High, low, high, she recited automatically, just as she’d done during emergency vehicle operations training at the academy.
She took a hard right onto Francis and headed east. She saw a fire truck rolling out of the station ahead of her at Jefferson. In what seemed like less than a second she was right up on the rear of it.
Carson dropped her foot onto the accelerator and whizzed around the huge fire engine without a second thought.
Val opened the car door and slid into the back seat while Ivan clambered into the front.
“How did it go?” Sergey asked, his voice a little strained.
Val started to answer when a bullet shattered the rear window. Sergey jerked forward, then tipped sideways toward Val. Sergey’s head flopped onto Val’s lap with a wet slap.
Yuri cursed and punched the accelerator.
Val looked up to see a slender man in a white shirt and tie shuffling toward the car. Bright red blood had soaked through his shirt from his right shoulder, and his right hand hung limply at his side, but he extended his black automatic pistol toward the car with his left. His expression was one of grim determination. He fired another shot.
An electric buzz whipped past Val’s face and struck the windshield.
Yuri cursed again.
Val raised his.44 and fired back several times. The fiery blasts from the muzzle blinded him momentarily, and then Yuri came to the corner of the building, where the savvy driver took a hard right and accelerated toward Division.
Chisolm heard the shots as soon as he pulled into the motel parking lot. He saw the flashes of gunfire around the corner reflecting against the trees to the rear of the hotel. He gunned the engine and slid his.40 caliber Glock from his holster.
As he rounded the corner he saw a solitary figure in a white business shirt staggering away from him. The man’s entire right sleeve was soaked through with blood.
Chisolm swung his car to a stop at an angle, slammed the gearshift into park, popped his door open, and planted his left foot on the pavement. He pointed his gun sight squarely center-mass in the middle of the man’s back.
“Police!” Chisolm boomed. “Don’t move!”
The man slowed, then lowered his left hand. Chisolm immediately recognized the black metal shape of a gun and his index finger shifted onto the trigger.
“Drop that gun!” he yelled at the man. “Drop it, or I’ll blow a fucking hole right through your spine!”
The man looked over his shoulder at Chisolm with a slightly dazed expression. Chisolm saw the clean-cut features and the loosely knotted tie. A lanyard hung from his neck, the identification card tucked into the shirt pocket. A small gold badge was on his belt just to the right of the buckle.
“Who are you?” Chisolm called to him, though he already knew the answer.
The question pierced the man’s confusion. “FBI,” he shouted back. “Special Agent Greg Leeb.” Then he pointed in the opposite direction with his gun. “They went that way. A white Mercedes. At least three suspects.”
Chisolm lowered his gun. “Are you all right?”
Agent Leeb nodded. “Go.”
Thomas Chisolm jumped back into his car and dropped the hammer.
2212 hours
“Take a left at Lyons,” Val ordered. “More cops will be coming. We need to get out of sight.”
Far ahead of them Val saw a large fire truck navigate the turn at Francis and Division. A smaller set of lights hurtled toward them from even closer. He looked back through the shattered rear window in time to see more red and blue lights pull out of the motel parking lot.
“Go left,” he repeated to Yuri.
Yuri didn’t answer, but swung the car in a hard left turn at Lyons, then sped up even more.
Val watched to see if either police car followed. The first one whipped past Lyons toward the motel.
He smiled.
The other police car turned on Lyons and sped toward them.
Carson ignored the other patrol car headed south. Battaglia was at the motel. She had to get to the motel.
She hooked a left into the parking lot and the patrol car bottomed out as she drove over the entryway. She screeched to a stop at the sally port, leapt out of her car, and sprinted past the guests filtering out. She flung open the glass doors and searched frantically for someone in a uniform.
A man with a nametag that read “Clyde” stood near the front desk, ushering people toward the exit. Carson grabbed him by the arm and he yelped in surprise.
“Room 420!” she yelled. “Where is it?”
He pointed at the stairwell. “Up the stairs and to the end of the hall,” he recited.
Carson ran.
Chisolm kept the pair of rocketing taillights in sight as he urged every single ounce of horsepower out of the Crown Victoria’s V-8 engine. He closed ground quickly during the straight stretches, but the small Mercedes cornered much better than he could. Plus the guy was a good driver.
He should get on the radio and put out this pursuit, he knew. But the air was full of useless traffic as the entire city seemed to be responding to the motel. The harsh buzzes and beeping clicks filled the airwaves as units covered each other’s transmissions.
He kept on the white Mercedes, yoyoing from just a few car lengths behind it to half a block as it took turn after turn. As he drew near during a straight stretch on Crestline, a muzzle blast flashed from the back seat. The bullet struck Chisolm’s windshield on the passenger side and sent spider-web cracks radiating outward.
Chisolm shifted left and gunned the engine. He reached out and depressed the microphone button. “Adam-112, shots fired!” he shouted.
Suddenly, the radio became very quiet.
Carson found the door to room 420 hanging awkwardly inward, held up by the bottom hinge. She rushed inside.
A man in a bloody white shirt squatted in front of Battaglia, who was crumpled in a heap, his back pressed to the blood-smeared wall. His dark uniform shirt was torn open and his vest hung loosely over the top of the attending man’s hands. Battaglia’s face was speckled with cuts and drying blood.
The man looked up at Carson. His face was grim. “I’ve called for medics,” he said.
“They’re coming,” Carson said, her voice squeaking. “I passed them.” She stood frozen in the doorway, suddenly afraid to approach Battaglia any closer. What if he were-
“That’s for the fire alarm, which is a diversion,” the man said. “They might not know about the gunshot victim. You should go guide the medics in so they can treat this officer.”
Carson didn’t move.
“Officer?” the man repeated.
Carson shook her head. “You go,” she said, finally stepping forward. “I’m staying with him.”
The man gave her a hard look and opened his mouth. “All right,” he said. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed her wrist. Carson started at the suddenness of the motion, but his grip was firm. He drew her downward. “Press here,” he said, forcing her hand against Battaglia’s abdomen. Warm blood seeped through her fingers.
“The bullet went through the vest,” the man told her.
No. Oh, no.
“Harder,” he barked.
Carson put her other hand on top and pressed hard with both hands. Battaglia moaned in pain.
“I’ll bring in medics,” the man said. He left her alone with a dying Anthony Battaglia.
2213 hours
“Adam-112, go ahead.”
Another shot flashed out from the rear of the Mercedes. Chisolm heard the loud clunk as it struck the doorpost on the passenger side of his patrol car.
He reached out and pushed the mike. “I’ve got the suspect vehicle southbound on Crestline from Rowan now,” he transmitted. “A white Mercedes with at least three occupants.”