They’d been on their feet most of the day, trying rather unsuccessfully to get help from the legion of homeless in various encampments.

  They had started at the one closest to Adams’s last known location, striking out time and time again since no one wanted to help them. After stopping for a quick bite for dinner, they’d actually found one helpful soul who had directed them to the Riverview Playfield and the nearby highway area.

  “My sister was in King Street Station when that bomb went off. We were lucky she wasn’t hurt,” the man had told them after providing the information.

  “We appreciate the help,” Nicholas had said and headed to Riverview.

  It was dark by the time they reached the park, and the ball fields and playground were empty. A number of trails ran from the playfields to some wooded areas and while they’d thought it was possible that Adams might have pitched a tent there, their informant had pointed them in the direction of the highway area.

  Armed with that, they’d started a search of some of the homeless camps in and around the roadway, but with little success and cooperation.

  Near midnight, they’d spotted their possible suspect, but hung back, unable to positively identify him in the dark. But as he passed beneath one streetlight and the smallest sliver of his face was visible, Nicholas had no doubt it was Chris Adams.

  He laid a hand on David’s arm to instruct him to hold up and pulled out his cell phone to call Miguel.

  It took a few rings for his SSA to answer, not a usual occurrence.

  “Yes, Nicholas,” Miguel prompted.

  “We have eyes on our unsub. He’s just left a tent near the intersection of the 509 and West Marginal Way South and now he’s heading south on First Avenue South.”

  “Great. Text us a link to track you and we’ll meet you there,” he said.

  “Will do.” He sent Miguel a text with a link to their location so he could follow where they were going.

  Shoulders hunched, face hidden beneath a black hoodie, their unsub continued on the street, passing by a number of industrial buildings and a site where multicolored steel barrels were piled high behind a chain-link fence. Their unsub pushed on until he reached a break between properties and a fenced-in yard holding a number of forklifts, pallet trucks, scaffolding and other construction supplies.

  “Rothwell’s?” David asked as they hurried their pace to not lose track of Adams because the area between the two buildings was relatively dark.

  “Possibly,” he said since there was no identifying signage on the property.

  When they neared the end of one building, they caught sight of Adams approaching a dark-colored, pricey sedan parked just beyond the edge of the fenced-in yard. The nose of the car faced forward, making it impossible for them to see who was behind the wheel or if anyone was even in the car.

  As Adams hurried toward the passenger’s side of the car, they likewise sped up, hoping to get a better look.

  They were close enough to snap off a photo when the car shot off in the direction of the Duwamish Waterway.

  “Damn,” Nicholas cursed as he and David gave chase on foot. The car quickly moved away from them, but not before Nicholas confirmed the license plate he had seen earlier.

  * * *

  MIGUEL RACED TOWARD the location the tracker had provided, Maisy at his side. Madeline and Dashiell were in a second vehicle just moments behind them.

  The phone rang and seeing Nicholas’s number in the caller ID, he immediately picked up.

  “Adams just got into a dark, late-model sedan. Jaguar, I think. The license plate read Vote Roth. They were headed east toward the Duwamish.”

  “We’re almost there,” he said and shot a glance toward the GPS. “I think we can head him off on South Holden. Meet us there.”

  “Roger that,” Nicholas said, and Miguel immediately called Madeline and Dashiell to provide an update and instructions.

  “We’re headed to South Holden, but if we miss him there, he could try to make a run for it by South Donavan,” he said, and Madeline completely understood.

  “We’ll try to cut him off, but keep us posted,” Madeline advised.

  “Do you think we’ll get him?” Maisy asked, but as he took a turn sharply, she braced her hands on the door and seat beside her.

  “You okay?” he asked, worried for her safety even though Maisy had insisted on coming with him, determined to see the investigation through to the very end.

  “Yes. Is it him? Is it Rothwell?” she asked, anger sharp in her tones.

  “It seems that way,” he said and took another rough turn that led them down the highway toward Nicholas’s location. As they reached the street, Nicholas and David were waving them down on the highway.

  He jerked the car to a stop and his team members hopped in. “No sign of them here, so he must be headed to South Park,” David said, leaning forward to speak to Miguel.

  “Please call Madeline and let her know,” he said, intent on focusing on the drive and keeping an eye out for their unsub’s car. He headed toward the waterway, hoping to pick up their trail as Madeline and Dashiell shot past them, staying on the road to try to head them off at the next entrance to the maze of industrial and factory sites in the area.

  * * *

  MADELINE PRESSED THE pedal to the metal and streaked by Miguel and the rest of the team to try to reach the next exit for the industrial area.

  “If the unsub headed toward the waterway, we may be able to head straight at them,” she said and executed a harsh turn, wheels squealing to push them in the direction of the water.

  They had barely gone two blocks when twin beams of light erupted from a side street.

  Almost colliding with the car as it jumped into the intersection, Madeline screeched to a halt. A second later, the driver of the sedan, seeing that escape was blocked off in that direction, whipped back toward the water, likely trying to double back to freedom.

  Madeline gave chase while Dashiell called the rest of the team, hoping that they’d be able to box him in.

