by Alex Ander
“How?”
“PIT maneuver.”
“At seventy-five miles an hour?” He pulled on his safety harness again.
“It’s been done at over a hundred.”
Randall shook his head. “Not with me in the car, it hasn’t.” He confronted her. “Have you performed this before?”
“An anti-terrorist specialist came in and trained a handful of us when I first joined the Marshals Service.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“I’ve employed the tactic twice. No one’s been injured.”
“Have you ever done it at seventy-five miles an hour before?”
She flicked her eyes toward him then focused on the road ahead.
He faced forward, “Lovely,” then wriggled deeper into his seat while wrenching on his safety harness for a third time.
“It’s all about finesse, not ramming.” She checked her mirrors then looked ahead to make sure there was no opposing traffic before she eased the rental into the oncoming lane and let her right foot get heavy on the ‘go’ pedal. “And we...”
The 300S surged ahead, its right fender coming alongside the Tacoma’s left quarter panel.
“...have no idea what’s up ahead. There could be,” she concentrated on the fleeing Toyota’s rear bumper, “there could be a residential area waiting for this guy to blitz through doing ninety.”
Randall bobbed his brows and half nodded. I suppose.
“This is our chance.”
“Okay. Okay. Let’s take it. I trust you, Jess.”
“Really? Is that why you’ve been strangling yourself over there with your seat belt?”
He threw her a quick smirk. “Not at all. I’m just really big on safety.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Devlin matched the Chrysler’s speed with the truck’s speed then slowly closed the distance between the two vehicles.
The two cars gently touched.
She turned the steering wheel ninety degrees to the right.
The Chrysler pushed the Toyota.
The Toyota spun counterclockwise and skidded sideways down the road.
Devlin eased off the accelerator.
The truck continued its one-eighty, sliding across the concrete and into the oncoming lane. Its front grille now facing the pursuit vehicle, the light-duty pickup lost more traction on the loose gravel alongside the road before its passenger side crashed into a chain-link fence on the Chrysler’s eleven o’clock.
Devlin steered left and jammed her foot on the brake pedal.
Randall had his door open and one foot hanging outside before the 300S stopped just short of the disabled car’s left-front bumper.
Barnes scrambled out of the truck and took off running, the fence on his left, a bag slung over his back.
Randall gave chase for the next fifty yards, but found himself falling behind the younger, faster man. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Chrysler pass by him, cut left in front of Barnes, and come to a halt, its left-front bumper touching the fence.
Devlin got out.
The running man planted a foot in the middle of the open door.
The door flew backward and hit the driver.
Letting out a grunt, as she was driven back against the frame, Devlin made a face and clutched her chest.
Barnes jumped onto, then over, the hood and kept on running.
Wincing, gasping for air, Devlin put her left shoulder to the left-rear door and slid along the glass while holding her left breast.
Randall approached. “You okay?”
“Go.” She waved her left arm toward him, “I’m—” then grimaced at the pain the motion had caused. “I’ll be fine. Go get that son-of-a...”
As she finished her curse, he scampered over the hood, landed on the gravel apron, and bolted away from her. Fifty feet later, he hooked around the end of the fence and came upon a large building with semi-trailers backed up to loading docks.
Inside the structure, several men gave each other puzzled looks before staring toward the back of the interior space.
Randall made a bee line for the nearest open bay and leaped onto the loading dock.
The men faced him.
His cred pack in hand, he eyed the workers. “Which way?”
One man stretched out an arm. “He ran out the back door.”
“Thanks.” Heading in the direction the man was pointing, Randall stowed his creds then drew his Walther PPQ45. He opened the back door and slowly poked his head out through the archway, his eyes scanning the dimly lit territory around him.
Two ‘first downs’ away, a chain-link fence rattled on his one o’clock.
He squinted at a figure scaling an eight-foot-high fence.
Randall holstered his weapon and sprinted across a parking lot.
Barnes made it to the top then swung each leg over a horizontal bar before walking down a couple feet and letting go.
A split-second later, Randall jumped into the air and grabbed the fence halfway up. Hoisting himself higher, he folded his upper body over the barrier, gripped the crosshatched metal on the opposite side, and swung both feet over at the same time, twisting his body in midair and coming down facing his target.
His lead down to mere feet, Barnes looked back and stumbled before turning around and regaining his balance.
His eyes on his prey, the deputy marshal drew upon his energy reserves and charged forward.
Barnes crossed a street, made a right, and ran alongside a long hedgerow interspersed with large bushes and shrubs.
Randall watched him glance over his shoulder three times. Each sneak peek cost the man another foot of separation.
Barnes made a left-ninety, then another left, and darted into a vacant parking garage.
Six paces behind, Randall poured on the gas.
Barnes veered left, stretched out his left arm, caught a wire mesh trash receptacle, and pulled.
The refuse container toppled and rolled.
Forced to stop to keep from diving headfirst over the obstacle, Randall skirted the can and kept going.
