“Is there a door to the roof?”
“Skylight opens. Latch is above the sofa. Why’d you kill the tunes?”
“Pull up next to a bus, then slow down and let them get close.”
“You want to jump from the Crimebago to a bus?”
“Yeah.”
“Motorhead would be perfect for that. I think it’s disc eight.”
Harry fussed with buttons. Phin locked eyes with me and said, “Make sure he does what I told him.”
“I’m going with you.”
It was slight, but he still smirked. It annoyed me. I shoved Phin to the side, grabbed a walkie-talkie, and turned it on.
Then the RV exploded, a deafening thunderclap that made my knees buckle.
“SACRIFICE! PAY THE PRICE!”
No, not an explosion. Harry had found the Motorhead CD.
I clawed my way up to the cockpit and smacked it off.
“I’m the driver, dammit! I pick the music!”
“Focus, McGlade. Get next to a bus and make sure the Feebies are right behind you, then come to a stop. They won’t be able to see up onto the roof if they’re hugging the bumper.”
Harry reached for the stereo. I smacked his fake hand.
“Are you listening?”
“Jesus, sis, I got it the first time.”
“We’ll go on your say-so. Lead them around for another ten minutes, then pull over. Got it?”
“There better not be a body cavity search. I’ll give you up if they threaten me with a body cavity search. My ass is exit only.”
“Relax, Harry.” Phin patted him on the shoulder. “They won’t think I’m hiding up your ass.”
Harry nodded, then accelerated to catch up to a bus several car lengths ahead. Phin and I went to the kitchenette, strapping on our backpacks. He smirked at me again. I frowned.
“I’m going with you to find Alex, Phin. That’s the only reason.”
“I know.”
His grin didn’t fade. I thought about mentioning the obstruction of justice charges I’d be facing if we were caught, along with accessory after the fact, all because he robbed a goddamn bank instead of getting an honest job. But instead I said, “What’s so damn funny?”
He shook his head slightly. I realized he wasn’t amused by the situation, or anything I was doing. He was staring at me the way Latham used to, the way Alan did before our marriage imploded. Not lust. Something even more dangerous.
Love.
A quick romp in bed was one thing. An actual relationship was something I couldn’t even consider, especially at that moment. I wanted to smack him for being ten kinds of inappropriate.
“They’re on my bumper!” McGlade yelled back.
“How close?” I turned away from Phin’s stare but still could feel it.
“Close enough to give me a reach-around. Bus is on the left. You got about twenty seconds before the light turns green.”
Phin shouldered the backpack and hopped onto the sofa, fussing with the latches on the ceiling panel. It swung upward on hinges. He stuck his arms through, got his palms onto the roof, and hoisted himself up. I hung my purse around my neck and cast a longing glance at the rifles. We’d have to leave them for the time being.
“Cross traffic is flashing the Don’t Walk light,” McGlade said.
A hand reached down. I stepped onto the sofa and grabbed Phin’s wrist. His fingers locked onto my forearm and he yanked me through the opening, up onto my butt.
Vehicle exhaust soured my sinuses and cold city wind spit drizzle on my cheeks. I knelt on the roof, rainwater soaking through the seat of my sweatpants.
“The Don’t Walk light is solid.” McGlade’s voice was muffled, competing with the sounds of the street. Engines, honking, a siren in the distance. I looked behind me, couldn’t see the Feebies’ sedan. We were too high and they were too close.
Phin pointed left, to the bus. A Chicago commuter, green on white, about a foot taller than the RV and too far away to jump onto.
But Phin wasn’t reading my thoughts, and he sprinted up from a crouching position, took three big strides, then launched himself through the air.
His jump took him at least eight feet, and as his arc crested and waned I knew he didn’t have enough height to make it. Phin must have realized it as well, because he tucked in his legs midair, and hit the roof of the bus on his knees, sliding across the top in a spray of dirty water.
I knew I couldn’t follow. Too far.
“Yellow light!” McGlade warned.
Phin twisted around, beckoned me to jump. I got on my feet, but there was no way. Not without wings and a stack of mattresses. I shook my head.
