Vickers glares. Then he decides to defuse things. He puts an arm confidentially across Dr. Trong’s shoulders. “Look, doctor, the man snipes at VIPs … He seems to have a little attitude problem.”

Dr. Trong politely moves away, out from under the Colonel’s arm, showing distaste for Vickers’ old-buddy nonsense.

Vickers continues to thrust: “This is the same clown that turned traitor and did a propaganda broadcast for Saddam’s goons. Now obviously his elevator doesn’t stop on all the floors. You were his shrink …”

Dr. Trong says, “That mean you want my freehand diagnosis? He was an unacknowledged POW in an Iraqi torture camp. They messed with his head. And he’s got a bullet lodged in here.” He points to his own head. “Poor son of a bitch is a mess. If he was a horse you’d have to shoot him.”

“The man committed treason, Doctor. And now assassination on top of it.”

“You trained him to be a killer, Colonel.”

“I didn’t train him to go on TV for the enemy.”

“The man had a head wound. Indescribable pain. He had no resistance left. Sure he broke. Tell me you wouldn’t have.”

Clay tries to calm things. “Iraq’s a few years ago. We’re dealing with right here, right now.”

Dr. Trong says, “For some people the blood still hasn’t dried.”

In an alley there’s a trashing of cans, bottles, empty cartons. Under the mess lies a motorcycle, almost completely hidden. Radford huddles in darkness. His police uniform is dirty and mussed. He’s far beyond exhaustion. He can hear an approaching police siren but it doesn’t bestir him. The sound dopplers down and fades. Radford drags the two nightsticks into his lap and slowly his face changes—anger and the beginnings of resolve—as purposefully he weaves the nightstick lanyards together …

There’s a loading bay behind a boarded-up store. Radford coasts the motorcycle to a stop, leaves it propped against the building and walks away, stumbling a bit, rubbing his head. He holds one nightstick, and the other swings from it. He’s made himself a nutcracker.

Outside Anne’s apartment court he waits, hidden by the wading pool. Nothing stirs.

Old instincts make him cautious. He moves forward like a soldier in a combat zone, from cover to cover … Finally he reaches Anne’s apartment. He warily eases close to a window and looks in.

It’s empty, silent. The furniture’s still in there but the place has been cleared out. No personal belongings remain. There are no sheets on the bed.

It’s puzzling; he tries to think it out. He isn’t tracking too well. This was his last hope; now he doesn’t know what to do. He stumbles with pain and exhaustion. Finally he moves away …

Across from the wading pool, in the opposite direction from Radford’s earlier angle of approach, Harry and Gootch wait in hiding, armed. Gootch is complaining sotto voce: “How the hell’d he get away from that fat cop?”

Harry whispers, “Son of a bitch must be able to handle a dose that’d put an elephant into a coma. Maybe built up a resistance from those pain drugs he takes … Maybe we should’ve thought of that.” Now he sees something; reacts; stiffens. “We got him, Gootch!”

Because that’s Radford across the court, cautiously poking his head out to search.

Harry lifts his gun to aim it.

But Radford is skittish and ducks back out of sight.

“Get the car,” Harry whispers, and heads toward Radford’s corner while Gootch wheels back toward the street.

Radford, passing under a half-open casement window, catches a reflection in it of Gootch running toward the parked car, the same car in which Harry drove Radford to the shooting range. Alerted, Radford fades from view.

Harry runs to the corner of the building and eases past it for a look.

It’s a mess of back yard fences and narrow passageways. The guy could’ve disappeared down any of them.

Harry knows they’ve lost him for now. “Shit.”

Fading with exhaustion Radford returns on foot to the loading bay behind somebody’s shuttered store. The motorcycle’s still here—well that’s not much of a surprise; even a Neanderthal knows better than to steal a police bike. “Which makes me a little sub-Neanderthal,” Radford thinks, not amused, as he gets the motorcycle started and gently pulls away into a street—down which is rolling Harry’s car.

Harry and Gootch are in it. They spot Radford at the same moment he spots them.

Radford peels away—just inches ahead of Harry’s car. The bike and the car squeal away as if welded together … Harry tries to run down the motorcycle. Radford zigzags just in time. The car fishtails after him … Gootch in the car is shooting at Radford … This is a terrific high-speed pursuit through alleys and sidewalks until—

The river. A deep wide concrete channel, bridged by a tubular pipe the diameter of an oil drum. Radford’s cycle roars up onto the conduit and zooms across the span—a spectacular high-wire balancing act …

Harry’s car slides to a stop. Gootch savagely keeps pulling the trigger of his pistol but it’s empty …

The motorcyclist flies off the far end of the pipe, slams down on the frontage road beyond, nearly falls over but then rights himself …

The two men glare in frustration as, across the viaduct, the cyclist disappears …

At sunset Radford rides the motorcycle gently around behind a gas station and stops. The place is closed up—deserted—its pumps taped off from the street. Construction equipment stands around, parked for the night. Radford dismounts, his face weary with pain in the sunset glow. He sags back against the wall, nearly passing out with the pain. His head lolls back and his eyes roll up …

In sudden bright sunshine we’re in the desert. Barbed wire and bomb-damaged huts.

Watched by Charlie and several Kurdish prisoners, all of them manacled hand and foot, a uniformed Iraqi aims his rifle at Radford, who sits on the ground shaking his head stubbornly “no.” The Iraqi begins to squeeze the trigger. Charlie is horrified. The rifle fires … The bullet slashes a streak across Radford’s temple. Blood spurts. Radford drops. Charlie turns his head away in anguish.

A small crowd of officials and techs is swarming around the inside of Radford’s flophouse bedroom.

Dickinson is looking at the illuminated screen of his handheld computer—scrolling down from Radford’s photograph (a fairly old one) past fingerprint boxes and vital statistics. “What’s ‘C.W.’ stand for?”

“Nothing,” Vickers says. “Just initials.”

“Kind of got shortchanged,” Commander Clay observes.

Vickers is glaring at Dr. Trong, who’s looking around the room with curious interest. Vickers says, “It doesn’t fit. You claim the guy’s practically catatonic but he went through that building full of officers like a chainsaw.”

Dr. Trong says, “He was a natural athlete. Under pressure it must’ve come back. But that’s the operative term—pressure. An assassin cares about something, even if it’s only his own rage … That profile doesn’t fit C.W. He barely exists. Barely feels. He doesn’t want to hurt anybody. He just wants to be left alone.”

Clay says, “Somebody’s robot, maybe? Wind him up and put a gun in his hand.” She’s reading the label off a prescription sheet. “Pain meds. You prescribed this.”

“I did,” Dr. Trong agrees. “And he’s about due for a refill. Look, Commander, this just doesn’t fit his pattern. One thing he’d never tolerate is someone trying to use him again.”

Vickers snorts. “The man’s a traitor and a murderer. I’m going to nail him.”

Clay says, “Yeah. Well good luck, Colonel.” Then, to Dickinson, “Walk me out.”

Outside in the night Clay and Dickinson walk toward a car. Clay hands the prescription slip to Dickinson; she says, “He forgot this. If he’s run out, maybe he’ll look for a street retailer.”

Dickinson takes the slip of paper and turns back; Clay gets in her car and drives off. That’s when the reporter, Ainsworth, intercepts Dickinson. “What’s really goin’ down, you old hairbags?”