The Shimmer. Carsten Stroud

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СКАЧАТЬ and highway pursuit is our thing, not County’s. They’re good folks, but in a car chase they go all squirrelly because they don’t train for it. We do.”

      “Got it,” she said.

      What little traffic there was veered right and left out of the way as Redding closed in on the Suburban, which was whipsawing as the heavy truck lurched in and around other vehicles.

      A pickup truck popped out of a side road, almost T-boning the Suburban before the driver wrangled his ride into a ditch, the guy getting out to shout something at Redding as the cruiser flashed by. Karras stayed on the mike, calling the cross streets—Nineteen, Twenty-One, Twenty-Three—as the Crown Vic’s Interceptor motor rapidly overtook the Suburban, the siren howling.

      Gusts of wind were lashing the highway, and now the white squall hit, sideways rain and clouds of sand, shredded palm fronds and scrub branches tumbling across the highway, flying through the air.

      Redding put the wipers on full but they could hardly see the truck through the rain. The truck was not slowing down, although visibility had dropped down to twenty yards. Karras strained to read a street sign as they powered past it, keyed the mike again.

      “Central, this is Jax 180. We are southbound A1A at Twenty-Seventh still in pursuit—”

      The Suburban’s brake lights flared on, bright red smears in the driving rain, the truck tilting wildly to the left as the driver bulled it into a right-hand turn. The right side wheels of the truck actually lifted off the road for a second, and Redding tapped the brakes, falling back, waiting for it to roll, but it didn’t.

      The wheels came back down with a thudding impact, the truck wobbled and weaved as the driver fought for control, got it back, and now the Suburban was accelerating down a residential street lined with ranch-style summer homes and palm-shaded yards.

      “Central, vehicle made a right turn onto Twenty-Eight.”

      “Roger that. Copy that, Jax 250?”

      “Jax 250. Ten-four copy we are a half mile out.”

      The Suburban almost took out three kids in wetsuits walking in the street, carrying surfboards, shoulders hunched, heading home to beat the storm. They dropped the boards and dodged as the Suburban blew by them. It struck one of the boards, smashing it into shards, and one of the larger pieces flew up and smacked into their windshield, making them both flinch away. The truck reached an intersection—South Dayton—veered hard right again, accelerated away, now headed back north.

      “Shit,” said Karras. “He’s going to kill somebody. Should we back off?”

      Redding flashed a sideways look at her.

      “You wanna?” he said. “Remember we have a dash cam. This goes south we might be in the barrel.”

      “We? Or just you?”

      Made him smile.

      “Me. I’m the one in charge.”

      “Then fuck no,” she said, looking back at the truck, her right hand braced on the dashboard.

      She keyed the mike again.

      “Central, target is now northbound on South Dayton—we have just crossed Twenty-Seven.”

      “Copy that.”

      South Dayton was a long residential street that ran along the edge of a shallow slope covered with trees, a few large summer homes on the east side, no one on the streets now that the storm had hit and hit hard, the branches on the trees thrashing in the gale, the undersides of their leaves showing silvery white. A palm frond struck their windshield, got jammed into their wipers.

      Redding swore, jammed the car to a stop, jumped out and tore the frond away, leaped back into the vehicle before it stopped rocking, accelerated hard, the tail end sliding on the slick tarmac.

      “Ask Jax 250 where they are,” said Redding, fighting the wheel as they hit a pothole in the road and the Crown Vic slammed through it, bouncing crazily, the rear end coming loose.

      Karras keyed the mike again.

      “Jax 250.”

      “Roger, Jax 180.”

      “What’s your twenty?”

      “A1A northbound crossing Twenty-Eight.”

      In this section South Dayton was a straight run, and the truck pushed it to a flat 100 miles an hour. Jesus, thought Redding, this is not good.

      “Ask Jax 250 to go to afterburners, get north of us and turn left. If they really punch it, they might be able to block the guy off there.”

      “Roger, Jax 250, can you shoot up to block at Nineteen and South Dayton?”

      “Ten-four, Jax 180.”

      “Roger that.”

      The truck blew through stop signs, almost nailed a van pulling out of a driveway, braked crazily and spooled it right back up to 60...70...

      The Suburban’s brake lights flared up and beyond it they could see the flicker of red and blue lights and the glare of headlights as Jax 250 squealed to a skidding halt that blocked the intersection. The truck slid to a stop, sat there for a brief moment, wavering.

      They were almost on it.

      The brake lights flicked off, the truck swung a hard left and punched it, racing west toward the swamplands and the Intracoastal.

      “There’s nothing down there but South Palmetto,” said Redding. “It’s a crescent, no way out. Nothing west of that but swamplands. Guy’s trapped.”

      “Unless he breaks into a house along here, takes a whole bunch of hostages.”

      Redding shot her a look. She was having the time of her life. Hell, so was he. Who didn’t love a totally batshit car chase? Was this a great country or what?

      “Jeez, Julie. Don’t even say that.”

      “But wouldn’t it be, like, a teachable moment?”

      In the middle of all this vehicular insanity the kid still had her bounce. He was still grinning when the truck powered away down a short block, wheeled crazily right around the curve onto South Palmetto, big ranch homes, maybe a dozen of them, spread out on the east side, and on the left, dense forest, broken ground down a slight slope—the only kind of slope Florida had—and then the driver hit the brakes.

      Hard, the truck slewing around crazily, correcting and then skidding to a stop in the middle of the road. The driver’s door popped open and a woman—not young, but lean and solid-looking in tight jeans and hiking boots and a black leather jacket—hopped out, nothing in her hands, which were the first thing you looked at.

      She sent them one quick glance. They got a glimpse of a tight hard face, no fear at all, even a fleeting defiance, strong cheekbones and wide eyes, maybe green, black hair flying in the wind as she ran. Something in Redding’s memory flickered like a goldfish in a pond. He knew that face. Then she was СКАЧАТЬ