Barnes stole a backward glance at his determined pursuer. Seeing his lead was back again, his chest heaving, he stopped to take a two-second breather then cast another look over his shoulder before dashing out of the parking garage, never seeing the four-door sedan coming from his left.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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Chapter 16
Prima Donna
Barnes collided with the Chrysler’s right fender, bounced back, and fell to the pavement. He rolled onto his left side, got his feet under him, and half ran, half limped around the sedan’s front grille while shaking the cobwebs from his head.
Already out of the car, Devlin met him at the left fender, grabbed him by the shirt collar, pivoted left, and tossed him face first onto the hood before planting her foot between his legs, wrenching his arms behind his back, and handcuffing his wrists.
Huffing and puffing, Randall came up on her nine o’clock, bent over, and put hands on his knees, only to immediately retract his left hand to examine a bleeding gash on his palm. “You know,” shaking his injured appendage, he took a second to catch his breath, “you’re like a prima donna actor who smiles for the camera and then,” his chest swelled, as he grabbed more oxygen, “takes all the credit after the stunt man’s done all the hard work.”
“An actor, huh?” Her right hand pressing down on Barnes’ back, Devlin used her free hand to rub her left breast, the one that had taken the full brunt of the car door flying back at her, earlier. “Well, I have an aching boob that says otherwise.”
*******
11:39 P.M.
For the last seven minutes, Devlin and Randall had been questioning a handcuffed Dryden Barnes while the man had sat in the driver’s seat, his feet on the parking lot pavement. Above his head, on the car’s roof, the duffle bag he had been carrying sat unzipped. Stacks of hundreds, fifties, and twenties filled the main compartment.
Randall folded his arms acr
oss his chest and towered over the suspect. “You’re going away for a long, long time, Dryden. We have you on,” the deputy marshal lifted a finger with each item he mentioned, “armed robbery, assault, assaulting a federal agent, and the worst one of all,” a beat, “murder.”
Barnes looked up at him. “I didn’t kill anyone. I was in the van the whole time.”
Randall shrugged. “You were there. That’s all it takes.”
The man leaned forward. “I never pulled the trigger. I only drove the vans. The others did the killing.”
From the opposite side of the Chrysler: “What others?”
The man turned toward the out-of-sight female tossing out the question.
Buttoning her blouse, Devlin walked around the trunk, having taken a break to check out her wound. “Give us names, Mr. Barnes.”
Barnes turned away from her and hung his head.
“You’re going to feel the full force of justice for this, Dryden, including the murders.”
He whipped his toward her. “But I didn’t—”
“And I,” she lunged toward him, “Don’t. Care...and neither will a judge. Unless you give us the names of those who gunned down that police officer, we’re pinning all of it on,” she thrust out her forefinger, “you.”
Ten seconds of silence passed while sirens wailed in the distance.
She gestured. “Do you hear that? By now, the police will have been alerted to our little car chase. Witnesses will be telling them what they saw. They’ll be here soon. And when they arrive, they won’t be interested in offering you a deal like we have.”
The man made a face while cranking his head back and forth and wriggling in his seat.
“Make no mistake. You are going to jail. But if you help us out, we can put in a good word for you, get the murder charge dropped.”
The sirens grew louder.
Devlin put her right forearm on the roof, crossed ankles, and leaned her right hip against the left-rear door. “Our offer expires when they get here, though.”
“You won’t find the others. We all went our separate ways.”
“Oh,” Randall stepped forward, “rest assured. With or without your help, we’ll find them.”
“And when we do,” Devlin interjected, “you’ll have lost your bargaining chip.”
The sound of the approaching police vehicles was nearly upon the trio.
“So,” Devlin stood tall, “what’s it going to be? Do you want to get out of prison before you’re an old man? Or do you want to die in there?”
Barnes shut his eyes and tipped his head back. In the next instant, he sighed and went from Randall to Devlin. “I don’t have any names...not for the two main players, anyway. One went by Sam, but that seemed too generic to be real. But I think I might know where the other two,” he paused, “I think they were brothers...said they’d be holing up until things died down.”
*******
17 MAY—12:17 A.M.
His left butt cheek above the Chrysler’s left-front headlight, both feet on the ground, Randall sat on the hood and watched the paramedics attend to Barnes, two police officers a short step away from intervening if the suspect did anything but sit at the back of the ambulance.
Standing in front of him, having picked out debris from the cut on his palm, Devlin now pawed through the first-aid kit she had secured from a responding officer’s cruiser. Finding antiseptic and bandages, she went to work cleaning the wound. “How’d you get this, anyway?”
He glimpsed his laceration. “I think it happened when I jumped a fence back there. I felt something sharp but didn’t think about it until I rested my hand on my knee.”
Two seconds passed.
The deputy marshal regarded her, a twinkle in his eye. “Just so you know...if I weren’t already seeing someone, and you didn’t have a husband who’d beat me to a pulp for doing so, I’d return your kindness and,” he lingered, the right corner of his mouth ticking higher, “offer to rub the sting out of your injury.”
Her focus going to the throbbing in her breast, she stopped dabbing his palm to spy him.
He dialed up a mischievous grin.
