Car stops were arguably the most dangerous part of the job, because they were also a boring routine -- right up until an officer inadvertently pulled over a killer with a body in the trunk. The cop might not see the danger until the killer opened fire. And that was aside from officers who got struck and killed by cars driven by some texting asshole.
As Erica started toward the car, she realized the Camaro’s driver hadn’t pulled far enough over, which meant she’d have to step further out into the road than she’d like. Fortunately, there was very little traffic. Hearing the sound of an approaching vehicle, she looked back to see a blue pickup. The driver was already slowing down, probably worried about hitting her.
Returning her attention to the Camaro, she stared warily through its rear window. The driver appeared to be alone, though it was possible someone else sat hunkered down in the passenger seat.
Damn, she wished she could make out the driver’s aura, but the glare of sunlight on the glass made that impossible. Reaching the vehicle’s rear, Erica started to circle out around it -- just as the hair on the back of her neck rose. Three overseas tours had taught her to listen to her instincts. Her hand dropped to her weapon, thumb flicking open the snap on the retention holster. The suspect had both hands firmly on the wheel, but…
Behind her, the rumble of the approaching pickup became a howl.
She didn’t even glance around, just threw herself at the Camaro, one hand bracing on its trunk as she vaulted for the shoulder of the road. Something brushed the sole of one shoe, followed by a crunch as the car rocked. The Camaro’s driver’s side mirror tumbled by as the dark blue Dodge Ram pickup barreled past.
Cursing, Erica jerked her Glock out of its holster as she hit the ground beside the car and spun. Before she could fire, her instincts shrieked again. She ducked.
BOOM! Fragments of safety glass pelted her face and uniform as the Camaro’s rear window exploded. She dove into the ditch just as the shotgun thundered again. An engine roared, tires squealing in shrill protest.
Erica came up firing, but the Camaro was already accelerating in the same direction as the pickup. She grabbed her shoulder mic and ran for her car. “Laurel, Alpha 22. Code 1. Dark blue Dodge Ram pickup truck attempted to hit me as I approached the Camaro. Camaro driver fired at me, blew out his rear window. Sounded like a sawed-off shotgun. Returned fire. Don’t know if I hit anyone.”
“Alpha 22, are you injured?” The dispatcher’s voice sounded tight with suppressed alarm.
“Negative.” She jerked the car door open and slid into the front seat. Slamming the door, she threw the car into gear and hit the gas as she activated lights and sirens with her free hand. “In pursuit.” The howl of the cruiser’s engine was barely audible over the siren’s banshee shriek as she shot after the Camaro. Question is, what the hell am I going to do when I pull it over? Because those fuckers just tried to kill me. Twice.
The siren’s shrill wail jerked her nerves tighter and tighter as she blasted down the road. Trees blurred past on either side as her heart kept time in frantic, pounding beats.
Two o’clock on a school day was a lousy time to have a car chase, but Erica didn’t have a hell of a lot of choice. She remembered a phrase from her academy training: “Shoot at a cop, and we’ll chase you until the wheels fall off.”
Wooten Elementary was two miles away. On another street, true, but that was still too damned close for comfort, given these assholes had already proved they were willing to kill a cop.
The road curved, and she slowed fractionally, knowing there was a four-way stop ahead. She rounded the bend just as a school bus pulled into the intersection.
Right into her path.
Her heart barreled into her throat. Cursing, Erica braked, shuffle steering the wheel in a desperate attempt to miss the bus. The shriek of tires competed with the siren’s howl and her own cursing. A wall of pines loomed in front of the car’s hood, and she sucked back a scream, stomping the brake to the floor…
The car jolted to a stop, its front bumper overhanging the ditch that would have launched her into the trees like a ski ramp.
A metallic taste filling her mouth, Erica jerked her head around. The bus had stopped squarely in the middle of the intersection. The driver stared at her through his side window, his jaw gaping, eyes wide. A dozen terrified young faces peered at her. If she hadn’t veered, she’d have T-boned the bus.
Flinging the door open, Erica ran toward it, knowing the violent stop might have injured one of the kids. The door creaked wide and she leaped the steps in a bound. “Anybody hurt?”
The driver glanced back over his shoulder at his charges. “Anybody?”
“No, ma’am!” a ragged chorus answered.
