Free Tail Spin by Catherine Coulter

the first three letters of the license plate are F-T-E.”
    Bobby swung the helicopter in a tight circle and headed toward the junction of 72 and 75.
    Sherlock said as she scanned the highway below, “He’s also hurt, shot in the arm, so depending on how bad it is, he might drive erratically, maybe pass out, but there’s no way he’d stop.”
    Bobby cruised at three hundred feet over the highway. Savich said, “Let’s not go any lower yet. People have seen enough attack helicopters in movies. We don’t want anyone to freak, cause an accident. Okay, traffic is getting heavier.”
    Five minutes later Sherlock said, “There—there he is. He just turned off 75 onto a parallel access road. He’s in and out of sight, with all those trees canopying the road, and he’s having to go real slow what with all the ruts.”
    Savich said, “You sure?”
    “Yep, the license plate begins with F-T-E,” Sherlock shouted.
    “Continue on about five miles, Bobby, then bring us down. Sherlock, make sure he stays on the access road.”
    She grinned at him, gave him a thumbs-up.
    The landscape was littered with dense clusters of oaks and pines, and rolling hills between higher peaks. About six miles up the road, Bobby brought them down not more than fifty feet from the access road. Savich and Sherlock jumped out of the helicopter, bent low, and ran toward the road.
    Only seven minutes passed before they heard the Ford coming. SIGs drawn, they stood in the shadow of a trio of skinny pine trees.
    When the truck was beside them, Savich fired three bullets into the front passenger-side tire and Sherlock blew out the back tire. When the truck swerved to a stop, Savich yelled, “Federal agents! Come on out now, easy!”
    The driver’s-side door opened slowly. A man yelled, “I’m coming out, don’t shoot me!”
    “Lock your hands behind your neck,” Savich shouted. He couldn’t see the man clearly, but he did see one hand go up to grasp his neck. That was okay, Rachael had shot him in the other arm. Then, so fast Savich barely had time to react, the man raised a pistol and fired off six fast rounds over the top of the hood. Savich fired back even as he hit the ground and rolled.
    The man ducked behind the door, and Savich shoved a new magazine into his SIG and came up to his knees behind a big maple. He saw Sherlock out of the corner of his eye making her way around the back of the truck. She looked back once to see that he was all right, then crouched down and ran.
    Keep his attention on me. Savich shouted, “All right, you’ve had your go at me. You missed. There’ll be six cop cars here in about a minute. Do you want to die here? If so, then keep firing at me and I’ll oblige you. If not, throw your gun onto the road so I can see it. Now!”
    Aeons passed, perhaps ten seconds, before the man finally called out, “All right, I’m coming out. Don’t shoot!”
    Sherlock pressed her SIG against the back of his neck.
    “Drop it now. Don’t even twitch or you’re a dead man.”
    The man jerked in surprise, then dropped the gun at her feet.
    “Glad to see you’re not a complete moron. Dillon, I’ve got him.”
    Savich came around the front of the truck, his SIG trained on the man’s chest.
    Sherlock pulled off the man’s sunglasses.
    They stared into the eyes of a man whose face was gray with pain. “Rachael got you good, didn’t she?” Sherlock said.
    He moved quickly, a small derringer in his hand, and grabbed Sherlock. But Savich was faster. He shot the man in the forearm of his gun hand.
    The man screamed, the derringer went flying, and he dropped like a stone at Sherlock’s feet. He wasn’t unconscious, but his breathing was hard and strained. He was moaning, holding his forearm. He’d tied a dirty oil rag around his other arm. Savich picked up the derringer. “You were fast.”
    “But not fast enough,” Sherlock said, and kicked him in the ribs.
    “Bitch,” the man whispered.
    “Yeah, that’s what all you