  “We’re headed toward the marina,” Dashiell said, his attention half on the road and the map on the GPS system.

  “On it,” Miguel said, but as they neared the water and the sight of masts and boats by the marina, the unsub’s sedan veered wildly to the left and right and a sudden blast of light erupted inside the car. The sedan jerked to a halt, and the passenger’s side door shot open. A man stumbled out, clutching his midsection.

  The sedan peeled away while the man crumpled to the ground, clearly injured.

  Dashiell was immediately on it as Madeline drove to the man and stopped the car.

  A second later, Miguel pulled up, but Madeline waved him in the direction of the sedan, which was clearly disappearing down the street again. “He’s heading toward the highway. I think he shot Adams.”

  Miguel nodded. “Call it in and keep us posted,” he said and took off after the sedan.

  Madeline rushed over to where Dashiell was tending to the injured man—Chris Adams without a doubt. She called for an ambulance and then knelt beside Adams, trying to offer comfort and get information while Dashiell tried to stem the flow of blood from the abdominal wound.

  Too much blood, she thought.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The red taillights of the car were only a couple of blocks ahead of him but shooting straight for the exit to the highway.

  Maisy was holding tight to the dash and front seat as they fishtailed from the side street onto the highway. In the dark of night, there was luckily little traffic, allowing him to keep an eye on the unsub’s car.

  From the back seat he heard Nicholas calling in to Seattle PD for backup and pinpointing their location as they sped onto the 99. There was more traffic there, forcing the unsub to weave in and out of slower-moving cars to make his escape. Miguel was worried that they could cause an accident, especially as a duo of Seattle PD cars swept onto the highway and joined them in the pursuit.

  Miguel actually fell back, letting the police cruisers take the lead and also have the freedom to thread the needle and stay on the unsub’s tail. Barely a mile later, another police cruiser jumped onto the highway and worked its way in front of the unsub’s car in an attempt to box him in between the three cruisers giving chase.

  Suddenly, the dark sedan stopped short, forcing two of the cruisers to peel away to avoid rear-ending it. In another surprise move, it shot almost directly across the highway to an exit and rushed off, leaving Miguel as the only vehicle that could follow.

  “Hold on,” he said, their sedan nearly flying over a bump on the exit and back onto one of the side streets.

  Luckily, the police had called it in and no sooner had the unsub’s sedan hit the access road for the highway than a cruiser was there, blocking the road.

  With another sharp, almost two-wheeled turn, the sedan whipped onto a side street.

  Miguel followed, his gaze locked on the unsub’s taillights and on the nav system which showed that the sedan was headed into a dead end close to the Duwamish River. A quick look in the rearview mirror revealed the flashing lights of a police vehicle and the wail of sirens just ahead of them said they were closing the noose around their unsub.

  Barely fifty yards ahead, the moonlight gleamed over the waters of the river. As the driver realized there was nowhere else to go, the car slammed to a stop at an awkward angle. The driver’s side door flew open, but a cruiser was already there.

  Two policemen threw their doors open and drew their weapons as Miguel pulled up. Not seconds later, a second police car drove up, followed by a television news crew who must have been listening to the police radio.

  The reporter and cameraman were already filming as Miguel and Nicholas approached, guns drawn, David and Maisy trailing behind them.

  “FBI. He’s armed,” Miguel called out and flashed his badge at the police officers, who had their weapons trained on the sedan.

  “Toss your weapon and come out with your hands up,” he instructed, but hung back, aware that the unsub may have already killed someone just minutes earlier.

  The gun rattled against the pavement as the driver tossed it out. A second later, a familiar voice said, “I’m not armed.”

  “Step out with your hands on your head,” Miguel said, expectant. Sure of who would exit the sedan.

  A second later, Rothwell’s salt-and-pepper head of hair popped out, squashed by his interlaced hands as Miguel had requested. The senate candidate stumbled a bit to exit the low-slung sedan, but then he stood, fully visible to one and all, especially the news team.

  Justice, Miguel thought as he silently instructed Nicholas to keep his weapon trained on Rothwell while he walked over and handcuffed him. By then a second news team had hit the scene and Miguel schooled his features as he read Rothwell his Miranda rights.

  Rothwell said nothing, just nodded, but it would be enough, especially with all the cameras rolling to capture the moment.

  Miguel escorted Rothwell to the police cruiser and turned him over to the custody of Seattle PD. “Lock him up. No one is to interview him without us. If he asks for a lawyer, give him his mandatory call, but let us know.”

  “We understand. We just got word that Adams is at Harborview. Your agents are with him,” the one officer said as they took custody of Rothwell.

  “We’ll head there now,” Miguel said and walked toward where Maisy, Nicholas and David waited by his vehicle.

  As he did so, he was besieged by the reporters who had arrived on the scene. A reporter shoved a microphone almost into his face and he patiently eased it back.

  “Can you confirm that state senate candidate Rothwell is the Seattle Crusader?” the reporter asked.

  “Our investigation is still pending. We have no comment at this time,” he said and pressed past the news crews to Maisy and his team.