“Green light!” Harry yelled. “Wait—traffic is blocked! Two cars! Feds! They’re Feds!”
I crouched down, crawled to the edge of the roof. Special Agent Dailey—or maybe it was Special Agent Coursey—walked directly under my line of sight, heading for the front of the RV.
I played out the upcoming scene in my head. Coursey/Dailey would produce a warrant, because neither of them took a leak without first going through proper channels, Harry would stonewall for a minute or two, then the Feds would search the Winnebago, find the open roof panel, discover me and Phin. Then we’d be chased and eventually arrested, Lance would die, Alex would continue her reign of terror, and Phin would go to jail for a very long time.
Now was a pretty good time to run like hell.
I glanced over at Phin, still motioning for me to jump. On my best day, on dry ground, I couldn’t make it. On a slippery roof, twelve feet above the street, I’d break bones for sure.
I heard Harry say, “How do I know this is a real warrant, and not something you printed on the Internet?” and decided that was my cue to give myself up. Phin could escape on his own, and we could contact him later. Depending on their evidence, maybe I wouldn’t have to spend all night at FBI headquarters answering questions. I pointed at the street, mouthed the word run at Phin.
“He’s on top of the bus!”
I glanced down. A Feebie had his gun out, bringing it up. Phin backpedaled out of range, shrugging off his backpack. He jerked down the zipper and reached inside.
There were Berettas in the backpack.
Bank robbery was one thing. Shooting a federal agent was another. I couldn’t let Phin do that, not even to save himself.
I fumbled for my purse, yanking out my Colt, cop mode on autopilot. Without hesitating I pointed my gun at the man I’d been making out with only a few minutes ago.
Phin tugged something small and black out of the bag, I yelled “No!”, and my finger reflexively tightened on the trigger, the hammer drawing back.
Walkie-talkie. He was holding a radio.
He cocked back his arm to toss it to me, and hesitated when he saw my gun out and trained on his chest. It was tough to see his expression in the drizzle and the darkness, but I imagined it was a combination of shock and disappointment. We both got over it quick enough, and I tucked my gun under my armpit just as he threw the radio across the gap. I caught it, and then he disappeared over the other side of the bus.
“On the RV!”
My shouting had done more than give away my position. It also confirmed that I was aiding and abetting a federal criminal. I was in deep. I shoved the radio and the gun into my purse and wondered what the hell I should do next.
“We followed you to the pool establishment, Lieutenant. You’re under arrest.”
I turned, saw Dailey or Coursey peeking over the rear of the RV, climbing the aluminum ladder attached to the back. His gun wasn’t out. He probably figured I was trapped. A quick look at the street around me confirmed this: The Feds had the Crimebago surrounded.
“Give up, Lieutenant. There’s nowhere for you to go.”
But he was wrong. The bus was still there. I didn’t think I’d make it, but I didn’t have a choice. In less than seven hours, Lance would be dead, and it didn’t matter to him whether I was in Cook County Jail or Cook County H
ospital.
I set my jaw, sprinted for the edge, and jumped.
CHAPTER 20
ALEX PUSHES THE PATROL CAR up past 120, sirens screaming and lights flashing, flying over the state line. It’s a rush. She can see what drew Jack to a career in law enforcement. No wonder so many cops are dicks. How easy it is to power trip when you have a car, a badge, and a gun.
Unfortunately, she can’t keep it. The car will be reported missing, if it hasn’t been already, and it probably has a GPS locator in it somewhere. The sooner she can ditch it, the better.
Luckily, getting another vehicle is as easy as pulling one over.
Alex chooses a Hyundai, dark blue, which is having some trouble staying in a single lane. Alex parks behind it and approaches the driver. He’s older, a gray beard, looking guilty and confused and pretty plowed.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” he slurs.
Alex orders him out of his car, over to a ditch by the side of the road, and puts two in his head. Twenty bucks in his wallet. More goddamn SEE ID credit cards—why were people so damn paranoid? And a silver flask in his jacket. Alex unscrews the cap. Gin. Not her favorite, but it will serve her purpose.
