Chapter 13
We ranthrough the back alley behind the motel, our footsteps splashing through puddles left by the early morning rain. The night air stuck to my skin, humid and heavy with the smell of rotting food from overflowing dumpsters. Chain-link fences lined one side of the alley, separating the motel's property from an abandoned lot overgrown with weeds. My lungs burned, but I knew how to push my body through discomfort. Matt kept pace beside me despite his prosthetic leg, his breath coming in controlled measures. Neither of us spoke. We didn't need to.
The distant shouts from the motel faded as we put more distance between ourselves and our pursuers. Fifty yards ahead, the alley opened onto what looked like a service road.
"We need transportation," I said, scanning our surroundings with the methodical attention I'd once given crime scenes.
To our right, beyond another chain-link fence, was what appeared to be a small parking lot adjacent to a closed repair shop. Three vehicles sat in the dimly lit space: a minivan, a sedan up on blocks, and an older-model pickup truck parked nearest to us. The truck's faded red paint was peeling along the hood, and rust hadclaimed the bottom edge of the driver's door, but it was our best option.
"That truck," Matt said, already assessing the fence separating us from it. "Looks like an '86 or '87 Ford. Simple ignition system. I can get it started."
I didn't question his knowledge of hot-wiring vehicles. Before he'd become a detective, when we were both teenagers figuring ourselves out, Matt had worked auto theft for a few years. He knew cars from both sides of the law.
"Now," I whispered.
We moved in tandem, staying low and using the shadows and abandoned debris for cover. The chain-link fence was only six feet high, but climbing it would make us visible. Instead, Matt led us to where the fence met the building wall, where years of neglect had created a gap just wide enough to squeeze through if we turned sideways.
I went first, the metal edge of the fence scraping against my back as I edged through. Matt followed, his larger frame requiring more effort. I scanned the parking lot for cameras or witnesses, seeing neither. The area was deserted, the repair shop's windows dark. Even the streetlamp at the corner flickered intermittently, creating more shadows than light.
We approached the truck from behind, staying out of sight of both the alley and the main road. Matt paused at the driver's side, examining the window and lock.
"Keep watch," he murmured, wrapping his jacket around his elbow.
The sound of Matt's elbow hitting the window was muffled but still seemed too loud in the quiet night. Glass cracked, then collapsed inward in a shower of fragments. He reached through carefully, unlocking the door before climbing in. I remained outside, watching.
From the motel came new sounds—radios squawking commands, flashlight beams probing the darkness. They'd figured out which way we'd gone and were organizing a search. Minutes, maybe seconds, before they'd check this lot.
Inside the truck, Matt had pulled down the steering column cover and was working on the wires. His face was a mask of concentration, fingers moving with precision despite the pressure. I'd seen this expression before—when he was working difficult cases, when he was focusing through pain on his worst days with his prosthetic. It was the face of someone who refused to fail.
"Almost there," he said, not looking up.
The back door of the motel crashed open. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness of the alley. Dogs barking now—they'd brought K-9 units.
"Matt," I urged, my voice tight.
"I know." His hands moved faster, twisting wires together beneath the dashboard.
The engine coughed once, twice—then fell silent. Matt swore under his breath, adjusting something I couldn't see. A flashlight beam swept along the fence line, coming closer to the gap we'd used.
The truck's engine suddenly roared to life, the sound impossibly loud in the tense silence. I yanked open the passenger door and threw myself inside as Matt shifted into reverse. Through the cracked side mirror, I saw the flashlight beams converge on our position, followed by shouts of discovery.
Matt backed the truck out of its space with controlled urgency, then shifted into drive. The tires squealed against the pavement as we accelerated toward the exit on the opposite side of the lot.
"They'll call it in," I said, watching the rearview mirror as officers spilled into the parking lot behind us. "Every patrol car in the area will be looking for this truck."
Matt nodded grimly, hands tight on the steering wheel. "Then we'd better make sure they don't find it."
As we pulled onto the street, I glanced back one last time. The officers were returning to their vehicles, already beginning the pursuit.
Part II
Chapter 14
The truck lurched forwardas Matt pushed it beyond its aging engine's comfort zone. I twisted in my seat, looking back at the motel through the cracked side mirror. Police flashlights bounced like fireflies in the darkness as officers scattered to their vehicles to begin the pursuit. But it wasn't the police that caught my attention. Standing under a streetlamp at the edge of the property was a figure I recognized immediately—broad shoulders, military stance, and the distinctive glint of a silver ring on his right hand.
Victor Reeves.
The man who collected newspaper clippings of violent crimes, like some people collected stamps. The man whose restraining orders I'd studied during my last major FBI investigation before everything fell apart. What was he doing here?
