Shaw asked a question he knew the answer to. “You ride?”
Donahue paused a moment. Then: “Harley.” Perhaps a smile. Hard to tell. “My ex liked to show me off at biker bars. And that meant H-D. He was surprised when my lawyer told him he could have the pickup, but the bike was mine... or else he’d have a world of trouble to deal with. I can set you up with a dealer’s got a good supply of tires.”
“No time now.”
Donahue asked, “So. Security?”
He explained about the reward business.
“Well, that’s a new one on me.” She gave a smile. “Maybe youshould stick around. With county budgets shot to hell, might be cheaper to pay you a reward to find the perp, ’stead of adding personnel. You could pick up some change, sir.”
“Colter’s fine. Or Colt.”
“Colt,” she said.
“If I head back this way, I could use the number of that repair shop.”
“Sure. Call me.” She handed him a card. He gave her one of his. “And if we get any reports on those vehicles, I’ll let you know.”
Which is when the Range Rover skidded to a fast stop in the mouth of the motel lot. As the dust cloud settled, Sonja Nilsson rolled down the front-seat passenger-side window and gave a smile. She was the one he’d called when he tapped the most-recently-dialed button on his mobile.
Deputy Kristi Donahue glanced at Nilsson, then lifted an eyebrow to Shaw. “Hey, good luck, travelin’ man.”
49
Jon Merritt grunted as he tried to sit up, his belly and leg throbbing, the pain radiating outward.
Nonlethal slugs—usually a metal core covered with rubber—fired from a twelve gauge strike the body with huge force. They are meant for crowd control, but they also can break bones and rupture organs and blind. And they’ve been known to kill.
He took stock. Nothing broken, no internal ruptures.
Not yet.
Dorella stepped closer, racking another shell.
Merritt knew that there was a protocol for using a shotgun for defense. You loaded rubber slugs last in the tube—to fire first—then, if that didn’t do the trick, there came skin-breaking bird shot, and finally lethal double-ought or lead slugs. Dorella clearly knew her way around weapons and he suspected something more painful, if not deadly, would soon be coming his way.
As he struggled to his feet, doubled over in pain, he drew his pistol and fired.
She fled back into the house.
Merritt staggered to his truck.
Though partially deafened by the shots, he could just make outin the distance the sound of approaching emergency vehicles. Sirens and get-out-of-the-way bleats. The cars were about a mile away, he guessed. And the very fact he could hear them at all meant that they were bursting through intersections fast.
He swung open the door of the truck and, after steeling himself a moment, climbed into the cab, groaning with pain.
Keys out, engine on.
Then he was speeding away from the curb, tires squealing and smoking. He wasn’t sure which direction the squad cars were coming from—sounds can deceive, especially to numbed ears—but he supposed the respondings would assume he’d be heading for the interstate or major state routes. But, no. He vanished into the maze of Garden District side streets.
The strategy was correct. He saw not a single black and white in pursuit.
Merritt powered through the red light, drawing yet more middle fingers and horns. He heard a collision.
Then Auburn Road presented a lengthy straightaway. He shoved the pedal down, and when he hit the first “traffic calming” hump in the road—at about seventy—he was surprised that the heavy truck actually caught air.
—