At the Collinsworth and University intersection, I cut my siren momentarily and eased past the evening shift officer directing traffic and a tow truck operator using his winch to pull the crushed Avenger up onto the truck’s platform.
As I turned onto University once again, my radio came to life. “Units in hot pursuit of bank robbery and car thief suspects,” the dispatcher said. “Pickup now heading north on University Drive.”
North on University?
The bad guys are coming back this way!
Blood racing through my veins, I turned my siren back on, drove halfway across the bridge, and pulled onto the median to await my quarry.
There they are!
The pickup raced toward me, two cruisers on its tail. Evidently OnStar hadn’t yet activated the slowdown feature. I floored my gas pedal and pulled into the oncoming lanes at an angle, blocking the way the best I could.
I performed my own version of Lamaze breathing as a surge of adrenaline caused my breath to come in quick, anxious bursts. Ha-uh-ha-uh.
The situation posed three possible outcomes.
One, the pickup would skid to a stop, and the men would realize they were blocked by cops at their front and rear and finally give themselves up. This was the best-case scenario.
Two, the pickup would skid to a stop, the men would bail from the vehicle and attempt to flee to the front or rear. Depending on whether any of them displayed a weapon, the men would be shot, tackled, Tasered, whacked with a baton, pepper-sprayed, or taken down by my furry, fleet-footed partner—assuming, of course, that the men didn’t take out us officers with gunfire first.
Or three, the driver of the stolen pickup could slam directly into my cruiser at a hundred miles an hour and we’d all perish in a horrific fireball, Seth left to find someone else with whom to drink margaritas. Gulp. I hoped the natural human instinct of self-preservation would lead the driver to swerve. I really wanted that margarita.
Just in case they were stupid enough to go with option three, I ordered Brigit to lay down in her enclosure, knowing the position would pose the least risk of injury to her. On instinct, I whipped out my baton and flicked my wrist to extend it. Snap!
Screeeeee!
The truck’s tires smoked as they grabbed the pavement on the bridge. The truck veered side to side as it careened toward my cruiser. Instinctively, I clenched my eyes closed, threw a hand up to cover my face, and held my breath. Ha-uh—!
The screeching stopped.
I opened my eyes to see the hood of the pickup millimeters from my passenger window. Thank God it had stopped in time.
“We’re up, girl!” I threw open my door, jumped from the vehicle, and let Brigit out of her enclosure.
The doors of the pickup flew open and three men emerged—Christopher Vogel, Lewis Blakemore, and a third who appeared to be in his early twenties. I’d been right about Vogel’s and Blakemore’s identities. Woo-hoo! All three looked frantically around, noted the two male officers charging them from the south, and turned to head my way.
Uh-oh.
Brigit and I could handle one or two of them, but all three? This would be a challenge.
With Brigit prancing excitedly by my side, I brandished my baton. “Stop!” I hollered.
They didn’t stop, though. Not that I really expected them to. Bad guys aren’t the best listeners.
As I prepared for the onslaught, I realized Brigit and I didn’t actually have to stop all three of them. All we had to do was slow them down enough so that the other cops could help catch them.
Vogel reached me first. A solid whack on his left shin with my baton and the guy screamed in agony, grabbed his lower leg, and hopped on one foot three times before falling sideways onto the asphalt.
One down. Two to go.
Blakemore attempted to circle around me and Brigit, but I stretched out my arm, delivered a solid whomp to his loins, and his evasive maneuvers were for naught. Down he went, clutching his groin and groaning.
Two down. One to go.
The third, as-yet-unidentified guy spotted his cohorts writhing on the road, raised his hands in the air, and clomp-clomp-clomped to a stop a few feet away. “Don’t hit me!” he cried. “I give up!”
Smart choice.
Using my left hand, I whipped my cuffs from my belt and approached him. “Keep your hands in the air and turn around!”
He did as told, turning to face the bridge railing. He stood still for a moment, but just as I was on him he bolted toward the railing.
“Are you crazy?” I shrieked at his back.
The guy grabbed the railing and, before I knew what was happening, flung himself over it.
Holy crap!
I reached the rail to see him falling and flailing, leaving a cloud of green bills fluttering in the air behind him, before performing the world’s most-perfect, most-painful belly flop into the Trinity River dozens of feet below.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Making a Splash of Himself
Brigit
Brigit watched as the young man hurled himself over the railing and disappeared from sight. What a squirrel brain. Thankfully her partner hadn’t given her the signal to pursue the suspect. No way would Brigit jump off a bridge.
Her ears pricked as she heard the sound of the man hitting the surface of the river.
SMACK! Splashhh!
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Assorted Nuts
The Conductor
Ooooh. That’s gotta hurt.
His balls certainly hurt, but the pain told him he was alive. That was more than he could say for his dim-witted partner in crime. The sound of Smokestack belly-flopping into the Trinity River was so loud it could probably be heard as far away as Oklahoma, maybe even Kansas. If Smokestack had somehow survived the leap from the bridge, he’d likely suffered some major internal injuries, maybe a ruptured spleen. It would serve the guy right. He really was too dumb to live.
How the hell had he and Chris let the moron cajole them into this stupid crime spree? Lewis knew how. Smokestack had caught them both in a moment of weakness, when their egos were as bruised as his balls were now and both were in need of redemption.
Oh, Lord, what will my wife say when she finds out what I’ve done? What will we tell the children and grandchildren?
That I lost my marbles, that’s what. It’s the truth, after all.
Lewis only hoped he could pull off a temporarily insanity defense, maybe cop a plea that would get him out of prison before the next family reunion five years from now.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
What a Splash-hole
Megan
The guy disappeared into the greenish-brown water and, for several seconds, I wondered if the impact had killed him or shattered his ribs. Brigit padded up next to me, stuck her head through the bridge beams, and looked down as if she, too, were wondering what had become of bank robber number three. Hundred-dollar bills, fifties, twenties, tens, fives, and ones floated down, landing on the surface of the water like valuable chum. A small turtle sunning on a log dropped into the water, swam over, and nibbled on a single.