The cop named Randy was staring at her tits, asking her, “Who the hell is Big Daddy?” when the second explosion blew a hole the size of a freight wagon through the rear wall of the bank building. Chunks of cement flew everywhere, taking a couple of blue boys with them.
“Holy shit,” the cop said, and as he spun toward the building, Tina put a bullet in his ear.
How’s that for an exclusive?
She had the van in gear before his body hit the pavement. Behind her, in the well of the van, her partner, Gabriel, popped a grenade into the breech of an M203 launcher, then rolled open the side door and fired.
The charge pounded the gas tank of the nearest patrol car, sending up a mushroom cloud of fire and smoke and debris.
“Hold on!” Tina shouted.
Punching the accelerator, she slammed through a wooden barrier and blew past the flaming patrol car.
Cops were running everywhere, dazed, weapons drawn, looking to each other for direction and getting none. Tina heard Gabe pop another charge into the breech and fire.
A second patrol car exploded, noxious smoke and fumes billowing, giving them cover from any potential sharpshooters stationed above. Tina held her breath, feeling the heat of the flames as she roared past the patrol cars and angled the van toward the ragged hole in the building.
The chatter of Colt Commando fire came from inside the bank. Out on the street, one cop went down in a burst of blood, followed by another and another, as Alex and crew stepped out into the open, bulging duffel bags in hand.
Woo-hoo, Tina thought. We are gold.
“Come on! Come on!” Alex shouted, gesturing with his weapon. He kept looking over his shoulder into the bank. Someone or something was coming and they didn’t have a moment to spare.
Tina swung around next to them, screeched to a halt. As Luther and Nemo tossed in their duffel bags, Alex helped Sara climb inside. “Easy, baby. Get up front and strap yourself in.”
Luther and Nemo jumped in after her. Alex was about to follow when Tina heard a shout from inside the building.
“Freeze, Gunderson!”
Tina swiveled her head. A guy in a navy blue flak jacket stood in a haze of smoke inside the bank, his weapon pointed directly at Alex’s back.
The Fed. Jackass Donovan.
Tina had been telling Alex for weeks to get rid of the motherfucker, but Alex had repeatedly blown her off. “In due time,” he’d said, in typical Alex fashion, as if the world could wait until he was good and ready to give it his attention.
Tina figured that nasty piece of hardware in the Fed’s hands was enough to make him reconsider. She looked at Alex, remembering the only motivational phrase her dear departed prick of a father had ever uttered in her presence. The old bastard had been sucking crack for two days straight when he offered her a hit off his pipe. “What’s it gonna be, hot stuff? Shit or get off the pot.”
Those words never seemed more appropriate than they did right now.
Donovan kept his Glock leveled at Gunderson, finger resting against the trigger. “I mean it, Alex! Don’t you move!”
Smoke stung his eyes. Gunderson wasn’t much more than a silhouette in the haze, but Donovan’s aim was good. If he pulled the trigger, the man would go down and go down hard. This was the closest Donovan had ever been to collaring the prick and he wasn’t about to let him slip away.
Gunderson froze for a split second as he stood outside the van door. For a moment it looked as if he might actually turn and give himself up.
Then Donovan spotted the remote detonator clutched in Gunderson’s right hand.
Sweet Jesus.
He hadn’t counted on a third explosion.
Before Donovan had time to react, A.J., Sidney, and a handful of SWAT sharpshooters burst into the room behind him and fanned out.
Donovan immediately threw his hands in the air. “Down! Everybody down!”
But it was too late.
With a deafening roar, the teller windows erupted. Plaster, Plexiglas, and chunks of cement and linoleum rocketed past Donovan’s head as he tackled A.J. and Sidney and knocked them to the floor.
More smoke filled the room, along with the pungent odor of cyclonite and burning flesh. Beneath the agonized wails of the injured SWAT team, Donovan heard gunfire and the faint squeal of tires.
Gunderson’s van, digging out.
Move, Jack, move.
Donovan looked into the dazed faces of Sidney and A.J., checked to make sure they were still in one piece, then jumped to his feet and raced to the hole in the wall.
The carnage out back mirrored the scene behind him. It was a war zone. Patrol cars in flames. Smoke everywhere. Uniformed cops dead on the blacktop, others wearing the same dazed expression as A.J. and Sidney.
Down the street, tires squealed as the Channel Four news van smashed through a row of police barriers and shot toward an intersection, a few shell-shocked cops firing after it.
Donovan scanned the area, sprinted toward an undamaged patrol car. Halfway there, pain stabbed his leg. A dark red stain spread across his right thigh, blood bubbling up through a tear in his slacks.
Shit. He hadn’t realized he was hurt.
Reaching the cruiser, he threw the door open and jumped in. His thigh throbbed mercilessly now, but there was no time to think about it. No time to think, period. The news van was still in sight, but it wouldn’t be for long.
He found the key in the ignition, twisted it, and the engine coughed, roaring to life. Jamming his foot against the accelerator, he spun the wheel and shot toward the intersection.
The news van was two blocks ahead now, weaving crazily through midmorning traffic. Donovan searched the dash, flipped a switch, and the patrol car’s siren kicked in.
Traffic parted grudgingly and he punched the pedal, picking up speed-two blocks, a block, half a block-steadily gaining on his prey.
The van turned, a hard right into an alley. Donovan raced after it, honking his horn as he went. He whipped the wheel and turned into the alley just as the news van cleared the opposite end. It made an arcing left, nearly sideswiped a parked car, and continued on without slowing.
Donovan sped up, made a quick left.
Up ahead, the van blasted through another intersection. As Donovan struggled to catch up, some idiot in a Volvo crossed his path. Donovan swerved to avoid him, but clipped the Volvo’s rear bumper and sent it into a spin.
Stupid bastard.
Donovan straightened the wheel and continued on without slowing, glancing in his rearview mirror as the Volvo slammed into a lamppost with a metallic crunch. He could only hope the driver was okay.
The wound in his thigh felt like a lump of molten lava. He probed it with two fingers and discovered something hard and jagged embedded in the flesh. He couldn’t be sure, but it felt like a sliver of Plexiglas.
Biting back a wave of nausea, he tried to concentrate on the van. It was within striking distance now, its rear bumper only feet away.
Donovan nudged the accelerator and pulled up along the right rear side. Jerking the wheel hard, he smashed the side of the van.
It swerved, losing speed.
That’s right, you son of a bitch, I’m right on your ass.
Without hesitating, Donovan jerked the wheel again. Metal crunched.
The van fishtailed, its driver nearly losing control.
He had them now. One more hit and this race was over. He was about to jerk the wheel a third time when the van’s side door flew open and Alexander Gunderson pointed the business end of an M203 grenade launcher directly at him.