The Twelfth Card (Lincoln Rhyme 6)

"Block east of the building, heading east. I got RMPs sweeping the streets. One of y'all get over here with me. The other keep the apartment covered."

"K."

"Out."

Bell jogged across a street and looked to his left. He saw the homeless man again, pausing, glancing toward him then bending down and scratching his ankle. Bell started in his direction to ask if he'd seen anything.

But then he heard the sound of a car door slamming shut. Where had it come from? The sound reverberated off the walls and he couldn't tell.

An engine began grinding.

In front of him . . . He started forward.

No, to the right.

He sprinted up the street. Just then he saw a battered gray Dodge pull away from the curb. It started forward but skidded to a stop as a patrol car cruised slowly into the intersection. The driver of the Dodge put the car into reverse and rolled backward over the curb, into a vacant lot, out of sight of the RMP. Bell believed he saw two people inside . . . . He squinted. Yes! It was Geneva and the man who'd claimed to be her uncle. The car bucked slightly as he put it in gear.

Bell grabbed his radio and called the RMPs, ordering them to blockade both intersections.

But the patrolman at the wheel of the closest squad car turned into the street, rather than just barricading it; Geneva's uncle saw him. He slipped his car into reverse, flooring the accelerator and skidding in a circle around the vacant lot and into the alley behind a row of buildings. Bell lost sight of the Dodge. He didn't know which way it had turned. Sprinting toward where he'd last seen the car, the detective ordered the squad cars to circle the block.

He ran into the alley and looked to his right, just in time to see the rear fender of the car disappearing. He raced for it, pulling his Beretta from his holster. He sprinted at full speed and turned the corner.

Bell froze.

Tires squealing, the old Dodge was racing in reverse right toward him, escaping from the squad car that was blocking the man's escape route.

Bell stood his ground. He lifted the Beretta. He saw the uncle's panicked eyes, Geneva's horrified expression, her mouth open in a scream. But he couldn't fire. The squad car was directly behind the Dodge. Even if he hit the kidnapper, the jacketed rounds could go right through their target and the car and hit the officers.

Bell jumped aside, but the cobblestones were slick with garbage and he went down hard on his side, grunting. He lay directly in the path of the Dodge. The detective tried to pull himself to safety. But with the car going so fast he wasn't going to make it.

But . . . but what was happening?

The uncle was hitting the brakes. The car skidded to a stop five feet from Bell. The doors flew open and both Geneva and her uncle were out, running to him, the man shouting, "You all right? You all right?"

"Detective Bell," Geneva said, frowning, bending down and helping him up.

Wincing in pain, Bell trained the big gun on the uncle and said, "Don't move a damn muscle."

The man blinked and frowned.

"Lie down. And your arms--stretch 'em out."

"Detective Bell--" Geneva began.

"Just a minute, miss."

The uncle did as he was told. Bell cuffed him, as the uniforms from the RMP trotted through the alley.

"Frisk him."

"Yes, sir."

The uncle said, "Look, you don't k

now what you doin', sir."

"Quiet," Bell said to him and took Geneva aside, put her in a recessed doorway so she'd be out of the line of fire from anyone on rooftops nearby.