Page 68 of Flash Freeze

“Mora skedaddled,” Samuel reported. “We’re in pursuit of a white GMC Canyon extended cab heading west on Sherman. Texas plates, but the numbers are frosted over.”

“He just turned right,” Travis called out. “On …” he had to slow at the corner to make out the icy street sign. He almost never drove in the Second Ward. “Burr.”

“We’ve got a 2020 GMC Canyon registered to Mora, plate number NJC 1834,” said Bouvier.

“I’ll put out an APB,” came Bach’s voice.

“Try to block off major streets and funnel him into a corner,” instructed Bouvier. “Keep on him, Ice and Hernandez. We don’t want him getting on the freeway.”

“Roger that,” Samuel acknowledged.

“I’m going to keep you on the line,” said the boss. Then he heard her say, obviously into her cell phone, “Flash, where are you? In the middle of something?”

That’s right, Travis thought. Fire Station Eight isn’t far from here.

“Just fueling up between emergencies,” he heard over the air. “Whatcha need, babe?”

“Our suspect is fleeing officers in your area. Can you get clearance to use Engine Eight for a roadblock?”

“Sure! Already asking dispatch. Where do you want me?” Flash sounded far too enthusiastic.

“I don’t know yet,” Bouvier said. “Just head toward the east side of I-69. We don’t want him getting on the freeway.”

“Yes, sir, Assistant Special Agent in Charge! On our way.”

“Where’s he headed now?”

Travis heard Agent Paulson say, “If they were in a company car, we could be tracking them.”

“He just hooked a right on Brady,” Samuel answered. “A tree’s down ahead—orange sawhorse and cones blocking the street.”

The Rubicon’s beefy all-terrain tires clawed through the churned slush, steadily shaving feet from Mora’s lead. When the white compact pickup whipped to the left at the next intersection, its rear quarter clipped a mound of dirty snow, bursting it into clods of ice. Gray slush sheeted across the Jeep’s windshield. The world disappeared beyond the frantic sweep of the wipers. For two terrifying seconds, Travis was driving blind. He eased off the accelerator, lest he hit something—or someone. As the wipers cleared the glass, the white GMC swam back into view a block ahead.

Samuel reported into his phone. “He’s just turned left, heading toward Canal Street.”

A car, half-buried in snow, pulled out of a driveway no more than ten yards ahead of them. The ABS light blinked as the Jeep shuddered under hard braking. Travis’s heart skipped a beat. The wheels kept sliding as he swerved around the clueless driver. He eased off the brake just enough to steer, slipping past the car with inches to spare. The warning light faded. His pulse returned to normal.

Travis wanted to yell at the driver, “Watch where you’re going,” but didn’t bother. Such instructions were futile, and he couldn’t spare his energy on needless anger.

“Left on Canal Street,” Samuel said.

“That runs into Navigation Boulevard,” Bouvier said. “From there he could use Chartres or Runnels to access I-69.”

“Not if I block him off at Navigation,” came Flash’s voice over the open lines.

Travis held a steady grip on the wheel, focusing on Mora’s pickup without losing awareness of everything around it. The little truck’s rear wheels spun through a slushy intersection, letting the Jeep close another car length. But he couldn’t drive too fast and risk an accident. The whir of police sirens grew closer. Mora started to hook the next right, then swerved back onto Canal as the black-and-white blocked his way. Travis stayed with him, and the patrol car fell in behind the Jeep.

Ahead, an electric company vehicle took up most of the thoroughfare, its bucket boom raised, workers in yellow reflective vests tromping around it. The workers scattered as Mora blasted through the work zone. His brake lights flashed as he took the next right into a residential area. One of Travis’s tires broke loose on a glazed patch. The steering twitched in his hands as the Jeep climbed out of the traffic-worn ruts and onto the less-traveled side street.

“I think he’s taking the scenic route to Navigation Boulevard,” Travis said after a tense few seconds regaining control of his vehicle.

“I know just where he’s going,” Flash said. “There’s a crazy roundabout up there, lots of accident calls. Houston drivers don’t know what to think of that thing. Don’t worry. Engine Eight can seal off his side of the traffic circle.”

“You hear that, traffic division?” Bach said. “Funnel the white GMC down Navigation into that roundabout.”

Dirty spray fanned behind the pickup like a rooster tail as it chewed its way through the winding neighborhood streets. Travis cringed when he spotted children playing in their front yards, dangerously near the oncoming pickup. He laid on his horn, yelling, “Watch out,” though they couldn’t hear him. Mora blasted ahead, never touching his brakes. An older child snapped his head up at the horn and the approaching police siren. He grabbed a smaller one by the pink coat and yanked her toward the porch. The others bolted for the porches, then turned to watch the chase thunder past.

“That was close,” Samuel said, his voice tight. “One more second …”