Plenty, I'm sure.

And I'm also sure someone will be more than happy to point them out as we review the video of it in the ECC.

His cell phone began ringing, and he dug it out of his pocket and glanced at the caller ID. Payne was amazed the earbud was still in his ear. When he answered the call, he wondered if all Harris would hear would be his siren wails and horn honks.

"Tony, how's Charley? All okay?"

"He's fine. We've got the scene under control. Where the h.e.l.l are you?"

"Southbound Delaware Expressway, about to Vine. Hot on the tail of the white minivan. You want to call in for units to try to head off this guy? He's running hard, and about to make a big mess out here."

Payne, closing the distance between them, watched the Ford minivan make jerky movements as the driver tried getting around four vehicles that were driving abreast and effectively forming a wall across the expressway. They did try to get out of the way, but every time a driver antic.i.p.ated the minivan's next move, another driver wound up blocking him again.

The minivan was in the far right lane, and when it came up to the two-lane split leading to the exit for the Vine Street Expressway, it shot the gap and accelerated.

"Tony, he just took the Vine exit. h.e.l.l, we're almost to the Roundhouse, about a quarter-mile out. Maybe he's going there to give himself up."

He heard Harris snort, then start relaying that updated information.

Payne made the exit for the Vine Street Expressway, and as the two lanes of the elevated concrete thoroughfare widened to four, Matt looked in the distance and saw the minivan heading toward the Center City skyline.

Also ahead, at the point where the expressway crossed over Fourth Street, there was a series of flashing caution lights and signage that read: CAUTION! ROAD REPAIR AHEAD! YO, GIVE US A BRAKE!

The minivan was now just pa.s.sing the first of the flashing lights.

The lights and signs became thicker as the expressway approached the Fifth Street overpa.s.s, and Payne remembered that that was where two eighteen-wheelers had collided a few weeks earlier. The ma.s.s of them together had taken out five sections of the three-foot-tall concrete divider that separated the eastbound and westbound lanes.

As a temporary patch, a double line of fifty-five-gallon drums, orange with reflective tape, had been put in place with more caution signage. And a temporary speed-limit sign had been posted.

Matt saw ahead of the Ford minivan that traffic in all the westbound lanes was slowing to a stop just past the construction crew.

"Looks like the Vine Expressway is shut down, Tony."

The minivan was beginning to make jerky moves from lane to lane, looking for a route around the slow traffic.

Matt moved into the far outside lane behind the minivan and eased up on the accelerator as he closed the distance between them.

No exit here. Nowhere to run.

Looks like the end of the road.

But then he saw that not only was the minivan not slowing to the posted twenty-five miles an hour, it was accelerating.

And then it suddenly shot from the right lane and across the other three-then went right through the orange barrels, scattering them and causing the construction workers to dive for cover.

"Jesus H. Christ!"

"What, Matt?"

"He just crossed into the oncoming lanes."

"How the h.e.l.l did he do that?"

"He blew through a hole in the construction zone."

More important, how the h.e.l.l did he miss those oncoming cars?

At least they're driving slow because of the roadwork.

The minivan then drove to the far left of the expressway and turned left onto a lane that was carrying oncoming traffic coming off the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. The vehicles swerved to miss. .h.i.tting the minivan head-on.

"Jesus! And now he's headed the wrong way toward the Ben Franklin Bridge!"

Payne, with his hands on the steering wheel at three and nine o'clock, looked over his left shoulder, then cut across the westbound lanes of the expressway, stopping in the hole that the minivan had plowed through the rows of orange drums. Then he checked for a gap in the eastbound traffic. There wasn't one immediately, but as he waited, one driver, then two and three and more, began to heed the siren and red-and-blue strobes, either slowing to a crawl or coming to a complete stop.

Jesus! Here we go!

Payne put his right foot to the floor, and the Crown Vic burned rubber as it shot forward.

The minivan had momentarily disappeared around the curves of the turns leading up to the bridge. But its tail came back into view as soon as Payne reached the first overhead gantry.