Shaking her head while letting a grin of her own slip out, Devlin put away the antiseptic and picked up the bandages. “Who says I’d need a husband to beat the pulp out of you for pulling something like that?”
Randall burst out laughing. “No. I suppose you wouldn’t.” A moment later, he looked at his fellow agent. “You’re just like one of the guys, Jess.”
She shot him a quick peek then started wrapping his left hand. “What do you mean by that?”
“Not sure I can be any clearer. To me, working with you is like working with one of the guys. You can take the good-natured ribbing and not get your bikinis in a bunch.”
Her eyebrows bounced once. “Okay. Underwear choices aside, I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As you should.”
“But who says we women don’t tease each other? Because we do.”
“Yeah, but that’s different. You and me...we have that whole male-female thing going on.”
She nodded. “That’s true.”
“So,” he tipped his head right and left, “I guess what I’m trying to get across is...”
Having finished her work, she tossed the tape roll into the kit.
“...I feel comfortable around you. You get me. You understand me. You know I’m only horsing around, having fun...and that I’m in no way disrespecting you.”
Devlin zipped the first-aid bag shut and confronted him. “You’re a good man, Noah. It didn’t take me long to come to that conclusion. And good men always respect women. So, yeah, I don’t get my,” she hesitated, “bikinis in a bunch, as you so gracefully put it, when...”
He smiled.
“...you say something off-color.” The female marshal felt a vibration on her thigh. “I know you’re just messing with me.” She pulled out her phone from a jean pocket and saw the caller. “It’s Faith. Hopefully, she has a location on that houseboat for us.” Devlin put the call on speakerphone. “Go ahead, Fay. Randall’s listening in, too.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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Chapter 17
Tacky
6:49 A.M.
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
EASTLAKE NEIGHBORHOOD
Parked along Fairview Avenue, with an unobstructed view of two sides of a powder-blue two-story houseboat facing Lake Union on the corner of a block of houseboats—four across, six deep—Randall lowered the binoculars and admired the sparkling waters.
Behind the Chrysler’s driver, the sun had risen over an hour ago and was just peeking over the houses and businesses further back on his six o’clock.
Hearing his passenger stir in her seat, he turned to see a sleeping Devlin.
Having alternated with each other, the agents had taken one-hour-long naps. She was now on her second snooze.
Randall raised the field glasses to spy on the floating dwelling.
Six-and-a-half hours ago, Faith had called to say she had used the sketchy information Dryden Barnes had provided to track down a possible houseboat two members of the robbery team, the two brothers, had recently rented.
Arriving at the site six hours ago, the agents had taken turns keeping an eye on the darkened, seemingly empty rental home.
Randall squirmed in his seat then glimpsed the corner market in the rearview mirror, its lights had come alive at six-thirty. He peeped at Devlin, his mind recalling the bottle and a half of water he had downed throughout the night. He stared at one of the empty containers beside him for a long moment. His attention went to a sound-asleep Devlin before he observed the bottle again. A beat later, he shook his head. That would be tacky.
He adjusted his position once more and went back to surveilling the target, hoping the task would take his mind off his pressing urge.
Devlin snorted, batted her eyelids a few times, yawned, and stretched her limbs. “Did I miss—”
>
“Good. You’re awake.” He plopped the field glasses onto her lap and opened the door. “I need to hit the head.” He hurried out of the car and jogged across Fairview Avenue.
She smacked her lips, “Good morning to you, too,” then searched for the water she had stowed in the center console. I thought I... abandoning her quest a few seconds later, she picked up the binoculars and observed the houseboat.
Seven minutes later, the driver’s door opened.
A plastic bag hooked around his fingers, Randall fell into his seat with a heavy sigh and pulled his door shut.
“Have you seen my water? I’m sure I put it in the console.”
“Um,” he froze, seeing himself guzzling the rest of a half-filled bottle, “what did it look like?”
“Gee. I don’t know.” She faced him. “I’m probably thinking just like the one you had.”
“Here.” He pulled out a cardboard container and held it out to her. “I bought you some OJ.” He dipped his hand back into the bag and made an oblong dessert appear a beat later. “And a donut. It’s filled with jelly...strawberry, I think.”
She accepted both, scowled at the items, then raised an eyebrow at her driver. “Nothing says breakfast like an overdose of sugar.”
“Exactly.” He pulled out a figure-eight shaped baked good and a carton of chocolate milk then crumpled the bag. Pausing a beat, he lifted his beverage. “Unless you’d rather have the milk.”
“I’d rather have my water.”
“I’m sorry, Jessica. Those leftover pizza slices I ate gave me a nasty thirst.”
She squared shoulders with him. “So, you drank my water?”
“Would you rather I had woken you up to get your permission?”
“Yes.” Still not fully awake, Devlin frowned at her questioner. “I mean ‘no.’” She shook her head and closed her eyes. “I mean I’d rather you’d—”
He motioned. “We got action.” His mouth full of one half of the ‘figure eight’ treat, he spat a speck of dough on his last syllable.
Glimpsing him wiping the moistened crumb off the dashboard, she faced the direction in which he had pointed. “Are you going to eat like that when you take my sister out on a date?”
