The Jeep cleared the alley and bounced onto Conwell Street. Henry followed, the traffic light at Route 6 glowing green. It turned red as the Jeep approached. The driver slowed and then stopped. Perhaps out of caution. Perhaps out of habit.
Henry was closing the distance between them, not trying to hide the fact that he was following. He’d let the guy know he’d been seen, that what he’d tried to do under the cover of darkness had been exposed.
The light turned green as Henry neared the back bumper of the Jeep. He thought about clipping it, but worried that Everly would be hurt.
As the Jeep turned onto the highway, the back door flew open and a woman jumped out, Everly clutched against her chest. She stumbled and fell, skidding across the pavement on her knees, her arms still tight around his daughter.
She was up in a flash, sprinting toward buildings that she probably hoped would offer her cover or a place to hide. Everly hadn’t moved. She was limp as a rag doll, bouncing against the woman’s shoulder.
Henry threw the SUV into Park and jumped out, racing after her. Not caring about protocol, about securing the perpetrator, about doing any of the things he’d been trained to do. He was only worried about how still Everly was. How quiet. How completely unlike the bubbly little girl he knew her to be.
“FBI! Slow down and let me help you,” he called as he sprinted after the woman.
She didn’t believe him, of course.
She’d been traumatized and was running for her life with a child in her arms. He doubted his words had even registered. He’d spoken to victims of violent crimes. He’d interviewed witnesses. He knew how difficult it was to process information when the brain was bent on survival.
He tried again. “Ma’am! Stop! Let me help you!”
She darted between two buildings and entered an alley much too narrow for a vehicle.
He was right behind her, catching up fast. His attention was on Everly’s arm, flopping against the woman’s back. He’d never seen his daughter unresponsive. She was always filled with energy and verve. Unlike her twin, she was outgoing and talkative, her mouth running as often and as fast as her nearly six-year-old feet.
“Everly!” he called as he finally caught up to the woman. He grabbed her narrow shoulder, yanking her backward.
She whirled toward him, her arms wrapped around his daughter, her eyes wide with fear.
“Back off,” she panted.
“I’m her father,” he responded, dragging her farther away from the opening of the alley.
“You said you were with the FBI,” she replied, trying to pull away.
“I am.”
“You can’t have it both ways. You can’t be her father and with the FBI.”
“Why not?”
She scowled. “I already called the police. I can hear the sirens. They’ll be here any minute.”
He could hear the sirens, too, wailing in the distance, shouting that help was on the way.
Only help had no way of knowing where they were, and the perp was still on the loose. “Come on. Let’s get away from the street.”
He pulled her toward the far end of the alley, past a Dumpster and pile of dismantled cardboard boxes.
Something scuffled on the cement behind them.
He glanced at the entrance to the alley as a dark figure stepped into view. Tall and lean, his face hidden by the shadows, he took a step forward and pulled something from beneath his jacket.
Henry jerked the woman sideways, shoving her behind the Dumpster. He followed, throwing himself in front of her and Everly as the first bullet shattered the quiet and slammed into the metal near his head.