The Wolf of Los Angeles

Chapter 4: A Desperate Chase

The parking lot erupted into chaos as Hawk darted away. He turned to David briefly.

“I’ve got urgent business. I need to head back.”

David stared, baffled. “The scene wraps after this, and the crew leaves. Aren’t you going to collect your paycheck? We’ve worked a whole week for it!”

“You should leave early too.” Hawk was already out the restroom door, taking the stairwell down.

He considered the rear exit—someone was definitely guarding it. The front? Probably also covered.

He was certain: those men had guns.

Fighting unarmed against armed opponents? That was like pitting Tyson against a middle schooler—no chance.

At the third floor, Hawk stepped out of the stairwell into a long hallway. At the far end stood a tall window, almost human-height.

Freddy emerged from the crowd near the safety cushion, holding a bloodstained black hood. He moved swiftly to a quieter area by the rear exit, dialing his phone.

After a quick conversation, he turned to the nearby burly black man.

“That idiot didn’t jump. Mackin went down instead. I think he’s onto us—find him!”

The black man tapped his earpiece, relaying orders, then bolted toward the back entrance. The white man stationed there was the first to rush inside.

Meanwhile, Freddy contacted the producer, Broderick.

“We have a problem. The target chickened out. It was Mackin who jumped. I think he suspects something.”

Broderick, ever composed, replied coolly: “Stay calm. Handle it. I need him alive.”

With Plan A ruined, they shifted to Plan B.

At the hallway’s end, Hawk shoved the sliding window open. He spotted a streetlight pole nearby—about 8 meters tall—but it wasn’t directly in front of the window. It was four meters off to the side.

Backing up several meters, Hawk took a deep breath, then sprinted forward. He leaped onto the windowsill and launched himself into the air.

Like a great bird, Hawk sailed across the gap, arms reaching for the pole. Wrapping his legs tightly around it, he spiraled down, landing with practiced precision.

He bolted toward the front of the building, where the stunt crew’s trailer was parked. Inside, his coat held two precious items: his truck keys and an M60 revolver.

Snowflakes began falling, cold and wet against his face.

Bursting into the trailer, Hawk grabbed his coat. Checking quickly, he confirmed the gun and keys were still there. Shrugging the coat on, he sprinted toward the parking lot.

Upstairs in the producer’s office, Broderick spotted Hawk sprinting toward the lot and immediately called Freddy.

“He’s heading for the parking lot!”

Freddy relayed the update to his team. The black man and one of the white men emerged from the building in pursuit.

Freddy himself, recognizing Hawk’s truck pulling out of a space, jumped into a black Mercedes.

“He’s in the pickup!” Freddy yelled, starting the engine as his team piled into the car.

Hawk floored the gas pedal, sending the old Dodge pickup into a frenzied roar as it sped out of the lot.

Freddy gritted his teeth, pushing the Mercedes to its limits. His movie stunt experience made him a skilled driver, and he knew Hawk couldn’t have gone far—the main road was the only exit.

The snow thickened as Hawk merged onto the city’s main street.

Ignoring the western route leading back to his cabin, Hawk made a sharp turn north at the next intersection.

Driving as fast as the aging truck allowed, Hawk’s mind raced to piece together the situation.

The health checks, the "donation agreement"—they reeked of a sinister scheme.

Those men weren’t just after him; they had a purpose. His rare "dinosaur blood" had painted a target on his back.

He tightened his grip on the wheel.

Freedom wasn’t something he’d give up easily.

The chase continued, snow falling thicker, blurring the path ahead.

Hawk knew that anyone who could mobilize Hollywood stars like Robert Downey Jr. and Katie Holmes to back a film must be an incredibly powerful figure. Such a person wouldn’t let him escape easily.

Realizing there was a high chance someone would be lying in wait at the cabin, Hawk abandoned the idea of returning. With the fuel warning light on in the old pickup, he drove out of Provo’s city limits, heading into the winding mountain roads.

The snow was falling heavier, blanketing the roads and surrounding areas in white. Hawk glanced around, noting that the fuel gauge was almost empty, and the aging pickup groaned under the strain.

As he turned a sharp corner, the rearview mirror revealed a black sedan in the distance. It was far enough away to give him a little time, but close enough to put him on high alert.

“Pursuers?” Hawk immediately assumed the worst: five men in suits, armed with guns. If they caught up to him, he’d stand no chance in a one-against-five gunfight.

Hawk spotted a side road leading into the mountains and didn’t hesitate to turn onto it sharply.

The path was lined with jagged boulders, providing excellent cover. After driving a short distance and rounding two bends, Hawk used the terrain to hide his truck, pulling it over to the side of the road.

Moving quickly, he searched the truck’s glove compartment and storage box. He found a knit hat, gloves, and a length of rope. Grabbing them all, he leapt out of the truck, donning the hat and gloves while clutching his revolver tightly.

The snow was falling heavily now, visibility diminishing. Hawk scrambled up a slope littered with irregularly shaped boulders. Finding a suitable vantage point, he dragged over an oval-shaped stone and placed it strategically. Pulling the black knit hat over one end, he tied the rope around it and looped the other end around a nearby rock to create a decoy. From below, it looked like someone was crouched behind the boulder.

Satisfied with his makeshift ruse, Hawk took cover behind another protruding rock and loaded his revolver, ensuring it was ready to fire. He then waited, tracking the snow-covered footprints he had deliberately left leading toward the decoy.

Meanwhile, the black sedan rounded the bend and stopped near Hawk’s abandoned pickup truck.

From the passenger seat, a burly Black man holding a Glock stepped out. A white man from the backseat followed, carrying both a Glock and a taser. Freddy, holding a knife, exited from the driver’s seat.

The Black man glanced at Freddy with a raised eyebrow.

“My gun’s in Los Angeles,” Freddy muttered. “I don’t have a Utah carry permit.”

The three of them first checked the empty truck before Freddy pointed to the obvious trail of footprints leading up the hill.

“He went up the mountain,” Freddy said grimly, his knife glinting.

“Phones have no signal here,” the Black man noted, holding up his phone.

“Then we go up and deal with him,” the white man replied.

Freddy reminded them as they advanced, “He’s valuable alive. Don’t aim for the torso—his organs are important.”

The three men followed the trail of footprints toward the rocky hillside, where Hawk lay waiting.

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