Harlan's Race

clients to safety.
    We slipped past the latrines, out of the cops’ sight. The cyclist was almost to the tree line now, ambling along like a druggie, looking in his backpack for something.
    “Lance, Bob, Johnny,” Chino said into his walkie. “Hippie coming from your 5 o’clock. I’m in pursuit.”
    The three of us ambled after him, trying to look casual. Spotting a stout two-foot piece of limb on the ground, I scooped it up, so I’d have a weapon. Vince picked up a rock.
    “The bicycle pump is the gun,” said Chino.
    “You’re kidding,” I said.
    “It looks like a single-shot weapon, and he’s still got the round chambered. He’s hoping we’ll follow him. That’s why he didn’t just lose himself in the crowd. He’s going to try something.”
    Suddenly, when we were well into the trees, our quarry ditched his backpack and bike, and bolted into the brush.
    Chino jammed his walkie in his pocket and the three of us blitzed after him. Adrenaline and rage amped a new blast of energy into Vince and me.
    The forested center of the course was now empty of spectators. Lance and Bob were out there somewhere. Ahead, we heard our quarry racing, slashing through the young eucalyptus trees and foliage. Here, no trees were big enough to hide behind, so he just kept going. Now and then we got fleeting glimpses — he was carrying the rusty barrel of the bicycle pump like it was a pistol. No silencer was visible. His footfalls crashed on the dried leaves and bark. As we crashed after him, we could barely hear him over our own noise. Tree trunks, branches, went slashing by. Chino hand-signalled Vince to break to the right, me to the left — the man might try the evasion trick of slowing and doubling back. If we were more spread out, we could catch him doing this.
    So we obeyed, and kept running.
    Chino stayed unerringly on the track, following the broken branches, foliage stirring, fresh footsteps in the fallen leaves and bark. He had not drawn his .38. There was so much foliage in the way, that a shot was out of the question. And the sound of a shot would have the LAPD all over us.
    The circle of forest was a little over a mile across. Where was the cyclist trying to get to? His car?
    Two minutes into our run, we came to some huge old eucalyptus, their trunks magnificently twisted by decades of beating santa anas. Chino stopped dead behind one of them, and we both did the same.
    We tried to stifle the sound of our own panting, to hear him running somewhere. But there was only silence. Our quarry had hidden somewhere too, behind one of those trees, maybe inside a hollow one, wanting to get behind us. It was eerie. No music or announcer could be heard here —just the distant sound of planes going into LAX. Amid the eucalyptus leaves, we waited. The scent of eucalyptus filled our laboring lungs. Sweat was pouring over me now, from the Kevlar shirt in the midday September heat.
    We waited. Waited. And waited. Vince almost moved, but Chino, behind his tree a yard away, made a “quiet” signal with his hand.
    Quietly Chino picked up a pebble and made a soft overhand throw toward a massive half-dead tree. It stood
    15 yards from where I believed the quarry had stopped. The pebble hit the dry leaves, and we heard a rustle as our man flinched, there behind the tree. With Vince and me still flanking, we worked from tree to tree toward him. When our quarry saw our maneuver, he broke and ran straight ahead in a different direction.
    Now he was heading past the belt of brush at Hide A. Again we fanned out to keep him from angling again. Damn, he was fast. We were faltering, floundering, falling behind, fighting our way through brush — losing sight of him. His tie-dye was a good camouflage. Now and then, we lost his sound entirely — he must be finding bare places or rocks to put his feet. Vince and I were exhausted from the race and the sudden heat, and Chino wasn’t as trained as we. But somehow we pulled energy out of nothing.
    Three minutes later, the road was ahead.
    Our quarry dashed across it. Traffic was moving normally now, and a car missed hitting him by inches.
    We crossed the road, too, past some staring cyclists, and charged on.
    As we were crashing down into a little swale, he was way ahead of us — going up the slope on the other side, out of sight, into the brush.
    Just beyond was the deep ravine. Did our quarry know about it? Way to my right, Chino pointed ahead, reminding me about the ravine.
    We were