"You can have mine," he says.

  "And they say gallantry is dead."

  Jamal smiles. "You made good time."

  "They had a police escort for us." That explains it; Jamal knows there's no way his competitors could be here already, going the long way around in L.A. traffic!

  That's another thing he failed to anticipate . . . the continued interference by the American Hero production team. What else have they got cooked up for him? He slips along the freshly-painted safety railing—surprisingly substantial, for an American Hero construct—noting the various booby traps laid for the contestants. Beyond the moat of snakes, there were odd-shaped pools filled with some kind of bubbling goo—acid? Surely not. Holes in walls—would something shoot out of there? Projectiles? Or balls of flame? The ground within the habitat, where the animals were clearly not walking (fenced by some low-level electrical current?), was marked with a grid. Webbing? What would happen if you stepped on it? Would you be hobbled, bound? Or would you fall through? Roaming through this habitat . . . three big, mean animals who somehow managed to keep from attacking each other? (A thought that inspires Jamal to look for feeding troughs—he finds them in the shadows at the rear, piled high with disgusting substances.) The question remains, of course: where is the damned idol? Come on, Jetboy, show yourself!

  Tiffani nods toward the habitat. "Hey, lookie there." She points with perfect fluidity of motion, surprising Jamal, who expects to hear grinding: Rustbelt is atop the cagelike habitat, the bars now looking aged, thanks to the ace's touch. And a few yards away—still outside—an honest-to-God T Rex is distracting the lion. Wild Fox is here too.

  Jamal is impressed with the thought that Rustbelt must have made a hell of a leap to reach the cage. Either that, or his touch was enough to protect him going across the electrified fence.

  Jamal looks for some kind of staging area, preferably one in front of a camera crew. He can still see Rustbelt hanging from the gridwork and Wild Fox's T Rex engaging the animals. The bear roars and swipes at Rustbelt, fast and close enough to send the iron yokel sprawling. "Hey, watch it!" Rustbelt yells, his nasal Minnesota accent as annoying as a honking car. "Geez, you could hurt a guy, ya know?" Then he laughs stupidly, as if it was all just an act for the cameras. But even from fifty yards away, Jamal can see Rustbelt's hands shaking. He drops to the ground with a clang that echoes off the walls of the habitat's caves, and starts sidling between two of the domed units, tipping over fake rocks and newly planted trees. There's no obvious way in, not that Jamal can see.

  What the hell.

  Jamal flings himself at the electrified fence, feels the stinging spark—the total, instantaneous clench of every muscle in his body—know that can't be good. . . . smells his own flesh singeing.

  Then he hits the concrete apron bordering the moat. He lies on his back, panting, twitching, the sun and sky whirling. He feels as though he's been flattened by a three-hundred-pound linebacker at full speed, or dropped from an airplane.

  Come on, bounceback. . . .

  How long? He's not sure. He forces himself to sit up . . . stand up. Okay, he's still in the game.

  It's not impossible to jump the moat, Jamal sees. Like most American Hero hurdles, it is designed to look more challenging than it actually is. A quick leap, and he's over.

  Though he slips on what proves to be dirt that is so hard it's become slick. Trying to right himself, he feels as though he's pulled a thigh muscle. Fucking idiot. The injury won't do anything but throb and slow him down. The trauma isn't severe enough to trigger a bounceback. Where's the big wild card power now?

  "Hey, Rusty! Look out!" Jamal turns—atop the railing, at the opposite side of the habitat from glittering Tiffani, Wild Fox has resumed his natural form, ears and tail and all, and is alerting Rustbelt to Stuntman's approach. Jamal can't even see the iron ace, though the grunting and snorting of bear and lion are clues to his location.

  Suddenly Tiffani flashes into view, still outside the railing. "Behind you, Stuntman!" she yells helpfully.

  A shadow falls across Jamal. The rhino. Wham! The beast head-butts him, sending him crashing into one of the domes covering a cave. The surface of the dome is raw concrete—it's not enough for Jamal to be slammed into it, he's also scraped raw, bleeding.

  And trying to avoid the rhino's feet. Miss. Miss.

  Then a direct hit on his left shoulder. He can't help screaming, can't help hearing his voice echoing in the habitat.

