New York to Dallas

the surveillance team—Price—bolted out of his vehicle, sprinted like an Olympian toward the kid while the oncoming car hit the brakes. The cop scooped the boy up, never breaking stride until he hit the sidewalk.
    The car sent the bike flying as the cop and boy went down.
    Price’s jacket fell open. Eve clearly saw his badge, his weapon.
    And so did the suspect.
    “She made us!” Eve shouted. “Move in, move in!”
    Even as the woman leaped into the van, Eve was punching the accelerator.
    “Cut her off. Abort op and apprehend.”
    She swung around the stalled, damaged car and flattened bike with a harsh squeal of tires on hot pavement. Screams and shouts and the little boy’s wails followed her. And the van had her by half a block.
    She tuned into the chatter now—the directions, the street names, and kept her eye on the van.
    The woman would contact McQueen, Eve thought, as soon as she got a little distance. And that couldn’t happen.
    Take her now, right now.
    She hit vertical, pushed for more speed, and took back everything she’d said about Roarke and his fancy rides as the car soared. Sirens ripped through the morning air as she yanked the wheel, made the turn with the van, then edged over it.
    A little more, a little more, she thought, gaining, gaining.
    She nipped over the van, took the car down fast and hard, yanking the wheel again to block the road.
    She saw the woman’s face, just for an instant, saw the lips peel back in shock and rage. The van swerved, but there wasn’t time.
    It rammed into the rear of the car, sending Eve into a shrieking three-sixty while air bags exploded. She heard the crash as she shoved the seat back, pushed free.
    The van tilted half on the street, half on the sidewalk where it had jumped the curb after smashing into a parked car.
    Weapon drawn, Eve walked toward the van.
    “Hands! I want to see your hands.”
    She moved closer as other cops, other weapons joined her.
    “Put your fucking hands on the wheel, now.”
    “I’m hurt!”
    “You’re going to be more hurt if I don’t see both your hands on that wheel.”
    She saw them, and blood.
    Head wound, she noted as she wrenched open the door, saw blood running down the woman’s face. Without pity, Eve yanked her out of the van, spun her around to face it.
    “What are you doing? I’m hurt. You wrecked my van. I need an ambulance.”
    “Call for a bus,” Eve ordered.
    “My chest.” The woman wheezed breath in and out. “Oh God, my ribs. My head.”
    “Yeah, yeah. You’re under arrest.” Eve cuffed the woman’s hands behind her back, then was forced to hold her up as she swayed.
    “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything.” She added weeping to the wheezing. “You drove me off the road.”
    “What name should we start with? Sister Suzan? Sarajo Whitehead? Should we go with Sylvia Prentiss since you’re her today?”
    She turned the woman around. Broke her sunshades in the crash, she thought fleetingly. “Whatever name you’re using, we’ve got your ass. And we’ll get McQueen’s.”
    Eve pulled off the broken sunglasses, tossed them to another cop.
    The woman looked at her with such fierce, bright hate.
    “Fuck you. You’ve got nothing. You are nothing!”
    Eve’s knees went loose, nearly buckled as the edges of her vision grayed, wavered. The heat rolled up, a wave from her toes to the crown of her head that coated her skin in a thin layer of sweat.
    And she knew.
    “LT, Lieutenant Dallas.” Annalyn took Eve’s arm. “You should sit down. You took a pretty hard knock.”
    “I know you,” Eve managed, her voice low and harsh with shock. “I know you.”
    “You don’t know shit.” Then the woman’s eyes rolled back. She’d have hit the street in a dead faint if Eve hadn’t yanked her up again.
    “I know you. I know you.”
    “Dallas, Dallas. Ease back. Take the bitch, Jay.” As he did, Annalyn pulled Eve back. “You’re in shock, Dallas. She’s out cold, and you’re in shock.”
    “What? What?” She pushed at Annalyn’s hand, stumbled to the curb and sat. Put her head between her knees.
    Couldn’t get sick. Wouldn’t.
    Had to be wrong.
    Everything kept spinning around, and rolling heat had turned to bitter, blowing cold. She couldn’t get her breath.
    Shocky, yes, Detective Walker was right. A little shocky from the crash.
    “The bus is on the way, Lieutenant.” Bree crouched in front of her. “Suspect is unconscious. She’s banged up pretty bad. No