“Stop!” she shouted.
He didn’t. Again, she spotted something metal clutched tight in his right hand. A knife?
A clear shot. She had him in her sights. But no—he was unarmed. Most killers didn’t need weapons though. Alleged killer, she reminded herself. Adele lowered her weapon and raced past where her partner was still trying to recover from a motel room door to the face. His nose poured blood and he had a dazed look where he sat massaging his chin.
Adele hurtled past, yelling, “He’s getting away!” She sped to the end of the walkway without looking back. No footsteps echoed in pursuit, suggesting her new partner was out of commission for at least a bit longer. Adele set her jaw as she reached the circling metal stairs and flung herself down them three at a time.
Firearms were not her forte. But finding criminals was. She circled the stairs with leaping strides, watching as Jason raced toward the street.
Adele lost sight of him as she cleared the staircase and also moved toward the street. But after a few strides, she pulled up short and hesitated, gasping, next to the browning shrubbery circling the blue water.
Would Jason really use the busy street? People would see him. This part of the city was patrolled rather heavily. Jason would know this. Her mind flipped back to the flash of metal she’d spotted in his hand. A knife? No. A weapon? Too small.
Keys. They had to be.
Her eyes flitted briefly back toward the walkway above. Keys to the motel? No. They’d used a keycard. She turned away from the street, her eyes scanning the length of the second wing of the motel around which the suspect had disappeared. Would he double back?
Car keys—they had to be, right? Jason’s truck was in the motel’s parking lot; they’d seen it on their way in.
Adele nodded to herself and then, instead of heading for the gap between the buildings which led to the street, she turned and sprinted in the opposite direction. The motel’s parking lot was situated behind the buildings, hedged up against a large wooden fence, and bordered on all four corners by new red dumpsters with black lids.
A hunch. But sometimes a hunch was all an agent had to go on.
Adele could hear sirens in the distance, but they were still faint. She was on her own. She glanced back over her shoulder toward the stairs, noticing her partner slowly moving down, a dazed look still on his face as he shook his head. He staggered a bit, blood still streaming from his nose.
Adele exhaled a resigned sigh as she hotfooted in the direction of the parking lot. She hopped another small hedge, grateful for all the time she spent jogging in the mornings. She hurried along the side of the registration office, and then sidled past a chain-link fence and a red dumpster positioned at the back of the offices. The odor of two-week-old garbage wafted on the air and clung to her clothing. She ignored the smell and grunted as a jutting section of fence snagged her suit; a quiet rip, a flash of pain. But she pushed through, ignoring the tear through her outfit.
Adele slid between the chain-link fence and the odoriferous dumpster before pulling up short and staring at the large black truck with jutting mirrors. The vehicle parked halfway between two spots behind a minivan.
The front door to the truck hung open.
Jason was already scrambling into the driver’s seat. He shot a look in her direction, then cursed loudly before slamming the front door and jamming his keys in the ignition. She heard a muffled rattling sound, and a string of oaths in Spanish.
She raised her weapon, pointing it at the window. “Stop or I’ll shoot!” she yelled.
But Mr. Hernandez ignored her. He continued fumbling with the keys. Finally, at last, the engine revved. Jason stared out the window, his eyes wide in panic. The twisting tattoo of the two snakes seemed to pulse against his skin, and veins protruded from his temples.
He muttered something she couldn’t hear through the glass, then shifted into gear. He slammed the gas. There was a squeal of tires, and the truck darted forward, nearly colliding with the office building. Jason cursed inaudibly and readjusted his gear shift before glancing over his shoulder and preparing to reverse.
Unlike the motel, Jason’s truck was in immaculate condition. The windows were clean, and the truck itself didn’t carry a single chip or dent. Some of the eyewitnesses who’d seen Hernandez follow his supposed victims home had claimed it all started when Mr. Carter nearly rear-ended Jason’s truck.
Adele kept her weapon trained and braced herself, shoulders set, feet apart. “Stop, FBI!” she shouted.
“Agent Sharp!” a voice called over her shoulder. For the briefest moment, she flinched and glanced back.
Masse was stumbling through the building nearest Jason—clearly he’d run around the street, going the long way. But now, this meant he was closer to the truck than she was. Masse spotted Jason; the young agent’s eyes widened, and he raised his weapon.
“Wait!” Adele snapped.
But Masse unloaded three rounds. Two struck the hood of the truck; the third shattered both windows, piercing clean through one and out the other. None of them hit Jason Hernandez.
But, through the now scattered glass of the truck’s window frame, Adele had a good long look at Jason’s expression.
He was no longer fiddling with the wheel or the ignition. He stared through the shattered glass, his eyes wide as if haunted, his features pale now. He stared at the smashed pieces of glass, and then his eyeline traced the hood of his car toward the two smoking bullet holes in the front of his beloved vehicle.
“Puta!” he screeched. Hernandez scrambled across the seat and flung open the passenger door before stumbling out. He was now on the opposite side of the vehicle from Adele, but closer to Masse.
Adele tried to hold her posture, but growled in frustration; she’d lost line of sight. She moved quickly, still with controlled motions, trying to keep the two quantities within field of vision as she hastily circled the parking lot.
Jason started toward Agent Masse, ignoring the gun waving in his face and Adele skirting around from behind. As she repositioned, Adele glimpsed his expression: Jason’s eyes were dilated, blood vessels throbbing in his neck and forehead.
“Cavron!” he screeched, glancing from his ruined truck to the FBI agent who’d shot it. He seemed entirely indifferent, or perhaps unaware, regarding the weapon in Masse’s still trembling hands.
Adele’s earlier cry of “Wait!” only now seemed to register with Masse. His trigger finger was still white against the mechanism, but he seemed frozen. He waited, hesitating, glancing between Adele and the approaching form of Hernandez. He hesitated for a second too long.
“No—don’t!” Adele shouted, but too late.
Jason surged forward, ducking Masse’s line of fire, and tackled the young agent around the waist, sending both of them clattering to the sidewalk.
Adele rushed forward, looking for an opening, her weapon raised. The cold concrete of the parking lot and the safety barrier provided a harsh surface against which Masse’s shoulder blades slammed once, twice as he tried to rise. But Jason snarled, punching and scratching the agent’s eyes.
“Get off him!” Adele shouted. Then she fired.
Masse loosed a cry of terror. Hernandez, though, grunted in pain, spinning like a top and slamming into the ground next to the agent he’d tackled.
“First one is the arm,” Adele snapped, weapon trained on Hernandez. “Keep struggling and the next is going in your chest, understand?”