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I put black photographer’s tape over the reflective surfaces of the Under Armour gear and the ru
I drove back to Ja
Just before dark, it started to rain. That might have been good news or it might have been bad. Good, because it would make the road slippery. Bad, because maybe Ja
It was. At just past seven-thirty, the end of a twelve-hour day, I saw the fluorescent-yellow windbreaker and white helmet coming toward me. I checked through the night-vision binoculars to confirm. No question, it was him.
He made a right on Embarcadero. By the time I got out of the parking lot and through the light, he was too far ahead of me to see. But it was a safe bet he had stayed on Embarcadero, the same route he had used this morning. I peeled off onto the exit ramp to 101 and Page Mill. Between the car and the shorter route, I estimated I’d get to OPM ten minutes ahead of him.
I parked in an office park just north of the corner of Page Mill and Junípero Serra. I pulled on the hat and the gloves, strapped on the fa
I got to the construction site and was pleased to find the area exceptionally dark. I could hear the patter of the rain on the road and in the creek, the white noise of it quieting the area, masking noises and reducing the distance sound could travel. I used the night-vision binoculars to scope out the road, the site, and the underside of the bridge. I was alone. I still had to be careful about an evening dog walker, or a determined jogger, or another commuting bicyclist, but overall the chances that I would have this little stretch of road to myself for the necessary moments, and that I would remain unobserved even if someone happened along, were as good as I could hope.
I set up next to the bridge by the construction site, keeping low and sca
Five minutes of waiting and sca
I felt a hot rush of adrenaline through my gut, and my heart started kicking harder. I breathed in and out deeply several times and did one last scan of the area. All clear.
I dropped the binoculars into the fa
He slowed slightly as the bike path fed onto OPM, but he was still moving at what I guessed was close to fifteen miles an hour. More than fast enough.
Thirty yards now. I raised the SureFire to my shoulder. I closed one eye to protect it from the glare and preserve my night vision, and squinted with the other. Twenty. Ten.
Just before the forward edge of his headlight illumination reached my position, I pressed down on the flashlight’s tailcap switch. Five hundred lumens hit him in the face, as momentarily bright and white as a bolt of lightning. I heard a cry of pain and surprise.
He must have instinctively hit the brakes, as I had hoped. I heard the tires skidding on the wet leaves and leaped out of the way. The headlight weaved crazily as Ja
I dropped the SureFire into the fa
“Are you all right?” I asked, walking over. He was on his hands and knees, spitting out blood, trying to get up.
He moaned, sounding as though the wind had been knocked out of him.
I walked closer, my heart hammering. “Don’t try to move,” I said. “You might be hurt.”
He started to say something back. I didn’t hear what. I stepped over him and sat down hard on his back. He grunted and collapsed to the ground. I planted my feet solidly along either side of his head, reached with both gloved hands under his chin, and arched savagely back. His neck snapped with the sound of a thick piece of dry firewood and his body spasmed under me.
I stood and immediately moved back to the bridge, where I had some concealment. I took out the binoculars again and sca