“Did you see a red Camaro or a blue pickup truck?”
“Yeah, going like a bat out of hell.” The driver pointed right. “That way.”
“Okay, you can go. Thanks.” She leaped back down the steps and raced back to her car, mentally noting the bus’s number. Gears ground as it lurched off on its way.
Erica slid behind the wheel and backed up, then straightened the car out again. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.” She turned left on Pineheart Avenue, grabbing the mic to update the dispatcher.
And promptly ran into a stream of traffic heading to and from the school. Lips lifting off her teeth, she squealed to a stop at the nearest intersection, scanning for her suspects. She spotted neither.
Goddamnit, they could have gone anywhere. Calm down, Harris. There’s still a chance. It’s a long shot but… Drawing in a deep breath, Erica closed her eyes and reached for her magic. Got the faintest impulse to turn left. Could be just some random neurons firing, but at this point she had nothing to lose. She turned left and wove around the stream of cars to the accompaniment of her siren.
Five minutes later Erica left the worst traffic behind. As she accelerated, her gaze swept the road ahead, alert for another potentially lethal brush with another vehicle. As the last of the traffic thinned, she hit the gas. Judging by the radio traffic, other units were searching for her two attackers, but nobody else seemed to be having any luck either. Frustrated, she growled aloud, “Where did the sons of bitches go?”
Obeying another niggle of instinct, Erica turned right onto yet another two-lane road, rounded a corner…
And spotted the Camaro sitting on the side of the road, parked behind the pickup truck. Both had their drivers’ doors open. The bastards had obviously bolted, but they might have left useful evidence behind.
Erica picked up her mic. “Laurel County, Alpha 22. I’ve spotted the Camaro and the blue pickup at…” She looked up at the GPS unit attached to the windshield to get the street name and nearest intersection. She rattled them off and pulled over, well back from both vehicles. “Requesting backup.”
A deep, familiar voice drawled, “Laurel County, Alpha 23 en route. ETA five minutes.”
Jake was coming.
Tension released its stranglehold on the back of her neck. Judging by the view through the busted rear windshield, there didn’t appear to be anyone in the car. That said, she had no desire to step into another ambush.
This time, she was waiting for Jake.
* * *
“I had her!” John Reese pounded his big fists on the dash of the minivan, his face dark with rage. Adrian ignored the ex-Marine’s temper tantrum as he drove sedately along. No sooner had Reese and Garrison pulled over at the agreed-upon location than he’d swung by to pick them up. They’d abandoned the two vehicles without a backward glance.
The three had spent the morning stealing the Camaro, the Dodge, and this minivan. Adrian always kept an eye out for any employees of local businesses who were in the habit of working through lunch. You never knew when you might need to appropriate a car.
The muscles of Reese’s jaw worked in frustration. “I was aiming right at her. That blast should have taken her head off, but she ducked like she knew it was coming.”
“She’s a witch, boy,” Garrison growled from the backseat, sounding just as frustrated and worried. “I thought I had her too. It’s like she’s got eyes in the back of her head.”
Adrian mentally blessed his own paranoia. Once again, it had saved his ass. Harris really is sensitive. If I’d tried to take her out myself, she might have realized another Talent’s involved.
“You think she’s gonna be able to find us?” Reese threw him a worried look. “During the war, I heard witches could draw people who did bombings.”
Adrian hesitated a moment, trying to decide what an HHer tattoo artist would reasonably know about magic. “Dunno. Lying low might be a good idea. We’ll get another chance sooner or later. At least you didn’t get caught, and nobody saw you.”
Which meant the two were still usable. They weren’t bad tools, all in all. They’d followed directions, avoided getting caught, and hadn’t choked when they’d pulled the trigger or hit the gas. Sometimes amateurs lost their nerve at the last moment, which could really fuck up a good plan.
In the meantime, Adrian had gained information he hadn’t had before. Now he just had to come up with Plan B. A professional didn’t let that kind of shit get to him.
He dropped the pair off one by one where they’d parked their cars, abandoned the minivan, and walked to where he’d left his own beater. On the way home, he considered his options.
Better not try again, at least not immediately. She’d be looking for it now.
The Human Heritage protest coming up next weekend had possibilities, though. A few thousand pissed-off people, half of whom hated the other half, all chanting and working each other up. It would be a perfect opportunity to cause some casualties.