  When he got to her side, she said in tones only loud enough for him to hear, “Is it over?”

  Sadly, he had no doubt it was. What was left was for them to pull together all that they already had plus whatever Adams and the blaster could provide to make their case bulletproof.

  Which meant he and Maisy would go their separate ways as well.

  “It is,” he said and forced himself to look away from her crestfallen expression since she also seemed to understand what that meant.

  He opened her door and helped her into the car and as he passed by Nicholas, his team member shot him a questioning look.

  Miguel ignored it, focusing on what he would need to do at the hospital in order to get the evidence to not only charge Rothwell, but eventually secure a conviction.

  Once they were in the car, he sped toward Harborview Medical Center, and thanks to the late hour, they were entering the ER area barely fifteen minutes later. Madeline and Dashiell were walking down the hall with a doctor, heads bent toward each other as they apparently discussed the status of their suspect.

  Madeline noticed him immediately as they entered the waiting area and strode to him, a deep frown marring the perfection of her skin.

  “Not good, I gather,” he said when Dashiell joined them a second later.

  “The bullet nicked an abdominal artery, and he lost a lot of blood. He’s in surgery to repair the damage and it’s touch and go,” she said.

  “Hopefully he’ll pull through,” Miguel said and had to ask the hard question. “Were you able to get anything out of him?”

  “We did,” Dashiell said. “Apparently Adams approached Rothwell a few weeks ago near his offices since he knew Rothwell was a candidate. They chatted about prison reform on account of the troubles that Adams’s brothers had had.”

  Almost like a tag team, Madeline continued with the report. “A couple of weeks after that, Rothwell approached Adams and offered him some money and to help Adams with his brothers’ sentences. Adams took the bait, but that’s all we were able to get out of him before he passed out from blood loss.”

  Miguel dragged a hand through his hair in frustration, but there was little they could do about Adams except pray that he made it through the surgery. If he did, they might be able to get more information from him to close the book on Rothwell.

  And thinking about Rothwell... “We’ll pray that Adams survives the surgery. In the meantime, we need to go interview our erstwhile state senate candidate to see what he has to say.”

  Maisy’s hand slipped into his and drew his attention. “Adams will make it. We have to believe that so you can put Rothwell away.”

  He forced a smile and nodded. “Hopefully.”

  Dashiell held up a small laboratory vial. “This may help. It’s the bullet the ER doctor removed. Hopefully its ballistics will match any gun Rothwell handled.”

  Miguel took the vial and held it up to the light to examine it. “He tossed out a 9 mm Glock and this definitely looks like the same caliber.”

  He pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket and tucked the vial into the bag. “Let’s go speak to Rothwell.”

  * * *

  BY THE TIME they reached the police station barely fifteen minutes later, Rothwell had already lawyered up and wasn’t talking.

  You could almost touch the tension in the interrogation room as Miguel and Nicholas sat across the table from Rothwell and his counsel. David and Maisy were waiting outside for them while a trio of Seattle detectives was in the space behind the one-way mirror, watching the interview.

  “Richard, I can call you Richard, can’t I?” Miguel said, determined to try to convince the politician to speak despite his having lawyered up.

  “SSA Peters, Mr. Rothwell has already indicated that he has no interest in chatting with you,” the lawyer said, his tone as smarmy as Rothwell’s had been during his various television interviews.

  “You understand that Mr. Adams has already admitted that your client hired him to take part in the Seattle Crusader bombings. Mr. Rothwell owns two of the locations where the bombings occurred. We have a gun that was fired by Mr. Rothwell—”

  “My client advised me that it was Mr. Adams who pulled the gun on my client and he was only trying to defend himself when the gun went off.”

  “Which begs the question of why Mr. Adams was even in the car with your client,” Nicholas pressed.

  “Mr. Adams approached my client and offered to stop the bombings in exchange for the payment of one hundred thousand dollars. As a concerned citizen, my client agreed to meet with him to see if he couldn’t convince Mr. Adams to turn himself in,” the lawyer said and shot a quick look at his client, who was still sitting there silently. His arms were across his chest, an almost bored look on his face, infuriating Miguel.

  He glared at Rothwell, ignoring his counsel as he said, “We know you hired Adams. We know you shot him to shut him up. The licensed blaster at your current construction project is on the run, but I bet that when we get him, and we will get him, he’ll confirm that you were the one directing this terrorist campaign.”

  “As we’ve already said, my client was trying to stop Mr. Adams from committing any additional crimes,” the lawyer insisted.

  “And we’ll prove otherwise and when we do, we’re going to press for the maximum penalty of life imprisonment under the Patriot Act unless we get some cooperation from your client,” Miguel said and at that, Rothwell’s lawyer finally showed some concern.

  “If you’ll give us a moment,” the lawyer said.

  “Of course,” Miguel said, rose and left the room, Nicholas following him out into the hallway.

  A second later, the detectives came out of the nearby viewing room, and another police officer approached.

  “What is it, Sergeant Lewis?” the one detective asked the uniformed officer.