the Richmond side,