Catherine Lanigan - Hers To Protect

Holding the binoculars again, she saw a streak of blue through a blind of windbreak trees to the far south.

“Are you still there?” Trent asked.

“I got something.”

“What?” His voice pitched with interest.

“I don’t...know...but it’s moving like a bullet train.”

“Use your radar gun. How fast?”

She snatched the radar gun from the passenger seat, aimed and tagged the vehicle, whose make she still couldn’t identify. “Holy crap. Sorry, sir.” She turned on her car’s engine already anticipating the chase. “Two zero two.”

“Talk later. Go!”

“Roger. Out.”

She flung the radar gun and binoculars to the passenger seat, stomped on the gas pedal and shot dirt from under her tires. The blue bullet was streaking down the country road as if the devil was on its back. As Violet sped the Taurus over seventy, then eighty miles an hour, she knew she’d never outrace her prey.

She’d have to outsmart him.

Knowing that Jasper Brown had bisected his enormous orchard years ago with a dirt path wide enough for his truck, she headed for that familiar dirt alley that separated the apple trees from the pear trees.

Turning sharp right, she tore down the bumpy trail that seemed a lot more hazardous today than it had ten years ago when she used to ride her bike home from apple picking. She tightened her seat belt and hit the gas. From the right, she could see the blue sports car approaching. It would pass her, but she’d have it within her sights.

As she burst out of the farm’s dirt path and up the slight bank, the blue bullet screamed past her. The driver was a blur.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Violet’s squad car nearly leaped onto the pavement and made chase. She turned on her light bar and siren. “Officially, you’re mine.”

Expecting the blue sports car to slow down now that her lights and siren were on, Violet was shocked when it kicked up its speed. Convinced she had the drug dealer dead to rights, she wasn’t about to let up. She plunged the gas to the floor. The Taurus could do up to one-fifty, but this sports car was out of her league.

Just then she heard Trent’s voice. “Officer Hawks, keep this line open.”

“Sir. Yes, sir.”

“Report.”

“I’m coming up on 350 East. I’m in pursuit. I’ve never seen this car make. I’ll shoot the license. It’s over two hundred miles an hour. I can’t overtake. I need backup.”

“County deputy sheriffs are on their way.”

“Ten four.”

“Stay with him. You got something.”

In the background over the radio, Violet could hear Trent speaking to the county sheriff’s dispatcher.

Trent’s voice was stern. “County is close. They’re forming a barricade two and a half miles from you. Back off.”

She smiled. “Ten four.” She turned off her radio. Violet kept her foot depressed. This was her perp. Her collar. She was going to see it to the end. When the county sheriff barricade stopped this drug dealer, she would be there and she would make the arrest. Glory was within her reach. And possibly a promotion.

Gold-and-brown Indian Lake County sheriff cars and SUVs were strung across the county road with lights flashing. The blue bullet slammed on its brakes, tires squealing and black rubber smoking streaks across the concrete. Violet let off the gas and braked, bringing the Taurus to a quick but safe stop. She couldn’t unbelt herself fast enough. It was all she could do not to run up to Miguel Garcia and drag him from the luxurious sports car. If her brothers were here, they’d be whistling over this car. She still had no idea what it was, but she was sure “expensive” didn’t come close to describing its price.

Before she got to the blue bullet, the door was flung open and a tall, lean, blond man exited. Violet halted. He was killer handsome, dressed in expensive black slacks, a dark blue knit shirt that stretched over his broad chest, its fine material lying over cut muscles. The long sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, exposing taut forearms. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He glared at her. She noticed his eyes were sky blue.

“Aw jeez. A country cop.” He spat the word from between pursed, angry lips.

“ILPD. City cop.”

His anger vanished as he flashed her a blazingly charming smile. “What a coincidence.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m from Indianapolis. It was a joke.”

“I’m not smiling.” This man was likely guilty of nothing more than speeding. And her reaction to him vied with the realization she’d left her stakeout, where the drug dealer might even now be driving by.

She felt she was right back where she started, giving out speeding tickets on Highway 35.

“Sir, I clocked you at over two hundred miles an hour.”

He glanced behind him at his car. He patted the hood. “That’s all?”

Violet gaped at his audacity. Who did he think he was?

The scuffle of boots against the pavement alerted her to the audience of four county sheriff’s deputies watching the scene.

Violet reached to her back pocket for her ticket pad. She pulled a pen from her breast pocket. “I’m citing you for speeding and reckless driving.”

“You’re kidding. Right?”

She glared at him. “Do I look like I’m kidding?” She lowered her eyes to the pad and wrote. “The speed limit here is fifty.”

“I never saw anything posted.”

“Well, it is,” she replied, still not looking into his startling blue eyes. “But then you were going so fast, how could you see it?”

“I see a lot of things. If there was a sign posted, I would have seen it. I’ve been all over these country roads.”

“You have.”

“I know people here. Austin and Katia McCreary.”

Violet also knew Austin and Katia. A little. Some said Austin was the wealthiest man in town. He owned the antique car museum, and, according to Isabelle, he’d been a recluse for years until he married Katia. Violet had worked a couple charity events with Katia.

How did this guy know Austin?

She heard the deputies snickering at her, so she pressed on. “It doesn’t matter who you know in town. I need your driver’s license and registration.” She held out her hand.

At that point the deputies broke into guffaws.

This was too much. She took a step away from the car and shot a laser look at the tallest of the four deputies. “What?”

He broke from the barricade as the other deputies walked back to their cars hooting to themselves. “You don’t know who this is, do you, Officer...?”

“Hawks,” she replied officially. “I’m about to find out once I get his driver’s...”

“Josh Stevens,” the deputy sheriff said. “He’s just about the most famous race car driver to come out of Indiana. I saw him race.”

Violet felt herself flush. She imagined she’d gone from red to crimson to deep purple. Of course she knew who he was. You couldn’t grow up in the Hawks house and not know names like Danica Patrick, Fernando Alonso and Josh Stevens. Violet’s brothers had spent nearly every Memorial Day weekend in college seated in the bleachers in Speedway, Indiana, watching the Indianapolis 500.

All she could do was follow through with her job. If she didn’t, the deputy would report it to the county sheriff, who would report her to the chief. She may have egg on her face, but she was in the right and she knew the law. Violet wrote Josh’s name on the top of the ticket.

“I still need your license.”

Josh looked at the sheriff, who shrugged.

“Apparently, you don’t need us anymore, Officer Hawks.”

“No. I don’t.”

Josh pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “I don’t believe this.” He pulled the license out along with the car’s registration.