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For a moment he'd been mystified as to how they'd learned about pathetic Stanley Prescott. Then, of course: Just like him, they had an autobot scanning the Internet for any references to the Solitude Creek or Bay View incidents, blog posts or clips on YouTube or Vidster or the other services. She'd received the same sort of alert he had and had sped here too. He wondered if she'd driven. Maybe they'd driven in tandem down from Monterey.
Sucking air into his lungs. March was in good shape, yes, but he'd never run this fast in his life.
The Chevy was a block away.
Go, go. Move!
He was upset that he hadn't had time to grab Prescott's computer. But his only thoughts were of escape. It had been chaos in the apartment.
Two shots to forestall any pursuit. As the big man went down, clutching the wound, March began his sprint.
Now he saw the car. The Chevy.
Another look back. No one yet.
His feet slapping, the heavy gym bag bouncing on his back. There'd be bruises tomorrow.
If he lived till tomorrow.
His heart labored and the pain crept into his chest and jaw. I'm too young for a fucking heart attack. His mouth filled with saliva and he spat.
Finally he slowed and, chest heaving, walked casually to the stolen car. He gripped the door handle and pulled it open, looking around again. He fell into the driver's seat and laid back against the headrest, catching his breath. A few people were nearby but no one apparently had seen the sprint. They didn't look his way. The strollers and dog walkers and joggers continued what they were doing.
Then he was tricking the ignition wires to start the vehicle. It chugged to life.
March signaled and looked over his shoulder. He pulled carefully into the street, no hurry, and started west, then turned south along surface streets.
He'd be back in Monterey in five hours. On the whole--
A flash caught his eye. He glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw two police cars, blue lights flaring, beginning to speed his way.
Maybe a coincidence.
No... They were after him. Maybe one of the goddamn stroller pushers or dog walkers had reported him.
March made a skidding turn, pressed the accelerator to the floor and pulled his Glock from his jacket pocket.
Chapter 41
Dance ran into the shaded area behind Stan Prescott's apartment and dropped to her knees beside the two men.
Michael O'Neil knelt over Deputy Martinez, who lay on his back, conscious but bewildered, fearful.
Martinez gasped, "I didn't see him. Where'd he come from?"
O'Neil said, "Climbed out through the bathroom window."
"It doesn't hurt. Why doesn't it hurt? Am I dying? I heard that: If you don't hurt you might be dying. Am I?"
"You'll be fine," O'Neil said, though he clearly wasn't sure.
One round had slammed into Martinez's chest, stopped by his body armor. The second had caught him high in the arm. The wound was a bleeder, brachial artery. O'Neil was applying direct pressure. Dance pulled a locking-blade knife from a holster on the deputy's belt, flicked it open and cut Martinez's sleeve off. This she tied around his shoulder. Using a small branch, she tightened the cloth ring until the bleeding slowed.
The deputy whispered, "Got off one round. Know I missed. Shit."
"I called it in," O'Neil said, nodding toward Martinez's Motorola.
Backup would arrive soon enough. Dance supposed everybody on the block had told 9-1-1 about the gunfire, too. She could hear sirens, coming from several directions.
