CHAPTER 33
Dedrick and one of the officers stayed behind with Isabella’s little brother and sister.
The rest of the team who’d stormed Isabella Arroz’s home followed behind Shannon as she raced to I-94 with the lights and sirens blaring from Dedrick’s Impala.
“Dispatch, this is 411,” Shannon said into the radio.
“Go ahead, 411.”
“I’m in pursuit of a black Chrysler 300 with a cracked rear windshield,” she said. “I believe the vehicle is eastbound on I-94, possibly heading for Windsor, Canada.”
At the time, Shannon hadn’t realized what Isabella meant when she uttered the word ‘Windsor’ in her hospital bed. Now it all made sense. Windsor, Canada. That’s where she and Robbie—not Colm—had decided to flee after Robbie took Ewan’s eighty thousand dollars from Colm and killed him in an effort to frame Ewan.
Windsor, Canada was where Isabella and Robbie planned to start their new lives with their baby.
“Understood, 411,” the dispatcher said. “Do you have a description of the driver of your vehicle?”
“Possibly Arroz, Afonso, or Arroz, Isabella,” she said. “They’re brother and sister, they’re likely together, and they should be considered armed and dangerous. They’re wanted for conspiracy to murder.”
“Copy, 411,” the dispatcher said. “We’ll get all the help we can out there.”
That’s all she could ask for.
Shannon swerved around a minivan too slow to pull off to I-94’s shoulder and laid on her horn. Were lights and sirens from four separate CPD cars not enough to get these people to move the hell out of the way?
God only knew how big of a head start Isabella and Afonso had on them. They could be well into Indiana by now. Hopefully they hadn’t gone that far. The toll roads should slow them down, even at ten o’clock at night—that is, assuming Afonso didn’t have an I-Pass on his car, allowing him to go through the toll without stopping.
She hoped they wouldn’t be stupid enough to try the border. By the time they got there—if they got there—Homeland Security would smother them, and Isabella’s arrest would be largely out of Shannon’s hands.
Maybe she could talk them out of it.
Shannon held tight to the wheel with her left hand and grabbed her cell phone with her right. She swiped the screen with her thumb. Her eyes darted between the road ahead and the phone’s screen. She navigated to her recent call list, then dialed Isabella’s number.
After one ring, she answered it.
“Hello?”
“Isabella?” Shannon didn’t wait for Isabella to say anything back—she could hardly believe her call had been answered at all. “I know you’re running to Windsor. You have to stop your car. Pull over to the side of the road and toss your keys. CPD will be there shortly. I can help you, but I can’t do anything if you make this harder than it has to be.”
She waited for Isabella to respond, to tell her to go to hell, to say anything at all, but all Shannon heard was a sniffle and the sound of wind rushing around a car’s cabin.
“Isabella, please,” Shannon said. “I know about Robbie. I know he helped Colm rob Ewan. I know you and Afonso were part of the plan to murder Colm—pull the car over and I’ll come get you.”
The line disconnected.
Shannon slammed the phone against the seat out of frustration.
This wasn’t going to end well if the two of them insisted on running.
She turned the phone over and slid her thumb across it so hard and fast, she was surprised the screen didn’t shatter in her hand. She called Isabella again.
It went straight to voicemail.
She called again. Come on, Isabella, don’t be stupid.
Voicemail.
“Dammit!” Shannon shoved the phone back in her pocket.
She stomped on the gas pedal, passing a line of trucks pulled off to the right shoulder. At least they knew what to do when the cops came buzzing up from behind.
“411, I think I’ve got your suspects,” someone’s voice cracked over the radio.
Shannon scrambled for the mic. “Go ahead.”
“I’m near mile marker 34,” he said. “I’m looking at a black 300, with a crack clear across the rear windshield. Plates are registered to Manuela Arroz. Probably a relative of your suspects.”
Probably.
“Okay,” Shannon said into the radio. “Have they seen you?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Then hang back,” she said. “If they haven’t started running yet, don’t let them catch wind of you.”