  He drags himself inside the habitat. The rhino, either satisified by the punishment it has inflicted on the intruder, or otherwise distracted, turns away, allowing Jamal to begin to bounceback.

  One new sensation breaks through the pain: this cave is the worst-smelling place Jamal has been in.

  He sits . . . tests his shoulder. Completely shattered, but rebuilding. He uses the time to search the interior of the cave for Jetboy. No, nothing but bear or rhino shit.

  Presently he drags himself out of the cave, emerging to a clamor of voices—Wild Fox roaring in his latest animal persona, Rustbelt yelling like a drunk at a tailgate party, Art and the other producers keeping their cameras aimed. Something is going on out of his line of sight. Fine. It gives him time to search further.

  He performs a flanking maneuver, putting one of the caves between him and the snorting rhino, who seems—if possible—to be growing more agitated at the presence of multiple aces in the habitat.

  In the shadows Jamal sees not only the expected foliage and the odd box or barrel—presumably filled with feed—but other obstacles, including what could only be a limbo bar.

  Who is that stupid production designer again? Or is this the work of the "writers" Jamal had seen lurking with the camera crews?

  Maybe it's his experience on films, where the action is usually broken into pieces, but he feels a strange sensation, as if he is seeing his quest as it will appear on plasma screens days or weeks hence . . . wide-angle habitat . . . lion, bear, rhino . . . snakes in moat . . . face of Tiffani . . . Wild Fox with his ears pricked up and his tail swooshing. Cut, cut, cut!

  Rustbelt kicks over a bucket of feed, starts pawing through it.

  Wild Fox is in the habitat now—and he's taken the shape of the bear! Which one is the ace? Ah, the one stopping to search.

  Tiffani, where's Tiffani? Got to have that eye candy, people! There she is, glittering and glowing. And to Jamal's amazement, then fury, she simply steps on the electrified wire—balancing like an acrobat as St. Elmo's Fire envelopes her harmlessly—then simply dropping to safety in the habitat.

  Of course. Stuntman is flesh and blood. He gets hurt, then bounces back. Tiffani is transformed into one of the hardest substances known, a lousy conductor. A few stray volts of electricity wouldn't even curl her hair, assuming it could be curled. She shoots the camera a smile so bright that Jamal can see it from behind, the way it shines on the crew's faces.

  She turns. "Get going, Stuntman!" Cut. Cut. Cut.

  Then it's Rustbelt, ducking under the sweeping paw of the brown bear. (What the fuck does he think he's doing?) Cut.

  Wild Fox-as-the-bear pulls apart one of the cavelike habitats and begins picking through its contents in a very fastidious, unbearlike manner. "What have we got here?" he says. Shit, does he have the Jetboy idol? Jamal wonders. Am I screwed? Cut.

  Then Jamal himself, Stuntman, is suddenly face-to-face with a lion. For one fraction of a second, he wants to laugh at the image . . . black man with a lion! Like some black-and-white jungle movie.

  He's been electrocuted and stomped. He can't handle being slashed. Gotta go, gotta move. Make it more like the football field: run, spin, stop, reverse.

  His bad leg slows him as he tries to clear a casing that covers pipes and a faucet. Wham! Jamal hits again, not hard by Stuntman standards, but enough to knock his wind out.

  Tiffani screams at the lion, causing the beast to turn—it freaks out, if a lion can freak out—at the sight of her.

  Under the tipped casing, Jamal sees the damned idol, Jetboy, lying on his back. He rolls so he can crawl toward it. . . .

  Zap. He can't fucking do it! That grid in the habitat floor—it's some kind of nonlethal weapon, a wireless taser, slowing him down! Reach, crawl, reach. . . .

  "Hey, Rusty!" He can hear Wild Fox.

  Where? Jamal turns away from the glittery idol—still out of reach—can't see either Wild Fox or Rustbelt—no Tiffani, either. But they must be closing in. Three camera crews are scrambling closer.

  Then there are the animals. He can smell them. . . .

  Boom! Here comes Drummer Boy, all arms and attitude, yelping as he hits the taser field, but snatching Jetboy out from under the casing before Jamal is within five feet of the thing. "Tough luck, superstar!"

