Chapel scrabbled for the items—a ballpoint and a citation book. He scrawled out the words ASSASSIN IN CAR THREE CALL REINHARD while Young pulled up alongside car two, directly behind the limo.
“Here, give me it,” Young said, and grabbed the citation book. She flicked her siren on and off until the guard in the passenger seat of car two looked over in their direction. She held the citation book up to her window. “Is he looking?”
“Yeah,” Chapel said, watching the passenger’s face. “Yeah, I think he’s got it. He’s shouting something but I can’t hear him.”
Young rolled down her window. Air burst into the car, ruffling the pages of the citation book.
“I said,” the passenger shouted, “are you nuts?”
Chapel grimaced in frustration.
“Our radio is out,” Young shouted back.
The passenger in car two rolled up his tinted window.
“I don’t think they’re taking us serious,” Young said. Her face was impassive, but Chapel knew she must be thinking the same thing he was.
They were a guard detail for a man who had been targeted by an implacable assassin. They might doubt what Chapel had to say. They might think he was trying to sabotage the detail. But there was no excuse for not being cautious and heeding what he said.
“We have to assume a few things,” Chapel told her, picking his words carefully. “We have to assume they have orders not to listen to us.”
“I’ll go that far,” Young replied.
“We have to assume they’re not going to take any action,” he went on.
“That’s what I’m seeing,” she said.
Chapel nodded. He had a couple more assumptions he wasn’t going to say out loud. He had to assume that Reinhard—and his entire security crew—already knew that Quinn was in car three, and that they were on his side. On the side of the Voice and the chimeras. They were in on the assassination plot.
Chapel also had to assume that Young wasn’t in on it, too. If she was, this was going to be over very quickly.
“The judge is in danger,” Chapel said.
“Yep.”
“Are we going to do something about that?” he asked.
“We sure as hell are.” Young flipped on her lights and sirens and stamped on the brakes.
IN TRANSIT: APRIL 14, T+58:59
The sedans—cars two and three—shot past the cruiser as Young maneuvered them back to the rear of the convoy again, straddling the two lanes. Chapel saw her plan immediately—she was leaving the right lane open so car three could move across to the shoulder, but not leaving any room for them to fall back. As soon as the cruiser was clear of car three’s bumper she picked up speed again, until they were separated by only a single car length’s distance.
She grabbed the microphone and switched on her loudspeakers. “Car three, break off from the convoy immediately,” she said, and Chapel heard her voice repeated so loud outside the car it made the windshield rattle. “Move to the shoulder and stop your vehicle. You have ten seconds to comply.” She switched over to the radio, but held her palm over the microphone. She glanced over at Chapel. “I know I can trust my fellow troopers. I’ve worked with some of ’em for years.”
Chapel remembered the judge saying he’d worked with Reinhard for years, too. But they needed allies. There were three troopers on motorcycles in front of the limo, screening its advance, and two more well behind them keeping an eye on their tail. “Call them,” he said.
Young flipped some switches on the radio and got on a state police restricted channel. “This is Sergeant Young, calling all motorcycle units. Have identified that car three is a threat, repeat, car three.”
“Tell them to screen the limo and get it off the road if they can,” Chapel told her.
“Forward units, protect the principal, and get it to safety,” Young said into her microphone. “Rear units, close this road to traffic! Fall back and deploy flares. Calling headquarters, calling headquarters. We have an immediate need to close the northbound lanes of I-36 south of Broomfield. Repeat, we need an immediate road closure of I-36 northbound south of Broomfield.” Almost instantly the units ahead of the limo called in to report they had received Young’s orders and would do what they could. At least the troopers were paying attention.
Chapel leaned forward to peer through the windshield. Car three hadn’t changed its speed or position at all. Neither had the other sedans. All three of them had rolled up their windows, though. He couldn’t see anything through the tinted glass.
“Do we hail ’em again, give ’em another chance?” Young asked. “I don’t want to start shooting out tires or running anybody off the road if we don’t have to.”
“I think—” Chapel said, but he didn’t get to finish his thought.
Up ahead the rear passenger-side door of car three popped open, and a man in a black suit flew out. He bounced off the asphalt and came caroming straight toward the patrol cruiser.
“Mother Mary!” Young shouted, and whipped her wheel over to the side, narrowly avoiding rolling right over the security guard.
Chapel spun around in his seat to watch as they raced past the man. He was struggling to get to his feet in the middle of the fast lane of the highway. It looked like he had a broken leg.
Chapel guessed immediately what had happened. Quinn must have panicked. The other guards in car three must have tried to mollify him.
Chimeras didn’t take well to attempts to calm them down.
“Shotgun, mounted behind your head,” Young said, her voice tight with worry.
Chapel looked for and found the shotgun where it was held behind the headrests by a pair of metal clips. He grabbed it and broke it open. “Shells,” he said.
“Glove compartment. Grab the blue ones, those are slugs,” Young told him. Her eyes were all over the road.
