Shadows in Death (In Death #51) - J.D. Robb Page 0,103

checking every single one, and alert your counterpart at the commercial area. If he can’t get through here, he could try there. Rat hunt,” she ordered her people, “two-by-twos. Commander, status on tunnels and bridges.”

“Shut. We have officers working with dock security in case he tries jumping on a ship.”

“We’d better notify any and all transpo terminals. Other shuttle depots, trains, buses.” She glanced around as she spoke. “Where’s Roarke?”

“He went in,” Feeney told her.

“Son of a—”

She broke off because she heard it, she damn well heard it. The whooshing roar of a shuttle taking off.

“He’s up. Motherfucker. Get tracking on that shuttle.”

She raced toward the entrance, and Baxter’s voice sounded in her ear. “We’ve got a man down, Loo, hangar five. Unconscious, cut up pretty bad, but he’s breathing, Trueheart’s calling for a bus. We need a medic.”

“You need medical in hangar five,” she snapped at Handler. “One of your men is down. How the hell did he get through?”

“I’ll find out.” Grim-faced, steely-eyed, Handler called for medical. “You can bet your ass I’ll find out.” He tapped his own earpiece. “Unauthorized takeoff, runway three. Heading northeast. We’ve got him.”

For how long? she wondered, as the terminal erupted in movement. And where the hell was Roarke?

“Make sure the injured is stable, then everybody get back here.”

She turned to Whitney. “I’m going after him. I need clearance, sir. Roarke can get a shuttle faster than we can deal with the paperwork of requisitioning one. He can pilot. Inspector Abernathy, myself, Captain Feeney, Detective Peabody. This gives us manpower and e-skills.”

“I’ll clear it, and I’m going with you.”

“Sir—”

“He doesn’t get away from me a second time.”

As he turned away to deal with clearance, she spotted Roarke coming out of a side door.

“We need a shuttle,” she began. “We’re going after him.”

“Already done. Anticipating this possibility, I’ve arranged it. We’re in hangar one.”

Coming in on the tail end, Jenkinson caught the drift. “You’re going after him, we’re all going after him.”

“Detective,” Eve began.

“There’s room enough,” Roarke said smoothly. “One doesn’t leave one’s mates behind at such a time.”

Jenkinson gave a sharp nod and a grin. Eve pulled at her hair. “I can’t take my entire squad of detectives. Somebody has to cover the shift.”

“I’ll see it’s covered.” Whitney glanced back at her. “They’ve earned this.”

She thought: For fuck’s sake, but understood being outranked and outvoted. “Then we move. Get the lead out of your asses. Feeney, McNab, Callendar, for Christ’s sake, get whatever portables you need out of the van to hangar one.”

“Where are we going?” Baxter wondered as he came in. He had blood on his hands, on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Up,” Eve said, and left it at that. “Hangar one. Move. Status of the injured?” she asked Baxter as she moved her own ass.

“Medicals doing what they can. MTs already on scene. Looks like Cobbe gave him a couple gut slashes, went at the throat, but mostly got the shoulder. He’d lost a lot of blood by the time we got to him. How the hell did Cobbe get through?”

“We’re going to find out.”

In hangar one, she saw the shuttle—sleek, shiny, and to her eyes pretty damn small.

Baxter said, “Sweet! Got ourselves an LR-10.” And jogged up the short stairs right into the cabin.

Shaking her head, she went up after him while the EDD team loaded on the portables. “No booze,” she said immediately. “This isn’t a damn joyride. We remain on duty and in pursuit. Commander, if you’d like to sit in the cockpit with the pilot.”

“I’ll leave that to you. I still have politics to deal with.” Still working his ’link, he walked down the aisle to the back of the cabin.

“Peabody, get the commander some coffee. The rest can fend for themselves. You’re not the flight attendant.”

“Got it. On duty, in pursuit, but this is still pretty juiced. I’ll take some of the relays from the ground team. They’re going to start coming in fast.”

Already in the cockpit, Roarke hit the fasten-seatbelt light.

“Strap it in! We’re already ten minutes behind him and counting. Feeney, do you have anything that can track that shuttle if they lose him?”

Head bent, his ginger hair like exploded corkscrews, he showed his teeth. “Funny you should ask. We’re working on it.”

“Work fast.” She walked into the cockpit—far from her favorite place. Sat, strapped in. “Jesus Christ, this is crazy.”

“It’s not,” Roarke disagreed, and began to glide the shuttle out of the hangar. “We’re faster than him. If we can calculate where