Hanson smiled to himself.
“What the hell? Now,
Hanson hit his lights and siren. The Ford’s big eight roared as he reached for his radio and alerted his dispatcher.
“Seventy-eight-ten westbound on eighty at Brule in pursuit.”
“Ten-four, seventy-eight-ten, description?”
“Looks like a white Chrysler, maybe a three hundred. Man, he must have a Hemi in that thing. He’s up to one-twenty-five, maybe one-thirty. Light traffic. Road is good.”
Hanson’s chase did not last. The driver pulled to the shoulder. Hanson eased up behind the vehicle. It was a Chrysler 300, looked like a rental. Hanson called in the tag, an Illinois plate. Then he gave the location, grabbed his book and got out of his car.
As he approached the driver, his training kicked in.
One occupant. Hanson inventoried him: white, male, in his thirties, clean-cut, military-style brush cut. Blond. Tattooed and well-built; jeans, plain white T-shirt.
“Good afternoon, sir. What’s your rush?”
“I’m sorry. I lost concentration on my speed. I apologize.”
The accent was European, German, maybe.
“Back home on the autobahn there is no limit.”
“Well, this is Nebraska, sir, and our limits are clearly posted. If you exceed them, you break the law. Where you headed?”
“I’m on holiday.”
“Right, that doesn’t answer my question.”
“I was going to meet a friend on the West Coast.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to have to see your license and registration.”
“Of course, Officer. This car is a rental.”
Maybe it was the guy’s accent, his body language or something in the air—Hanson couldn’t pinpoint the reason, but he was getting a weird vibe. The driver got the registration from the glove compartment, pulled his license from his wallet and handed both to Hanson.
In that instant, he noticed a tattoo on the driver’s wrist, not quite covered by his watch.
Hanson clipped the information to his book.
The driver was Dieter Windhorst of Hamburg, Germany.
“That’s a pretty sophisticated watch you got there. Are you a serviceman?”
“I was in the military.”
“It’s a small world—my dad was with the corps, he’s got a watch like yours. Would you mind if I had a closer look?”
As the driver considered Hanson’s request, the corners of his blue eyes crinkled and he moved his arm so Hanson could look at the watch.
“It’s quartz,” the driver said. “Dual time, has temperature, altimeter.”
“Very cool, may I see it?”
The driver hesitated at the casual forwardness of the American cop, unlike police in Europe. It bordered on amusing. Clearly thinking cooperating might help the situation, he shrugged.
“By all means.” The driver removed the watch and gave it to him.
“It is also waterproof. Quite good.”
Hanson held it close, but was actually noting the driver’s wrist tattoo, a cobra in a strike position entwined in wire.
Unease pinged in the pit of Hanson’s stomach.
“Yup, Dad’s wasn’t that good. Very cool.” Hanson returned the watch. “Thanks. Hang tight, partner, it’ll take a while to process your information and to write you up for the infraction.”
“I understand. My apologies.” The driver replaced his watch.
In his car, Hanson radioed for an NCIC check on the car and Dieter Windhorst of Hamburg, Germany.
“Ten-four.”
“And please make an urgent check with Homeland and the FBI. I think we’ve got something here. Can you send backup to my twenty? No lights or siren. I need them now.”
“Roger that.”
Hanson’s pulse quickened as he flipped through the BOLOs on his clipboard. He stopped at an FBI alert displaying a clear illustration of a tattoo depicting a cobra, fangs bared and braided in barbed wire.
The alert warned that any subject bearing the tattoo could have links to four homicides arising out of the armored car heist in New York City. The subject should be detained for questioning by the FBI. Approach with extreme caution as the subject is considered armed and dangerous.
“Seventy-eight ten subject vehicle a rental out of Chicago, O’Hare. Copy?”
“Ten-four.”
“Lessee is Dieter Windhorst, German national. I’m shooting the particulars to you now.” Hanson checked his small mobile computer. No outstanding warrants or wants.
“What about Homeland, FBI and Interpol?”
“Stand by.”
“What’s the ETA on my backup?”
“Not good, seven-sixty and seven-eighty-one are tied up with an overturned cattle truck near North Platte.”
Hanson dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.
He’d seen news reports of the armored car robbery in New York.
Four homicides, three guards and an FBI agent.
“Seventy-six to dispatch. What’s the situation with county, any chance of any backup within five?”
“Not looking good. Seventy-six, NCIC has a supplemental from Interpol and Homeland. Passport for Dieter Windhorst of Hamburg, Germany, is flagged as lost slash stolen from Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam. Do you copy?”
Each passing second increased the chances of the driver realizing that Hanson knew he was a wanted man. He could run.
“Seventy-six. Copy. The subject is consistent with the FBI BOLO, NCIC number W581898201. I’m going to bring him in.”
Hanson flipped down his visor, glanced at his wife’s face and activated his PA system.
“Sir, would you please remove your keys from the ignition and drop them outside your window! Extend your hands outside the window, exit the car and lie flat on your stomach with your hands behind your back!”
The driver did not respond.
Hanson cursed under his breath.
Hanson stood six-two, weighed two hundred pounds and was a former defensive tackle at college. He’d made all-state. As a state trooper he faced many difficult situations and drew on his football days whenever he had to get physical. He was quick, smart and strong.
But this guy gave off an icy vibe.
Hanson would prefer backup right now.
“Sir, please follow my instructions.”
Another moment passed and Hanson met the driver’s stare in the rental’s rearview mirror for nearly a minute
