Jeffery Deaver - Solitude Creek

Huntress...

And there were probably other deputies nearby. Maybe dozens. And, now, more on the way.

Running faster. Gasping.

For a moment he’d been mystified as to how they’d learned about pathetic Stanley Prescott. Then, of course: just like him, they had an autobot scanning the Internet for any references to the Solitude Creek or Bay View incidents, blog posts or clips on YouTube or Vidster or the other services. She’d received the same sort of alert he had and had sped there too. He wondered if she’d driven. Maybe they’d driven in tandem down from Monterey.

Sucking air into his lungs. March was in good shape, yes, but he’d never run this fast in his life.

The Chevy was a block away.

Go, go. Move!

He was upset that he hadn’t had time to grab Prescott’s computer. But his only thoughts were escape. It had been chaos in the apartment.

Two shots to forestall any pursuit. As the large man went down, clutching the wound, March began his sprint.

Now he saw the car. The Chevy.

Another look back. No one yet.

His feet slapping, the heavy gym bag bouncing on his back. There’d be bruises tomorrow.

If he lived till tomorrow.

His heart labored and the pain crept into his chest and jaw. I’m too young for a fucking heart attack. His mouth filled with saliva and he spat.

Finally he slowed and, chest heaving, walked casually to the stolen car. He gripped the door handle and pulled it open, looking around again. He fell into the driver’s seat and pressed back against the headrest, catching his breath. A few people were nearby but no one apparently had seen the sprint. They didn’t look his way. The strollers and dog walkers and joggers continued what they were doing.

Then he was tricking the ignition wires to start the vehicle. It chugged to life.

March signaled and looked over his shoulder. He pulled carefully into the street, no hurry, and started west, then turned south along surface streets.

He’d be back in Monterey in five hours. On the whole—

A flash caught his eye. He glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw two police cars, blue lights flaring, beginning to speed his way.

Maybe a coincidence.

No... They were after him. One of the goddamn stroller pushers or dog walkers had reported him.

March made a skidding turn, pressed the accelerator to the floor and pulled his Glock from his jacket pocket.

Dance ran into the shaded area behind Stan Prescott’s apartment and dropped to her knees beside the two men.

Michael O’Neil knelt over Deputy Martinez, who lay on his back, conscious but bewildered, fearful.

Martinez gasped, ‘I didn’t see him. Where’d he come from?’

O’Neil said, ‘Climbed out through the bathroom window.’

‘It doesn’t hurt. Why doesn’t it hurt? Am I dying? I heard that if you don’t hurt you might be dying. Am I?’

‘You’ll be fine,’ O’Neil said, though he clearly wasn’t sure.

One round had slammed into Martinez’s chest, stopped by his body armor. The second had caught him high in the arm. The wound was a bleeder, brachial artery. O’Neil was applying direct pressure. Dance pulled a locking-blade knife from a holster on the deputy’s belt, flicked it open and cut Martinez’s sleeve off. This she tied around his shoulder. Using a small branch she’d found in the yard nearby, she tightened the cloth ring until the bleeding slowed.

The wounded deputy gasped, ‘Got off one round. I missed. Shit.’

‘I called it in,’ O’Neil said, nodding toward Martinez’s Motorola.

Backup would arrive soon enough. Dance supposed everybody on the block had told 911 about the gunfire, too. She could hear sirens, coming from several directions.

‘Where is he?’ O’Neil said.

‘Didn’t see him,’ Dance replied. ‘Prescott?’

‘Dead. Hang in there, Martinez. You’re doing fine. You a lefty?’

‘No.’

‘Good. You’ll be pitching a softball with the kids in a few weeks.’

‘I can lose the arm.’

Dance blinked.

‘All we play is soccer.’ He smiled.

‘You’ll be fine,’ O’Neil repeated.

Sirens now in front of the apartment complex. Dance rose — O’Neil manned the tourniquet — and jogged to the front. She returned a moment later, with two officers and two medical techs with a gurney.

The latter two took over the treatment, and Dance and O’Neil stepped aside to let them work. They explained to the Orange County deputies what had happened.

One took a call on his mobile. He said a few words and disconnected. ‘We have a lead. Man lives about three blocks from here saw a white male, tall, blond. He was running fast down the street. Got into a car and took off. The guy said it was suspicious. Got the tag. Black Chevy. Monterey, registered to a man his wife tells us is out of town for a week. Left it at Monterey Airport two days ago.’

‘That’s our unsub.’

‘Cars in pursuit now. Headed north on Cumberland.’

‘We’ll want to go,’ Dance said, glancing at O’Neil who had already called up a map on his phone.

Whatever the protocols of lending vehicles to out-of-county law, the deputy didn’t hesitate. ‘Take Martinez’s cruiser. You’ll need the sound and lights.’

Antioch March was sure he couldn’t beat the officers at the freeway game.

He knew this not from any research but from COPS , the TV show, and other programs about high-speed pursuits in the LA area. Nail strips, the PIT maneuver and a thousand troopers with nothing better to do than catch you. Escaping by car was the fantasy of bad movies and contrived thrillers.

The Chevy was fast, the suspension okay. And this time of mid-morning, the traffic was light. But he wasn’t going to get much farther. And bailing out and running wasn’t an option either.

Stay calm. Think.

What were his options?

The part of suburban Orange County he sped through now was residential. He could ’jack another car, he supposed, but that would buy time only.

He needed population. People, and a lot of them.

And then he saw it.

Ahead of him, less than a mile, March estimated. Perfect!

A glance in the mirror. The cars were in pursuit, sirens and lights. But they were holding back. As long as they could see him, there was no need to try anything dramatic and endanger lives.

March sped up and covered the distance in less than a minute. Then he executed a fast turn to the right, through a wooden gate and began easing through a crowd of people.

Glorious... Lots and lots of people.

He began to honk and flash his lights. The crowd moved out of the way, most of them frowning, though some probably suspecting a medical emergency or another legitimate reason for the car’s frantic approach.

Then, the way clear, he aimed the Chevy toward a gate in a six-foot-high metal fence. He floored the accelerator.

With smoking tires the vehicle slammed into the mesh, airbag deploying and then shrinking fast. The impact swung the gate wide open. It also sent two people sprawling to the pavement. One was a man on stilts, dressed like a cowboy, and the other, gender indeterminate, wore a purple cat costume and held a matching parasol that read, ‘Welcome, Guests!’

Dance had brought the children there a few years ago.

Global Adventure World was a theme park in Orange County, a smaller-size version of nearby Universal and Disney. Filled with typical rides, animatronics, holographic wonders, theaters featuring live and filmed shows, costumed characters from the parent company’s films and TV programs. Also concession stands galore, ready to help you gain back in one day those three pounds you struggled to lose before your vacation.