She rips off the man’s shirt, then hikes back to the squad car. Sprinkling alcohol on the cloth, she spends a few minutes wiping down the door handles, wheel, radio handset, and anything else she might have touched. Then she grabs what she needs and climbs into her new Hyundai, already focusing on her next victim.
Her original plan involved a time bomb, perhaps some plastic explosive wedged inside an orifice. Alex has killed a lot of people in a lot of different ways, but that would be a new one. Jack would enjoy a close-up pic of that, especially since it is someone she knows so well.
But a quick search of the police car had revealed something even better. An AED. Alex will have a great deal of fun with that. The role-playing possibilities are limitless.
The Hyundai conveniently has a GPS, which directs her off the expressway and into town. She reaches her target twenty minutes later.
It’s a nice area, single-family homes each with neatly trimmed trees in their fenced-in backyards. Quiet, peaceful, but the streetlights are bright enough to read a book under. Probably a very low crime rate.
“Until now,” Alex says, half her face curling into a grin.
She finds the right address and pulls up to the correct driveway. The house is completely dark, no lights inside or out. Sleeping? Possibly. It’s not a stretch that he forgot to turn on the exterior lights. Or maybe there’s no one home.
Alex pulls past, thinking it out. She can call, confirm if he’s home. That might also let her know if anyone else is in the house too. But all she has is her cell phone, and she didn’t bring her laptop along so she can’t spoof the caller ID. A pay phone is a possibility, but there aren’t many of those left, and Alex doesn’t know where to look for one.
Better to just knock on the door. She should be able to assess and secure the situation easily. Especially in her new uniform. That’s why she went through all the trouble to get it in the first place.
Alex drives out of the development, then finds a nice, dark stretch of road. She parks and quickly dresses in Officer Stark’s discarded clothing. It’s a little loose in the rear, and tight across the chest, but a good length. She fingers the badge on the leather jacket and buckles the utility belt. Alex can’t find a band for her hair, so she tucks it under her collar for a more professional look. The cap fits fine. Then it’s back in the car, and back to the house.
When Alex walks up the driveway, she does it with a swagger.
Wearing the uniform is an even bigger kick than driving the car. The stun gun is in her jacket pocket, the Maglite in her left hand, Stark’s pistol on her belt. She presses the doorbell.
Twenty seconds pass. No sounds from inside the house. She presses it again.
Nothing.
There’s a chance Jack knew she’d pick this target, and warned him away. A good chance. But if he went away, where would he go?
No way to know, standing out here.
Alex examines the door. It’s heavy, painted aluminum, a dead bolt. She grabs the knob and tugs. The jamb is solid, the lock tight. She searches around the door for any signs or stickers warning of a burglar alarm. There aren’t any.
Alex walks across the lawn, around the side of the house, over to the gate for the backyard. It’s open. Unlike the street side, the back of the house is dark, so she flips on the Maglite. If a nosy neighbor sees her, they’ll see a cop. It’s doubtful they’ll call the police when the police are already here.
She automatically searches the backyard for bones, poop, toys, bowls, or anything else that would indicate a dog. There wasn’t any barking when Alex knocked, but a well-trained mutt might keep silent. She finds nothing.
First Alex tries the sliding glass patio door. Locked. She knocks again, waits, then switches her grip on the Maglite and hits the door with everything she has.
As expected, the window splinters but doesn’t fall to pieces. Safety glass, like an auto windshield. Alex strikes it three more times in the same spot, breaking through the plastic coating, until she can stick her hand into the hole and unlock the door.
She steps inside, sweeping the flashlight beam across a sofa and a TV. It’s the living room. Alex locates a wall switch, flips on the lights.
In a perfect world, there would be a vacation brochure sitting on the table, or an open phone book with a hotel name circled. Alex finds neither, but isn’t discouraged. She sees a cordless phone next to the sofa and hits redial.
“Marino’s Pizza.”