Of course, the situation was also as potentially unstable as a truck bomb, and just as likely to blow up in his face as to succeed.
And that, perversely, only added to the appeal of the idea. Nothing like the challenge of trying to engineer the results he wanted from chaotic circumstances. It took split second timing, intense planning, and plenty of pure luck.
What he needed was to calm down, read the currents of the magic, and wait for the outlines of the plan to come to him. A call to the Alchemist might be in order.
He pulled over and got out his cell, then opened the messenger app and began to type. “I need to take a walk.”
The Alchemist messaged back within minutes. Like any good businessman, he was never far from his phone. “How long a walk do u want?”
He considered the question. “Around an hour.”
“Come @ 10. I’ll take u.”
“OK.” Adrian nodded in satisfaction, dropped his cell in the cup holder, and turned toward his shop. He needed to do some brainstorming.
* * *
Jake and Erica moved cautiously toward the abandoned Camaro, their weapons drawn. He gave her a familiar sweeping gesture, one of the hand signals they’d used in the Arcane Corps. Nodding, she stepped around to approach the car from the left.
Magic flared, golden and bright, as Clarence’s full manifestation appeared. The lion seemed to balance on his hind legs, encasing Jake like glowing armor. The cat’s magical shell could withstand a sustained burst from an AR-15 before their melded magic finally collapsed. Or until Clarence ate the gunman, whichever came first. Either way, Erica’s money was on Clar.
“Police!” Jake barked as they reached the vehicle. But a check of the front and back seats confirmed it was empty. Exchanging a look, they headed for the Dodge, only to confirm it, too, had been abandoned.
Erica holstered her weapon. “You think you can catch a scent?”
“I’ve got one now. Just not sure it leads anywhere.” He went to one knee beside the open truck door and leaned in, careful not to touch anything. As she watched, he drew in a deep breath, then duck-walked away from the truck a few feet. Frowning, he got to his feet and returned to the Camaro, where he repeated the procedure.
When he finished, Jake shook his head. “I got a pretty good scent on them, but the trail ends a couple yards away. Probably got in another car and left.”
“Which suggests either they had a car waiting for them, or somebody picked them up.”
“My money’s on somebody picking them up. Otherwise they would’ve had to know where to leave the third vehicle.”
“You didn’t by any chance pick up a blood scent? I fired at the dickhead in the Camaro a couple of times.”
“Sorry, no.”
“Figures.” She turned back toward her patrol car. “I’m gonna try a sketch.”
“You think you can get anything, given the lack of blood?”
“Worth a try.” Erica opened the front passenger door of the car, where she kept a bag of ticket books, incident reports, and her sketchpad. She pulled out the pad and a pencil, then started back toward the Camaro. “Wish I’d managed to wing the son of a bitch.” If he’d bled, her magic would have something to get a fix on. As it was… But maybe she’d get lucky. “Why don’t you call for the crime scene van?”
Jake nodded and keyed his mic as Erica made for the Camaro. She would’ve preferred to sit in the driver’s seat, but she didn’t want to risk contaminating any evidence that might remain. With any luck, the bastard had left behind fingerprints, hair, or fibers they might be able to collect.
Sinking to one knee beside the open door, Erica started to reach for her magic when Jake called, “Wait a minute. I want to keep an eye out while you do that.”
Yeah, she should’ve thought of that. Sitting back on her heels, she waited.
“Ready?” he asked, moving to stand behind her. Just the sound of his deep voice made her feel less vulnerable.
Blowing out a breath, she closed her eyes and concentrated on opening herself to the magic.
Which turned out to be a lot harder to do immediately following a massive adrenaline dump. That was no surprise. The Caliphate War had taught her it was hard to achieve a mystical calm after the shit hit the fan.
Still, she hadn’t forgotten the tactical breathing techniques she’d learned in the Corps. Drawing in air through her nose, she held for a four count, then blew out again. Repeating the process until her mind stilled its frantic circling, she managed to silence the little voice screaming I almost died. Finally she let her consciousness reach for the swirling patterns of magic that made up the world around her.
