Page 70 of Every Last Breath

The elevator on the left pinged and her heartbeat quickened. The doors opened. A man and woman pushed a baby stroller off.

“We suspect he checked in late last night under an assumed name,” Cole said.

Maddox turned back to the young woman behind the desk, who shook her head at the picture. She brought up a photo of the Ghost’s son, Val. “What about this man? Have you seen him?”

The receptionist peered at the picture for a long moment. “He doesn’t look familiar.”

They’d have to wait for Harper to hack into the hotel system.

Maddox spun on a sigh, doing another sweep of the lobby.

A man wearing a baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses, blue long-sleeved shirt—despite the ungodly heat outside—and carrying a backpack did an about-face, pushed through the front door, and hurried down the steps to the street.

She got that palpable sense that something wasn’t right. Like maggots slithering in her gut, lice crawling over her skin. She’d only caught a glimpse of the man, not even a full profile. But the way he moved triggered her well-honed instincts, urging her toward action.

Snatching her phone from the receptionist, Maddox ran to the door. She dashed down the steps and whirled 180 degrees, scouring the street. Ditching the button-down and cap would alter his appearance, but there hadn’t been time.

One man caught her eye. He was slender and had a hat, but it wasn’t Novak.

She ignored the pang of knife-sharp frustration and scanned the opposite direction. Stepping wide around a woman walking a dog, she spotted a flash of blue. To the right, headed north on F Street toward Seventh. Long-sleeved shirt. Navy ball cap and black backpack. Right height and build. He had the cagey walk of a predator on the loose.

She needed to see his face.

Her palms itched as she marched closer. She lengthened her stride, but restrained the impulse to charge toward him. The last thing she wanted was to spook him into running. She needed to cross the street at the first break in traffic and follow parallel to avoid detection.

And almost at once, it was too late.

The man glanced over his shoulder, checking his six, and sunlight bounced off his sunglasses. The profile was a dead ringer.

A cold jolt of adrenaline raced through her.

The Ghost took off like a bullet fired. She bolted after him, with Cole sprinting at her side.

Novak plunged into the congested traffic on sprawling Seventh Street. Bobbing and weaving around cars, joggers, people on bikes, buses, he never broke his stride. Horns blared and tires screeched as cars braked. The man had mind-boggling speed and agility. Zero fear. He pushed down the lengthy stretch of sidewalk along the Capital One Arena, shoving pedestrians out of his way.

Maddox and Cole skirted around traffic, holding up hands to get oncoming vehicles to slow. They were losing him. Novak glided down the street, extending his lead.

A biker clipped Cole, and he stumbled, pitching forward, hitting asphalt.

She didn’t slow. Getting hemmed up would crush their chance to capture Novak. They had to cut through the congestion of Penn Quarter.

The Ghost pounded past the arena, headed toward H Street. He was closing in on the bustling Gallery Place mall, the hubbub of Chinatown, and Metro stations teeming with passengers.

The odds that he’d lose them escalated with each second. The hotel had been their one good lead. If he got away now, they might not get another.

Cole pushed up alongside her, recovering lost ground.

Digging until her thighs screamed, she fought through the fire shredding her legs, the ache nibbling at her side. Shoppers filtered in and out of Gallery Place ahead—an abundance of stores, restaurants: too much collateral damage if this went sideways.

The sweltering sun beat down, turning the streets into an oven. Her jacket trapped the slick sheet of sweat on her skin. She gritted her teeth and blocked it all out.

The heat. The burn. The dread.

Weakness.

A businessman on his cell drifted out of a bar and grill on a collision course with a killer. The Ghost barreled into him, sending the guy spinning hard into the street like a wobbling top. His briefcase flew into the air, and the poor suit crashed into a cyclist, bike bell zinging, planting them both face-first into the blacktop.

She stayed locked on the Ghost.