“I’m not leaving without you.”
He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “If I’m not there in three minutes, I want you to drive like a bat out of hell to the coast highway. Don’t stop until you’re out of the state.”
“Madrid—”
“If you get caught, tell them I took you hostage. That I was going to kill you.”
“But—”
“There’s no time to argue!”
Jess went pale right before his eyes and for an instant he got the uneasy feeling she was going to faint. Damn. Damn. Damn!
Glancing over his shoulder at the door, half expecting to see a cop with a big gun and an itchy trigger finger, he muscled her to the window. “Go, damn it. I can take care of myself,” he whispered, hoping to get her moving before she had too much time to think about it. The last thing he needed was for her to worry about him.
She took one last look at him, shook her head and went through the open window. Hoping she stuck to the plan, relieved that he didn’t have to worry about her, Madrid darted to the door and peered around the doorjamb.
The cop was standing at the sergeant’s desk, looking around suspiciously. “Hey, Dex! Where the hell are you?” He put his hands on his hips and started toward the hall. “Must be a damn full moon. All hell’s breaking loose out there.”
Madrid spun, darted to the storage box and grabbed what documents he could, then stuffed them into the waistband of his slacks. Every nerve in his body went taut when he heard a shout in the hall. Undoubtedly the cop had discovered his buddies.
Cursing beneath his breath, knowing he’d run out of time and options, Madrid looked around wildly. But there was no escape.
Footsteps sounded outside the door, followed by the steel click of a hammer being pulled back.
He pulled his fake FBI identification from his slacks. “FBI!” he shouted. “SAC Magill! Don’t shoot!”
The burly officer appeared in the doorway. He glared at Madrid. His gaze flashed to the ID Madrid held in his hand, but he didn’t lower the gun.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Mike Magill, Special Agent in Charge. FBI.” Remembering the fake blood, Madrid looked down at his shirt. “I heard shots. Someone jumped me from behind.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I had a meeting with Norm Mummert.”
The cop’s gun hand relaxed marginally. He looked over his shoulder, toward his fallen comrades. “What happened?”
“Two men, well armed. I ducked into this office.” He winced dramatically. “I’m hit.”
The cop lowered his gun and reached for his radio. “This is Two Adam Four. I got a—”
Madrid lunged, kicked the gun from the other man’s hand. The cop’s eyes went wide. He reeled backward, screamed into the radio, “Code eight!”
Madrid knew enough about cop jargon to know that was the code for an officer calling an emergency. He knew that in seconds the place would be crawling with cops out to protect one of their own. The kind of situation that called for deadly force. Hell.
Madrid spun, kicked the radio from the man’s hand. Vaguely he was aware of it clattering to the floor. The cop’s eyes flicked to the fallen gun six feet away.
“Don’t do it,” Madrid growled.
The cop dived for the weapon.
Cursing, Madrid went for the cop, but he wasn’t fast enough to keep him from grabbing the gun. They rolled in a tangle of arms and legs and fists. What the officer lacked in the art of self-defense, he made up for in size.
In the struggle Madrid caught a glimpse of the blue steel muzzle, then a white-knuckled fist. The ensuing blast made his ears ring, followed by plaster raining down from the ceiling where the bullet had blown through.
Madrid tried to wrestle the gun away, but the cop was too big. He kneed Madrid, loosening his grip for just a second, and rolled away. In one swift motion the gun came up and the muzzle exploded. The next thing Madrid knew his arm was on fire. It felt as if someone had sneaked up behind him and branded him with a hot poker.
More pain followed in a sickening rush. But it made him mad. Furious, in fact. He used the resulting adrenaline to put the other man on his back.
“You just had to cross that line, didn’t you?”
Grabbing the other man’s wrist, Madrid slammed it against the floor. Once. Twice. “Drop it!” he shouted.
The cop’s hand opened and the gun clattered away. Clamping his hand around the cop’s throat, Madrid tugged the handcuffs from his belt with his free hand. He closed one cuff around the man’s wrist, the other around the shelving unit brace.
“That ought to hold you for a while.” Dizziness assailed him when he rose. Surprised, he leaned against the file cabinet. He glanced down at his arm, saw blood coming through his jacket and cursed.
The cop yanked at the cuff. “You won’t get away, you son of a bitch!”
“I already have,” Madrid said, and walked out the door.