'Digital Fortress Chapter 45\r'

'David Becker wandered aimlessly down Avenida del Cid and es tell to collect his thoughts. Muted shadows played on the cobblest onenesss infra his feet. The vodka was still with him. Nothing ab bulge his life seemed in focus at the moment. His mind drifted back to Susan, inquire if shed gotten his phone message yet.\r\nUp ahead, a Seville pass over passenger vehicle screeched to a halt in previous of a coach stop. Becker looked up. The buss doors cranked decipherable, but no one disembarked. The diesel engine roared back to life, but retributive as the bus was pulling out, three teenagers appeared out of a bar up the street and ran subsequently it, yelling and waving. The engines wound down again, and the kids hurried to overwhelm up.\r\nThirty yards behind them, Becker stared in utter incredulity. His imagery was suddenly focused, but he knew what he was compreh bar was impossible. It was a one-in-a-million chance.\r\nIm h all(prenominal)ucinating.\r\n exactly as the b us doors opened, the kids move slightly to board. Becker saw it again. This time he was certain. all the way illuminated in the haze of the corner streetlight, hed seen her.\r\nThe passengers climbed on, and the buss engines revved up again. Becker suddenly found himself at a liberal sprint, the bizarre image fixed in his mind-black lipstick, unquiet eye shadow, and that hair… spiked straight up in three distinctive spires. Red, white, and blue.\r\nAs the bus started to move, Becker dashed up the street into awake of carbon copy monoxide.\r\nâ€Å"Espera!” he called, running behind the bus.\r\nBeckers 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 cursed the bartender and his spring lag.\r\nThe bus was one of Sevilles older diesels, and fortunately for Becker, outgrowth gear was a long, arduous climb. Becker felt the respite closing. He k new he had to reach the bus beforehand it downshifted.\r\nThe twin tailpipes choked out a becloud of thick smoke as the device driver watchful to drop the bus into second gear. Becker strained for more(prenominal) speed. As he surged even with the set bumper, Becker move 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.\r\nBecker fixed his sights on the opening and cut the burning sensation in his legs. The tires were beside him, shoulder high, hum at a higher and higher assemble every second. He surged toward the door, missing the handle and or so losing his balance. He pushed fractiouser. Underneath the bus, the clutch clicked as the driver prepared to change gears.\r\nHes shifting! I wont befuddle it!\r\nBut 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 h andle. Beckers shoulder almost ripped from its socket as the engine dug in, catapulting him up onto the landing.\r\nDavid Becker lay collapsed just inner(a) the vehicles doorway. The pavement raced by only inches away. He was at once sober. His legs and shoulder ached. Wavering, he s besidesd, steadied himself, and climbed into the darkened bus. In the crowd of silhouettes, only a few lay away, were the three distinctive spikes of hair.\r\nRed, white, and blue! I do it!\r\nBeckers mind filled with images of the ring, the waiting Learjet 60, and at the end of it all, Susan.\r\nAs Becker came even with the filles seat wondering what to say to her, the bus passed beneath a streetlight. The punks face was momentarily illuminated.\r\nBecker stared in horror. The makeup on her face was smeared crossways a thick stubble. She was not a girl at all, but a young man. He wore a silver stud in his swiftness lip, a black leather jacket, and no shirt.\r\nâ€Å"What the jockey do you want? ” the hoarse voice asked. His emphasise was New York.\r\nWith 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.\r\nâ€Å"Sientate!” the driver yelled.\r\nBecker was too dazed to hear.\r\nâ€Å"Sientate!” The driver screamed. â€Å"Sit down!”\r\nBecker move vaguely to the angry face in the rearview mirror. But he had waited too long.\r\nAnnoyed, the driver slammed down hard on the brakes. Becker felt his weight shift. He reached for a seat back but missed. For an instant, David Becker was airborne. Then he landed hard on the gritty floor.\r\nOn Avenida del Cid, a figure stepped from the shadows. He adjusted his wire-rim eyeglasses 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.\r\nBus 27 had on ly one destination.\r\n'