THE VAN IS a few hundred yards ahead of us when I make it to the street. I flip on the siren and turn on my lights, which flash from the grill of my truck and from behind the passenger seat visor.
Water is still dripping off the brim of my hat.
The van takes a hard right and speeds toward downtown. Carlos shouts into the radio, alerting the local police to who we’re pursuing and which way we’re headed. With Marta Rivera in the van, we don’t want to shoot it up or make it crash. We need some backup to cut off the van’s route of escape so we can surround it. FBI vehicles join the pursuit from the warehouse, but they have a lot of ground to make up.
We need to get into a position where Llewellyn Carpenter gives up. Or at least gives us a clear shot. I’m assuming he’s shed the blanket—otherwise how could he drive?—so if we can somehow get ahead of him, I might be able to get the shot I need.
The van drives recklessly, with no regard for other cars on the streets. It zips into oncoming traffic, passes a car, whips back into its own lane. It’s causing such chaos that my truck is getting caught in the congestion of its wake. Everyone is slowing down, stopping in the middle of the street, not realizing until I’m on top of them that my siren and lights are on.
“We’re losing him,” Carlos says.
I whip the truck to the left so I’m straddling the center line. The cars to my right squeeze over, and the cars coming at me hit their brakes. Up ahead, the van turns onto another street.
“Keep an eye on him,” I yell, jerking the wheel left and right to avoid a collision.
“Turn here,” Carlos yells.
A few blocks ahead, we spot him taking a hard left.
“He went into a parking garage,” Carlos says.
The lights have just changed, and the roadway in front of me is filled with pedestrians crossing the street. I ease forward, honking my horn, as people realize what’s happening and hurry out of my way. One man, crossing with his nose in his cell phone, doesn’t notice, even when I lay on the horn, and I have to ease around behind him.
Then my foot is back on the gas, and I close the gap to the garage. Carlos tells the dispatcher that we need backup units to block all the exits to the garage. I pull in and start winding my way upward. It’s a big parking garage, with multiple options of where to go on each level, several ways up and down.
I don’t want Carpenter to slip down behind us, so I take my time, trying to explore every corner of each level before moving up. Other cars crowd the lanes, and I honk my horn so I can get around them.
“There,” Carlos says, pointing across the garage to the recognizable blue van just barely visible on the next level up.
I speed to where the van sits in a parking spot. I slam on the brakes and put the truck in park to block Carpenter’s escape. Carlos and I jump out and run around the vehicle. My gun is leveled on the driver’s side. Carlos, who’s ditched the LaRue for his Colt, circles to the passenger door. When I get to the window, I aim my gun inside.
The front seats are empty. Carlos runs back over to my side, where the sliding door is located. With my gun ready, I try the handle and pull the door open, revealing an interior that’s empty except for a gray blanket lying in a heap.
There’s no sign of Llewellyn Carpenter.
No sign of Marta Rivera.
Carlos runs to the radio. “The van is empty,” he reports. “He must have switched vehicles.”
I run to the concrete barrier at the edge of the garage and look down at the street. A half dozen cars pour out of the garage—vans, trucks, sedans, sports cars—and there’s no telling how many in the street might also have come from the garage.
I hear sirens in the distances, but they’re not close enough to block off the area in time.
“Shit,” I say, holstering my gun and catching my breath for the first time since all this started. The outside of my clothes is soaked with water, the inside is soaked with sweat, and my mouth is bone dry.
To the east, the sun hovers over the horizon, blasting the landscape in golden light. It’s only about thirty minutes after sunrise, yet I feel like I’ve had one of the longest days of my life. I’m emotionally and physically spent.
Carlos walks up to me and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“We’ll get him,” he says. “And at least we know Marta Rivera is alive.”
But for how much longer? I wonder.