two more squad cars were heading in their direction.
“Come on, Kate,” he said urgently, “you don’t have much time. You stay
out of jail and I get my long-overdue Pulitzer and my fifteen minutes of
fame. What’s it gonna be?”
She gnashed her teeth, her response startlingly calm, as though she had
practiced its delivery for months. “Pain, Mr. Gavin. Fifteen minutes of
pain.” As he stared at her, she pulled the palm-size canister, pointed
it directly at his face and squeezed the trigger. The pepper gas hit
Gavin flush in the eyes and nose, marking his face with a red dye. By
the time the cops exited their vehicle, Bob Gavin was on the pavement
clutching at his face, trying unsuccessfully to tear his eyes out.
THE FIRST SIREN HAD SENT JACK INTO A SPRINT DOWN A SIDE
street.
He slid flat against a building sucking in air. His lungs ached, the
cold tore at his face. The deserted nature of the area he was in had
turned into a huge tactical disadvantage.
He could keep moving, but he was like a black ant on a sheet of white
paper. The sirens were coming so heavy now he couldn’t ascertain from
what direction.
Actually they were coming from all directions. And they were getting
closer. He ran hard to the next corner, stopped and peered around. The
view was not encouraging. His eyes fastened on a police blockade being
set up at the end of the street. Their strategy was readily apparent.
They knew his general coordinates. They would simply cordon off a wide
radius and systematically close that radius in. They had the manpower
and the time.
The one thing he did have was a good knowledge of the area he was in.
Many . of his PD clients had come from here.
Their dreams set not on college, law school, good job, loving family and
the suburban split-level but on how much cash they could generate from
selling bags of crack, how they could survive one day at a time.
Survival. It was a strong, human drive. Jack hoped his was strong
enough.
As he flew down the alley, he had no idea what he would encounter,
although he supposed the fierce weather had kept some of the local
felons indoors. He almost laughed. Not one of his former partners at
Patton, Shaw would have come near this place, even with an armored
battalion surrounding them.
He might as well be running across the surface of Pluto.
He cleared the chain-link fence with one jump and landed slightly
off-balance. As he put out his hand against the rugged brick wall to
steady himself he heard two sounds. His own heavy breathing and the
sound of running feet. Several pair. He’d been spotted. They were homing
in on him. Next the K-9’s would be brought in and you didn’t run away
from the four-legged cops. He exploded out of the alley and made his way
over to Indiana Avenue.
Jack veered down another street as the squeal of tires flew toward him.
Even as he raced in the new direction, a new flank of pursuers rushed to
greet him. It was only a matter of time now. He felt in his pocket for
the packet. What could he do with it? He didn’t trust anybody.
Technically, an inventory of an arrestee’s possessions taken from him
would be made, with appropriate signatures and chain-of-custody
safeguards, all of which meant nothing to Jack. Whoever could kill in
the middle of hundreds of law officers and disappear without a trace
could certainly manage to secure a prisoner’s personal possessions from
the D.C. Police Department. And what he had in his pocket was the only
chance he had. D.C.
didn’t have the death penalty but life without parole wasn’t any better
and in a lot of ways seemed a helluva lot worse.
He raced in between two buildings, stumbled on some ice and plunged over
a stack of garbage caris and hit the pavement hard. He picked himself up
and half-rolled into the street, rubbing at his elbow. He could feel the
bum, and there was a looseness in his knee that was a new sensation. As