Heading south, Devlin and Randall had pursued Barnes down First Avenue, through Pioneer Square, before veering off Seattle Boulevard and onto Sixth Avenue. Now having gone under I-90, near the interstate’s western terminus at State Route 519, they bypassed a parking structure on their right.
The landscape opened around them, and the traffic thinned.
Devlin pushed her right foot to the floor. “This is our shot.”
Glancing at the speedometer and reading, 73...74...75, Randall tugged on his shoulder harness to make sure it was tight. “Our shot at what?”
The Chrysler drew up behind the Toyota truck.
“At stopping him.”
“How?”
“PIT maneuver.”
“At seventy-five miles an hour?” He pulled on his safety harness again.
“It’s been done at over a hundred.”
Randall shook his head. “Not with me in the car, it hasn’t.” He confronted her. “Have you performed this before?”
“An anti-terrorist specialist came in and trained a handful of us when I first joined the Marshals Service.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“I’ve employed the tactic twice. No one’s been injured.”
“Have you ever done it at seventy-five miles an hour before?”
She flicked her eyes toward him then focused on the road ahead.
He faced forward, “Lovely,” then wriggled deeper into his seat while wrenching on his safety harness for a third time.
“It’s all about finesse, not ramming.” She checked her mirrors then looked ahead to make sure there was no opposing traffic before she eased the rental into the oncoming lane and let her right foot get heavy on the ‘go’ pedal. “And we...”
The 300S surged ahead, its right fender coming alongside the Tacoma’s left quarter panel.
“...have no idea what’s up ahead. There could be,” she concentrated on the fleeing Toyota’s rear bumper, “there could be a residential area waiting for this guy to blitz through doing ninety.”
Randall bobbed his brows and half nodded. I suppose.
“This is our chance.”
“Okay. Okay. Let’s take it. I trust you, Jess.”
“Really? Is that why you’ve been strangling yourself over there with your seat belt?”
He threw her a quick smirk. “Not at all. I’m just really big on safety.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Devlin matched the Chrysler’s speed with the truck’s speed then slowly closed the distance between the two vehicles.
The two cars gently touched.
She turned the steering wheel ninety degrees to the right.
The Chrysler pushed the Toyota.
The Toyota spun counterclockwise and skidded sideways down the road.
Devlin eased off the accelerator.
The truck continued its one-eighty, sliding across the concrete and into the oncoming lane. Its front grille now facing the pursuit vehicle, the light-duty pickup lost more traction on the loose gravel alongside the road before its passenger side crashed into a chain-link fence on the Chrysler’s eleven o’clock.
Devlin steered left and jammed her foot on the brake pedal.
Randall had his door open and one foot hanging outside before the 300S stopped just short of the disabled car’s left-front bumper.
Barnes scrambled out of the truck and took off running, the fence on his left, a bag slung over his back.
Randall gave chase for the next fifty yards, but found himself falling behind the younger, faster man. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Chrysler pass by him, cut left in front of Barnes, and come to a halt, its left-front bumper touching the fence.
Devlin got out.
The running man planted a foot in the middle of the open door.
The door flew backward and hit the driver.
Letting out a grunt, as she was driven back against the frame, Devlin made a face and clutched her chest.
Barnes jumped onto, then over, the hood and kept on running.
Wincing, gasping for air, Devlin put her left shoulder to the left-rear door and slid along the glass while holding her left breast.
Randall approached. “You okay?”
“Go.” She waved her left arm toward him, “I’m—” then grimaced at the pain the motion had caused. “I’ll be fine. Go get that son-of-a...”
As she finished her curse, he scampered over the hood, landed on the gravel apron, and bolted away from her. Fifty feet later, he hooked around the end of the fence and came upon a large building with semi-trailers backed up to loading docks.
Inside the structure, several men gave each other puzzled looks before staring toward the back of the interior space.
Randall made a bee line for the nearest open bay and leaped onto the loading dock.
The men faced him.
His cred pack in hand, he eyed the workers. “Which way?”
One man stretched out an arm. “He ran out the back door.”
“Thanks.” Heading in the direction the man was pointing, Randall stowed his creds then drew his Walther PPQ45. He opened the back door and slowly poked his head out through the archway, his eyes scanning the dimly lit territory around him.
Two ‘first downs’ away, a chain-link fence rattled on his one o’clock.
He squinted at a figure scaling an eight-foot-high fence.
Randall holstered his weapon and sprinted across a parking lot.
Barnes made it to the top then swung each leg over a horizontal bar before walking down a couple feet and letting go.
A split-second later, Randall jumped into the air and grabbed the fence halfway up. Hoisting himself higher, he folded his upper body over the barrier, gripped the crosshatched metal on the opposite side, and swung both feet over at the same time, twisting his body in midair and coming down facing his target.
His lead down to mere feet, Barnes looked back and stumbled before turning around and regaining his balance.
His eyes on his prey, the deputy marshal drew upon his energy reserves and charged forward.
Barnes crossed a street, made a right, and ran alongside a long hedgerow interspersed with large bushes and shrubs.
Randall watched him glance over his shoulder three times. Each sneak peek cost the man another foot of separation.
Barnes made a left-ninety, then another left, and darted into a vacant parking garage.
Six paces behind, Randall poured on the gas.
Barnes veered left, stretched out his left arm, caught a wire mesh trash receptacle, and pulled.
The refuse container toppled and rolled.
Forced to stop to keep from diving headfirst over the obstacle, Randall skirted the can and kept going.
Barnes stole a backward glance at his determined pursuer. Seeing his lead was back again, his chest heaving, he stopped to take a two-second breather then cast another look over his shoulder before dashing out of the parking garage, never seeing the four-door sedan coming from his left.
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