  Not Drummer Boy: Wild Fox! As he turns, Jamal reaches out, finds his tail. He can't see it, but it's there. He gives it a yank, and "Drummer" loses his balance, turns back into Wild Fox . . . and sits down in a pile of bear shit. He hits hard and loses the idol.

  Jamal finally gets to his feet. Dragging himself after the figurine, he sees it picked up by Rustbelt . . . it instantly changes color and texture. Seeing his immunity in the Minnesotan's hands—a stocky, stupid-looking kid who acts like an ape with a hand grenade—Jamal loses his temper. "You ruined it, hotshot!" Jamal shouts.

  Rustbelt reacts as though Jamal has slapped him. And while he is distracted, Tiffani appears next to him and snatches the idol from his hand.

  "Hey!" Rustbelt is even more wounded.

  "Don't let her do that, goddammit!" Wild Fox snaps. He scrambles over the fence and out of the habitat. Rustbelt stands frozen as Tiffani actually poses with Jetboy, like a hostess on a game show, all glittering girlishness. "Purty, ain't it?" Her accent is as thick as Jamal has ever heard it. He knows what she's doing. Four cameras are on her and the male aces flanking her. The first one to make a move will look like a mugger attacking a cheerleader.

  With one last look over his shoulder—yes, there's the damned rhino, looking as confused as Rustbelt—Jamal joins the group in front of the cameras. "So much for teamwork," he says.

  "Come on, Jamal, what did you expect? We can't share the idol."

  She's right, of course. They were never teammates. Jamal rejected the idea. He realizes that he resents the way she's got the idol: not from her wild card ability, which is no more useful than Jamal's, but from being a girl.

  "You haven't got back with it yet," Rustbelt says, the longest, most coherent sentence Jamal has heard him utter.

  For a moment, the sentence seems to take shape and hover in the air . . . a tangible challenge.

  Tiffani realizes that her feminine immunity might be in danger.

  As the cameras follow, she starts running for her vehicle.

  Jamal has bounced back enough that his leg no longer bothers him, though his shoulder will be a gooey mess for hours yet. He easily outdistances Wild Fox and Rustbelt in the race to the vehicles. But Tiffani is ahead of him, Tiffani is pulling out, right behind an American Hero Humvee and its camera crew. Jamal reaches his own wheels—Art and his camera operator are already inside. Clearly they expect to record his frustration at losing to Tiffani.

  It isn't until he is on the road, zipping through traffic heading south from the zoo, that Jamal begins to wonder just what he hopes to accomplish. "How are the other contests going?"

  "I hear the shopping is taking too long." Art glances over his shoulder at the camera operator, who snickers. "Brave Hawk whupped up on Jetman. He's already back with his idol."

  So Brave Hawk would live to fight another day. Jamal really needs to win, if only so he can spare himself a boatload of condescension from the Apache ace. This assumes, of course, that Jamal isn't voted out.

  It won't be for lack of high-speed driving. Jamal has been trained, and while doing spins and turns in a controlled environment like a movie location is far easier than simply going fast, running lights and driving on the shoulder . . . he has the skills, and the two yokels behind him do not.

  He catches Tiffani at the turn east onto Los Feliz, pulling abreast of her. For a moment she isn't aware of him—too distracted by the stares, shouts, and gestures she is getting from the cars behind and in front of her. Then she glances to her right—and Jamal has the pleasure of seeing true surprise on her face.

  "There's nothing you can do, Jamal!" She isn't saying it to be mean, he thinks. And for a moment he feels bad, because he has realized how to get the idol from her.

  But only for a moment. The other aces like Tiffani. She won't be voted off. Jamal, however, is on the bubble.

  He can't make the move here, not on Los Feliz, with three lanes of midday L.A. traffic surging, then slowing, like gobs of sludge in a fat man's bloodstream.

  Suddenly he sees an opening on the right. Tiffani's car is stuck behind the Humvee in the middle lane, but there is room to pass on the right, where, insanely, cars are parked. Zip to the right, then zip back before creaming himself on a BMW. He shoots a light—Tiffani and the American Hero team are now a good minute behind. Now he's able to turn onto Vermont and stop. "Get out," he tells Art and the camera guy.

  "What the hell are you doing, Jamal?"

  "Get the fuck out of here so you don't get hurt!"

