was in a trunk, strangled. That’s not exactly a Colombian necktie.”
I considered that. No murder was mundane or ordinary, but Carter had a point. Now that we knew that the twists in Kate’s life were more severe, the way she had died, the way I’d found her, didn’t seem that dramatic.
“Not to change the subject or anything,” Carter said, interrupting my thoughts. “But that Cadillac has been with us for a while, dude.” He reached under his seat and retrieved my gun, a 9mm Glock 17, setting it in his lap.
I glanced in the rearview mirror. A white Cadillac was two cars back, in our lane. “How long?”
“Long enough to be a problem.” He opened the glove box and pulled his gun out. He held the.45 HK Mark 23 low against the door.
I moved over into the fast lane. The Cadillac sped up and moved into our blind spot, trying to hide.
I was trying to figure out what to do when the blue van in front of us hit its brakes.
Jamming my foot on the brakes, I turned the wheel to the left, sliding onto the shoulder and next to the median. The van moved left in the same direction, anticipating where I’d go, blocking us in the front. The rear doors opened slightly and two gun barrels emerged in the tight space.
The Cadillac cut over and screeched to a halt diagonally behind us.
Trapped.
Carter tossed my gun at me. I rolled out of the door, staying close to the car and the ground. The windshield of my Jeep shattered in seconds, the bullets flying like irritated hornets from both directions, the shards of glass spilling into the front seat.
Carter followed me out the driver’s-side door, a small streak of blood making its way down his neck. We had about three feet to maneuver in between my car and the concrete median.
I rose up quickly into the open window of the door and fired into the van. Carter swiveled and fired into the Cadillac behind us. I ducked down, and we both stayed close to the car, bullets flying over us.
“We gotta move,” I said. “We’re fish in a bowl right here.”
More bullets crackled against the pavement behind my car, and we both flinched. Carter looked at the median.
“I’ll cover,” he said. “You get over this and move backward toward the Cadillac. Come at them from behind.”
I nodded. He rose up and started firing, first at the van, then the Cadillac. I took one short step and flung myself over the median, praying that I wouldn’t spill out into the southbound fast lane.
Cars were stopping on both sides of the freeway, watching our little ambush. I heard metal on metal from a distance and knew someone had been following too closely. Voices were yelling but they sounded far away and unintelligible.
I crab-crawled about fifty feet on the pavement, my eyes on the top of the median. I spun when I knew I was well past the Cadillac and rose up over the edge.
Two teenagers, clad in white T-shirts, baggy chinos, and blue bandanas around their heads, were behind the open doors of the Cadillac, automatic weapons pointed in Carter’s direction. I took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The one on the driver’s side dropped to the ground, clutching his leg. His partner looked in my direction from the other side of the car.
I saw Carter’s head come up briefly, then go down when more shots from the van were gunned in his direction. I fired through the Cadillac at the passenger. He returned the fire, then sidestepped toward the van, staying low on the passenger side of the Cadillac, then my Jeep. A few more shots flew from the back windows of the van, the rear doors opened more, and the shooter from the Cadillac dove in. The doors shut and the van screeched away, whizzing between the stopped cars on our side of the freeway, smoke flowing from the tires. They maneuvered to the far right lane, gunned the engine again, and sped north.
All lanes of traffic on both sides of the freeway were blocked now, cars pointed in every possible direction, people’s eyes wild with fear. The air was heavy with the smell of burnt rubber and cordite. Sweat was pouring down my back. I hopped the median and kicked the gun away from the kid I’d shot as he writhed in pain, his thigh leaking blood rapidly. I looked at his face but didn’t recognize him.
“Carter, it’s clear,” I yelled.
I expected some wiseass line about taking so long or my driving getting us into this.
But the only response I got was the sound of sirens in the distance.
26
Four bullets had hit Carter, two in the chest and two in the stomach. I blanched at the red puddle spilling out from beneath his body on the concrete of the freeway, his skin already a light gray as his system went into shock. He mumbled incoherently for a minute as I pressed on the bloody holes in his chest, before he shut his eyes and passed out.
Police and ambulances arrived in bunches. Traffic was rerouted. People were yelling and screaming. A helicopter grew larger above us, finally landing on the southbound side of the highway. The paramedics loaded Carter onto a backboard, passed him over the median to another set of paramedics. I followed them into the helicopter before anyone could suggest otherwise.
LifeFlight flew us to the UCSD Trauma Unit, a team of technicians working feverishly over his body in the cramped aircraft. I grabbed a towel off the floor of the helicopter and wiped the blood off my hands. Then I grabbed a handle suspended from the roof and tried not to throw up.
After I’d waited an hour outside the surgical unit, a doctor emerged and told me that Carter was a mess. Lots of internal damage, lots of bleeding. They were going to watch him in the critical care unit and see what happened.
I sat in a waiting room and tried to quell the nausea in my gut. I kept glancing at the dried blood under my fingernails, trying not to think about who it belonged to or why it was there. There is a certain uselessness that accompanies sitting quietly in a waiting area, and I was settling into it awkwardly when Liz got off the elevator.
She wore a dark green sweater and black jeans, black framed glasses on her face. I used to accuse her of wearing them to appear smarter, but they did look good on her.
A thick, short black man dressed in tan slacks, a white T-shirt, and a navy blazer trailed her. A T-shirt that read I’M A COP! would’ve been less conspicuous.
“Noah,” Liz said, sitting down across from me. “How is he?”
“Not good.”
She gestured at her guest. “This is my partner, Detective John Wellton. He’s working Kate’s case with me.”
We shook hands. Cool blue eyes stared out at me from skin the color of a Hershey bar, the contrast startling.
The fact that he couldn’t have been over five feet tall didn’t help.
“Good to meet you,” he said, not meaning it, his expression dour. “Sorry about your friend.”
He stood up straight and puffed out his chest. Almost made up for the fact that his feet wouldn’t touch the ground if he sat on the chair next to Liz.
“He still in surgery?” Liz asked.
I shook my head. “Came out about an hour ago. They need him to stabilize before they can do more. He’s in the CCU.”
She thought about it. “He’s tough. He’ll make it.”
“I know,” I said, hoping she was right.
“Mr. Braddock,” Wellton said, pulling a notebook from his pocket. “Did you get plates on the van that left the scene?”
“No, it happened too fast.”
He nodded, scribbling quickly. “How about the assailants? Recognize them?”
“No,” I said, glancing at Liz. “Looked like gangbangers, though. Teenagers. They were in the Cadillac. I