Alex hesitates, thinks about ordering some food, then dismisses the idea and hangs up. A quick search of the living room provides no clues as to where he went. If he even went anywhere. Maybe Jack didn’t warn him, and he just stepped out to get a six-pack.
Alex heads into the kitchen. She begins to search for a calendar, address book, Day-Timer, anything that might list friends, family, schedule. There’s another phone, and she presses redial while rifling through a junk drawer.
“Thank you for calling the Holiday Inn. Press one for reservations.”
Alex presses one, gets the front desk.
“Can I leave a message for a guest?”
“What’s the guest’s name?”
“Alan Daniels.”
“Just a moment.”
Alex gets put on hold, music comes on. She recognizes the tune as MC Ice Koffee. What the hell is wrong with the world when someone like that is pop u lar?
“Would you like me to connect you?”
“Actually, I think I’ll just drop by. What room is he in?”
“We can’t give out that information, ma’am.”
“No problem. Can you connect me to the restaurant?”
“Just a moment.”
Alex endures more hip-hop before a woman answers.
“I believe you had a guest there to night, single man, in his forties, blond hair. His name is Alan Daniels. Can I speak to his server?”
“That’s me. I waited on him.”
“I promised to buy him dinner. Can you check to see if he put it on my room number?”
“Let me check. Here’s his ticket. He charged it to room 212.”
“Thank you.” Alex disconnects. “Thank you very much.”
CHAPTER 21
SOME URBAN LEGENDS are too good to be false. There’s the one about the crazed man, high on PCP and adrenaline, who displays superhuman strength and snaps police handcuffs in half while being arrested. And there’s the oft-repeated tale of the desperate mother who lifts up a car to save her child trapped beneath it.
So there was a precedent, however slim, that I could leap from the RV to the bus solely fueled by fear, determination, and adrenaline.
My footing was good, and I measured my steps perfectly, launching myself into the air at the very edge of the roof, my new Nikes gripping despite the drizzle, my aim true and sure.
Halfway there I knew I wasn’t going to make it, and three-quarters of the way there I knew it was going to hurt, bad.
I held my hands out in front of me, slapping palms onto the top of the bus while my ribs slammed into the side. The wind rushed out of me like I’d been, well, hit by a bus. Bright motes punctuated red and black splotches in my vision, swirling around and adding a shot of disorientation to the pain cocktail. My jaw connected with the roof, reminding me of the last time Alex hit me in the face, which then reminded me that this wasn’t Alex, it was a bus, and I was twelve feet above the unforgiving blacktop and going to break something—probably several somethings—when I fell in a second or two.
As anticipated, my palms found no purchase on the slick bus top, and my ribs contracted and expanded, giving my body a springboard push off the side, and then I was falling backward through the cool Chicago night, wondering if the twinkling skyscrapers above me were the last things I’d ever see.
I may have shrieked a little.
But, incredibly, when I hit, I didn’t hit hard, and I managed to remain lucid enough to wonder why. Rather than cold wet asphalt and hot sticky blood, I felt something semi-soft envelop me, wrapping itself around my legs and shoulders.
There was an “uumph,” which didn’t come from me, and then another small drop, and I stopped flailing long enough to see I was sitting in someone’s lap.
Phin.
No time for thanks, or apparently even a tender glance, because he roughly shoved me off and then just as roughly grabbed my armpit and yanked me to my feet.
I sort of remember running through cars, people yelling, horns blaring, and someone blasting Motorhead. When my wits partially returned Phin and I were beating feet down the sidewalk, each of my steps less wobbly than the last.
Two blocks later Phin jerked me into an alley. We pressed our backs against the wet brick of an office building, the scent of old garbage mingling with the ever-present car exhaust. I was breathing like an asthmatic on a hay ride, and Phin was bent in half, hands on his thighs, sucking just as much wind as I was.
I inventoried my aches and pains. Jaw hurt, but a quick tongue probe proved I still had all of my choppers. Ribs hurt, but nothing seemed broken. Left palm hurt, and I squinted in the darkness and saw I’d scraped it trying to keep hold of the bus’s roof.
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