Vasques shoved Andrew away from the driver’s door of the big black SUV. “I’m driving,” she said.
He didn’t argue, and it was a good thing. This day had been a roller coaster, and she wasn’t in the mood to discuss this with a committee. Being humiliated, psychoanalyzed, and nearly run down had a funny way of putting her in a pissed-off mood. But this time she knew exactly what she was going to do about it, even if she still had no clue as to what had just happened or who had tried to kill her.
She slammed the Yukon into reverse and jammed down the accelerator even before Andrew had closed his door. The Yukon barreled down the ramp, bottoming out and spitting sparks as she took the turns at breakneck speed. She tossed a cell phone into the back seat at Andrew as she pulled out onto Roosevelt Road.
“Speed dial 3. Tell them we’re in pursuit of a suspect wanted for the attempted murder of a federal agent and get us some backup.”
As he fumbled for the phone and dialed, Andrew said, “I’ll just tell them we’re in pursuit of Francis Ackerman. They’ll send the National Guard.”
“Ackerman? How do you know that?”
The killer topped the most-wanted lists, and his exploits had grown to be the stuff of legend, especially after his escape from a burning hospital in Colorado Springs. Somehow, he had managed to stay under the radar and evade capture since then. Many within the law-enforcement community believed that the only explanation was that he had fled the country.
“It’s a long story for another time,” Allen said from the passenger seat. Then he pointed at the road ahead of them. “There’s Marcus!”
Agent Williams sprinted down the road ahead of them, hugging the center line and barely managing to avoid being hit. She screeched to a halt beside him. “Get in!”
Williams hopped into the back seat and pointed down Roosevelt Road. His words were punctuated by gasps of air. “He just turned ahead. We’re going to lose him.”
“The hell we are,” Vasques said under her breath. This was her town, and Ackerman had just made a major mistake. The killer had turned down Wood Street. Unfortunately for him, a crew was filming a scene for some movie at a statue in front of the University of Illinois Medical Center located on the corner of Wood and Taylor. They were going to close the streets and block traffic for the whole afternoon.
She jerked the wheel and turned onto Damen Avenue. The tires squealed in protest, and the big top-heavy SUV listed to the side. An angry commuter in the opposite lane pounded his horn as he slammed on the brakes to avoid crashing into them.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Williams said. She ignored him and continued north down Damen until she whipped the vehicle right onto Taylor.
Ackerman was trapped. He had nowhere to go but straight into their path.
Vasques slammed down the accelerator again and held the wheel in a vise grip. “Take a look,” she said. The silver car that had nearly run her over was heading straight for them. The car swerved around a red S-10 pickup truck and then nothing separated them but a couple of football fields of gray pavement.
“What are you doing?” Williams said again from the back.
Once more she didn’t answer, kept accelerating. This wasn’t the first time she had played chicken.
“You can’t.”
The street was a narrow two-lane patch of road bordered by parked cars. Both of their vehicles hugged the center, straddling the yellow lines. Ackerman was in a mid-size Dodge sedan. Vasques was driving a full-size extended SUV. She was twice his size. He would swerve or stop the vehicle and try to escape on foot. He had to. Anything else would be suicide.
“He won’t swerve!” Williams bellowed.
As Vasques watched the smaller sedan from the raised vantage point inside the cab of the Yukon, she knew Williams was right. In fact, Ackerman too was accelerating.