“That was a regular laugh fest,” A.J. said. He looked restless. Ready to get busy. “Think you’ll ever wear him down?”
Donovan shook his head. “Not without a serious breach of his civil rights.”
“I’ll bring the beer if you bring the peanuts.”
Donovan put a hand on A.J.’s shoulder. His muscles were twitching. “Easy, Rambo. That kind of thinking makes the boys from D.C. nervous.”
A.J. smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “But it feels so goddamn good.”
The Task Force command center was in motion as usual, a well-oiled machine that pushed forward relentlessly but never seemed to get a lock on a specific path to follow. The harried agents and support staff who populated the place had a purpose but no real sense of direction.
Donovan shared their frustration. Probably felt it stronger than all of them combined. But his only solution to the problem was to keep going, keep working, keep waiting for something to break.
Gunderson was still in town, he was sure of it. Sooner or later the bastard would have to show himself, and Donovan would be there, the full force of the attorney general and United States Treasury behind him.
He and A.J. exited the elevator and crossed the command center toward Donovan’s office. A.J. made an abrupt turn, heading for the break room. He still looked jittery. “You want coffee? I brewed up something special.”
“Maybe you should lay off a little.”
“Lay off? I’m two cups shy of my quota. You want one or not?”
“No thanks,” Donovan told him. “I’m trying to cut down.”
“Jesus, Jack. No booze, no cigarettes, now you’re turning your back on the almighty java bean? What exactly do you do for fun?”
Donovan tossed him the tagged and bagged MP5, wondering himself what the answer to the question was. After twenty years in law enforcement, he supposed it hadn’t changed.
“Chase bad guys,” he said.
14
' Stop! Stop the bus!”
When he heard the shout, Lavare Singleton’s attention snapped to his rearview mirror. Near the back of the bus, a girl stood at her seat, a look of pure panic in her big blue eyes. One of the little cuties from Bellanova Prep.
Come on, kid. Maneuvering a ten-ton hunk of steel through afternoon traffic is tough enough without you giving me grief.
Chances were pretty good her dilemma wasn’t much more urgent than a forgotten history book. These kids got rattled over the dumbest stuff.
“What’s the problem?” Lavare sighed, not bothering to hide his irritation.
“You have to stop, call the police,” blue eyes said. “I think…” She paused and looked around. Everybody on the bus was staring at her. “I think I’m being followed.”
Oh, for criminy sake, Lavare thought. You’re on a bus, you little twit. Who the hell could be following you? The two blond chipmunks on the seat behind you?
Lavare kept his foot steady on the accelerator, not about to surrender to her demand. “I’m sorry, miss, you’ll have to sit down. I’ll let you off at the next stop.”
But blue eyes didn’t sit down. “Listen, you jerk. You think I’m making this up?”
Lavare scowled. Jerk, huh? Little bitch.
“There’s a guy driving next to the bus,” she said. “He keeps looking at me. I’ve seen him before. I think he may be stalking me.”
“Look,” Lavare said, “just sit your butt down and we’ll take care of it at the next stop.”
Blue eyes continued to protest. She was babbling on about this imaginary stalker being some kind of fugitive, when a maroon Suburban cut in front of Lavare and screeched to a halt.
Son of a bitch.
Lavare stiffened and shifted his foot to the brake pedal. The bus yanked to a stop, air brakes hissing. His passengers reacted audibly, and blue eyes nearly toppled over into the next seat.
A few of her classmates giggled.
The Suburban sat in the middle of traffic, blocking Lavare’s path. What the hell was this all about?
He angrily slid the side window open and leaned out. “Hey, fool, you wanna move that piece of tin before I mow it down?”
More giggles rose behind him. At least somebody was having a good time.
The Suburban didn’t budge. Instead, the driver’s door flew open and a guy with a ponytail climbed out.
Uh-oh, Lavare thought. Road rage alert.
Only he had no idea what this guy’s beef was. Traffic was bad, sure, but he hadn’t cut anybody off for at least half an hour.
Not that it mattered. It was Lavare’s experience that these nut bags didn’t need much provocation. Their whole day was centered on confrontation, the more the better.
If Lavare had it his way, he’d be happy to oblige.
Unfortunately, CTA policy made it clear that in tense traffic situations an operator must always use wisdom and diplomacy and keep an even temperament. Calling the guy a fool probably hadn’t been too wise or particularly diplomatic, but Lavare was more than willing to do a little backpedaling to avoid any job-threatening situations.
The guy with the ponytail walked past the windshield and came around to the door. Lavare studied him through the glass, but didn’t see any sign of rage on his face. In fact, he was smiling. As friendly as a neighbor looking to borrow your lawn mower.
Then it hit Lavare.
Had blue eyes really been serious? Could this be the somebody she claimed was stalking her?
The guy kept smiling and gestured for Lavare to open the door, but Lavare didn’t budge. He had to think this thing over, figure out exactly what was going on here.
Behind him, a voice said, “Jessie, what’re you doing?” and Lavare checked his mirror again.
Blue eyes was in the aisle now, working her way toward the gap in the middle of the bus where the side door was.
Lavare was about to tell her to get back to her seat when he heard a rap on the glass and returned his attention to the guy with the ponytail. Smile still intact, ponytail gestured again to open the door.
Something wonky was going on here and Lavare wasn’t about to start speculating what it might be. Instead, he picked up his two-way and clicked it on.
“Base, this is Unit 219. Looks like I got me a situation.” No judgment calls for Lavare. Leave them to the brass. “Unit 219 to base, do you read me?”
He was waiting for a response when the guy with the ponytail pulled a handgun from behind his back and pointed it at the glass.
Jessie heard a firecracker pop, then glass broke, and the bus driver jerked backward, his chest bursting blood.
She screamed. The bus erupted in panic, passengers looking around in confusion as others immediately ducked in their seats and covered their heads with their hands.
The forward door slammed open with a loud crash. Mr. Ponytail came up the steps carrying an ugly black gun, then turned and looked directly at Jessie, his smile gone, his eyes flat, reptilian.
Stranded in the middle of the aisle, Jessie dove for the side door. She tried desperately to pry it open, but Mr. Ponytail was on her in seconds flat. Grabbing her by the hair, he yanked her out of the door well. Needles of pain
