Rocketing down Hubbard, Harvath blew the stop sign and pulled an incredibly hard left on State that sent the bike shooting out of control through the intersection. He narrowly missed slamming into the side of a northbound green-and-white Chicago Transit Authority bus complete with a billboard encouraging young men and women to join the Army for excitement. The Army? How about the Secret Service?
Harvath chased Nidal three blocks north, where he turned and headed east. By this time, Harvath was only a half block behind and closing the distance fast. Nidal pulled out of the street traffic and raced up the sidewalk. Harvath followed right behind. Because of the wet conditions, Scot lost control several more times and thought for sure he was going down, but mercifully he got things under control at the last second. There was no doubt that this ride was taking years off his life.
When the dueling motorcycles hit Michigan Avenue, Nidal removed a Micro-Uzi from beneath his jacket. Harvath saw the weapon, but not before Nidal let loose with a rolling wall of nine-millimeter lead that tore through several cars and shop windows on both sides of him.
Harvath desperately wanted to unleash his own weapon, but as he was right-handed, to do so meant he would have to let go of the gas-something he couldn’t do at this point if he hoped to keep up with Nidal. Though he was good at shooting with his left hand, he wasn’t that good.
They continued racing east, with Harvath trying at every chance to overtake Nidal. At the next intersection, he turned south and Harvath followed right behind. They crossed the Chicago River and Nidal headed toward the lake, but then slammed on his brakes and pulled a U-turn, rocketing down onto lower Wacker Drive.
The pair were now out of the rain and on dry pavement. Harvath gunned the Ducati for everything it was worth. They darted around astounded commuters at speeds over ninety miles an hour. Even if Harvath could have removed his Secret Service issued SIG Sauer, there were too many innocent people within his field of fire.
At the next bridge, Nidal pulled an almost impossible right turn and shot beneath upper Michigan Avenue, then grabbed the first left. Harvath let go of the handle bar and reached behind with his left hand. He unholstered his SIG Sauer P229, swung it around, and let several rounds fly. All of them went wide of their mark, except for one, which barely missed hitting Nidal and instead took out his entire taillight assembly.
Nidal took another sharp left and sped down a dark service ramp toward the river. When Harvath hit the ramp seconds later, he could smell the noxious odor of brake smoke and melted tires. His entrance was greeted with another tidal wave of nine-millimeter rounds, two of which caught the front of the Ducati and sent him into an irrecoverable slide. Harvath ditched the bike and crashed end over end in a painful roll down the concrete ramp. When he finally came to a stop, he pulled the helmet from his head and saw the bike totaled against the far wall. Because his adrenaline was still pumping, he had yet to feel the effects of the fall, but he knew it was just a matter of time before the pain set in.
It took Harvath only a moment to find his gun and when he did, he pointed it down the ramp as he slowly picked his way to the bottom. He was inside some sort of underground service entrance. Train tracks ran off to his right and electric and gas company trucks were parked pell-mell beneath the dim fluorescent lighting. There was neither sight nor sound of Hashim Nidal until a loud roar ripped through the underground tunnel. Harvath recognized it right away-marine engines.
He ran toward the murky daylight coming from the end of the service tunnel, where a small indoor-outdoor marina opened up onto the river. The marina master was yelling as Nidal finished untying a swift thirty-eight-foot Baja and sped away from the partially covered pier. The only other thing in the water when Harvath reached the dock was a thirty-foot twin-screw Cigarette Mystique, which thankfully had the keys in it. Apparently, the marina master had prepped both boats for optimistic owners who hoped the weather would clear so they would get a nice day out on Lake Michigan. It looked as though they were going to have to make other plans.
As Harvath slammed both throttles forward and adjusted the trim tabs to help pop the Cigarette out of the hole, the rain hit him full force in the face. It reminded him exactly of Macau. Except this time he was chasing the silver-eyed assassin by boat instead of by car. That was fine by Harvath. Knowing water the way he did gave him the edge.
Nidal wisely avoided the locks that opened onto the lake, knowing full well he’d be a sitting duck, and headed west. Just after the Merchandise Mart, he swamped a Wendella sight-seeing boat and managed to sneak around it as it turned sideways. Harvath had to slow down considerably to get around the boat, and it cost him valuable time.
Reaching the north-south fork, Nidal steered his boat as if he was going to go north under the Kinzie Street Bridge, and then swung the Baja hard to port and aimed it due south. Once again, he withdrew his Micro-Uzi and fired, the rounds tearing up the bow of Harvath’s Cigarette. Scot ducked beneath the wraparound windshield to avoid being hit and, when he looked up again, realized he was perilously off-course. He jerked the wheel hard to starboard, sideswiping a construction barge parked on the east side of the river, and tore up the left side of his boat.
The howling wind and pounding rain made it impossible to see, much less aim, but Harvath had little choice and fired away. He had no idea if his shots were finding their mark or not. If they were, the Baja showed no signs of slowing. They passed beneath the Lake, Randolph and Washington Street Bridges, the sound of their roaring engines reverberating off the façades of the concrete-and-glass buildings that fronted the river.
At the Adams Street Bridge, Harvath saw a searing white light race from Nidal’s Baja and strike the engine compartment of another sight-seeing boat floating just off Union Station. He had never figured Chicago boaters for safety nuts, but apparently whoever owned the Baja kept a flare gun aboard, and the wrong person had found it. Nidal managed to get around the sight-seeing boat just as an explosion rocked through the engine compartment and blew a gaping hole in the hull. Passengers jumped, screaming, into the water as the boat quickly caught fire. Once again, Harvath had to pull back on the throttles, and once again, he lost valuable time.
After Harrison Street, the Chicago River opened up into a long straightaway. If he was going to catch Nidal, this would have to be place to do it. He tried to coax every ounce of speed he could from the Cigarette, and around Taylor Street, it looked as if the effort was paying off. Through the torrential rain, just ahead, he could make out the stern of Nidal’s Baja.
The gap was closing, but something was wrong. It was closing too fast. For a moment, Harvath let himself believe that one of his rounds had hit home and had caused the Baja to slow, but when he realized what was really happening, the searing bolt of a flare was almost on top him. He turned the Cigarette hard to port and played right into Nidal’s hands. Though the flare missed, rounds from the Micro-Uzi ripped down the starboard side of the Cigarette. Smoke began pouring from the starboard engine, and Harvath had no choice but to shut it down.
Running on one engine now, he pushed the remaining throttle as far as it would go and headed right for Nidal before he could load another flare and come around for a second attack. Harvath raised his SIG and pulled the trigger repeatedly until he heard the empty click of the spent magazine. In one fluid motion, he ejected the old clip and slammed in a fresh one, but it was too late. With Harvath operating on only one engine, Hashim Nidal had more horsepower and could easily outrun him. The driving rain had cut visibility down to nothing. With alarms buzzing and engine warning lights flashing, Harvath backed off on the remaining throttle and limped down the river, hoping against hope that maybe he’d catch a break and still be able to come across Nidal.