“Well, I’d love to,” the officer said, “but there’s a whole mess of CPD cars coming up behind me with their lights on and sirens going.”
Who the hell would that be?
Shannon craned her neck, trying to get a better view of the road ahead. That’s when she noticed the tiny green sign at the side of the road. Mile 34.
“That’s us,” Shannon said into the radio. “We’re coming in support.”
She pushed the gas pedal all the way down to the floor. The Impala lurched forward. The tachometer climbed upward, ever closer to the redline.
A gout of dust shot up from ahead.
“He just crossed the lane!” someone shouted over the radio. “He’s going into incoming traffic.”
Shannon watched Afonso’s car skid across the grass between the east and westbound lanes of I-94. He reached the westbound lane and spun out. Shreds of rubber leapt off one of the rear tires of his car as it fishtailed off the far side of the road.
The car went backwards off the north shoulder of I-94, down a hill covered in overgrown grass and whatever garbage people threw out of their windows on the way to Chicago.
If only Shannon had her Jeep handy. She crossed over I-94 westbound, a tad more in control of her vehicle than Afonso had been, praying that Dedrick’s Impala wouldn’t get totaled in the process. In her rear-view mirror, she saw the other CPD cars following behind her and to her side. She saw the interceptor who’d first spotted Afonso’s car go screaming across a stretch of road to the east.
Shannon hit the far shoulder and went down the hill. She lost sight of everyone in a mess of kicked-up dirt, grass, and weeds that probably hadn’t been mowed since last year—if not longer. She did her best to keep the Impala in the tracks left by Afonso’s 300, hoping that if there were any debris, he would’ve picked it up ahead of her.
She heard a loud thunk. The wheel of Dedrick’s car shuddered. Hopefully she hadn’t just run over Afonso or Isabella.
But before she had a chance to look behind her, the grass subsided, and a large building appeared before her.
Afonso left his car parked in the building’s shadow. It looked almost like an aircraft hanger, except for the large, seized conveyor belt jutting into the air from its side.
The doors and trunk to Afonso’s 300 hung open. Each tire was worn down to the rim. The car’s hazard lights blinked. Probably an automatic response to all four tires being shredded to nothing. She doubted Afonso cared much about anyone’s safety.
She stepped on the brake pedal and the Impala skidded to a stop in a mix of weeds and gravel. Shannon took just enough time to slam the car’s shifter into park. She nearly leapt out of her car, her hand already reaching for the Glock on her hip.
“Out of the car!” she screamed. Though she didn’t expect to see Afonso or Isabella emerge from it.
Neither one did.
She buried her eyes behind the sights of her weapon and approached the car slowly. If anyone came skittering out with bad intentions, she fully planned on pulling the trigger. Shannon wouldn’t miss.
Behind her, a few of the other CPD cars skidded and stopped at the bottom of the hill.
A couple steps off the bumper of Afonso’s car, she flung the trunk’s lid up. Nobody inside. Nothing except all the things she’d seen when Isabella showed her Colm’s bag at the station this morning.
Could one of them have hid in the
back seat? She opened the rear door.
Two booster seats for children. That was it.
No one in the front of the car either.
“Where they at?”
Shannon looked over her shoulder and recognized Officer Coughlin—the safe-smasher from Colm’s house.
“Let’s hope they aren’t in there.” She nodded toward the large, abandoned building. “If they’ve decided to set themselves up inside, we’re in for a long night.”
“They armed?” Coughlin asked.
“I take it you didn’t get a chance to look over Afonso’s record,” she said.
“I was a little busy on the way in,” Coughlin said. “My reading and driving ain’t what it used to be.”
“He’s armed,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”
A couple more officers gathered around Afonso’s abandoned car.
“So what’s our play then, Detective?” Coughlin asked.
“We need to secure the buildings,” she said. “If any of you have a shotgun, or if you’ve taken assault weapons training, now’s the time to break ’em out.”
