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“What are we doing?” I asked.
He looked over his shoulder. As his eyes drifted down over me, from the White Sox cap he’d given me to his blue windbreaker and down to my borrowed sweatpants and sneakers, he slowly grinned, and I was 90 percent sure he’d lost the thread.
“Well?” I asked, reminding him he hadn’t answered me.
“Waiting for backup.” He turned forward and stared out the windshield.
He hadn’t mentioned that his team was going to get involved with this aspect of our escape. Would they join us in the van or follow us? I was just about to ask for details when his phone pinged. He glanced at it, then shifted the van into drive.
“Head down,” he reminded me.
We exited the parking garage at a moderate speed. I kept my head down, which frustratingly meant I couldn’t see any of the action. I was accustomed to that from our HEAT missions, where I was always in the control center, whether that was in a building or a van like this one except outfitted with electronics. But at least we always had comms units so I wasn’t completely out of the loop.
From my angle on the floor, I watched the tops of buildings slide past and estimated we’d gone about a block when Evan said, “Hang on.”
“Fuck me,” I murmured and braced myself.
Evan slowed down as we approached a green light. From the way he watched the rearview mirror, I guessed we’d been made and were officially being followed. I saw the next light in front of us turn yellow, and then Evan punched the gas. Seconds later, police sirens blared behind us. I shifted and peeked out of the back window. Four police cars had surrounded two black BMWs.
By backup, Evan had meant the police. I knew he’d been on the force in Philly, but wondered what his connection was to the cops here in Chicago. More questions I’d have to ask, but not now, because that would reveal that I knew more about him than I should. Which reminded me of the tracking device. At least my team should be able to see that we were on the move.
Evan jerked the steering wheel hard to the right and we flew down a side street. I saw signs for I-90 and estimated that we were about three blocks from the interstate entrance ramp.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“What?” I sat up so I could see what he was seeing.
“What are the odds that the car behind us is coincidentally identical to the ones those thugs were driving?”
I peered out the back window. Sure enough, another black BMW was behind us. “Definitely not a coincidence.”
“Get down,” he told me. When I hesitated, he repeated it. “Get down!”
He punched in a number on his phone, then swerved as metallic pings hit the van.
Bullets.
A woman’s voice came over the speaker phone. “This is Captain LeBeque.”
“Got another one for you,” Evan said, “and this one’s shooting at us.”
In response, the woman issued orders to the people who must be with her, swearing up a blue streak in the process, but at no point did she express surprise that Evan was under fire. It made me wonder what incidents he’d been caught up in before this.
When I noticed him concentrating on his side mirror, I shifted so I could see it. The Beemer was coming up beside us fast. I suspected the driver wanted to run us off the road and deduced he might run into us to do it. I jumped up onto the back seat and pulled on a seatbelt. Two more shots rang out, one breaking the driver’s side window and sending glass shards everywhere. I ducked and kept my head down.
Evan jerked us to the left. We bounced off the car, which squealed as it skidded sideways, giving us precious seconds to turn onto the highway entrance ramp and the cops the ability to cut off our attackers before they could pursue us. In a few moments, we blended seamlessly into traffic on the highway.
“I think we’re in the clear,” Evan said. “And no one got hurt.”
I was about to agree with him when I noticed the bloom of blood on his sleeve, just above his right elbow. I did a quick scan and didn’t see glass shards on that side of him, which meant...I estimated the trajectory and looked at the back seat to the right of me. I immediately spotted the hole ripped into it.
“Um.” I leaned forward over the console and shifted my demeanor to calm and soothing. “Evan, remain calm and pull over to the side of the road,” I said, using my best doctor’s bedside voice.
“Is that the concussion talking? Because that’s a terrible idea. We’re just a few minutes from our exit and I’m not giving anyone a chance to catch up with us.”
“Then I’m coming up there.” I picked up my medical bag from the floor.
“No,” he said.
“Yes I am,” I insisted, remaining calm because if he was going to continue driving at 70 miles per hour, it was even more important that he not become alarmed. “I need to dress your wound. Don’t panic, but you’ve been shot.”
