Pursuit of Justice. Pamela Tracy
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Ken doll good-heartedness, too. He wouldn’t fall prey to tears, apologies or coy looks. This one had already started filling out some sort of ticket and most likely had radioed in her license plate number.
The driver’s license stuck to her damp palm as she took a deep breath. Of all places to get arrested, Gila City was on the bottom of her list, and it was a long list.
The cop rapped on her window. “Ma’am, step out of the car, please.” The afternoon sun bounced off his mirrored glasses, giving him a peculiar insect sort of look. She wondered if the glasses were protection against the come-hither attitude of females who wanted to avoid speeding tickets. Well, she wasn’t one of them. She opened the door but didn’t step out. Swallowing before speaking, she tried to sound in control. “Is something the matter, Officer?”
“I need to see your license and registration.”
“I have them right here.”
“I’ll take them.” His voice was textured steel. “Please step out of the car and take off your glasses.”
She complied with the “step out of the car” order but ignored the “take off your glasses” command. Again, she tried to keep her hands from shaking. This cop was after something more than enforcing the It’s-Our-Town-Please-Slow-Down request. She stuck her hands behind her back. “Why do I need to step out of the car?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but a thud against the side of her car drew his attention.
And hers.
Glancing in the direction the bullet had come from, she saw dark-haired men, big dark-haired men, three of them. The Santellises. She hit the ground, knees hard to the pavement, and pressed against the side of her car.
This really wasn’t her day.
Glancing at the police officer she noticed that he looked as surprised as she did. So, maybe, he wasn’t in cahoots with the Santellises who were taking serious risks shooting at her while a cop—maybe an honest cop—was issuing a ticket. This made them all the more dangerous. The realization sent her heart slamming to her throat.
The next thud landed so close to her knee that tiny flecks of red paint settled like drops of blood against her white pants.
“Lady, move!” He pushed her around the car and down. In his eagerness to remove her from the line of fire, he knocked her hat and sunglasses off. His fingers tangled in her hair.
“Just let me—” Her knees hit the pavement as another bullet whizzed over the car. The pressure from his fingers disappeared, and Lucy brushed the hair out of her eyes, slipped her driver’s license and registration in her back pocket and murmured a quick prayer while she tried to scoot back toward her vehicle. Maybe she could still get away. Maybe she—
This time the bullet hit the back window of her car, sending glass raining down.
Months of confiding in the Lord opened her mouth. Her lips moved, but to her sorrow, she couldn’t form the words to pray.
Sam Packard edged to the front of the Mustang, crouched, with gun drawn. “Police! Put your weapons down!” He grabbed the radio from his belt and called a Code One Thousand. The assistance he requested better hurry. Right now, the odds didn’t favor him. Three men ducked behind the aged, brown Chevy that sheltered them a short distance away. One of them, idiot of idiots, had a cell phone pressed against his ear, even as he took aim. Sam couldn’t make any of them.
But the shooters weren’t his only problem. He flinched as a gun’s report rendered him momentarily deaf. Only the sight of one of the gunmen stooping, as a bullet ricocheted off the roof of his car, kept Sam from covering his ears.
“What the—” Sam looked down the length of the Mustang. The woman his scanner identified as Lucille Straus, the woman who moments ago seemed to be praying, was now pressed against the back bumper and taking aim.
She had a Beretta 21!
Without blinking, lips tight, she pulled the trigger. The passenger’s side window of the Chevy shattered. One of the men yelped.
Two steps had him by her side. The lady could handle a gun; she’d been aiming at the man who yelped. No matter, she was a civilian butting into his turf. A civilian who might accidentally shoot him. He wrenched the Beretta from her hand, emptied the chamber onto the ground, set the safety and tossed the weapon through the open passenger window of her car.
“Hey!” Her fingers followed the gun, much as a child chased an errant balloon. The look she shot him was pure venom. With one hand he restrained her from crawling through the passenger window to retrieve the weapon. With his other hand, he kept his gun trained on the Chevy.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Sam pushed the woman behind him. The three men jumped into their car and with tires screeching raced behind the grocery store.
He released her arm. “You stay here!”
She nodded.
Taking the radio from his belt, he sprinted toward his vehicle. Two cruisers pulled into the lot. He motioned toward the back.
Behind him, the engine of the Mustang turned over, revving to life even as the woman put it into gear.
Sam didn’t bother to yell stop. She clearly had no intention of sticking around to answer questions. Looking at the passenger seat of her vehicle, he realized she’d managed to retrieve her gun. Biting back irritation, Sam hoofed it to his car, hit the siren and burned rubber.
Intuition pointed him in the direction of the female instead of the three men. He trusted it, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Felony flight was just one of the things he would charge her with, unless she had one whopper of a story.
Gripping the steering wheel, he inched closer to her bumper. She made a sharp turn, zigzagged past a small park and entered a residential area. He closed the distance, and a school bus did her in. A load of what had to be grade school children spilled onto the sidewalk and meandered toward the center of the street. The Mustang swung left. Both right side tires went over the curb, and the car stalled. Miss Straus disappeared from sight, and Sam wondered if she’d been hurt. Then, her head popped up. She didn’t check the rearview mirror as she exited the car.
His fingers fumbled as he stopped his vehicle, grabbed the keys, clicked the lock and took off after her. Quickly he scanned the area, locating her easily. She crouched between two bushes, stock-still for a moment, one hand patting the ground as if she’d lost a set of keys, then leaped the fence of a small, stucco home.
His peripheral vision took in the kids, parents and bus driver frozen in the background. Then, he took off and followed her over the fence. “Police! Halt!”
A dog trotted by her side, not yapping, not nipping, but seeming to enjoy the sight of a woman charging through its backyard. Lucy Straus. How did he know that name? Now that the ridiculous hat was history, he could see facial features that didn’t deserve to be hidden.
She didn’t crouch or hesitate before climbing this next fence and landing in yet another yard. Maybe she’d gotten her bearings. Sam scrambled over the fence and lunged. His fingers touched the material of her shirt, but the fabric slipped through. She slowed, looking left, then right. Her eyes were wild, like a caught deer. Her indecision gave him the opportunity he needed. His momentum tumbled her down with him right alongside.
Sam scrambled off the ground and yanked her to her feet, grabbed his handcuffs and secured them around her wrists. Then, he relieved her of the gun that was once again stuck in an ankle holster. “You have the right to remain silent—”
Her foot hammered down on his instep. His grip loosened. She pulled away and managed to assume a position of flight. He had her on the ground in two seconds and finished giving the Miranda to the back of her head. She muttered a response, but since her mouth was jammed into the grass, he didn’t catch the words. Had she cursed or begged?
He pulled her to her feet.
Sweat dribbled down the hollow