Chapel yanked open the glove compartment and found the box of shells. Half of them were shot packed in red paper. The other half were solid slugs mounted in blue plastic casings. She was right—they would be far more effective against vehicle tires than the shells full of buckshot. He loaded two in the shotgun and nodded at her.
“Aim for the right rear tire,” she told him. “That’ll make ’em slew over to the left, into the median. It’s the safest—Jesus!”
He looked up to see what had her attention. The rear window of car three erupted in shards of glass. Chapel could see Quinn using his fist to clear the remaining glass. The barrel of a pistol emerged from inside the vehicle and started to track them.
“Head down!” Young shouted, as she veered to the right. Chapel was thrown up against the passenger-side door, jarring his good shoulder. The box of shotgun shells burst open and spilled all over his lap, the shells rolling down into the leg well.
The windshield of the patrol cruiser cracked from top to bottom as a pistol round tore through its cabin, narrowly missing Young’s ear.
“I’m fine,” she shouted, and he nodded, snapping the shotgun closed and rolling down his window. “Take your shot, quick!”
Chapel caught a flash of motion ahead of them and saw car two drifting back toward them. Either they’d come to see what was happening—or to help. Whether they wanted to help Chapel or Quinn was an open question.
“I’ve got this,” Young told him. “Take that shot!”
IN TRANSIT: APRIL 14, T+59:03
Chapel rolled down his window and unbuckled
his seat belt. Cradling the shotgun in his arm, he got his knees up on the seat and leaned out the window. The wind of their velocity tried to tear him out of the car but he braced himself and held on. Young shouted something at him but he couldn’t hear. He could barely keep his eyes open as the air slapped him in the face over and over, but he managed to get the shotgun clear of the window and brought it up to his shoulder.
Then a second pistol shot struck the hood of the cruiser, and Young had to veer to the side. Chapel flopped like a rag doll as the car shifted under him. He had to grab for the car door with his artificial hand, and nearly lost the shotgun. A third shot took off the wing mirror on the driver’s side.
At least Quinn—or whoever it was shooting from car three—wasn’t aiming at Chapel. They clearly intended to incapacitate Young so she couldn’t continue the pursuit. Chapel had to end this before that happened. He raised the shotgun and tried to find an angle to get the rear tire of car three. Normally with a shotgun you didn’t need to aim—you just pointed and fired. This shotgun was loaded with slugs, though, solid projectiles that acted similar to rifle bullets. He needed to make his shot precise and clean.
That wasn’t going to happen with him hanging out of his window. He was firing across the car and the hood was in the way.
There was only one thing for it. He reached forward with his left hand and grabbed the windshield wipers so he could pull himself forward. He was going to have to climb out onto the hood.
Up ahead car two had fallen back in the right lane, boxing car three in. Were they trying to help? Their windows were up, and he couldn’t see anyone inside the car. They weren’t shooting at him, which was nice, but they were preventing car three from complying with Young’s instructions. Not that Quinn was likely to let the driver of car three just pull over and surrender.
No, it was on Chapel. He dragged himself forward, compensating every time Young veered or drifted into one lane or the other, trying to make it as hard as possible for the shooter in car three to get a bead on her. He could hardly blame her for not wanting to stand still, even if it did make it next to impossible for him to move out onto the hood. He glanced through the windshield and saw her sitting up in her seat, trying to see over him. Her eyes were firmly on the road. Either she knew what he was trying to do or she figured it was his own neck at risk.
Stop stalling, he thought. He tried to channel Top, tried to hear his old physical therapist’s voice in his head. This wasn’t exactly a situation Top had prepared him for, though, and no words came.
It didn’t matter. He knew what Top would want him to do.
Chapel kicked his legs out of the window and flopped down hard on the hood of the cruiser. Inertia tried to yank him up over the windshield and onto the roof of the car but he kept his center of gravity down and hugged the hood, the mechanical fingers of his left hand grabbing at the grill on the front of the car because it was the only thing to hold on to. Heat from the engine seared his chest and groin. The buttons of his shirt soaked up that heat and scorched his flesh, but he could only ignore it. With his right arm he reached around and brought the shotgun to bear. He braced it against the hood, angling the barrel down toward the tire of car three.
That was when Quinn erupted out of the shattered rear window, howling in rage, hauling himself through the broken glass. The chimera pulled himself onto the trunk of car three. His mouth was wide open, virus-carrying saliva forming long strands between his massive white teeth. He stared at Chapel with eyes as black as the bottom of a well.
Quinn had a pistol in his hand.
Chapel had the shotgun.
Quinn lifted his weapon and pointed it straight at Chapel’s face. There was no way Chapel could dodge the bullet, no safe place he could move to.
His weapon was already aimed.
He took his shot.
