Chapter 13: Crossing the Bridge
The bridge spanning the dark, swollen river was normally a twenty-minute drive down the interstate, but tonight every major thoroughfare was choked with police cruisers and municipal barricades flashing ominous blue and red strobes. Diaz killed the headlights of the rescue van a quarter-mile before the main span, steering the heavy vehicle down an old, disused maintenance ramp that led directly beneath the concrete arches of the bridge approach.
“This is as far as the van goes,” Diaz whispered, cutting the diesel engine. The sudden silence inside the cab was absolute, broken only by the sound of rushing water beneath the pylons and the steady patter of rain against the windshield. “The federal building is three blocks up on the other side of the toll plaza. If we walk past the checkpoint, we’re exposed.”
Vance turned in the passenger seat to look at Maya. She was sitting between Harrelson and Diaz, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, but she nodded bravely when she caught Vance’s eye.
“You stay close to me, Maya. Don't let go of my hand for a single second,” Vance instructed, pulling his dark uniform jacket tight and adjusting the collar to obscure his face.
“I have the binder,” Harrelson said, tapping the waterproof case tucked inside his bunker vest. “If they stop us, I’ll take the lead and draw their attention while you get Maya across the pedestrian walkway.”
“No,” Vance said firmly. “We move together. If they stop one of us, they stop all of us.”
They slipped out of the van into the freezing drizzle, melting into the deep shadows beneath the soaring concrete pillars of the bridge. The wind off the river was biting, carrying the sharp scent of damp earth and industrial chemicals. As they climbed the rusted iron maintenance stairs leading up to the pedestrian deck, the sharp crack of a police loudspeaker echoed across the water behind them.
“Attention all units, suspect vehicle located near the river sector. Approach with caution.”
“They found the van,” Diaz muttered, his hand dropping instinctively toward his belt.
“Keep moving. Don't run,” Vance ordered, keeping his stride measured and calm as they stepped out onto the wide, open walkway of the bridge.
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Ahead of them, looming through the gray curtain of rain, was the limestone facade of the federal courthouse, its tall glass entrance glowing like a beacon of absolute safety against the dark backdrop of the city. But standing directly between them and the front steps was a mobile police checkpoint, two cruisers parked broadside across the walkway with their high beams cutting blinding cones of light through the mist.
Two uniformed patrol officers stepped out from behind the cruiser doors, their hands resting on the holstered sidearms at their hips, eyes scanning the pedestrian walkway as Vance, Harrelson, and the little girl in the oversized gray hoodie stepped directly into the glare of the headlights.
