At 6 a.m. on Saturday morning, Emz was once again sitting in a taxi, frequently raising the temperature. Instead of driving around in a zigzag pattern, he was parked on the corner of Swift and Xu, a street to the west of the search area for Gary. This location was just inside Asia Town, a sixteen-block area in the Sutton neighbourhood, home to various Asian families and businesses. Further west lay Sutton Park, a large greenspace of similar size. The taxi was facing north, allowing Emz to spot any potential joggers emerging from the search area and heading west through Asia Town towards the park, which was undoubtedly a place Gary would jog around during his big Saturday morning runs—at least, that was Emz’s guess. If he didn’t spot Gary today, he would return to the moving grid search tomorrow morning.
The backup plan was also in play. Emz had spent most of yesterday crafting messages to the online trading card community under the username BigP0kéBall$$, stating that he was looking for several rare Pokémon cards, including the Blastoise one, and offering money and/or trades for duplicates he had, such as the Chansey card. He did his best to subtly hide those two cards among lists of others to avoid making it obvious, a task that took a lot of time to perfect. He had received a few comments and questions from people with various usernames and encouraged them to find him at the upcoming Expo.
But that backup plan wouldn’t be needed if he caught Gary today. So, Emz had been patiently waiting in the taxi since 5 a.m. Despite being the one lying in wait, he oddly felt vulnerable and visible, which was why he also occasionally cast his eyes behind the taxi, southward towards the edge of the district. On one of these occasions, he spotted a jogger dashing west along Zola. He quickly lost sight of the figure as the jogger crossed the intersection with Swift. Emz sat bolt upright and instructed the driverless taxi to turn left and head down a parallel route along Xu street. The car pulled away with a gentle whine and headed west, deeper into Asia Town, which was slowly waking up as stores opened for early morning trade.
At the first intersection, a Newland Territorial Police Force cruiser quietly crossed in front of him, heading north up Ravel. Emz suspiciously eyed it until it disappeared from view.
He continued west along Xu and, at the next intersection, spotted the jogger again on his left, still running west along Zola, two streets over. Sutton Park lay further ahead, at the corner of Orbison and Yeats, so Emz planned to stay on Xu, overtake the jogger—whose incredible pace and lithe frame strongly resembled Gary’s—and then cut down Presley street just before the park to intercept him.
Frustratingly, when Emz reached the intersection, he found Presley street blocked off due to roadworks, forcing him to reassess.
“Fuck my life!” Emz angrily shouted at the universe, but mostly at the district council—or whichever utility company was digging up the road. He could see the jogger, still heading west along Zola beyond the barricaded roadworks, and had to make a decision. He could either turn back and head south on Quatro, approaching the jogger from behind, or go up and around Sutton Park. Emz quickly decided that the jogger would likely soon turn into the park on the next northbound street, so the best option would be to circle north, around the park, and search from the taxi. Then, when he saw the runner through the black iron fencing around the park, he could jump out and dash in through the nearest gate. Emz instructed the taxi to head upwards around the park’s perimeter, urgently scanning the wide space.
It was still dark, but the layer of crisp white snow helped any vertical shapes to stand out. A curved path followed the edge of the park, with crisscrossing forks in the centre. Emz assumed a big run would involve the longer outer path, so he focused his attention there. The taxi reached the northern edge of the park and turned west onto Shakespeare street. Emz saw some dog walkers, but no runners. At Liszt street, he headed south along the west side of the park, frantically scanning for his quarry. Finally, he spotted a distant running figure, but it soon became clear that it was a large man, more waddling than running, sweatily trying to shed his excess weight. Frustration crept in as Emz reached the southwest corner of the park.
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“Fuck my life!”