There was Jake, blazing like a psychic torch just behind her. Filtering him out, she focused on the car -- on its empty front seat, on the pungent smell of nitrocellulose from the fired shotgun. An oily chemical scent of antifreeze drifted in the air, suggesting her bullet had hit the radiator.
At last, eyes closed, she put her pencil to the paper and began to draw. But instead of the bold sweeps she’d managed at the scene of the yesterday’s murder, the movements of her hand today were slow, tentative.
Worse, the image she saw was vague. By the time Erica gave up and opened her eyes, the sketch was little more than a few broad suggestions of the shape of eyes, the line of the nose, a thin mouth. None of which was strong enough to support an accusation like attempted murder. “Fuck.”
“Nothing?” Jake asked as she rose to her feet.
Disgusted, she handed over the sketchpad. “Next best thing to nothing, anyway.”
He studied the pad, then shook his head. “Well, we knew it was a long shot.”
“I was hoping it wasn’t quite that long.”
Approaching sirens drew their attention. They watched as a patrol car and the crime scene van parked behind Jake’s car. A familiar tall, graying man got out of the unit and headed toward them.
“Oh great,” Erica muttered. “It’s the sarge.”
Johnson’s lips were tight, an air of barely suppressed agitation swirling around him. His attention fell on the sketchpad in her hands, and he broke step.
Erica instinctively checked his aura. Streams of yellow streamed across it, swirling like storm clouds. What is it with him?
He gave her a tight nod, then gestured at the sketchpad. “You got a drawing of the gunman?”
“Not really.” She handed over the pad, watching the yellow cool into green, then calm blue as he studied it. “The shooter didn’t leave me enough to lock onto.” And why are you relieved? What the fuck do you know about this? But it wasn’t a question she could ask.
Her gaze slid past him to collide with Jake’s. The line of her lover’s jaw was tight, a muscle rolling as if he ground his teeth. His nostrils flared as he locked his gold eyes on the sergeant’s face, and she knew he was drawing in Johnson’s scent.
The crime scene investigator walked up. Deborah Owens was a tall, slender African-American woman with steady dark eyes. Dressed in a green utility uniform, boots, and Nitrile gloves, she carried a large tackle box full of gear.
“Did y’all touch anything in the car?” the CSI asked.
“No,” Erica assured her. “We just looked inside.”
Owens grunted, moved over and started dusting the car door for prints.
Johnson handed the sketchpad back to Erica and straightened his shoulders, every inch the supervisor. Instead of, say, a man who might know more than he should about her attempted murder. “All right, exactly what happened?”
You don’t know? She bit back the question and briefed him, each sentence as clipped and professional as any report she’d ever given in the Corps. But as she spoke, Erica watched yellow swirl in his aura, accompanied by the searing reds she associated with anger. Are you angry they tried to kill me, or angry they didn’t succeed?
Johnson asked her a couple of questions she suspected were more for form’s sake than anything else, then told her to head back to the Sheriff’s Office. “Sheriff Gable and Lieutenant Williams want to talk to you about this. You’ll need to go in.”
He turned to Jake. “You’ll have to work both zones, but be aware Gable intends to call a full meeting of all available sworn officers tonight. He wants you two attending. I’ll send somebody out to cover both your areas.”
“Yes sir.” Jake’s tone sounded frigid enough to give the sergeant freezer burn.
“Get going.” Johnson headed back toward his car.
Jake started to open his mouth, then hesitated, caught Erica’s eyes, and jerked his head in a signal to follow. They moved out of Owens’s hearing.
“He smelled guilty as fuck.” There was a distinct rumbling undertone to his voice that suggested Clarence was very close to the surface.
“Maybe. There was a lot of yellow in his aura that calmed down when he realized the sketch wasn’t worth a damn. Later when I was describing what happened, his reactions were a little harder to track. He was definitely pissed and worried, but it’s possible he reacted that way because I came so close to getting killed.”
Jake snorted. “Yeah, I could tell he was terrified for you.”
Erica shrugged. “When it comes to interpreting aural patterns, it’s easy to misread. I thought he had some guilty knowledge too at first, but I’m not sure it’s that cut and dried.”
“Maybe not, but something’s sure as fuck not right. Watch your step.”
She forced a grin, despite her own tension. “Always.”
“Sell that to somebody who doesn’t know you.”
