Coco was on her ninja. She burned rubber and zoomed past them with the front wheel in the air. Barely able to get out of her way, the two agents ran to Kellyâs Stingray.
CHAPTER 22
K ELLY THREW THE S TINGRAY into first gear. The tires spun as we shot out of the parking lot. Tupac Shakurâs âHeartz of Menâ blared. I turned the stereo off. The suspect was about a block ahead of us. Kelly was going 110 mph, yet the suspect was pulling away. She had to be going over 150 mph. The traffic was starting to get in the way of the chase. Riding a motorcycle enabled the suspect to ride between stopped cars, only inches from disaster, where a car could not follow.
Kelly crossed the yellow lines to gain ground, then crossed back over, escaping a collision with an eighteen-wheeler by the narrowest of margins. I looked at her, aghast at how she was driving. She was oblivious to my daunting stare. Traffic ahead was beginning to back up, but it didnât slow down the suspect. She also crossed the yellow lines and sped up. It looked as if she was going to get away, but Kelly crossed over into the other lane, too. The light was red up ahead. We had her. The suspect had to slow down because of the heavy traffic, I thought, but she didnât. She went right through the light on her back wheel without hesitation.
The crossing traffic put on brakes; tires screeched. Several cars spun out of control into the intersection. We heard metal colliding and glass shattering. Kelly slammed on the brakes, but we just slid, fishtailing out of control. My heart was in my throat. I thought we were going to buy it when I saw two cars coming at my side of the Stingray. They couldnât stop either. I could see the terror on the faces of the drivers. They were thatclose. Realizing she couldnât stop in time, Kelly took her foot off the brake, shifted gears, and floored it. The two cars just missed us. Up ahead, we saw the suspect heading toward Union Station.
âIf she gets to the station, we may never catch her,â I said.
âI know, Phoenix. But itâs rush hour. The traffic will slow her down. Donât worry. She wonât get away.â
Soon, we could see her again. We were going to catch her. She was only a few blocks ahead, and the traffic was jammed. I looked at the speedometer. We were going 100 mph. The Assassin looked back and saw us right on her tail. She took off again. What was she doing? I wondered. She was almost at Union Station when a car slammed on the brakes. The motorcycle exploded on impact, throwing the suspect fifty feet ahead of the car she had run into. Somehow, she was able to maintain her balance in the air. Curling into a tight ball, she somersaulted several times and landed on her feet in full stride.
Kelly slammed on the brakes again. We looked at each other, shocked at what weâd just witnessed. The suspect ran into Union Station with Kelly and me hot on her trail. We blasted through the doors at full speed, but she was gone. I was breathing heavily; so was Kelly. I went to the right, Kelly to the left. I bumped into a good-looking, dark-haired woman and excused myself. âSorry, maâam.â I gasped for air, looking around the station. âFBI. Did a blonde just run past you?â
âOui. Uh, yes, yes,â she told me politely, with a French accent.
âWhich way did she go?â I asked, pulling out my weapon. She pointed to the east. I spotted her. She was about to get on the train for New York. âKelly! This way! I see her.â
We hustled over to the woman and yelled, âFBI! FREEZE!â The woman put her hands in the air.
âMe?â she said, still facing the train. âWhat did I do?â
I jerked her around to face me. It wasnât the woman we suspected. From the back, it had looked like her. âDid you see a blonde run this way?â I asked desperately.
âYeah. One just ran into the restroom. She may still be in
CHAPTER 22
K ELLY THREW THE S TINGRAY into first gear. The tires spun as we shot out of the parking lot. Tupac Shakurâs âHeartz of Menâ blared. I turned the stereo off. The suspect was about a block ahead of us. Kelly was going 110 mph, yet the suspect was pulling away. She had to be going over 150 mph. The traffic was starting to get in the way of the chase. Riding a motorcycle enabled the suspect to ride between stopped cars, only inches from disaster, where a car could not follow.
Kelly crossed the yellow lines to gain ground, then crossed back over, escaping a collision with an eighteen-wheeler by the narrowest of margins. I looked at her, aghast at how she was driving. She was oblivious to my daunting stare. Traffic ahead was beginning to back up, but it didnât slow down the suspect. She also crossed the yellow lines and sped up. It looked as if she was going to get away, but Kelly crossed over into the other lane, too. The light was red up ahead. We had her. The suspect had to slow down because of the heavy traffic, I thought, but she didnât. She went right through the light on her back wheel without hesitation.
The crossing traffic put on brakes; tires screeched. Several cars spun out of control into the intersection. We heard metal colliding and glass shattering. Kelly slammed on the brakes, but we just slid, fishtailing out of control. My heart was in my throat. I thought we were going to buy it when I saw two cars coming at my side of the Stingray. They couldnât stop either. I could see the terror on the faces of the drivers. They were thatclose. Realizing she couldnât stop in time, Kelly took her foot off the brake, shifted gears, and floored it. The two cars just missed us. Up ahead, we saw the suspect heading toward Union Station.
âIf she gets to the station, we may never catch her,â I said.
âI know, Phoenix. But itâs rush hour. The traffic will slow her down. Donât worry. She wonât get away.â
Soon, we could see her again. We were going to catch her. She was only a few blocks ahead, and the traffic was jammed. I looked at the speedometer. We were going 100 mph. The Assassin looked back and saw us right on her tail. She took off again. What was she doing? I wondered. She was almost at Union Station when a car slammed on the brakes. The motorcycle exploded on impact, throwing the suspect fifty feet ahead of the car she had run into. Somehow, she was able to maintain her balance in the air. Curling into a tight ball, she somersaulted several times and landed on her feet in full stride.
Kelly slammed on the brakes again. We looked at each other, shocked at what weâd just witnessed. The suspect ran into Union Station with Kelly and me hot on her trail. We blasted through the doors at full speed, but she was gone. I was breathing heavily; so was Kelly. I went to the right, Kelly to the left. I bumped into a good-looking, dark-haired woman and excused myself. âSorry, maâam.â I gasped for air, looking around the station. âFBI. Did a blonde just run past you?â
âOui. Uh, yes, yes,â she told me politely, with a French accent.
âWhich way did she go?â I asked, pulling out my weapon. She pointed to the east. I spotted her. She was about to get on the train for New York. âKelly! This way! I see her.â
We hustled over to the woman and yelled, âFBI! FREEZE!â The woman put her hands in the air.
âMe?â she said, still facing the train. âWhat did I do?â
I jerked her around to face me. It wasnât the woman we suspected. From the back, it had looked like her. âDid you see a blonde run this way?â I asked desperately.
âYeah. One just ran into the restroom. She may still be in
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