Larsson sat in the open door of an ambulance with a bandaged skull, telling trumped-up lies and turning Quinn into the devil incarnate.
Inside the patrol car, Jericho began to work on the handcuffs as soon as Officer Mason slammed the door. Popping the stitching in his khakis over the small of his back with a fingernail, he kept his upper body as motionless as possible while he slid the thin metal shim out of his waistband. He worked as fast as he could, knowing it wouldn’t be long before sitting on his wrists caused him to lose the dexterity he needed to manipulate the tiny piece of metal. Officer Mason had been charged with adrenaline and anger during the arrest and had been none too gentle with the cuffs. They were already cutting off the circulation in Quinn’s hands.
Thankfully, the handcuffs hadn’t been double locked, letting Quinn click them one notch tighter as he inserted the shim farther into the mechanism. It was painful but allowed easier access to the teeth that actually locked the cuffs so he could push them out of the way. Once the left cuff was off and circulation restored to his hand, it was relatively simple to shim the other side.
He tucked the shim back in his waistband just as young Officer Mason got in the front seat. Kincaid flopped down in the passenger seat, then turned to glare at Quinn through the Plexiglas screen. His eyes burned with righteous hatred.
“I wouldn’t want to be you, son.” The officer dripped with unmasked contempt. “Jenny Chin worked at Fairfax Detention before she came over to the PD. She still has a lot of friends there, and they are going to turn your life into a living hell. It wouldn’t surprise me if you don’t survive the night.”
Kincaid turned to face forward, motioning for the junior officer to drive with a flick of his wrist.
Mason nosed the patrol car around two more units that had cordoned off Fort Hunt Road, working his way northwest.
Quinn took a deep breath and settled back in his seat. As a rule, a prisoner’s tension grew as the jail loomed closer. Law enforcement officers’ anxiety levels were highest at the point of arrest and tended to relax as more time passed. Angry and victorious, the closer they got to the safety and security of the jail, the sloppier they were likely to become.
Quinn was counting on it.
Ten minutes away from the scene, he started.
“Hey,” he said, kicking the back of the passenger seat. He got no response, so he kicked again.
Kincaid turned and slid the two-foot Plexiglas divider open so he could be heard.
“So help me,” he said through a clenched jaw, “I’m just looking for a reason to stop this car and beat the shit out of you.”
“How well do you know that Larsson guy?” Quinn said.
“Do yourself a favor and remain silent,” Kincaid said, slamming the divider.
“Hey!” Quinn kicked the seat again.
The officers ignored him. They were professional enough not to pull over and beat him. That was going to make things substantially more difficult.
“I want to confess!” He yelled so they could hear him through the screen — feeding them what they wanted. “Right now. I’ll give you a slam-dunk case. Tell you exactly why I shot that girl. You guys can be the heroes and I’ll get my time on TV.”
Quinn waited for a moment to let his offer sink in.
He’d rehearsed the plan completely through twice in his head, choreographing it like an intricate, perfectly timed dance. Mason was right-handed. He carried his weapon in a leather security holster that required the activation of a button with his index finger when he drew. He was new on the job and likely depended heavily on the security design of the holster to retain the pistol — a grave tactical error. Kincaid was left-handed and carried his pistol in a simple leather holster with a thumb-break snap. It would be easier to grab, but as an old salt, he’d surely been in more fights where he’d had to hang on to his weapon.
Where possible, Quinn made it a point never to screw with the old bull when a youngster was present — someone who didn’t know yet what he didn’t know.
The moment Kincaid opened the divider, Quinn screamed as if someone had just run out in front of the car.
“Look out!” he yelled as he moved.
The officers’ attention was momentarily drawn forward. Mason stomped the brake instinctively, throwing them both off balance. Quinn snaked an arm through the open divider, pushing in all the way to his shoulder in order to reach the rookie’s pistol. Defeating the security button with his thumb, he drew the pistol with his left hand and used it to smack Kincaid in the side of the head.
Still not comprehending what had happened to their handcuffed prisoner, the older officer raised a hand to ward off the blow. Quinn grabbed a wrist with his free hand and hauled back, drawing the older officer’s hand into the backseat with him, bending it into an arm bar against the sharp lip of the steel divider.
A deafening boom shook the inside of the vehicle as he shot two rounds at the radio.
“Pull over or I’ll kill him!” Quinn yelled, hauling back on Kincaid’s arm.
He felt the older officer move his right hand and shot another round through the divider, between the two men. “Leave the gun alone,” he said. “I don’t want to kill you. I just want out.”
Mason looked at Kincaid but kept the car moving.
“Look at it this way, kid,” Quinn yelled above the ringing in his ears. “If you let me go, you’ll have a chance to catch me all over again.”
Kincaid nodded, cursing like a sailor.
“Good job,” Quinn said when Mason had stopped the car. He directed the younger officer to open the back door and put his face against the windshield while Kincaid ditched his pistol in the front seat. A half a minute later and both officers stood handcuffed to each other, hugging a street sign. It was a quiet neighborhood and someone had surely called the police the moment they saw two patrol officers forced out of their marked cruiser at gunpoint.
Quinn leaned in close to the older officer.
“I didn’t kill your friend,” he said. “Larsson did.”
“Shut your mouth,” Kincaid hissed.
“Give it time, and you’ll realize you don’t know him as well as you thought you did. Notice how you’re handcuffed to a pole and I’m not shooting you?” He turned to leave, then spun, kneeing Kincaid hard in the ribs. It drove the wind from the man’s lungs even with the ballistic vest. “That’s for kicking me when I was down.”
CHAPTER 27
Back in the cruiser, Quinn turned down a quiet residential street, listening to converging units on the handheld radios. By the time help got to the stranded officers he was ten blocks away. He pulled up next to two boys sitting on the hood of a late-model Corolla and commandeered their car with little trouble. He sped away in the Toyota, leaving the boys minus their cell phones but with a war story about the time a wanted cop-killer stole their car.
Quinn ditched the Corolla a block from the Franconia Springfield Metro station but skipped the train in favor of a cab. The subway would be crawling with cops and bristling with security cameras. He told the cabbie to take him to the Comfort Inn in Chantilly, Virginia.
Palmer kept a room rented near Dulles where both Quinn and Thibodaux kept bug-out bags with cash, extra weapons, and burner cell phones. Quinn knew his photograph would be flashing through the blogosphere and over every news program in the country in a matter of minutes. Authorities were not likely to find out about his connection to Palmer anytime soon, so the hotel room and bug-out bag would be safe for the time being. He didn’t plan on stopping there for any length of time. Just long enough for Miyagi to meet him with the new ID and passport.