IN TRANSIT: APRIL 14, T+59:07
The sound of the rear tire of car three exploding was the loudest bang Chapel had ever heard. Shreds of hot rubber and steel belting blasted outward in a cloud of stinging, slapping chaff. Chapel looked up and saw Quinn’s pistol discharge. He could have sworn he saw the bullet come out of the barrel, that he watched it travel in slow motion straight for him. He dropped the shotgun and let it clatter away between the two cars. Car three was already turning, swerving over into the grassy median strip, dust and pieces of torn-up vegetation rising in a plume from its front tires.
Chapel couldn’t tell if he’d been hit or not. Quinn had fired from point-blank range. He’d been aiming right at Chapel. Had the car started to swerve before or after Quinn pulled the trigger? Chapel knew from past experience that you could be shot and not know it for long seconds, that the brain under stress could delay pain reactions for a surprisingly long time.
Was he already dead, but his body hadn’t realized it yet?
He wanted to look down at himself, check himself for wounds, but he didn’t dare. Car three had rumbled to a stop, nose down in the median, and was rocking back and forth on its suspension. Young hit the cruiser’s brakes, though she was careful not to decelerate so hard that Chapel went flying. When he decided she’d slowed down enough, when he could look down at the asphalt and see the grain in it, the texture of the road surface, he scrambled forward off the burning hot hood of the cruiser and rolled down to the ground, taking the fall on his artificial left arm. In a moment he was back up on his feet. He felt like he was floating, like adrenaline lifted him up into the air and then he was running, dashing full tilt back down the highway toward where car three sat, lifeless and unmoving.
On the far side of the median civilian cars went by so fast they were just blurs of color in the air, red, bottle green, gunmetal gray. He heard the sirens of Young’s cruiser but only as if they were far away, as if they were in the next county. He heard the breath surging in and out of his lungs. He heard his own heartbeat.
His right side felt wet and cold. That was probably blood. Not a good sign, but he still didn’t feel any pain, and he definitely didn’t feel like it could slow him down. Quinn was back there, Quinn—a third chimera, one of his targets—
His head was vibrating, like he’d taken a punch to the temple. His brains felt like they were quivering Jell-O inside his skull.
Black cars were moving all around him, slotting themselves into place. Men in black suits were jogging across the asphalt, guns and walkie-talkies in their hands. He glanced back and saw the limo almost right behind him, pulled across both lanes of the highway, standing across the road.
“The judge,” he shouted. He couldn’t hear his own voice. That wasn’t a good sign. It could mean a lot of things, though, anything from a concussion to a gunshot wound to the head. “Get the judge out of here! Get the limo out of here!”
Up ahead car three stood in the median. Beyond it he could see something black and white moving, thrashing around.
It was Quinn. They’d dressed him in one of their suits, made him look like a member of the security detail. They had cut his hair neat and professional, made him look like an ex-soldier or maybe an ex-football player. The kind of man who would work for Reinhard. If his eyes weren’t covered by those nictitating membranes, Chapel would never recognize him. Quinn was staggering back and forth on the median like he was drunk. Like he was trying to walk on the deck of a heaving ship.
Someone was shouting at Chapel. One of the troopers, one of the motorcycle troopers, was shouting at him, but Chapel couldn’t hear the words,
he could only see the man’s lips moving. Chapel waved him away and ran toward Quinn.
Around the median there was a ring of black suits. Men in black suits. Their eyes were normal, at least, but why were they standing there? Why were they just standing there?
Quinn saw Chapel and pulled himself upright. He pounded at his ears with his palms as if they were full of water and he was trying to clear them. Was he deaf too? Maybe—maybe the noise of the tire blowout had deafened them both.
Chapel had no time to think. He couldn’t think. He drew his sidearm. Stood sideways to make a smaller target of himself, pointed his weapon at Quinn. “Lie down! Lie down on the ground and put your hands behind your head!” Chapel shouted. He could just hear the words, though they sounded distorted and weird.
Quinn scrubbed at his face with his hands. His jacket was torn all up one side, and the white cuff had frayed down to torn ribbons. The skin of his palm on that side was pink and bloody. He must have gone flying when car three veered into the median. He must have been thrown clear and slid twenty feet on his hand and side. No wonder he looked so disoriented.
He was still a chimera, though. Even as Chapel watched Quinn seemed to regain his composure. He pulled himself up to his full height. Tilted his head back and roared like a lion.
Tell me who the Voice is. Tell me why the Voice wants you to kill Hayes. Tell me why you were created.
There were a million questions in Chapel’s head, questions he wanted to ask Quinn. He dearly wanted Quinn to surrender, wanted him to stand down so Chapel could take him into custody and interrogate him.
Quinn was a chimera. He was hurt, and angry, and scared. He wouldn’t be taken without a fight.
He rushed straight at Chapel, his head down, his arms out like he would grab Chapel around the waist and knock him to the ground. Like he was going to crush Chapel’s life right out of him.
Chapel breathed out, aimed at the top of Quinn’s head, and fired until Quinn dropped to the ground, dead as meat.
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