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truck driver shouted.
    Another shout echoed from the rear. “Over the side!”
    The mob picked it up it as a war cry. “Over the side! Over the side!”
    Madison dropped her bullhorn and jumped from the ladder. But she was too slow in reacting to the threat and two men grabbed her. The chant grew louder as the men carried her to the nearside of the bridge. More demonstrators joined in trying to save Madison.
    Hank climbed out through the sunroof and slid down onto the hood of his car as a man banged a baseball bat against his car’s fender. He glared at Hank, his eyes filled with hate. “Hey man!” Hank yelled. “You got the wrong car.” He pointed at the old VW van directly in front. “Nail that one!” He slid off the hood and gave him an encouraging look. “Let’s get the bastards.” Again, he pointed at the VW van.
    The man yelled an obscenity at Hank but turned toward the VW van. It was the wrong move. Hank pounded at his back with four, blindingly fast rabbit punches. The man went down as Hank grabbed the baseball bat out of his hands. “Crazy bastard,” Hank said. “Get out of here.” The man scrambled for safety. Hank used the bat as a battering ram and bulldozed his way straight for the kicking and screaming Madison. He held the baseball bat low to keep it hidden and reached the girl just as the men started to heave her over the side. He brought the tip of the bat up in a sharp upward motion into the elbow of the man holding her feet. He collapsed in a spasm of pain, dropping Madison’s legs. Hank straddled her.
    “Not her,” Hank shouted, now holding the bat high, ready to swing. “The van! Get the van!” A man grabbed him from the rear. Hank bent his knees and went into a crouch as he jerked his body sideways. At the same time, he twisted into his assailant and drove the butt of the bat into his stomach. The man went down spewing vomit over Madison. “Throw the goddamn van over the side!” Hank shouted.
    A voice picked up his order. “The van, the van!” It became a chorus and the mob turned toward the van, momentarily diverted. But it was only a temporary reprieve.
    Hank scooped up Madison in a fireman’s carry. “Play dead,” he told her. She played the role and her arms and head dangled lifelessly. He angled through the crowd that was pushing the van towards the bridge railing. The lane in front of his car was now open. He reached the back of his car and lifted the trunk lid. He dumped Madison in and slammed the lid.
    “What the hell you doin’?” a voice shouted behind him.
    “Taking her to the morgue,” Hank shouted back. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” Ahead of him the men had pushed the van against the railing and were rocking it back and forth. Hank jumped in behind the wheel and started the engine. Sirens blared from Yerba Buena Island as police and emergency vehicles approached, coming towards him in the clear lanes. He accelerated straight ahead as the van went over the railing and the police cars arrived. A line of traffic shot the gap he had opened, adding to the confusion.
     
     
    Hank sipped at his tea while his wife, Catherine, gently cleaned a nasty abrasion on Madison’s left knee. Catherine was a big woman often described as statuesque, and towered over the waif-like Madison. “There now,” Catherine said, “you should be okay. You were lucky. The fall would have killed you.”
    “They’re all bastards,” Madison announced.
    Catherine was an accomplished lawyer in her own right but had given up practicing law to raise a family. But she fully understood the deadly mix of anger and opportunity. “Men can get that way, especially when you make them angry. You lost situational awareness.”
    “What exactly does that mean?” Madison asked.
    “Your perception of the situation did not match reality,” Hank explained. “Besides, always know how to get out of Dodge when the situation turns to crap – like today.”
    The phone rang and Catherine picked