Desperate Girls (Wolfe Security #1)(86)

A towering prisoner in an orange jumpsuit eyed her across the crowded corridor. He had a shaved head and tattoos circling his thick neck. He grinned at Brynn and unfurled a long, pierced tongue.

Hayes stepped closer, blocking the view. “We can’t stay here,” he said again.

“The armored car.” Keith nodded at the exit. A uniformed cop stood in the open doorway, and beyond it, Brynn saw the Tahoe parked beside a traffic cone.

Hayes nodded. “Let’s go.”

Each grabbed an elbow, and they pulled her through the throng of people, pushing aside bodies as they made their way to the exit. The alarm was even louder outside, echoing off the concrete walls of the parking garage, but Brynn felt relieved as she managed to get a breath of fresh air.

Keith glanced around, hyperalert as he took out the key fob and popped the locks. “I’ll take the wheel; you take the back.”

Hayes steered Brynn to the back passenger door. She caught her reflection in the tinted glass of the window.

Corby loomed behind her.

Brynn’s heart seized. Corby’s eyes met hers in the reflection as he reached up, and Brynn spotted the weapon in his hand.

Boom!

A bone-jarring force slammed her to the ground.

“Hayes, report! Report!”

Nothing.

Erik pushed through the crowd and reached the first floor. But there was only one exit, and it expelled him onto the sidewalk on the building’s west side. He cut through the mob, working his phone as he ran for the north side of the building.

Hayes didn’t answer. Neither did Keith.

Erik traded his phone for his pistol and ran faster, his heart hammering as he dodged clusters of people. Even with the ongoing alarm and the chaos, he knew he’d heard a gunshot, and fear gripped him as he raced for the prisoner bay. Sirens filled the air as sheriff’s cruisers and fire trucks responded to the emergency. A long red ladder truck pulled into the road beside the parking garage, blocking his view.

A man caught Erik’s attention. The sidewalks were packed with people walking or milling around, but this guy was running right toward him.

Corby.

His gaze locked on Erik. Recognition flickered, and the man suddenly darted into traffic. Horns blared, and Erik took off after him. Corby had something in his hand. A gun? A knife? The man cut between two cars and bolted down the sidewalk as Erik dialed 911.

Erik sprinted faster, closing the distance as he relayed his position and told the operator he was in pursuit of the state’s most wanted fugitive.

Corby reached a clear patch of sidewalk near the park. Erik halted and raised his weapon. Shit. Too many people. Erik took off after him again. Corby hurdled over a bench and ran into the park. He raced across the grassy lawn, jumping over people stretched out on towels and picnic blankets. He ran past a fountain, then veered toward a playscape crawling with children.

Erik cursed and poured on the speed. His legs burned. His lungs felt tight. His heart was about to burst as he sprinted as fast as he could. Corby cut through a swing set and hurdled another park bench to come out on Commerce Street, where traffic was stopped at a red light.

Erik saw the move before it happened. Corby raced up to a man on a motorcycle, punched him in the chest, and dragged him off. Erik reached the sidewalk just as the light turned green and Corby hopped on the bike.

Erik ran in front of an idling delivery truck and raised his pistol, aiming carefully at the motorcycle’s back tire.

Pop! Pop!

Corby’s bike tipped sideways, skidding out from under him. He slid across the pavement and tumbled into a parked car.

Erik bolted after him, tackling him when he tried to get up. They crashed to the ground, smacking into the tire of a parked pickup.

A fist connected with Erik’s jaw, and his head snapped back. Erik struck back with a brutal left hook and caught a glint of metal as Corby’s arm swung down.

Knife.

Erik grabbed Corby’s wrist, squeezing it as tight as he could while using his other hand to shove his pistol against the man’s neck.

“Drop it!”

But Corby didn’t drop it. He struggled to hold the knife, straining against Erik’s grip until his face was red.

“Out of the way! Out of the way!”

Shouts surrounded them, and Erik recognized a voice.

“U.S. Marshals! You’re under arrest!”

Erik squeezed harder, felt the crunch of bone. Corby snarled, and the knife clattered to the ground. Erik heaved Corby up and onto his back, pinning his empty hand on the concrete beside him.

“Morgan! Move off ! We’ve got this!”

Erik glanced up to see Art Caldwell in a black flak jacket. He had his pistol in a two-handed grip, aimed at Corby’s head. Another pair of marshals ran up beside him, weapons drawn.

“Move off, Morgan.”

Erik wasn’t moving anywhere. “Cuffs,” he demanded.

Caldwell glowered at Erik.

“Cuffs!”

The marshal nodded at one of his men, who tossed Erik a pair of handcuffs. Erik lifted the knee pinning Corby’s thigh and flipped him onto his stomach. He jerked Corby’s arms behind him and wrestled the cuffs on. Then he stood up and stepped back, breathing hard, as the marshals swooped down and hauled Corby to his feet.

Where was Brynn? Sirens wailed, and Erik felt a sickening pang of fear as he reached for his phone.

Caldwell crouched beside the knife, then frowned up at Erik. “Shit, did he get you?”