The Killing Hour Read Free Page A

B?”
    “Ready.”
    “Ready, Vehicle C?”
    Alissa clicked the receiver. “Ready, willing, and able.”
    “We go on three. One, two, THREE.”
    The first siren exploded across the hot, sweltering street, and even though Kimberly had been expecting the noise, she still flinched in her seat.
    “Easy,” Alissa said dryly, then fired the Bucar to life. A blast of hot air promptly burst from the vents into their faces, but now both were too grim to notice. Kimberly reached for her rifle. Alissa’s foot hovered above the gas.
    The sirens screamed closer. Not yet, not yet . . .
    “FBI, stop your vehicle!” Lehane’s voice blared over a bullhorn two blocks away as he drove the suspect closer to their side street. Their target had a penchant for armor-plated Mercedes and grenade launchers. In theory, they were going to arrest him while he was out running errands, hopefully catching him off guard and relatively unarmed. In theory.
    “Stop your vehicle!” Lehane commanded again. Apparently, however, the target didn’t feel like playing nice today. Far from hearing the screech of brakes, Alissa and Kimberly caught the sound of a gunning engine. Alissa’s foot lowered farther toward the gas.
    “Passing the movie theater,” New Agent Lehane barked over the radio. “Suspect heading toward the pharmacy. Ready . . .
Go.
”
    Alissa slammed the gas and their dark blue Bucar shot forward into the empty street. A sleek black blur appeared immediately to their left. Alissa hit the brakes, swinging the back end of their car around until they were pointed down the street at a forty-five-degree angle. Simultaneously, another Bucar appeared on their right, blocking that lane.
    Kimberly now had a full view of a beautiful silver grille gunning down on them with a proud Mercedes logo. She popped open the passenger’s door while simultaneously releasing her seat belt, then hefted her rifle to her shoulder and aimed for the front tire.
    Her finger tightened on the trigger.
    The suspect finally hit his brakes. A short screech. The smell of burning rubber. Then the car stopped just fifteen feet away.
    “FBI, hands on your head! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!”
    Lehane pulled in behind the Mercedes, shouting into the bullhorn with commanding fury. He kicked open his door, fit his handgun into the opening made between the window frame and the door and drew a bead on the stopped car. No hands left for the bullhorn now. He let his voice do the work for him.
    “Driver, hands on your head! Driver, reach over with your left hand and lower your windows!”
    The black sedan didn’t move. No doors opening, no black tinted windows rolling down. Not a good sign. Kimberly adjusted her left hand on the stock of the rifle and shrugged off the rest of her seat belt. She kept her feet in the car, as feet could become targets. She kept her head and shoulders inside the vehicle as well. On a good day, all you wanted the felon to see was the long black barrel of your gun. She didn’t know if this was a good day yet.
    A fresh drop of sweat teared up on Kimberly’s brow and made a slow, wet path down the plane of her cheek.
    “Driver, put your hands up,” Lehane ordered again. “Driver, using your left hand, lower all four windows.”
    The driver’s side window finally glided down. From this angle, Kimberly could just make out the silhouette of the driver’s head as fresh daylight surrounded him in a halo. It appeared that his hands were held in the air as ordered. She eased her grip slightly on her rifle.
    “Driver, using your left hand, remove the key from the ignition.”
    Lehane was making the guy use his left hand, simply to work the law of averages. Most people were right-handed, so they wanted to keep that arm in sight at all times. Next, the driver would be instructed to drop the car key out the open window, then open the car door, all with his left hand. Then he would be ordered to step slowly out of the car, keeping both hands up at all times. He