Two miles north of town, closer in than Sauer, Jimmy Yeager did not step on the gas first thing. Thinking Joe probably had a shotgun in his van, or maybe a deer rifle, he popped the trunk, jumped out of his cruiser, and unclipped his M-14 from the inside roof of the trunk. He inserted a twenty-round mag of 7.62 NATO rounds, advanced one to the chamber, set the safe, and stashed the big rifle in the passenger foot well.
Yeager got back in, put the cruiser in gear, locked his seat belt, and stamped on the gas.
Roaring past the city limits, Sauer was thinking it might be smarter not to go to noise yet. Play it stealthy. But he was coming upon the four-way stop on north 1, and he was already doing seventy-five, eighty. So as he blew past the line of brand-new Border Patrol Tahoes parked at the Motor Inn, he hit the lights and the siren.
The whoop of the siren brought Broker up to an instant sitting position. He reached over and felt the empty bed next to him. He saw the gun belt on the table, got up, read the note. As the siren receded in the distance he got a real bad feeling. He grabbed for his clothes.
Sauer made his second decision. He’d shot past the Richmond turn and was beginning to brake to catch the next road.
Sheriff Wales answered first:
Sauer tightened both hands on the wheel and manhandled through a skid. Turning, rear end sliding out. Caught a piece of the far ditch and threw clods of dirt.
As Broker pulled on his jeans and stepped into his shoes he heard a second siren start to wail. Coming out the motel front door he saw the familiar boxy green shape of an ambulance, flashers revolving, heading west on 5. He ran for the Explorer, got in, started up, and took off after the ambulance.
On his way out of town Broker heard and caught the barest glimpse of a red flasher whipping over the fields to the north. Then the lights were gone. Just the sirens ahead of him and to the north. The whole town seemed to echo with sirens.
And he caught some of the old frenzied feeling in his chest. Car chase. Then the adrenaline jag solidified into a dull thump when he saw the ambulance pull into the parking lot of the Missile Park bar…
…and stop next to the dusty red Volvo with the Minnesota plates and the Wellstone bumper sticker. He parked behind the ambulance and got out.
One cop car. A stout county deputy stood on the porch talking to a female EMT. The other EMT hunched over the wheel of the ambulance, absorbing the staccato radio traffic.
The EMT slouched, empty hands hanging at her sides. Her bag sat on the porch. The body language didn’t look good, none of that pit-bull intensity of a medic starting in on a casualty. She was waiting.
For a crime lab and a coroner.
Broker came abreast of the Volvo. The window was open on the driver’s side, and he saw the blue pack of American Spirits lying on the dash. The brand Nina smoked. He approached the porch and stopped at the steps. He took a breath, held it for a moment, then let it out. “Who’s down?” he said.
The deputy and the EMT studied him, put their heads together, and conferred. Then the deputy said, “You’re Broker, right? We all heard how Jimmy Yeager went out with you last night.”
Broker nodded, still edging toward the door.
“Okay, it’s like this. I’m Deputy Vinson. And, Mr. Broker, you can’t go in there. We have to keep it sterile for the lab guys.”
The EMT stepped forward. She had a short strawberry-blond shag, a face dusted with freckles, and vivid blue eyes. She paused. “There’s two women that were in town, soldiers…”
Broker’s knees started to buckle, the edges of his vision occluded, and he had trouble breathing. He forced the words out: “I’m married to the redhead.”
“She’s not in there,” the EMT said crisply. Broker could see a weight lift from her face. “It’s a young woman with very short black hair. And Ace Shuster.”
“What happened?” Broker said.
“They think it was a guy named Joe Reed. That’s who they’re after,” the deputy said. Broker toed the gravel, hitched up his belt. “I’d be out there, ’cept the sheriff told me to wait here.”
“My wife was with Jane, the dark-haired woman.” He pointed to the building. “They went out for breakfast…”
“We don’t know much, yet,” Vinson said.
He didn’t have his lighter.
Vinson came off the porch and popped a Bic. Broker inhaled the comforting poison. Exhaled.
The ambulance driver yelled, “They got him! They’re closing in.”
They waited, all probably holding their breath. Half a minute passed. Another fifteen seconds. They all looked up to the north at the same time. A sound like sheets ripping in the wind.
“Thunder?” the EMT wondered, looking into the fierce blue sky.
Broker and Vinson locked eyes and shook their heads.
Sauer had pulled ahead of Joe’s van, but a half-mile of barley separated them. He spotted Yeager coming in a little behind and to the right. First he just saw Yeager’s lights, a red streak against the green fields, then the lights erupted in a cloud of dust as Yeager left the pavement and hit the gravel.
And Richmond Crossing was coming up fast as the brown-green field to the right changed to bright yellow and the Crown Vic hit the gravel and started to shimmy and slide. Sauer gripped the wheel and felt his forearms load up with the road tension. He had to make another decision. Unless Yeager intercepted and rammed the van, they would lose him.
The solution was visceral: high ground dry, low ground still wet.
Old man Kreuger’s field fanned out with ripe canola. He had hunted whitetails on it for years. One of the few parcels with some roll and height to it west of Pembina. Little work road skirted the slight rise, running in just about
Joseph Khari fixed his eyes 200 yards ahead, where the gravel road ended in a rutted two-lane path with a strip of grass growing up the middle. He had driven this route dozens of times in the dead of night. Canada was less than a minute away. He knew the American cops could not pursue across the border. He figured someone had seen him leave the bar. But he was too disciplined to waste energy wondering why the police were chasing him. He kept his focus on driving, on feeling the gravel under his wheels at high speed. A mile beyond the border he had another truck hidden in a copse of trees. Get to it. Destroy the Joe Reed ID. Wait for dark.
He had always been practical and unflappable. It would be close but he could make it. The cop on the left had no access across the field; had, in fact, dropped out of sight. The one on the right would be too late to stop him. They might have radioed to the Canadians, but it was happening so fast. A plane or a helicopter would be a problem.
But he saw no activity out ahead of him. He could do it.
Then he saw the steak of white shoot through the yellow field to his left, plowing down a slight rise. A police car coming almost out of control. Oily with crushed plants, flattening them like a wave. On a collision course.
