The Wolf of Los Angeles

[Chapter 5: The Underdog Strikes Back, Plain and Simple]

Amidst a sea of snow, a haunting howl suddenly pierced the silence.

A few North American coyotes emerged from the other side of the mountains, watching the two-legged beasts from a distance.

Hawke let the snowflakes land on him, hiding behind a rock while peeking out. Only three people had come -- far better than the worst-case scenario he had anticipated.

He gently moved his arms to avoid stiffness in his gun hand from the cold. He waited silently for the approaching figures.

The leading white man brushed off the snow from his eyebrows and scanned the footprints for clues. He made a gesture to his black companion, pointing toward a large boulder nearby.

On the snow-white rock, a glimpse of black became visible.

It was a hat.

The black man grinned, displaying rows of white teeth, and whispered, "You go around to cut him off."

The white man maneuvered to the side.

The black man continued forward, with Freddy lagging about seven or eight meters behind him.

As they entered the mountainous terrain, the trio remained cautious, careful to conceal their shapes.

They did not dare to assume the other side was unarmed.

In his hiding spot, Hawke didn't wait for an opportunity to arise; instead, he created one. He yanked on the rope with his left hand, causing the stone tied to the other end to tumble down.

He pulled a few more times, the stones clanking together, mimicking the sound of someone making a getaway.

Seeing the hat disappear and hearing the noise, the black man quickened his pace and called out to his companions, "He's trying to escape -- don't let him get away!"

The white man, now in the process of flanking, also sped up.

The black man moved with agility through the rocky terrain, easily closing the distance to Hawke.

Hawke slightly revealed himself, gripped his gun, aimed at the black man, and pulled the trigger.

Bang--

The gunshot rang out, the bullet striking the broad chest of the black man.

Hawke followed with a second shot, still hitting the target's front.

The black man, running, fell to the ground.

After firing the second shot, Hawke dove to the side.

The sound of the Glock echoed, bullets whistling past him.

The white man had opened fire.

Taking cover behind the rocks, Hawke crawled and rolled several meters in the snow, hiding behind a boulder.

Over thirty meters away, Freddy crouched behind a gray rock and said, "This bastard has a gun!"

The white man stopped shooting, hiding defensively while calling out the black man's name, but received no reply.

"We need backup," Freddy said, giving up on the idea of capturing him alive.

The white man snapped, "Shut up!"

Hawke listened closely to gauge the enemy's position, picking up a stone the size of an orange. He glanced around before hurling it to the right.

The stone struck a larger rock, the noise clearly audible.

Freddy felt a jolt of fear and tightened his grip around the dagger, seeking some semblance of safety.

Seven or eight meters away, the white man swung his gun toward the sound and fired two shots.

Hawke crouched on the ground, gripping his handgun tightly, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet flew through the swirling snowflakes, hitting the white man's exposed arm.

The impact caused the white man to scream, revealing half his chest in the process.

Hawke shot again, creating a hole in the white man's left breast pocket, who then slumped beside a rock.

The snow stained red.

Seeing the situation unfold, Freddy turned and ran back.

He confirmed that the bastard was using a handgun; from that distance, it would be tough to hit a moving target.

With no bullets in the revolver, Hawke couldn't let Freddy escape, especially since he was only armed with a dagger. He immediately gave chase.

With the terrain littered with rocks and the snow slick, Freddy didn't run fast enough.

As they closed in to twenty meters, Hawke glanced at the figure ahead and, while jumping, hurled his empty handgun. The gleaming metal clanged against Freddy's back.

Freddy slipped, stumbling forward and falling down.

He turned to look at Hawke and realized he couldn't outrun this younger punk. Fury gripped him; he clenched his dagger and charged at Hawke.

Hawke slowed slightly, speaking no words, facing Freddy head-on.

In that moment, only one could leave alive.

Freddy had a background in stunts, giving him some edge in close combat; he lunged with the dagger aiming for Hawke's chest.

Hawke was much faster. He sidestepped, delivering a punch as hard as a hammer beneath Freddy's armpit. Freddy winced in pain, his dagger clattering to the ground.

But Freddy knew he had to fight for his life; he charged low.

Hawke's style was plain and straightforward; he threw up his right knee, striking between Freddy's legs.

Freddy let out a scream only a man could understand and, instinctively wanting to retaliate, a calloused hand shot out, landing on his neck.

Breathless and dizzy, Freddy struggled.

Hawke's left fist lunged in, striking between Freddy's eyes and his nose.

Freddy's prominent nose crumpled, blood gushing out and soaking Hawke's jacket, staining the words "The Singing Detective."

Hawke's old-fashioned, honest guy approach was devoid of flair -- just groin kicks, throat holds, and eye gouges!

Freddy lay there, dazed, collapsing to the ground.

Hawke heaved, catching his breath, shaking his gloved hands; his body needed conditioning.

He removed the laces from Freddy's dress shoes, tying his hands behind his back and binding his feet, before picking up the dagger and revolver.

The sound of coyotes echoed in the distance.

The gunfire had startled them, but they had returned, seemingly curious about what had happened.

Hawke approached the white man's body, took the Glock from his grasp, and searched the corpse, finding a wallet stuffed with cash, yet no identification.

He pocketed the cash and hurried toward the black man, retrieving the Glock from him as well and searching him like he had done the white man.

The snow had begun to accumulate on the black man's body.

Hawke climbed the slope to retrieve the rope and hat, heading back to where Freddy lay.

Freddy was mumbling, groggy, and seemed barely conscious.

Hawke decided to revive him, pulling out Freddy's dagger, avoiding major arteries, and stabbing it into his leg.

Freddy howled in agony, startling the coyotes on the slope.

"Let me go, let me go!" Freddy pleaded, writhing in pain. "I can get you into Hollywood, make you a star! An action star!"

Hawke ignored him, pulling out the dagger and casually wiping it in the snow, asking, "Who sent you?"

Sweat beaded on Freddy's forehead, his face pale as he gritted his teeth, "I'm a Hollywood celebrity, a well-known socialite. If you kill me, you'll be wanted across the country!"

Hawke replied, "Don't worry, I won't kill you."

Freddy relaxed slightly.

Hawke continued, "I'll just sever your leg tendons and leave you here."

He pointed towards the coyotes on the slope, "They'll love your scent. Coyotes prefer prey that's alive, and they'll gnaw open your belly while you still breathe, helping you with an organ donation..."

Hearing "organ donation," Freddy trembled in fear.

Hawke positioned the dagger at the back of Freddy's ankle: "Did Robert Downey Jr. specifically send me to jump? Is he involved?"

Freddy, dazed, instinctively replied, "Yes!"

Hawke pressed, "What else?"

*****

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