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"Where is he?" O'Neil said.
"Didn't see him," Dance replied. "Prescott?"
"Dead. Hang in there, Martinez. You're doing great. You a lefty?"
"No."
"Good. You'll be pitching a softball with the kids in a few weeks."
"I can lose the arm."
Dance blinked, puzzled by the comment.
"All we play is soccer." He smiled.
Sirens now in front of the apartment complex. Dance rose--O'Neil manned the tourniquet--and jogged to the front. She returned a moment later, with two officers and two medical techs with a gurney.
The latter two took over the treatment, and Dance and O'Neil stepped aside to let them work. They explained to the Orange County deputies what had happened.
One took a call on his mobile. He said a few words and disconnected. "We have a lead. Man lives about three blocks from here saw a white male, tall blond. He was running fast down the street. Got into a car and took off. The guy said it was suspicious. Got the tag. Black Chevy. Monterey, registered to a man his wife tells us is out of town for a week. Left it at Monterey Airport two days ago."
"That's our unsub."
"Cars in pursuit now. Headed north on Cumberland."
"We'll want to go," Dance said, glancing at O'Neil, who had already called up a map on his phone.
Whatever the protocols of lending vehicles to out-of-county law, the deputy didn't hesitate. "Take Martinez's cruiser. You'll need the sound and lights."
Chapter 42
Antioch March was sure he couldn't beat the officers at the freeway game.
He knew this not from any research. But from COPS, the TV show, and other programs about high-speed pursuits in the L.A. area. Nail strips, the PIT maneuver and a thousand troopers with nothing better to do than catch you. Escaping by car was the fantasy of bad movies and contrived thrillers.
The Chevy was fast, the suspension okay. And this time of midmorning, the traffic was light. But he wasn't going to get much farther. And bailing out and running wasn't an option either.
Stay calm. Think.
What were his options?
The part of suburban Orange County he sped through now was residential. He could 'jack another car, he supposed, but that would buy time only.
He needed population. People, and a lot of them.
And then he saw it.
Ahead of him, less than a mile, March estimated. Perfect!
A glance in the mirror. The cars were in pursuit, sirens and lights. But they were holding back. As long as they could see him, there was no need to try anything dramatic and endanger lives.
March sped up and covered the distance in less than a minute. Then he executed a fast turn to the right, through a wooden gate and began easing through a crowd of people.
Glorious... Lots and lots of people.
He began to honk and flash his lights. The crowd moved out of the way, most of them frowning, though some probably suspecting a medical emergency or another legitimate reason for the car's frantic approach.
Then, the way clear, he aimed the car toward a gate in a six-foot-high metal fence. He floored the accelerator.