At Yeats street, Emz was about to turn east along the south side of the park, to complete the square, when he decided to take a chance and instead instructed the taxi to continue down towards the intersection with Zola. He looked both ways and saw the jogger much further west. The jogger hadn’t turned into the park at all. Emz had made a mistake, wasting time on the detour. The jogger had stuck to the same road and was almost at the intersection with Armstrong, the first north-south street that ran along the edge of the bay. Emz sent the taxi west along Yeats street, moving faster than the jogger and closing the gap. However, at the Dylan intersection, Emz had to turn back onto Xu street to drive around Sutton Market, a large four-block covered pedestrian-only area with craft produce from around the world. Finally, Emz reached Armstrong and the taxi turned north, and swiftly pulled in parallel to Gary, who was running up the quiet raised boardwalk along the bay, where small sailboats and cruise vessels were moored along the water's edge.
Emz pulled his gun and lowered his window. “Gary, fucking stop!”
Gary glanced over at the car driving alongside but didn’t stop. Instead, he ducked his head and quickened his pace into a sprint.
Emz had the taxi speed up. “Gary, I will fucking shoot you if you don’t stop right fucking now!”
“No, you won’t,” Gary muttered back in an American Midwest accent.
“Mate, seriously I’ll shoot you in the fucking leg if you don’t stop!”
“Do it, then,” Gary replied, but continued running north, almost reaching another pedestrianised stretch—a long, narrow bayfront area called The Row, lined with popular artisan cafés and food stalls, still too early to be open or occupied. If Gary reached it, Emz’s taxi would have to detour around six blocks, at which point Gary could double back south or head east through the side of a café and make a dash to one of a few nearby Metro station entrances. Then, he’d be gone again.
Emz wasn’t going to shoot Gary. He didn’t know if Luki was telling the truth about whose card it was, but he needed a tech guy on his side—especially now. Emz holstered his gun, instructed the taxi to speed up to its maximum speed, then passed Gary briefly. After preparing himself, Emz instructed the taxi to make an emergency stop. The taxi braked as hard as it could, and Emz was forced forward by inertia, with his seatbelt tightening painfully. A moment later, he rocked back into his seat, a little dazed from the jolting manoeuvre. He unbuckled, threw open the door, and chased after Gary, who had gained a little distance again as the car braked.
Gary was just too fast. He entered The Row, effortlessly weaving around tables and benches, knocking chairs behind so that Emz had to clumsily navigate around, all while his body was still a touch giddy from the emergency stop. Emz soon fell behind. By the time he was only halfway through the pedestrianised café area, Gary was already out the north end and had turned east, disappearing into the city streets. Emz was too far behind and too far from his taxi to continue the chase. Gary would be underground in a few minutes. So close, so close.
Emz stood amidst the unoccupied café furniture and stalls, hands on his hips, poised to lament his life. Suddenly, a sidekick struck him from behind, landing just above the knee. An angled, bony shin drove into his muscles with a numbing impact, involuntarily forcing him to his knee. Swivelling towards his attacker and reaching for the gun at the back of his waist, he saw two figures standing behind him—Madison and Morgan, whichever was which—draped in long, flappy purple wool coats and fluffy earmuffs.
Before he could draw his weapon, they launched several more kicks and blows. Emz scrambled to protect himself, blocking a kick and a punch here and there, but for every block, two strikes landed. They weren’t muscled thugs, but their movements were fast and precise—clearly the result of well practiced martial arts training in action.
Finally, Emz managed to pull his gun, but it was soon kicked out of his hand. Another kick clipped his temple as he tried to fight his way back to his feet, dazing him and blurring his vision. The next thing he knew, he had multiple hands on him and was being rough-handled towards the bay edge. He thrashed his arms to fight back but was thrown over the raised concrete boardwalk.
He braced for impact with the ice-cold bay water, but instead, he thudded into the snow-covered winter tarp of a small sailboat. The knock took the wind out of his lungs, as the covered sails and rigging only partially cushioned his fall.
“You were told to get Drexler’s painting back, not waste time buying clothes and chasing old people,” an androgynous Kiwi voice said from up on the boardwalk.
Emz, still stunned, looked up at the two nearly identical figures staring down at him, with their matching coiffed hair and dark purple outfits.
“You have until Thursday, or we’ll return and you won’t be getting back up,” one of them threw down his gun, which landed by Emz’s feet. They stepped back in unison and disappeared from view.