Coughlin grinned.
CHAPTER 34
“Eight of us here now,” Shannon said, “and three buildings to secure. I put a call into dispatch for backup, and I’d rather wait for more people to show up, but I don’t think we can afford to. If Isabella or Afonso take off for that tree line to the north, we’ll have a hell of a time finding them, so we need to get on it. Partner up with somebody. If you have a shotgun, make sure you partner with somebody with a Glock.”
The officers began talking amongst themselves, dividing into pairs.
“Woulda been nice if one you mooks did assault weapons training,” Coughlin said. He smiled at Shannon. “I got an 870, you got a Glock. What do you say, Detective?”
She nodded at him. There was a psychotic sort of charm to him—not that she looked at him in that way. He was probably good with a shotgun.
“Is everyone paired up?”
She was met with nods.
“Good. Here’s the plan: Officer Coughlin and I will take this largest building to our west.” She pointed at the big conveyor building. “I want you two to take the smaller north building.” She tapped an officer by the name of Ross—she didn’t see his partner’s name. “You two take the east building.” She pointed at Officers Wright and Edders. “It looks like some kind of admin building, so I’m guessing there are lots of offices. Take your time. When Coughlin and I clear the largest building, we’ll help you sweep that one out.”
“You two,” she pointed at the last pair—Officers Raab and Knowles. “I want you walking that tree line to the north. It’s up to you to find any signs that our suspects have taken off. If you see anything, radio me immediately. I’ll be available through Coughlin’s com. Anyone have a question about their assignment?”
No one said anything.
“Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 35
“They’re in here,” Coughlin said quietly. “I can smell it.” He stepped over a rusted car axel, bent at the middle.
The possibility existed. He and Shannon entered the building through the south door, which was unlocked and hanging open. Afonso and Isabella couldn’t have had more than half a minute to escape his car.
Something rattled across the floor. Shannon whipped around and pointed her Glock at it. A possum’s beady eyes glowed green in the light from her flashlight.
“Little bastards,” Coughlin said. “Place is probably crawling with them.”
There were plenty of places for rodents to hide. From the look of it, whoever owned this scrap yard used this building as housing for large items waiting to be demolished—some washers, dryers, and refrigerators—but mostly cars. Deformed hunks of sheet metal and rubber were stacked five-high in some places. The towers of cars looked unstable enough that if someone were to lean too hard against them, they’d be caught in an avalanche of rusted steel.
“You think our perps might be hanging out above us?” Coughlin scanned the catwalks overhead with his eyes. “I know if I were waiting to ambush somebody in a place like this, that’s where I’d be.”
“If they’re smart, they won’t be waiting in ambush,” Shannon said. “They’ll have already taken off for that tree line.”
“Yeah, well, every gang banger or criminal I ever met in this city was pretty much a dumbass,” Coughlin said. “Judging by that little bit of stunt driving back there, I doubt these two are breaking the streak tonight.”
A door creaked open somewhere beyond a wall of cars ahead of them.
“Did you hear another unit pull up since we’ve been in here?” Shannon said.
Coughlin grimaced at her and shrugged.
“Hey!” Coughlin yelled. “You guys CPD over there?”
No one answered
“What the hell was that?” Shannon hissed. “If our suspects are in here, you just made us both a target.”
Coughlin shrugged. “Like you said, they probably ain’t—”
A gunshot cracked through the warehouse.
Coughlin fell backwards into a pile of radiators, screaming.
On reflex, Shannon hit the ground, then grabbed him by the shoulder straps of his body armor. The adrenaline screeching through her veins gave her enough strength to shimmy up to the wall of cars ahead of her in mere seconds, all while dragging Coughlin along.
Another spray of bullets gnawed into the dusty, concrete floor. Sparks kicked out of an engine block hanging halfway off a crane.
“I’m hit!” Coughlin bellowed. “Son of a bitch, I’m hit!”