Erica laughed and watched him walk off, his broad shoulders rolling with that easy male stride of his. But as she turned and headed for her own car, the smile drained from her face.
What the hell was going on with the sergeant? And if he’s dirty, what are we supposed to do about it?
* * *
As Roger turned his car around and headed back to the department, he started to reach for the personal cell phone on his duty belt.
Then he let his hand fall away. He really didn’t want to know. The little witch sensed emotions, and Nolan could smell them. Suspecting Virginia had tried to have Erica Harris killed was bad enough. If he knew she had, Harris might spot that knowledge in his aura and go straight to Gable. He’d be under investigation so fast, he’d get whiplash.
God damn Virginia anyway. It was one thing to rough up Talents, try to create such a hostile environment they’d leave town. But murdering a cop, even a witch cop… This isn’t what I signed up for.
Unfortunately, it no longer mattered that he’d had good intentions when he’d let the politician talk him into this. He’d come painfully close to becoming an accessory to Harris’s murder. As it was, he was hip-deep in a conspiracy that could send him to prison for a very long time.
What would happen to Doris if he was arrested? And it would kill his eighty- year-old father. Dad had always been so proud of “my son, the cop.” He’d be a lot less proud of “my son, the murderer.”
So you’d better make Goddamn sure you don’t get caught, because the innocence ship has sailed. You ain’t on it anymore.
Something had to be done about the Talents, even if it was something he’d rather not do.
* * *
Scott Clary listened over his private cell as Sergeant Johnson explained the situation. “We can’t afford to keep playing softball with those two,” Johnson said. “This is getting serious. Our mutual friend wants them gone.”
Meaning Virginia Laurel. Doing favors for the next Governor of South Carolina wouldn’t hurt Clary’s career at all. Assuming she managed to get herself elected, anyway. And if he did something to help her get elected, that would be even better.
“What do you have in mind?” Scott asked. “We’ve been working on Nolan for a while now, but we don’t have much to show for it. He’s harder to play than you’d think.”
“You haven’t had the right lever,” Johnson said. “Harris is the key. He’s got a thing for her. Work that angle right, and he’ll do something stupid. Be even better if you could get him to lose it in front of witnesses.”
Scott curled his lip. Only an idiot would let a woman get so far under his skin that she made a useful handle. “I’ll sic Hampton on it. She hates the fuck out of Harris, and it’s mutual. If anybody can light Nolan’s fuse when it comes to his girlfriend, it’s her.”
Better Mary than him. If Scott himself pushed the cat too far, he could end up dead. Nolan had enough delusions of chivalry not to seriously hurt Hampton, but the Feral might lose it just enough to get himself fired. Not that Scott really gave a shit. Mary could be useful, but she was also a flaming bitch.
And not even that good in bed.
“He’s got really sensitive hearing,” Johnson said thoughtfully. “If Hampton says something inflammatory in a low enough voice -- maybe at the meeting the sheriff’s called this afternoon -- that might do the trick. But she’ll have to be careful nobody else hears her, or it’ll backfire. We do not want to attract suspicion, especially given the fuckers who just tried to kill her. Besides, since Faraday Square, a lot of people in the department admire that big bastard.”
Scott smirked. “Don’t worry, we know exactly how far to push. And how not to get caught pushing further.”
“Good. Give the witch a good shove.” Johnson hung up.
Thoughtful, Scott watched the traffic stream out of the women’s college. Power was all about relationships. You built relationships with the powerless to build a power base, and you built relationships with the powerful to hitch a ride on their coattails. Between Laurel, his brother-in-law, Johnson, and his three fellow deputies, Scott had the beginnings of a very useful network. Who knew how far it would get him? Sheriff was a distinct possibility. Maybe even governor, in a decade or so. And after that… Well, he was only thirty. He had plenty of time.
The trick was knowing how to tie all those relationships together. Friendship wasn’t good enough -- people betrayed friends all the time. Fear, though… Fear was good. Make people afraid of something, and they instinctively wanted to find allies against it.
A whole lot of people were afraid of Talents. He wasn’t. Cautious, maybe, but not fearful. But he was more than happy to use other people’s fear.
A red convertible BMW peeled out through the college’s iron gates. Its young driver’s blonde hair whipped behind her like a flag.
Clary grinned wolfishly, hit his lights and sirens, and accelerated after her.
