The wind sucked itself inside his collar, persistent, ice,

damp, the severity of the Golden Gate Bridge on a February night a sharp contrast to the beaches a few miles south. 

He peered over the railing. 

Black.  Foghorns, buoys clanging. 

Through the mist off the southern end, the skyline.  Eerie, blurred through the fog, he could still make out the steel columns of the pyramid, and the steep street of Divisadero.  The lighthouse on Alcatraz glowed on the horizon with a regular beat.

 The railing was wet, cold, rough to the touch.  Traffic was minimal but consistent, the bridge never slept, late parties, road trippers, occasional limos.  The orange towers reached above the fog line casting a yellowish glow over the asphalt below.  He snuck behind the south tower, putting himself between it and the railing. 

 It was darker here.

 His car was at the south lot, one of only a few at this hour.  Cameras were perched everywhere keeping an eye out for breakdowns, foul play…and jumpers. 

 He would give them no time.

 Swinging his left leg up over the railing…


So begins the sequel to Run For the Money

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