The five vehicles that had just crashed also came into view.

Payne steered around them and headed for the bridge.

The eighty-year-old steel suspension bridge spanned the Delaware River, connecting Center City to Camden, New Jersey. It had a total of seven lanes for automotive traffic. Separating the east- and westbound lanes was an articulated concrete wall called a "zipper" barrier. Depending on traffic demand, the three-foot-tall zipper could be moved to create more or fewer lanes in either direction.

Payne saw that the zipper had been positioned so that there were four lanes westbound.

Which gives me more room.

The minivan was going right down the center white-dotted lines, the oncoming cars parting to either side. That created a path for Payne, and he gunned the Crown Vic, closing more quickly than before.

Need to do this PIT fast.

He pulled up almost to the minivan, setting up with his reinforced front b.u.mper to the left rear of the minivan, just forward of its rear b.u.mper. Then he quickly turned the steering wheel to the right, causing his front b.u.mper to smack the minivan's rear-and the minivan to suddenly break loose and skid sideways.

Matt slammed both of his feet on the brake pedal, which triggered the chattering kickback of the antilock-brake system.

He watched the minivan slide sideways toward the concrete zipper barrier, then go into a counterclockwise spin. On its second almost complete revolution, the right front b.u.mper impacted the zipper barrier, then the whole right side of the vehicle slammed into it, forcing the van to almost flip over into the eastbound lanes. The impact moved the zipper barrier into them, causing two cars to collide on that side.

Payne let off the brakes and, dodging an oncoming Volvo, its woman driver looking terrified, drove beyond the minivan. He nosed the Crown Vic against the barrier at an angle so that it would serve as a buffer. As he got out, he saw that the minivan driver had already fled the vehicle and now was running with the pistol in his right hand. He also saw that blood flowed from a gash on his forehead.

It was a feeble escape attempt. He almost immediately tripped in a crack just before an expansion joint in the suspension bridge, and bounced as he landed on top of the joint. When he hit, he loosened his grip on the pistol-and it slid toward the gap in the expansion joint.

That Glock's going to fall into the Delaware!

But then it kept sliding and stopped in the middle of the westbound lanes.

Payne then suddenly heard the horrible roar of screaming tires behind him, and he immediately ran to the pocket that the minivan had made by moving the zipper barrier. When he turned, it was just in time to see a woman in a brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser slam into the side of the Crown Vic, the SUV's windshield instantly filling with multiple inflated air bags.

Jesus!

Guess the car can go back to the feds now. . . .

Payne looked back at the black male. He was still trying to get up.

Payne ran toward him, his pistol aimed at his back.

He shouted, "Police! Don't move!"

But then the black male did move, bolting toward the zipper barrier.

Now Payne no longer had a clear field of fire; there were countless vehicles zipping by in the three eastbound lanes just beyond the man.

"Stop!" Payne yelled again as the man went over the low barrier.

The man paused there on the other side, waiting for a gap in traffic- and causing a six-wheeled big box delivery truck in the inside lane to lock up its brakes trying to avoid hitting him.

That suddenly slowed traffic, and there was a gap, and the black male decided to make his dash across. But as he bolted into the next lane, the large profile of the delivery truck obstructed his view-and he ran right into the path of a fast-moving, low-profile sports car.

Payne watched as the car hit him in the lower legs. The impact caused him to tumble like a rag doll over the top of the sports car. He flipped through the air twice before hitting the bridge decking and then being run over by three other vehicles, including a bus.

Traffic came to a stop.

Matt Payne shook his head. He dec.o.c.ked his Colt, then slipped it back under his blazer and beneath the waistband of his woolen slacks. He could hear the sirens of the squad cars that Harris had called in screaming toward him and what sounded like the heavy horns of the fire department's rapid-intervention and major crash-rescue vehicles.

Then he saw one of the Aviation Unit's Bell 206 L-4 helicopters approaching from the north.

Glancing at the overhead traffic cameras, he thought, Kerry probably called in every last one of the cavalry, too. Kerry probably called in every last one of the cavalry, too.

