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‘I tell you he’s bluffing,’ says Rickenbacker. ‘C’mon Cal, let’s take him.’
‘OK,’ you reply, ‘only don’t hurt the dude unless he makes a bad move, all right.’
‘All right,’ says Rickenbacker, and starts to move. You ease yourself out of the driving seat and take cover with your partner behind the trunk of the car.
‘You go left,’ you whisper, ‘and I’ll go right. Circle him, OK?’
‘OK,’ comes Rickenbacker’s terse reply, and then he scurries off, using the scrub to cover his approach to the bridge.
You adopt the same tactic and close in on the bridge until you can see the man clearly. He is crouching close to the tent, his thin, bearded face twitching and awash with sweat. Then he catches sight of Rickenbacker and he panics, throwing down his shotgun and taking off across the bridge at a run. You chase after him and bring him down near the middle of the bridge with a tackle that once would have earned you a try-out with the LA Raiders. It slams him to the ground and empties the air from his lungs.
‘Don’t … hurt … me … ’ he gasps.
‘I’m not gonna hurt you, bud,’ you reply, and pull him to his feet. As you are bringing him back across the bridge, Rickenbacker approaches from the dry undergrowth.
‘OK, wise guy,’ he says, pretending to be angry, ‘who are you and what are you doin’ here?’