* * *
Two hours later, Jake sat in the sheriff’s office briefing room by Erica’s side, watching the video of her fighting for her life.
He kept having to remind Clarence she’d survived. She’s sitting right next to me. She’s fine. Judging by the low moaning sound the lion kept making in their bond, Clarence wasn’t convinced.
Then again, Jake wasn’t all that comforted either. His hands coiled into fists as they rested on his thighs, and the muscles of his shoulders knotted. From the corner of one eye, he saw Erica glance at him, frowning. She’d probably heard Clarence moan.
On the flat screen television hanging on the wall, the dash cam showed Erica approaching the Camaro, one hand on her weapon. Why in the fuck didn’t she call me for backup? She must have known there was something off about this stop.
On second thought, he knew exactly why she hadn’t called him. She was still trying to prove herself to Johnson’s bully squad -- and that machismo had almost gotten her killed.
On the recording, Erica approached the car on the driver’s side. An engine roared. Without looking around, she threw herself at the Camaro, braced a hand on the trunk and vaulted over it. A Dodge Ram pickup blasted through the space where she’d been.
She landed, drew her weapon, and threw herself to one side again as shotgun pellets blew out the Camaro’s back window. A blast from the shotgun’s other barrel missed as Erica darted aside, returning fire. The Camaro accelerated away. Whirling, she raced back to her patrol car, lips peeled off her teeth, eyes narrow in rage.
And I was miles away. I should have been with her. Protecting her. Clarence growled, echoing the thought.
Jake watched the chase unwind, teeth grinding, his hands gripping his thighs as she pursued her attempted killers.
When she swerved the patrol car toward the trees to avoid the bus, he had to work not to manifest claws, knowing he’d puncture his own skin.
Suddenly a soft hand landed on his where it gripped his leg under the table. Erica’s fingers felt long and cool and soothing -- and reminded him that she had, after all survived. He turned his hand over so he could grip hers. The muscles in his aching shoulders relaxed.
The room was dead silent, none of the other deputies making a sound as they watched Erica’s efforts to catch the shooter.
Next came her body cam’s version of events. It looked even more chaotic and terrifying than the dash cam had. Clarence’s psychic growl grew louder until it was all he could do to keep it from vibrating the air around him.
Then, as the shotgun blasted out the Camaro’s rear window, a female voice whispered in a breath of sound so soft he doubted the Norms in the room heard it at all. “Too bad the asshole wasn’t a better shot.”
Jake’s head whipped around to stare at Mary Hampton, who sat with the rest of her gang directly behind him and Erica. Hampton, Tom Green, Scott Clary, and Bob Martin must have slipped in after the two of them. Meeting his outraged glare, Hampton smirked. And blew him a kiss.
Rage, hot and overwhelming, ripped away his control as Clarence flooded his mind. Blazing into full manifestation in a shower of sparks, the lion roared at the four deputies, his voice so thunderous, every cop in the room jumped.
Oh shit!
“Jake!” Erica hissed.
Jake didn’t answer as he clawed for control of his Familiar before Clarence could go over the conference table at Hampton. Stop it! Clamping down on his Talent, he fought to make the manifestation vanish despite Clarence’s raging determination to teach Hampton that Erica was off limits.
As Jake struggled to force his Familiar out of his head and back to BFS, he was vaguely aware that half the cops in the room were on their feet, hands on weapons, tense and cursing. He gripped Erica’s hand hard as he fought to control the enraged lion.
Her free hand found his forearm, nails digging in so deep, he wondered if she was drawing blood. “Damn it, Jake!” she hissed through her teeth, “Get rid of that cat!”
At the anger in her voice, Clarence vanished like a popped soap bubble.
“Sit. Down!” Sheriff Harry Gable’s roar did not permit any argument whatsoever. “Nolan, have you lost your damned mind? What the hell was that?”
Oh shit, I’ve really fucked up this time. “Sorry, sir.” His voice sounded hoarse, growling. “It won’t happen again.”
“It had damned well better not. See me after the meeting.” Judging by Gable’s icy tone, this would not be a conversation Jake would enjoy. The sheriff’s rage was no surprise. Jake might as well have drawn on a fellow officer.
Great. Just fucking great. Did I just get myself fired?