Standing there in his navy blazer, his gray woolen cuffed trousers, a once crisply starched light-blue shirt with a red-striped tie, and his highly polished black shoes all scuffed, he forced a smile and waved at the cameras.

And Rapier and Ratcliff and whoever the h.e.l.l else is in the ECC.

The eastbound traffic slowly parted, and two Philadelphia Police Department Chevy Impalas rolled up to the dead black male. The blue shirts began routing traffic around the scene. Another Impala arrived and went to the cars that had stopped after hitting the man. And there were paramedics talking with the woman sitting behind the wheel of the SUV that had hit the Crown Vic.

Payne turned and walked back to the minivan.

The window on the sliding center door had popped out on impact. Payne looked in through the hole. The first thing he saw was a plastic sign with the FedEx HOME DELIVERY logo. And then he noticed on the floorboard several scattered rounds of .45-caliber GAP hollow-points.

There's the rest of Will Curtis's story.

So the pop-and-drops are over. . . .

[SIX].

Hops Haus Brewery 1101 N. Lee Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 12:44 P.M.

H. Rapp Badde, Jr., was sitting at the ma.s.sive rectangular stainless-steel-topped bar. He chewed on his lunch of a steak sandwich while watching with fascination the police chase playing out live on the two giant flat-screen televisions behind the bar.

What the h.e.l.l drives, so to speak, people to act that way? he thought. he thought. That's just insane to run from the cops, then go the wrong way on the freeway. That's just insane to run from the cops, then go the wrong way on the freeway.

Who plays with fire like that?

He reached for his pint gla.s.s of lager, which was almost empty. He drained it, then tried to get the barmaid's attention. It took a minute, because everyone was glued to the image of the white minivan racing the wrong way into westbound traffic on the Ben Franklin Bridge. Even some of the chefs had come out of the kitchen to watch. After Badde waved his hand for help for a bit longer, one of the busboys saw him and flagged the barmaid, and she got the signal to bring him a fresh pint.

Who the h.e.l.l am I kidding?

All I've been doing is playing with fire lately-and coming d.a.m.n close to being incinerated.

But what's the saying?

"Close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades"?

Badde was more or less hiding under a plain cloth cap and blending in with the crowd. He wore an Eagles sweatshirt, faded blue jeans, and athletic shoes, trying to keep a low profile until the thing with Allante Williams, Kenny Jones, and that drug dealer was finally finished.

And I get back my ten grand from Allante.

I wonder how much I can really trust him. I did just feed him a job that made him forty grand richer.

Badde had come to the brewery after visiting the demolition site and checking on the progress there. It had been d.a.m.ned lucky that the cops had not released the scene until late the night before. Lucky because by then it had been too late and dark to move the heavy demolition equipment. They'd been able to get the crews there at the crack of dawn for an early start.

By the time Badde had arrived, the crews were mostly done. And he'd taken a picture with his cell phone camera of that almost perfectly flat property, then sent it to Janelle Harper with explicit instructions for her to e-mail it immediately to the Russian.

I don't know for sure if what he said about those holdouts being killed with a muscle relaxer is true or not.

But I do know that it's smart to proceed with caution.

I don't want to get on his bad side, and there's no question that that was a threat last night.

Which is why I had Janelle send those photos to him. And why he'll get more photos the minute the d.a.m.n construction crews arrive.

There was a huge gasp from the crowd as the televisions showed the gray police sedan racing up behind the minivan-then ramming it.

The minivan slid sideways, then spun twice before smacking the divider wall.

Jesus! It hit so hard it moved the wall!

He'd already heard from Roger Wynne that the last of the recovered absentee ballots had been shredded into a fine confetti, so that was not going to come back to haunt him.

Unless Wynne gets wise and thinks he can use that against me.

I'm going to have to keep an eye on him.

As he picked up his new pint of lager and downed a third of it in one swallow, his Go To h.e.l.l cell phone rang. He put down the gla.s.s and looked at the caller ID.

What? It's gobbledlygook. Nothing but "010101010."