“What now?” I ask.

He pauses to consider. “Okay, we need to keep some people here, and we’d better send some to Salazar’s place, too.”

“Got it,” one of the IAD detectives says.

“And that warehouse they’re renting – ”

“We’ll take that,” I say, heading for the door, motioning Cavallo to follow.

“I’ll send some backup to join you,” he calls after us. “Meanwhile, we need to tear this place apart.”

I wait until we’re in the elevator to say anything, and then I slam my fist against the wall instead. The ringing in my knuckles feels better somehow.

“I knew that was too easy.”

Cavallo nods, leaning back against the railing. “Why’d you choose the warehouse?”

“Instinct. I figure they rent that place for a reason, and if he’s split in a hurry, maybe he’ll need to drop by there first. It’s better than chasing our tails back there. I want to keep moving.”

When we reach the car, I remember Cavallo’s lead foot and toss her the keys. She doesn’t miss a beat, sliding behind the wheel and starting the engine. Out on Memorial, as we race past Starbucks, I glance over just to make sure Keller’s not in there, slurping on a Frappuccino.

No such luck.

A feeling builds inside, a fear really, that I’ll never catch up to him. He’s flown for good, escaped the net, cheating me one last time.

We pull up outside the padlocked gate, the block of gray warehouses almost indistinguishable from one another. I knock on the security booth’s shuttered window, but there’s no response from inside. The sun beats down. Behind the glare on the windshield I see Cavallo thumping her fingers on the steering wheel.

With a pair of bolt cutters we’d be inside in two shakes, but as far as I know we don’t have a search warrant on this place, and even if we did, we don’t have the cutters. I dial Wilcox for further instructions. Before he picks up, Cavallo starts pointing to the fence. When I turn, Wendell Cropper is standing halfway between the nearest warehouse and the gate, frozen in place.

“Come on over here,” I call out.

He advances, stopping about twenty feet off, blading his body sideways, his pistol on the far hip.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks.

“Open the gate.”

Cropper lifts one foot, then hesitates, like he’s not sure whether to move forward or back. If I tell him it’s the warehouse we want to see, he might make a stink about seeing a warrant, so I try a different tack.

“We need to have a talk with you, Mr. Cropper. Open up.”

He squints at me, feigning recognition. “Oh, it’s you. I didn’t recognize you at first, Detective.” But he still doesn’t move toward the gate.

I grab the padlock and give it a shake. “If you don’t mind, we’ve got other stops to make, so I’d like to get through this pretty quick.”

“Well,” he says, digging through his pocket. “All right, then.”

His hands shake so bad that he has trouble sliding the key into the lock.

“You nervous about something, Mr. Cropper?”

Once he pulls the padlock free, I walk through, pushing the gate wide as I advance, motioning Cavallo to drive through. As she does, Cropper moves to block her path. I take him gently by the arm.

“Don’t get yourself run over,” I say.

She parks just inside the gate, then gets out. The security guard backpedals, positioning himself between the car and the warehouses. I follow. When Cavallo joins us, she stands on his opposite side, forcing him to backpedal some more just to keep an eye on us both.

“Is something wrong?” I ask him. He’s got that wide-eyed fight-or-flight look, and he’s still blading his strong side away from us. I flick my jacket back, revealing my holstered gun, just to test his reaction. His hand twitches slightly, then relaxes. Cavallo catches the movement, too.

“Put your hands on your head,” she says, resting hers on the butt of her pistol.

Cropper looks at her, aghast. He doesn’t move.

Over his shoulder, the metal warehouse door trundles upward. As it rises I glimpse the back end of a black Ford pickup, an enclosure covering the bed. On the opposite side of the entrance a pair of legs advances toward the vehicle. The door lifts and I see a box held in two hands, a lidded file box like we use in the office. Then a muscled torso and the tanned face of Tony Salazar. He glances over, casually surveying the scene, then sees us and stops in his tracks. The box hits the ground.

“It’s him,” I say.

As soon as the words are out, Cropper makes his move. His hand flashes to his side arm, the gun clearing leather, the muzzle coming up. Cavallo’s nearest, so he points her way.

Training takes over, years of muscle memory. I draw in a smooth, single motion, not waiting for the sights to come online. Instead, I let the first round go at his belt line and the second, aided by recoil, hits just below the sternum. The third is in the upper chest, and then the empty brass lands at my feet and Cropper’s staggering backward, his Glock in midair.

Next to me, Cavallo stands flatfooted with her hand still on her holstered gun, shoulders hunched by the loud reports.

“Get back to the car!” I yell.

She draws and turns toward the fallen security guard, kicking his gun clear. But Cropper’s not a threat anymore. I grab her sleeve with my free hand, yanking her back, just as the first muzzle flash erupts from the warehouse. The shot whistles through the air at head level, a near miss. After a pause, Salazar keeps shooting, and I fire back while beating the retreat, hoping to throw off his aim.

A gouge opens up in the hood of the car as I’m pushing Cavallo down behind the tire. I hit the pavement in a slide, skinning my elbows and knees. My pistol’s slide is locked back, meaning I’ve burned through thirteen rounds already. Three in Cropper and ten downrange at Salazar. As I reload, Cavallo returns fire. I’d rather she stayed behind cover. I grab her arm again and pull her back.

“Don’t give him a target.”

She shrugs free. “If somebody shoots at me, I’m shooting back.”

“You won’t hit anything at this range,” I say, but she’s not listening. As she fires I try to pinpoint Salazar’s position. He’s tucked alongside the truck bed, using the vehicle for cover. All I can see is the muzzle flash from around the enclosure.

It’s hard to think clearly when you’re taking fire. Either you go to ground or you keep pulling the trigger. It says something about Cavallo that she chooses the latter, but that kind of bravery won’t turn her side arm into a rifle. I open the passenger door and crawl over the seats, fumbling for the button that pops the trunk. When I hear the dull thunk, I slide out, grabbing the keys from Cavallo and moving around back. Inside a locked box in the truck, there’s a shotgun and an ar-15. With the latter, I can reach out and touch him, something I’ve been itching to do.

“March!” she yells, her voice shrill. “He’s starting the truck.”

I raise myself into a crouching position in time to see the reverse lights illuminate. It took him a while, but he’s done the arithmetic. All we have to do is keep him pinned. Backup is on the way. But he has to fight his way out, which means the sooner he moves the better.

“Keep shooting!” I say, grabbing for the rifle. I fumble with the charging handle, chambering a round of 5.56 nato. I’ve manipulated the controls a thousand times on the range, but now it’s like my fingers are disarticulated, one clumsy mass of flesh.

I hear the squeal of tires, smell the rubber burning, and when I look up again the Ford is out in the sunlight. Salazar accelerates backward, cuts the wheel, then rocks to a stop. I lift the rifle, hunting for his silhouette with the iron sights. The truck accelerates, picking up speed, heading straight for us. He would have been better off going the other way.

The front post lines up over his head. I take a deep breath and squeeze off a round. The windshield shatters into a spider web of glass, but the truck bears down on us.