More shots barked out from the darkness. They were loud enough to split eardrums. The high ceilings and all the hard surfaces made each shot echo into the others. It was impossible to tell exactly where the bullets came from, how many were fired, or even if there were more than one shooter.
“Detective, you gotta help me!” Coughlin yelled.
She grabbed the radio off his shoulder. “Dispatch, I have shots fired and an officer wounded,” she said over another burst of gunfire. “I need an EMT immediately!”
“What’s your twenty?” dispatch said back.
“We’re still in that old scrapyard north of I-94, near mile marker 34.”
“We’ll get help out there right away. Hold tight.”
Another group of bullets hammered into one of the cars Shannon and Coughlin huddled against.
“Where are you hit?”
“It’s my leg,” Coughlin said. “Got me in the damn thigh.”
She turned and looked him over. It was too dark to see anything.
“Don’t take this the wrong way.” She put her hands on his thighs, feeling around for blood. Once she found it, she felt for a wound. Once she found that, she took Coughlin’s hand.
“Keep pressure right here,” she said.
He did as told, though he groaned and threw his head back. “What a way to end a shift.”
“I’m gonna get a tourniquet together,” Shannon said. She couldn’t see how bad the wound was, but if he’d been hit in the wrong spot, Coughlin could bleed to death in a few minutes.
A pile of car parts laid to her left. She crawled on her belly over to it. She might be able to scrounge up and something to tie around his leg like a windshield fluid line or a piece of weather stripping from a door. She picked through the pile.
More gunshots cracked off, and the bullets hit behind her—she hadn’t been spotted.
Then, on the far side of the warehouse—its north end—the sound of a door being kicked in joined the mix.
“CPD! Drop your—”
Whoever it was, they were cut off by more gunshots. Shannon hoped to God someone else hadn’t gotten wounded on behalf of her case.
She sorted through the pile a little quicker now. Shannon threw aside old bolts, she pushed a brake drum out of the way, and sent the housing for a rear-view mirror flipping into the dark.
Then she found it. An old seat belt. She couldn�
�t have picked a better tourniquet if she wanted to.
She scrambled back to Coughlin on her elbows and knees.
“How you holding up?” she asked over a cackle of more gunfire.
“Oh, just great,” he said. “Never felt better.”
She went to work, wrapping the seatbelt around his thigh, above the wound. She grabbed her little flashlight out of her pocket.
“That’s good,” she said. “Because you’re about to feel a lot worse.”
She tied a half-knot with the seatbelt, then laid the flashlight against the topside of the half-done knot, then finished tying it around the flashlight.
“Hold onto something,” she said. “This is the bad part.”
He grabbed the handle of a smashed car door and gritted his teeth.
“Ready?”
Coughlin nodded.
She turned the flashlight like a spigot valve. With each turn, the seatbelt constricted Coughlin’s thigh. She continued rotating the flashlight and tightening the belt until it didn’t want to give any more slack. For his part, Coughlin weathered it well. She was sure she’d bumped his wound once or twice in the process of tightening the tourniquet, but he never did more than groan from behind his teeth.
“Hold this.” She took his hand and put it over the flashlight. “Whatever you do, don’t let go.”
A fresh round of gunfire popped off.
Shannon grabbed Coughlin under his armpits. She had to get him out of here.
“What the hell are you gonna do?” he asked. “Wish me out of here?”
“I’m pulling you out.”
“The hell you are. I got a hundred pounds on you, easy.”
She grunted and pushed against the ground, trying to get some leverage on Coughlin by making her legs do the work. It took everything she had to move him two or three inches.
“Told you,” he said.
“Shut up.”
There had to be something she could do.
Someone grabbed her shoulder.
Shannon whipped around.
It was a SWAT officer, ready for a fight. “Where’s the shooter?”
Shannon pointed in the general direction of where she thought Afonso or Isabella was—she still wasn’t sure who had the gun.
Chicago Blood: Detective Shannon Rourke Book 1 Page 19