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.

6

So Barney wanted to play.

Moments earlier, Gunderson was watching him through the van’s rear windows, watching him work the wheel with a ferocity he didn’t know the man possessed. Fucker blew right past that Volvo with barely a backward glance.

Driving like that took balls.

Until today, Special Agent Jack had been more of an annoyance than a threat. Gunderson had never considered him much more than a minor itch he’d eventually have to scratch. That opinion had changed, however, with every jerk of Barney boy’s wheel.

So maybe he wasn’t Barney after all. Maybe he was Chuck Heston, NRA poster child, crashing his chariot into theirs, jostling Gunderson’s crew and forcing Tina, Queen of the Gladiators, to fight the wheel.

If Jack wanted to play, Gunderson was more than happy to oblige.

He’d even brought along his toys.

After that second jolt, he tore himself away from the window and gestured to Gabriel, who immediately tossed him an M4 carbine with an underbarrel launcher. Squeezing past Luther and Nemo, he moved to the side door.

Sara, strapped in up front, looked at him over her shoulder. “Careful, sweetie.”

She was trying to mask her fear, but he could see it in the way she kept her shoulder muscles tensed, as if bracing for an impact.

Poor kid. He’d tried to convince her to sit this one out, but she’d insisted on coming along. Refused to be left behind. She was a True Believer, Sara was-her passion and his skill the perfect marriage. And despite her condition, she was the best soldier on his team.

She was his muse. His inspiration.

His only true cause.

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