The Rescue(45)

“Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll keep you posted,” he said, setting the phone on his lap. “I muted the phone.”

“Good. I was going to ask you if you really believed he wasn’t dangerous,” said Kincaid.

“I truly don’t think he’s a danger to anyone, but he’s obviously desperate. Given the right circumstances, who knows what he’s capable of.”

Traffic was thin beyond the off-ramp, and Kincaid managed to speed ahead of the two FBI vehicles, sliding right behind Decker before the road split into the departure and arrival lanes. The target vehicle kept to the right as the split approached, convincing Reeves that Decker would try for the arrivals zone.

“Tail Three and Four. I want you in the leftmost lanes, in case they pull a wild maneuver and go for departures,” said Reeves. “Everyone else hold your position.”

“Arrivals makes the most sense,” said Kincaid. “It’s chaotic as hell in the pickup lanes. Baggage claim is even worse. If he gets inside, it’ll get crazy.”

“I figure he’ll go for that and try to disappear long enough to reemerge upstairs or on the same level. Grab a taxi or even hijack a car. All he has to do is get in another vehicle unobserved, and we’ve lost him.”

“I’ll stay right on his ass,” said Kincaid, closing the distance to the sedan.

Reeves watched the sedan closely as they approached the split, looking for any indication it might swerve left and go for departures on the upper deck. Several seconds later, the target vehicle passed the concrete divider separating the two approaches. The wide, three-foot-high barrier opened to a section of curb thirty feet later, giving Mackenzie one more chance to break for the other lanes. She kept the sedan in the rightmost lane as the road rapidly descended toward the arrivals loop.

“That’s it,” said Reeves, picking up the phone and unmuting it. “Sergeant Powell?”

“I’m here.”

“He’s headed for arrivals. And I’m right on his tail.”

“I’ll move the officers in the arrivals terminals onto the sidewalks. You call out your position in real time and I’ll pass it right along so they’ll be ready to assist you with surveillance if your target gets out of the car. Who’s your target, by the way? I forgot to ask.”

“Ryan Decker,” said Reeves, hoping the sergeant didn’t recognize the name.

“Ryan Decker from the trial with the kids blowing up?”

“That’s him.”

“Damn. I thought he got ten years,” said Powell. “Kind of a messed-up case, actually.”

Reeves wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the sergeant’s last statement. Public opinion about the case had been somewhat mixed, despite the gruesome outcome of Decker’s negligence, but the law enforcement response had been nearly unanimous against Decker. Reeves’s hadn’t been the only police department or agency bypassed or trampled on by World Recovery Group. Powell’s comment could be interpreted either way, so he decided to deflect it.

“We’re turning into the underpass. This is definitely going down in the pickup zone,” said Reeves. “I’ll turn on my hazard lights and start flashing high beams so your officers will have a live visual cue.”

“I’m passing that along,” said Powell.

Kincaid rode the Toyota’s bumper all the way to the second terminal, where Mackenzie deftly maneuvered the sedan between two vans and stopped next to the curb.

“Target stopped at terminal two. In front of door four,” said Reeves, not waiting for a response.

He placed the cell phone in the center console and unbuckled his seat belt as Kincaid turned abruptly behind the second van and sped into place right behind Mackenzie’s sedan. He flashed the high beams a few times and put the car into park, disengaging his seat belt. On the sidewalk under the bright fluorescent lighting, several police officers formed a dispersed perimeter, keeping their distance. Reeves and Kincaid sat there for close to a minute.

“What the hell is he doing?” said Kincaid.

“Assessing the situation.”

“There’s not much to assess here,” said Kincaid. “Decker isn’t going anywhere.”

“He’s got something cooking.”

“Heads up,” said Kincaid. “You’ve got an officer approaching your door.”

Reeves glanced to his right, catching a nod from a portly officer with sergeant’s stripes. He rolled down the window and nodded back.

“Sergeant Powell. Joe Reeves. FBI.”

The police officer stopped a few feet from the car and bent down, putting his hands on his knees.

“We need to resolve this situation quickly. My officers are getting nervous, and we’re backing up traffic here,” said Powell. “Normally, my officer would move them along by now, but obviously we don’t want to escalate the situation.”

“He should have left by now. There’s nowhere to go,” said Reeves, suddenly remembering the detailed report from the Japanese Village Plaza. “Hell.”

“What?” said Powell, standing up.

“Nothing,” said Reeves, turning to Kincaid. “We should probably just take him in now. This is ridiculous.”

“I’m good with that. We have him boxed in.”