Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [19]
“Aren’t soldiers just cops with bigger guns and air cover?”
He smiles. “Touché. But soldiers get sent into messy situations, try to fix them, then get sent home. Our incentive is survival. Being a soldier is like working for a start-up, having real motivation,” he says, pauses, then continues. “Let’s break open a great story.”
“Let me think about it, Chuck,” I say. “But I should go.”
As I turn to leave, he grabs my arm. “You’re always in a hurry.”
I look at his hand, and he quickly retracts it.
“Sorry. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help you.”
“Not grab my arm.”
He clears his throat. “Fair enough. I’m prideful too.”
I’m irritated but want to sound deferential.
“Can I call you later, or put a pot out on my balcony to arrange another meeting?”
Before he can answer, I hear the roar of a car. I look up. Coming down the ordinarily serene street from our left is a Humvee with tinted windows, sun glancing off its black hood.
“Global warming explained,” I say.
I look back at Chuck, and see his eyes go wide and pupils constrict to a point. Extreme and sudden fear.
Chapter 9
A flash of light and a staccato burst. Spat, spat, spat, spat, spat. A blur of motion as Chuck dives toward me and tackles me to the ground. My backpack goes flying.
“Son of a bitch!” he screams. His full weight blankets me. Limp.
“Chuck!” For a moment, he doesn’t respond and I’m sure he’s dead or mortally wounded.
“Foot,” he groans, and suddenly stands.
I crane my neck and see the Humvee speeding away. Dull pain pulses in my elbow where it slammed against the pavement. I rise more slowly than G.I. Chuck.
He grabs his ankle. There is a glaze of red on his hand. “Stay down, Chuck.”
“It’s a scratch.”
He’s getting one of nature’s most powerful drugs, a heavy outpouring of neuro-chemicals that outweigh the pain and enable him to flee danger. But the danger’s screeched off and Chuck needs to not aggravate the wound. We both look at the blood on his hand and I’m relieved to find it is just a spattering, confirming his impulse that he’s been lightly wounded.
“I graduated med school.” I take a few deep breaths to slow my heart rate down. “Let me look.”
He hops backwards. “What are you involved with?!”
“I’ll call the cops.” I pull out my cell phone.
Then he hops forward, with surprising alacrity, adrenaline screaming through him. His hand swoops forward and grabs my phone hand.
“Are you crazy?” he says. “Let’s go after him.”
“We need to call an ambulance. You’re in shock.”
“Call while you’re driving,” he says, releasing my hand and hobbling toward my car.
I again see all the zeal and risk tolerance that has made this guy a part of both the military and the venture-capital community.
I start to dial 911 on my phone but get only as far as “9” when my own competitive zeal bristles. I retrieve my backpack and storm past Chuck to my car, popping the door locks up with my key ring on the way.
I climb in my side. Chuck does the same, moving well for a shot guy.
I toss my backpack in back. I usually dump it in the passenger seat.
I put the key into the ignition. I turn the key. The engine won’t turn over. I try again. I make sure the car is in park, not neutral or drive. I try the key again. No luck. The engine is dead.
“Motherfucker!” Chuck shouts, and pounds his hand on the sun-cracked dashboard.
He climbs out of the car. As I watch wordlessly, he hobbles across the street. He pulls keys from the pocket of his long coat, clicks open a blue convertible BMW, and climbs in.
“Chuck!”
“I’m going after him.” He climbs into the car. “Get the bullet casings.”
“You’re in shock.” I shout my earlier admonition as I get out of the car.
He starts his engine. He pulls a tight U-turn, and heads off in pursuit of a gunman in a gas guzzler. One day I’m nearly shot by a hybrid driver, then by a driver of a Humvee. On my side, I think, G.I. Chuck in his sports car. I’m in the middle of a battle involving the entire automobile food chain.
I walk to the front of my car. Popping the hood, I immediately see the problem.