Pink lost sight of the pick-up as he suddenly had another very serious problem. He was screaming down the exit ramp at a hundred miles per hour with three cars ahead of him, one in each available lane, idling at a red light. There was no way he was going to be able to bring the bike to a stop and to make matters worse there was a tractor trailer truck just edging it’s way into the intersection. For just one second the image of his bike on the day he bought it flashed through Pink’s mind, but he knew what he had to do. Quickly holstering his weapon, he once again grabbed the handlebar with two hands, tapped the rear brakes only a few times to try to slow down a little without locking them up and, after narrowly missing the two cars on either side of him entered the intersection at about sixty. He cranked the handlebars hard to the right, in his mind apologized to the beautiful machine and laid the bike down on its side. His momentum carried him through the intersection, underneath the tractor-trailer and about eighty feet up the Parkway entrance ramp on the other side, before he finally came to a stop. He was torn up pretty bad, but he was alive.

Suddenly, from the other side of the intersection Pink heard horns blaring. He looked up and saw the black pick-up crashing through the cars still waiting for the light to change, then barely missing two cars in the middle of the intersection, one in the northbound lane, one in the southbound lane, and bearing down on him, where he lay in a heap in the middle of the entrance ramp. He knew he couldn’t stand, and just as surely he knew he couldn’t miss. Drawing his pistol with his left hand, he took a deep breath, steadied his aim and fired all four remaining rounds in the cylinder in a tight grouping through the driver’s side of the windshield, and promptly passed out.

When Pink woke up he was lying in a hospital bed and from the feel of the burning pain in his leg and up his right side, his morphine drip was due to be changed. Ritchie was dozing in the chair alongside his bed.

“Hey dude,” Pink mumbled, “how’d that movie end? I fell asleep, I think.”

“It ended with one in the morgue and one in the ER,” answered Ritchie. “Now, I can say it ended good for our side. It was tight for a little while there.”

“It’s a shame,” said Pink, trying to sit up a little and quickly thinking better of it and lying back, “he was just a kid.”

“A lot of bad guys are just kids,” replied Ritchie, no pity in his voice, “it doesn’t make them any better just because their still kids.”  Pink turned toward the open door as he heard high heels walking in from the hallway. Martina strode up to his bedside flashing a warm, thankful smile.

“Finally awake huh, lazy bones?” she asked with a laugh.

“Yeah,” Pink said returning her smile, “but I’m thinking seriously about another nap.”

“Well,” she told him, “I can’t blame you there.”

“Before I nod off though, we need to talk business.”

“Oh…” she said.

“Yeah,” he continued, “I need to offer you a job. I need somebody to keep my parcel fluid you know.” She laughed and he just kept on. “I need some one to, you know, scrape the plaque in my arteries. I can pay you a lot more than the government can and, hey, who knows, you might have a little fun.”

“I’ll have to think about it Mr. Ellingwood,” she answered

“All my friends call me ‘Pink”,” he said.

“I’ll let you know Pink,” she said. She bent toward him and after leaving a light kiss on his forehead turned for the door.