Either way . . .
He vanished into a dense part of the woods, beyond which Dance could just see a glimmer of a green pond. Probably the source of the stench.
O'Neil glanced at her.
She sighed and nodded. Simultaneously they drew their Glocks.
They pushed forward again.
Dance and O'Neil had worked a number of cases together and fell instinctively into a symbiotic mode on an investigation. But they were at their best when solving intellectual puzzles, not playing soldier.
She had to remind herself: finger off the trigger, never cross in front of your partner's weapon and lift your muzzle if he crosses in front of you, fire only if threatened, check your backdrop, shoot in bursts of three, count your rounds.
Dance hated this.
Yet it was a chance to stop the Roadside Cross attacker. Picturing Tammy Foster's terrified eyes, Dance rushed through the woods.
The boy vanished again, and she and O'Neil pulled up, where two paths diverged. Travis had probably taken one--the vegetation was very thick here, impassable in parts. O'Neil silently pointed left, then right, raising an eyebrow.
Flip a coin, she thought, angry and unsettled that she'd have to separate from O'Neil. She nodded toward the left.
They began easing carefully down their respective routes.
Dance was moving through the thickets, thinking how unsuited she was to this role. Her world was one of words and expressions and nuances of gesture. Not tactical work, like this.
She knew how people got hurt, how they died, stepping out of the zones they were in harmony with. A sense of foreboding filled her.
Stop, she told herself. Find Michael, go back to the car and wait for backup.
Too late.
Just then Dance heard a rustling at her feet, and glanced down to see that the boy, hiding in the bushes next to her, had flung a large branch in her way. It caught her foot as she tried to jump over it and she went down hard. Struggling to keep from falling, Dance rolled onto her side.
Which had the effect of saving her wrist.
And another consequence: the boxy, black Glock flew from her hand and vanished into the bushes.
Only seconds later, Dance heard the rustle of bushes once more as the boy, apparently waiting to make certain she was alone, charged out of the bushes.
CARELESS, MICHAEL O'NEIL thought angrily.
He was running in the direction of Dance's cry, but realized now he had no idea where she was.
They should have stayed together. Careless to split up. Yes, it made sense--to cover as much ground as they could--but while he'd been in several firefights and a couple of street pursuits, Kathryn Dance had not.
If anything happened to her . . .
In the distance sirens sounded, growing louder. The backup was getting closer. O'Neil slowed to a walk, listening carefully. Maybe the rustle of bushes nearby. Maybe not.
Careless too because Travis would know this area perfectly. It was, literally, his backyard. He'd know where to hide, what paths to escape down.
The gun, weighing nothing in his large hand, swung ahead of O'Neil, as he looked for the attacker.
Frantic.
Pushing ahead another twenty feet. Finally he had to risk some noise. "Kathryn?" he called in a whisper.
Nothing.