explained. "I don't want Saputo turned into some kind of fucking martyr. The city doesn't need a slew of negative headlines screaming about police harassment."
"The city doesn't need a vigilante, either. Fighting crime with crime isn't the answer," Shaw cautioned. "Let's not make the situation any worse."
"How could it get any worse, Sergeant? You just got done telling me that Saputo is killing children. I'm telling you the LAPD can't get near him." Stocker held up his hands despairingly. "Do you have a better idea?"
"There has to be another way, a legal way," Shaw insisted.
"There is no other way," Stocker shouted. "I want Macklin on this. Now. "
# # # # # #
He ran madly down the street, the World War I fighter plane riddling the asphalt on either side of him with bullets. The plane streaked across the cloudless sky above the office buildings, banked, and barreled down on him again, the gun turrets spitting slugs.
He ped onto a parked car, rolled across the hood, and fell onto the sidewalk behind it. Bullets chewed up the street toward the car. He flung himself forward as the bullets raked the car and punctured the gas tank.
The car exploded, ripping the air and hurling a pulsating ball of flame into the sky. The plane roared away, preparing to bank again.
He stood up, flames licking out for him, and pulled the Magnum out of his waistband.
"Fuck this," he mumbled, strolling into the street, shrouded by a veil of smoke. He stopped in the center of the street and straddled the broken white piding line, daring the plane. "Come and get it."
The plane dropped down low and came for him.
The flames from the car sounded like a windstorm, the staccato beat of the bullets chipping away at the street a savage hail.
He raised his gun. The plane filled his vision. The engine's roar filled his ears. The bullets clamored for him.
He fired twice.
The plane vomited deep black smoke and curled sharply in a skyward arc, sputtered, and ped. Rocking uncontrollably, the plane glided unevenly toward the entrance of a parking structure behind him, as if it suddenly thought it was just a fancy Ford station wagon.
The plane's wings were ripped away as it skidded through the entranceway into the darkness on a carpet of sparks and smoke. A split second later, an explosion tore through the structure, the building splitting open like a popcorn kernel.
He lowered his gun and, as people started to peek out of the doorways and windows they had been hiding behind, walked leisurely down the street.
"That was fantastic!" Mort Suderson yelled, slapping the floor in front of the television. The film's end credits rolled across the screen as Nick Crecko, the Bloodmaster, disappeared into the sunset against the Los Angeles skyline. "Wasn't it great, Brett?"
"C'mon, Mort, it was crap," Macklin groaned, reaching toward the VCR atop the TV set.
"Wait! Don't turn it off yet. Don't you want to see our credit?" Mort looked at Macklin as if he were crazy. Macklin, raising his hands in a show of acquiescence, stepped back and watched the screen.
Aerial transportation provided by: Blue Yonder Airways
"That's us!" Mort pointed at the set, wagging his finger excitedly. "That's us, boss! We're stars!"
Macklin clicked off the VCR and hit the "eject" button, tossing the videotape onto Mort's lap. "All we did was fly the film crew around. No one is going to nominate us for an Oscar."
Mort reached up, braced himself on a couch cushion, rose to his feet and stretched. "Christ, Brett, I love hard-core police drama."
Macklin went into his kitchen, which adjoined the living room. "That was shit, Mort. C'mon, a fighter plane chasing a guy through downtown Los Angeles? Who are they kidding?"
Mort, glancing back to make sure he wasn't being watched, brushed potato chip crumbs off his faded blue jeans onto the shag carpet and then followed Macklin into the kitchen. "It's exciting. It isn't supposed to be Shakespeare."
Macklin opened the refrigerator. "What would
"The city doesn't need a vigilante, either. Fighting crime with crime isn't the answer," Shaw cautioned. "Let's not make the situation any worse."
"How could it get any worse, Sergeant? You just got done telling me that Saputo is killing children. I'm telling you the LAPD can't get near him." Stocker held up his hands despairingly. "Do you have a better idea?"
"There has to be another way, a legal way," Shaw insisted.
"There is no other way," Stocker shouted. "I want Macklin on this. Now. "
# # # # # #
He ran madly down the street, the World War I fighter plane riddling the asphalt on either side of him with bullets. The plane streaked across the cloudless sky above the office buildings, banked, and barreled down on him again, the gun turrets spitting slugs.
He ped onto a parked car, rolled across the hood, and fell onto the sidewalk behind it. Bullets chewed up the street toward the car. He flung himself forward as the bullets raked the car and punctured the gas tank.
The car exploded, ripping the air and hurling a pulsating ball of flame into the sky. The plane roared away, preparing to bank again.
He stood up, flames licking out for him, and pulled the Magnum out of his waistband.
"Fuck this," he mumbled, strolling into the street, shrouded by a veil of smoke. He stopped in the center of the street and straddled the broken white piding line, daring the plane. "Come and get it."
The plane dropped down low and came for him.
The flames from the car sounded like a windstorm, the staccato beat of the bullets chipping away at the street a savage hail.
He raised his gun. The plane filled his vision. The engine's roar filled his ears. The bullets clamored for him.
He fired twice.
The plane vomited deep black smoke and curled sharply in a skyward arc, sputtered, and ped. Rocking uncontrollably, the plane glided unevenly toward the entrance of a parking structure behind him, as if it suddenly thought it was just a fancy Ford station wagon.
The plane's wings were ripped away as it skidded through the entranceway into the darkness on a carpet of sparks and smoke. A split second later, an explosion tore through the structure, the building splitting open like a popcorn kernel.
He lowered his gun and, as people started to peek out of the doorways and windows they had been hiding behind, walked leisurely down the street.
"That was fantastic!" Mort Suderson yelled, slapping the floor in front of the television. The film's end credits rolled across the screen as Nick Crecko, the Bloodmaster, disappeared into the sunset against the Los Angeles skyline. "Wasn't it great, Brett?"
"C'mon, Mort, it was crap," Macklin groaned, reaching toward the VCR atop the TV set.
"Wait! Don't turn it off yet. Don't you want to see our credit?" Mort looked at Macklin as if he were crazy. Macklin, raising his hands in a show of acquiescence, stepped back and watched the screen.
Aerial transportation provided by: Blue Yonder Airways
"That's us!" Mort pointed at the set, wagging his finger excitedly. "That's us, boss! We're stars!"
Macklin clicked off the VCR and hit the "eject" button, tossing the videotape onto Mort's lap. "All we did was fly the film crew around. No one is going to nominate us for an Oscar."
Mort reached up, braced himself on a couch cushion, rose to his feet and stretched. "Christ, Brett, I love hard-core police drama."
Macklin went into his kitchen, which adjoined the living room. "That was shit, Mort. C'mon, a fighter plane chasing a guy through downtown Los Angeles? Who are they kidding?"
Mort, glancing back to make sure he wasn't being watched, brushed potato chip crumbs off his faded blue jeans onto the shag carpet and then followed Macklin into the kitchen. "It's exciting. It isn't supposed to be Shakespeare."
Macklin opened the refrigerator. "What would
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