Chapter 4: The Desperate Pursuit

Downstairs was in chaos. Hawk pulled his head back, turned around, and said to David, "I have something urgent. I need to head back first."

David was surprised, “The shoot is almost over, and the crew will be leaving. Aren’t you going to get your paycheck? We’ve been working all week!”

“You’d better leave early.” Hawk quickly exited the restroom, entered the fire escape, and ran down the stairs. Thinking about the people guarding the back door, he figured there were probably also people at the main entrance.

Hawk had already assessed that the other side had guns. Guns against no guns—it’s like Tyson beating up a kid. The main entrance was not an option.

Reaching the third floor, Hawk stepped out of the fire escape and looked down the long hallway. At the end of the hallway was a large window, nearly as tall as a person.

He took off his cumbersome coat, removed his hood, and tossed them aside, running straight for the window.

...

Behind the building, Freddy emerged from the crowd, holding a blood-stained black hood. He walked briskly toward the quiet spot near the back door, pulled out his phone, and made a call to figure out the situation.

He turned to the Black man following him and said, “That bastard didn’t jump. Go find him!”

The Black man pressed his earpiece and communicated, then ran toward the back door. The White guy guarding the door was the first to rush inside.

Freddy then called the producer, Bro, “We’ve got a problem. That bastard chickened out and didn’t jump. It was McKin who jumped down. I suspect he’s onto something.”

“Stay calm!” Bro’s voice was steady and unhurried, even though his resources lacked the awareness of their expendability. “Deal with him. We need him alive.”

With Plan A compromised, Plan B was initiated.

Bro, worried the target would head to the second floor, pressed his intercom and told his assistant, “Get all the security from the crew over here.”

Downstairs, Freddy hung up his phone, put on his earpiece, and commanded, “Catch him.”

...

At the end of the third-floor hallway, Hawk opened the sliding window, glanced quickly left and right, and saw an eight-meter-tall lamppost nearby. But the pole wasn’t directly in front of the window; it was slightly to the south, over four meters away.

Hawk retreated more than ten meters, took a deep breath, and sprinted forward. He leaped onto the window ledge and launched himself out.

He flew like a big bird, arms reaching forward, legs gripping the lamppost tightly, spinning down to the ground in a controlled slide.

Hawk took off toward the trailers parked in front of the building. In the stunt team’s trailer, his jacket held his car keys and an M60 revolver.

Snowflakes started falling from the sky, landing cold on his face.

Hawk ran across the open space in front of the building, slammed open the trailer door, grabbed his jacket, felt the gun and keys, and hurriedly dressed as he ran toward the parking lot.

On the second floor, in the producer’s office, Bro had just reached the window and spotted the running figure. He immediately called Freddy, “He’s heading to the parking lot.”

Freddy alerted the other three men, and they rushed out of the building. The Black man and a White man followed shortly after. One guy was still up on the eighth floor and hadn’t come down yet.

Freddy, in charge of the stunt team, recognized Hawk’s truck and pointed toward a pickup backing out of a parking space in the distance, “There, come with me.”

They hadn’t run far when the pickup roared out of the parking lot.

Freddy sprinted to a black Mercedes, jumped in, and took the driver’s seat.

As soon as the other two got in, the Mercedes sped off.

“Catch him!” urged the Black guy.

“He won’t get away!” Freddy, experienced in movie stunts, was a skilled driver.

Though the pickup was no longer in sight, there was only one road leading to the city’s main road from there.

Snow began falling more heavily.

Hawk floored the gas pedal. The old pickup rattled, and the engine roared in protest.

He merged onto the main road, paused briefly, and instead of heading west toward the cabin, he turned north at the next intersection.

From what Hawk gathered, the crew’s supposed medical exams and donation agreements were nothing but a cover for something sinister.

If they could get actors like Robert Downey Jr. and Katie Holmes involved, whoever was behind this had deep pockets.

It wouldn’t be hard for them to station people at the cabin and wait for him.

Provo was a small town, and the pickup quickly sped out of the city.

The area was mountainous, with winding roads, and the snow was falling harder. The landscape on both sides of the road was turning white.

Rounding a large bend and entering a straight stretch, Hawk noticed the fuel warning light had turned on at some point. David had reminded him this morning that he’d need to refuel on his way back.

Hawk glanced at the fuel light, then checked his rearview mirror, catching sight of a black sedan far in the distance.

He considered the worst: five men in suits? Five guns?

If it came to that, running out of fuel on the road, facing an armed group—one against five?

Ahead, a side road branched off into the mountains, and without a second thought, Hawk turned onto it.

He kept an eye on his surroundings. The mountains were full of rocks, perfect for hiding.

After a couple of turns, Hawk pulled the pickup to the side, using a hill as cover.

He quickly rummaged through the glove box and the passenger storage compartment, finding a knit cap, gloves, and a coil of rope. He grabbed them all, jumped out of the truck, and ran up the rocky hillside, donning the cap and gloves and drawing his revolver.

The snow was falling even heavier now, turning into a full-blown blizzard.

Hawk climbed over some rocks, glanced at his footprints, then picked a spot to set up.

Ahead on the left hillside stood a group of irregular boulders.

Hawk chose one, climbed up, and placed an oval stone near the top, setting a black knit cap on the top section, which was about the size of half a football.

From below, it looked like someone was resting behind the boulder.

He tied a rope around the stone and tossed the other end to a pre-selected hiding spot.

With little time, he could only make some simple disguises.

Hawk picked up his revolver and jumped to the right, landing behind another rock.

Then he grabbed the rope, leaped to his chosen ambush point, and crouched behind a protruding rock.

From above, the snow made all the tracks visible.

From the foot of the hill, only the long trail of footprints could be seen.

Through the swirling snow, the black sedan turned in and stopped not far from the pickup.

Hawk checked his revolver, ready to fire at any moment.

In the Mercedes, the Black man in the passenger seat pulled out a Glock and opened the door.

The White guy in the back seat held a Glock in his left hand and a Taser in his right.

Freddy killed the engine and pulled a knife from the glove box.

The Black guy gave him a look.

Freddy explained quietly, “My gun’s in L.A., and I don’t have a Utah carry permit.”

The footprints in the snow were clear. The White guy tapped the front seat and pointed to the left of the pickup.

The Black man nodded, got out, and moved forward quickly with his gun drawn.

The White man followed close behind.

Freddy brought up the rear.

They checked the pickup first, confirming it was empty.

Freddy reversed his grip on the knife, eyes fixed on the tracks. “He went up the hill.”

The Black man glanced at his phone, “No signal.”

The White guy said, “Let’s go check it out.”

Freddy eyed their guns and reminded them, “Keep him alive. Don’t shoot the torso—his organs are useful.”

The three of them followed the footprints, pursuing Hawk up the slope.