Free Edge by Jeffery Deaver Page A

ankle,” Ryan said.
    “Good. Better to aim low. Avoid the femoral. I want him stopped but not bled out.”
    “Got it.”
    I hit the button on the key fob that started and unlocked the Nissan, then opened the front door to the house a few inches, drew a target on the driver of the silver Ford, which was sitting half on the parking strip, half in the street. He was in a baseball cap and sunglasses, tears running down his cheeks. He appeared to be mouthing, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” A black pistol was secured to his hand with duct tape. The slide was back; he’d run out of ammunition.
    “Teddy!” Joanne called.
    Miserable, the man shook his head. Thinking of his wife, the edge, at home—with Loving holding a gun on her, or so he thought. Loving had likely killed her the moment her husband pulled out of the driveway. The lifter’s plan was good. It was what I would’ve done had I been in Loving’s position, limited personnel attempting to snatch a principal who was an armed cop, with several other law enforcers inside, in daylight, no less.
    I looked around and ushered Ryan, Joanne and Maree out. We moved steadily toward the Armada, about twenty-five feet away.
    Though I was convinced that Loving and any backup were waiting behind the house I checked the garage first. It was clear. We continued on.
    Like a hungry wolf, Ryan kept his eye on the far side yard, weapon up and finger outside the trigger of his revolver.
    We arrived at the Armada and I got everybody inside and locked the doors.
    Maree was still crying and shivering, Joanne was blinking, her eyes wide, and Ryan was scanning for prone soldiers crawling up on our flank.
    “Seat belts!” I called. “It’ll be rough for a few minutes.”
    I skidded in a wide circle through the yard that Ryan had been guarding, then over a neighbor’s lawn and into the street, redlining the big vehicle up to sixty, sitting forward and watching carefully for pedestrians, bicyclists and backing-out cars.
    I wasn’t surprised that I heard no gunshots from either the hostiles or from Freddy and Garcia. The lifter and any associates would have noted the plan didn’t work and would get away as fast as they could. Had Loving not called in the fake school shooting announcement, we’d have had more than enough Fairfax County Police in the area to set up roadblocks and interdict them but that wasn’t going to happen now.
    I slowed the vehicle, to keep attention off us; I wouldn’t want Loving to circle around in this direction, flash a fake badge and ask if anybody had seen a gray Nissan SUV.
    Ryan sat back and holstered his weapon. “You’re sure it was Loving?”
    “Yes. That’s exactly the kind of strategy he’d choose. There’s no doubt it was him.”
    I was aware of the corollary to that conclusion: Loving would know too—because of the escape strategy—that I was the opponent he was now playing against.

Chapter 7
    THIRTY MINUTES LATER — it was about half past noon—I was eyeing a beige car some distance behind us, moving at about our speed, as we cruised along surface roads in Prince William County, a place with a multiple personality. The populace included politicos, business people, farmers, proud rednecks, entry-level strivers and plenty of recent immigrants.
    Most of the meth in the Northern Virginia area got cooked in PW.
    I couldn’t tell the make or model of the car but was well aware that it had made the same turn we had a couple of miles back, a pointless trip down a bleak, blue-collar side street, a shortcut to nowhere. You either lived on Heavenly Lane or you detoured along it to see if somebody was trailing you.
    Whoever was in the beige car didn’t live there; it was still behind us.
    Light sedan. No year, no make, no model . . .
    I guessed that Loving had probably switched wheels. Yet it was possible that he would keep the same car . . . because it wasn’t what we’d expect. I debated but decided not to radio for assistance, not yet;