“Can you at least tap the guy’s phone?”
In her rearview mirror Maggie could see a delivery van now sitting directly behind her, screening the pickup. “We’ll probably need more evidence than we’ve got, especially when it concerns somebody like Biddle.”
Brent slapped his door in frustration.
She ignored him, staring now at the rearview mirror. “Somebody’s been following us, probably ever since Lambertville. I should have paid better attention.”
Brent turned his head and looked through the back window. “Police?”
Maggie put on her turn signal. “Police would have stopped us already. It’s a pickup truck.”
“So where are we going?”
“The back way,” Maggie said.
“If he doesn’t follow us, maybe we can park and make out,” Brent said.
“Funny.” Maggie glanced back and chewed her lip. “Hopefully I’m just paranoid, but I don’t think so.” She thought about the narrow road through the nature preserve that led eventually to Morristown. She knew it well enough to drive it at high speed and was pretty sure she could lose somebody who didn’t know where they were going.
“If those are the guys who killed Smythe, a deserted road is about perfect for them,” Brent said. “This is a bad idea!”
They were off the highway, approaching the turn for the nature preserve. “You’d rather lead them to my house?”
Brent’s face was creased with worry. He glanced over his shoulder at the lights of the pickup about a hundred yards back, then gritted his teeth. “Do it,” he grunted.
She swung left, and immediately the road narrowed and became uneven. The houses and lights disappeared, replaced quickly by empty darkness stretching on all sides.
The driver of the pickup seemed to sense that they would try and lose him because he roared up on their bumper. Maggie floored the Toyota, but its soft suspension slammed through the bumps. “Shit!” she said as the far more powerful truck stayed on their tail. There were no other headlights in either direction, and after a half mile or so a blue police light began to flash.
She glanced at Brent, who already had one hand on the door handle. She grabbed his arm. “Stay put and keep your head turned forward,” she ordered. She struggled to think as she slowed and pulled to the side, careful to leave two of her wheels on dry pavement for traction. She shifted into neutral and snatched her holster from the space between the seat and console.
She was sure these weren’t cops, but what if they were? A voice in her head screamed that she couldn’t risk shooting a fellow officer, but it all smelled wrong. No cop would make a stop like this without backup, so if they stayed in the truck and waited, they were real, she decided. If they got out, they were something else.
She unsnapped the holster, pulled out her Glock, and chambered a round. She reset the safety and slipped the gun beneath her thigh, knowing if things got tight she’d have only a split second to decide.
She heard a door open. Her rearview mirror showed two men climbing from the truck. They edged cautiously toward the Toyota, taking small steps, staying to either side. She lowered her window and strained her ears for the sound of a police radio. Cops would have handhelds or the volume turned up in the truck so they could hear, but the only sound was the peeping of frogs in the nearby marsh. The man on the left stepped in front of the truck headlight, the silhouette of a pistol outlined beside his leg.
These guys had waited to make their stop until they were someplace where there’d be no witnesses. They weren’t cops!
She leaned out and called back to the man on the left side, “Hold it right there! Who are you and what do you want?” She said it with enough force that the man stopped.
“Police. The two of you step out of the car,” he barked. “Hands where I can see them.”
“Where’s the guy on your side?” she whispered to Brent.
He was slouched in his seat, staring intently at his side mirror. “Couple feet behind the car.”
“I’m not stopping here,” Maggie shouted. “I have the right to drive to a well-lighted place. You can follow me.” She felt Brent coil beside her, again ready to bolt. She gripped his thigh. “Don’t move,” she whispered.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, ma’am.” The man’s shoes crunched gravel as he took another step. “Turn your engine off. You and your friend just get out of the car with your hands in plain sight.”
She took her hand from Brent’s thigh and gripped her pistol. She was out of time, but could she shoot? What if these were stupid cops who were breaking all the rules?
Suddenly Brent let out a gasp as he stared at the side mirror. “I see his face! It’s one of the FBI guys!” he said in a choked whisper. In the next second his door was open, and he exploded from the car.
Maggie heard a gunshot, but she had no time to think. She jammed the shifter into reverse, stomped on the accelerator and cut the wheel. The rear bumper slammed the guy on her side with a loud thump. She immediately hit the brakes, her automatic already out the window. “Freeze,” she shouted at the man who was on his knees, groping for his gun. “Freeze!” she shouted again. The man glanced up and saw her Glock aimed at his chest, and he raised his hands.
“Brent?” she screamed as she opened her door, rolled out, and squatted beside the car.
“I’m okay,” he shouted.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
“Do you have his gun?”
“No, but I’ve got him,” Brent answered. He appeared around the rear of Maggie’s car struggling with a large man. He held him in a throat lock and had one of the man’s arms twisted up behind his back.
Maggie straightened, went forward, and kicked the first man’s pistol away. “On your stomach,” she commanded. “Hands behind your back. The man obeyed, lying face down in the road. She placed the barrel of her gun against his spine, pulled a pair of handcuffs from the pouch on her belt, and locked them around his wrists.
Brent’s prisoner suddenly began to struggle wildly. He was as tall as Brent and more thickly built. Brent’s face knotted in pain as he struggled to keep control. Maggie approached and then kicked the man hard in the crotch. His eyes bugged, and then the air left his lungs in a rush. He sagged abruptly, appearing to lose all resistance and almost taking Brent down.
“Get him on his stomach,” Maggie said, as she reached into her car for a spare set of cuffs in the door pocket.
She handed Brent the cuffs just as the man started to struggle again. He outweighed Brent by thirty or forty pounds, and it was clear from Brent’s expression that the fighting must have re-injured his wounded stomach. Nonetheless, Brent knelt on the man’s back and gripped one meaty wrist as he managed to fasten the first bracelet. He seemed to have things under control, but then the man moved suddenly, raising his shoulder and bringing one leg up as he jerked his other hand free.
Maggie saw what was happening. “Watch out!” she cried.
Brent grabbed for the man’s arm as it snaked down to his pants cuff and a second later reappeared with a small revolver. Brent was off the man’s back now, holding the man’s gun arm in a desperate grip. The man swung his other arm, lashing the loose cuff savagely into the back of Brent’s head. Brent lost his grip momentarily, but grabbed the wrist again and shoved the gun away just as the man pulled the trigger. The gun was waving toward Maggie, and she dove to one side as a second shot boomed out.
She aimed her own gun, looking for a chance to return fire. The man continued whipping his handcuff into Brent’s back and head until he once again jerked his gun hand free. He rolled away from Brent and onto his knees, bringing the gun to bear on Brent, his arms locked in a two-handed shooter’s pose.