Digital Fortress Chapter 45

David Becker wandered aimlessly belt down Avenida del Cid and tried to collect his thoughts. Muted shadows p redacted on the cobblest sensations beneath his feet. The vodka was still with him. Nothing virtually his life seemed in focus at the moment. His mind drifted back to Susan, wondering if shed gotten his phone message yet.Up ahead, a Seville Transit Bus screeched to a halt in front of a bus stop. Becker looked up. The buss doors cranked open, just now no one disembarked. The diesel railway locomotive roared back to life, but just as the bus was pulling out(a), three teenagers appeared out of a bar up the street and ran after it, yelling and waving. The engines wound down again, and the kids hurried to catch up.Thirty yards behind them, Becker stared in utter incredulity. His vision was suddenly focused, but he knew what he was seeing was impossible. It was a one-in-a-million chance.Im hallucinating.But as the bus doors opened, the kids crowded around to board. Becker saw it again. This meter he was certain. Clearly illuminated in the haze of the corner streetlight, hed seen her.The passengers climbed on, and the buss engines revved up again. Becker suddenly found himself at a full sprint, the bizarre image fixed in his mind-black lipstick, wild eye shadow, and that hair spike straight up in three distinctive spires. Red, white, and sorry.As the bus started to move, Becker dashed up the street into awake of carbon monoxide.Espera he called, running behind the bus.Beckers cordovan loafers skimmed the pavement. His usual squash agility was not with him, though he felt off balance. His brain was having trouble keeping track of his feet. He express the bartender and his jet lag.The bus was one of Sevilles older diesels, and fortunately for Becker, first gear was a long, dense climb. Becker felt the gap closing. He knew he had to reach the bus before it downshifted.The twin tailpipes choked out a cloud of thick smoke as the driver prepared to drop the bus into sustain gear. Becker strained for more speed. As he surged even with the rear bumper, Becker moved right, racing up beside the bus. He could see the rear doors-and as on all Seville buses, it was propped wide open cheap air-conditioning.Becker fixed his sights on the opening and ignored the burning sensation in his legs. The tires were beside him, shoulder high, humming at a high and higher pitch every second. He surged toward the door, missing the handle and almost losing his balance. He pushed harder. Underneath the bus, the batch clicked as the driver prepared to change gears.Hes shifting I wont make itBut as the engine cogs disengaged to align the larger gears, the bus let up ever so slightly. Becker lunged. The engine reengaged just as his fingertips curled around the door handle. Beckers shoulder almost ripped from its socket as the engine dug in, catapulting him up onto the landing.David Becker lay collapsed just inside the vehicles doorway. The pavement raced by only inches away. He was now sober. His legs and shoulder ached. Wavering, he stood, calm himself, and climbed into the darkened bus. In the crowd of silhouettes, only a few pots away, were the three distinctive spikes of hair.Red, white, and good-for-nothing I made itBeckers mind filled with images of the ring, the waiting Learjet 60, and at the end of it all, Susan.As Becker came even with the girls seat wondering what to say to her, the bus passed beneath a streetlight. The punks panorama was momentarily illuminated.Becker stared in horror. The makeup on her face was smeared across a thick stubble. She was not a girl at all, but a young man. He wore a silver stud in his upper lip, a black slash jacket, and no shirt.What the fuck do you want? the hoarse voice asked. His accent was New York.With the disorientated nausea of a slow-motion free fall, Becker gazed at the busload of passengers staring back at him. They were all punks. At least half of them had red, white, and blue hair.Sientate the driver yelled.Becker was too dazed to hear.Sientate The driver screamed. Sit downBecker turned vaguely to the angry face in the rearview mirror. But he had waited too long.Annoyed, the driver slammed down hard on the brakes. Becker felt his lean shift. He reached for a seat back but missed. For an instant, David Becker was airborne. Then he landed hard on the gritty floor.On Avenida del Cid, a figure stepped from the shadows. He adjusted his wire-rim glasses and peered after the departing bus. David Becker had escaped, but it would not be for long. Of all the buses in Seville, Mr. Becker had just boarded the infamous number 27.Bus 27 had only one destination.