Then he was tricking the ignition wires to start the vehicle. It chugged to life.

March signaled and looked over his shoulder. He pulled carefully into the street, no hurry, and started west, then turned south along surface streets.

He’d be back in Monterey in five hours. On the whole—

A flash caught his eye. He glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw two police cars, blue lights flaring, beginning to speed his way.

Maybe a coincidence.

No… They were after him. Maybe one of the goddamn stroller pushers or dog walkers had reported him.

March made a skidding turn, pressed the accelerator to the floor and pulled his Glock from his jacket pocket.

Chapter 41

Dance ran into the shaded area behind Stan Prescott’s apartment and dropped to her knees beside the two men.

Michael O’Neil knelt over Deputy Martinez, who lay on his back, conscious but bewildered, fearful.

Martinez gasped, “I didn’t see him. Where’d he come from?”

O’Neil said, “Climbed out through the bathroom window.”

“It doesn’t hurt. Why doesn’t it hurt? Am I dying? I heard that: If you don’t hurt you might be dying. Am I?”

“You’ll be fine,” O’Neil said, though he clearly wasn’t sure.

One round had slammed into Martinez’s chest, stopped by his body armor. The second had caught him high in the arm. The wound was a bleeder, brachial artery. O’Neil was applying direct pressure. Dance pulled a locking-blade knife from a holster on the deputy’s belt, flicked it open and cut Martinez’s sleeve off. This she tied around his shoulder. Using a small branch, she tightened the cloth ring until the bleeding slowed.

The deputy whispered, “Got off one round. Know I missed. Shit.”

“I called it in,” O’Neil said, nodding toward Martinez’s Motorola.

Backup would arrive soon enough. Dance supposed everybody on the block had told 9-1-1 about the gunfire, too. She could hear sirens, coming from several directions.

“Where is he?” O’Neil said.

“Didn’t see him,” Dance replied. “Prescott?”

“Dead. Hang in there, Martinez. You’re doing great. You a lefty?”

“No.”

“Good. You’ll be pitching a softball with the kids in a few weeks.”

“I can lose the arm.”

Dance blinked, puzzled by the comment.

“All we play is soccer.” He smiled.

Sirens now in front of the apartment complex. Dance rose—O’Neil manned the tourniquet—and jogged to the front. She returned a moment later, with two officers and two medical techs with a gurney.

The latter two took over the treatment, and Dance and O’Neil stepped aside to let them work. They explained to the Orange County deputies what had happened.

One took a call on his mobile. He said a few words and disconnected. “We have a lead. Man lives about three blocks from here saw a white male, tall blond. He was running fast down the street. Got into a car and took off. The guy said it was suspicious. Got the tag. Black Chevy. Monterey, registered to a man his wife tells us is out of town for a week. Left it at Monterey Airport two days ago.”