  Fortunately, Art is one of those people who reacts quickly. Maybe it's the look in Jamal's eyes. The producer and camera operator pile out of the Humvee. Jamal has it in motion before the doors slam.

  He looks in the rearview mirror. The camera Humvee is just now making the turn, fifty yards back.

  Faster, faster. He needs more time.

  Past the golf course, whipping to the left. Up the hill. The glistening dome of the observatory flashes past like a rising sun.

  Here! A turnout just around the edge of the hill. He slews the car around, frantic, get ready. He blinks sweat out of his eyes. This is genuinely nuts. He wants to be anywhere but here. Big Bill is right—he doesn't have the mentality for competition.

  Tiffani's Humvee drives past. And without making a conscious decision, Jamal guns his vehicle right into the side of Tiffani's car, neatly T-boning it off the ledge.

  Jamal feels himself go weightless, like a drop on Space Mountain or that awful, awful fall on the Nic Deladrier project. The impact of car on rock, then on Tiffani's car, is like being slammed into a brick the size of a garage door.

  He is hanging in the air, in his lap and chest belt, nothing new broken, but definitely in pain, especially with his rubbery shoulder. He has smacked the side of his face, too. But the massive Humvee is intact—he is able to open the door and pull himself out.

  He can smell smoke and feels dust in his throat. The light is so brilliant his eyes hurt. A breeze is starting to swirl up the canyon, a Santa Ana driven by the differing temperatures of desert to the north and ocean to the south. The only sounds are distant voices, school kids at play on fields far below, their shouts amplified by the surrounding hills.

  The slope is steep. He has to hold onto the car to keep from slipping down. His legs aren't good, but he can already feel them bouncing back. Tiffani's car is ten yards farther down the slope, upright, but its body crunched, as if squeezed in a giant's fist.

  And Tiffani is still strapped into the front seat—her glittering diamondlike surface smudged with dust. She is frantically trying to free herself, a process complicated by her need to scream at Jamal. "You stupid son of a bitch!" It actually takes her several seconds and deep breaths to get the words out. Jamal merely slides to the passenger side of her vehicle and—absorbing three first-rate punches—plucks the foot-tall, rust-colored Jetboy out of the wheel well.

  "You could have killed me! What do you think you're doing?"

  "Winning." He sees how trapped she is. "When I get to the top, I'll make sure they come for you."

  He jams the idol inside his shirt because he needs both hands to get up the slope.

  Bounceback is working for him—he has jogged two hundred yards up the road, one turn short of the observatory lot and the finish line, before he sees—strangely—a beautiful, naked woman standing just up the hill, like Hugh Hefner's vision of Eden. It's Jade Blossom! His dream girl with the saucy mouth and amazing breasts. . . .

  He trips, his feet tangled in a rope. As he hits, he lands on Jetboy. More pain. Rolling on his side, struggling to free himself with one good hand, Jamal sees Jade Blossom transform back into Wild Fox.

  Of course.

  Not only have Wild Fox and Rustbelt caught him, they have help. Drummer Boy is here, too, and Rosa Loteria—which would explain the caballero reeling in the lasso that tripped him up. Adding to the fun, there is a camera crew with Rustbelt—Art and Diaz. Jamal looks up the road. The camera Humvee has backtracked. Then the whump-whumping of helicopter blades causes everyone to turn. The aerial camera from the flying challenge is back now, too.

  Jamal feels as though he has become Will Smith. He is the action-movie star, and this is his big finish. This is like Bad Aces II. Helicopters, Santa Anas stirring dust, afternoon light. All he needs is theme music.

  "Come on, tough guy," Drummer Boy shouts, easily blocking the mountain road with his flailing arms. He looks like a Hindu god on crack. As the chopper swoops south toward Sunset Boulevard and Thai Town to make a turn, Jamal hears the crunch of steps behind him. He bolts, and dodges a blow from Rustbelt.

  He is surrounded. And outnumbered.

  The only safe thing is to keep moving. He's faster and more mobile than his opponents. All he has to do is reach the damned finish line.

  Drummer Boy picks up a rock and flings it. Jamal sees it, dodges, but here comes another one. Fuck! Without thinking, he ducks, hauls Jetboy out of his shirt—stands like A-Rod at the plate and smacks the next projectile. The impact is jarring, like hitting a baseball on a cold day.