Chapter 6 - The Pursuit
The subterranean loading dock was cold, echoing, and smelled of diesel exhaust and damp concrete. As I stepped out into the sprawling underground cavern, I heard the sharp screech of tires accelerating toward the exit ramp.
A white delivery van was speeding toward the sunlight at the top of the concrete ramp, its back doors slightly ajar.
I sprinted toward my car, which was parked near the lower emergency entrance. I threw myself into the driver’s seat, cranked the ignition, and slammed on the gas pedal. My sedan roared to life, tires screaming as I shot up the ramp right behind the van.
We burst out into the bright Arizona sunlight, crossing four lanes of traffic onto the busy thoroughfare. The morning commute was just beginning, and cars were swerving out of the way as the white van wove recklessly through traffic.
I grabbed the radio microphone from my dashboard. “Dispatch, this is Supervisor Linda Harper! I am currently in active pursuit of the suspect vehicle involved in the kidnapping of Sophie Miller! Suspect vehicle is a white Ford utility van, Arizona plate ending in 4-8-9, traveling northbound on Highway 87 toward the salt river canal!”
“Linda? What the hell are you doing?!” Detective Burke’s voice boomed through the radio receiver. “Fall back! Do not engage! We have helicopter tracking units assembling right now!”
“We don't have time, Burke!” I screamed into the radio, narrowly dodging a delivery truck as the white van swerved across the center line. “He has the child in the back! If he reaches the open highway outside town, we’ll lose him forever!”
Up ahead, the white van made a sharp, sudden turn onto a dirt utility road that ran parallel to the massive irrigation canal feeding the Phoenix metropolitan area. Dust clouds erupted into the blue sky, blinding my vision.
I pressed hard on the gas, my sedan rattling violently as it hit the unpaved road. Through the haze of dirt, I could see the rear doors of the van swing open.
A man appeared in the back opening—tall, lean, wearing a dark tactical jacket. Even from fifty yards away, I could see the raven tattoo on his right forearm. He was holding an iron crowbar.
With a cold, violent motion, Victor Vance hurled a heavy metal toolbox out the back of the moving van directly into my path.
I yanked the steering wheel to the left. The front bumper of my car clipped the flying toolbox with a deafening metallic crunch. The airbag deployed with a blinding flash, striking me across the face and sending my vehicle spinning out of control off the dirt embankment.
The sedan slammed into a thick wooden utility pole, coming to a violent stop.
Coughing through the acrid powder of the airbag, I pushed myself out of the crushed driver’s side door. My forehead was bleeding, and my shoulder throbbed with white-hot pain, but I forced my legs to move.
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Down the dirt path, two hundred yards away, the white van had lost a tire from the debris and had swerved into the rusty gates of an abandoned water treatment facility beside the river.
I drew the service revolver I carried in my glove compartment, gripped it with both hands, and began walking toward the rusted gates of the facility.
