“There he is,” said Alicia, pointing at the truck ahead of them.

Sutter felt a breath of relief come to him as he saw Tasker pop up in the bed of the truck. He had his Beretta in his hand and leaned back, holding on to the side panel as he kicked the small window in the center of the rear glass. Tasker’s foot went into the cab as the window came right off its tracks.

“Oh shit, girl, this could get ugly.”

Tasker felt the blood come back into his brain and reached down for his pistol. The truck’s motion was fairly steady now as they headed west toward Homestead. He thought about waiting until Wells stopped for something, but was afraid there might be innocent bystanders. He took a deep breath. He counted to three, then jumped up on his knees. He wanted Wells to see the gun and know what could happen. Tasker braced himself and brought up his right foot with the hiking boots he’d slipped on instead of tennis shoes. Thank God the heavy, reinforced shoes had been close to the door of his closet. He pulled back his leg, aimed for the rear access window and let fly. The force of his kick sent his foot into the cab and made him lose his balance.

Wells, apparently unnerved by the action, swerved hard one way, then the other, causing Tasker to fall again.

“That’s enough,” he said out loud, sticking his right hand-his gun hand-into the cab and up to Wells’ head. “Stop the truck, Daniel,” he yelled into the cab over the sound of the rushing wind. He then followed his arm through the wrecked rear window. He squeezed his head and shoulders through, just as Wells hit the brakes. His momentum carried him mostly into the cab, but gave Wells the chance to bat away his hand and send the Beretta rattling to the floor. The truck instantly picked up speed as Tasker balled his fist to bash Wells’ brains out. He raised his fist.

Wells said, “Hang on there, slick.”

Tasker froze at the sight of a Ruger.22 auto pointed in his face.

“Now slide on in all the way before you get killed.”

Tasker complied.

“I could just shoot you and be done with it.”

Tasker stayed silent. He’d been on the wrong end of a gun before and never liked the feeling.

“When you sprang me on the Stinger charge, I said I owed you. Remember?”

Tasker nodded.

“Now we’re even.” He tilted his head back to look at the rearview. “You’re buddy is in the Jeep, so I can’t stop.” He looked hard at the mirror. “Son of a bitch, that’s Alicia, isn’t it?”

Tasker didn’t respond. His eyes worked their way down to his gun on the floorboard between the gas pedal and the console.

Wells said, “That’s how you found the hole.” He turned to look at Tasker. “What’d you do to her to make her talk?”

Tasker shrugged.

“I know you cops. You probably told her she’d lose the kids if she went to jail. Didn’t you?” He shoved the pistol closer to Tasker’s head.

“Yeah, Daniel. She just talked to save the kids.”

“You bastards.” He took a couple of breaths. “A deal’s a deal. I’m gonna let you out, but I can’t stop ’cause of your pal.”

Tasker looked at the Beretta again.

Daniel saw the glance and fired his.22 without warning.

Tasker jumped and raised his hand to his face, feeling for the wound. It only took a second to see that Wells had only added a hole to the truck, shooting high, into the roof.

“Don’t even think about going for that gun.” He slowed the truck. “Up here where the swale is grassy by the track, I’m gonna slow to about ten miles an hour. If your buddy tries to bump us, the deal’s off, so signal him if you have to.”

Tasker felt the truck slow.

Wells stepped on the Beretta with his left foot, then slowed the truck some more.

Tasker looked over his left shoulder and saw his Cherokee closing on them. Tasker held up his hand to Sutter, who immediately backed off a few car lengths.

Wells said, “Now, open the door and get out.”

Tasker pulled the handle slowly, opening the door a crack.

“We’re even,” said Wells.

“Daniel-” started Tasker, but Wells poked him with the gun.

Tasker went with the motion and flopped out of the truck, hitting the grass, then rolling head over heels into a slow side tumble as he came to the edge of a gravel lot. He shook his head. “Ow” was all he could say. He watched the truck gain speed, then saw Wells toss out Tasker’s Beretta a few hundred feet ahead as the truck sped away. Wells beeped a little rhythm and took off.

Sutter skidded to a stop a few feet from Tasker.

Jumping out of the Cherokee, he gasped, “Jesus, you all right?”

Tasker didn’t honestly know. “Catch him.” He shoved at his partner. “Go.”

Sutter looked him over and said, “No way. You need some attention. Look at this shit.” He pointed to a puddle of blood gathering around Tasker.

Tasker tried to respond, then just blacked out.

“Where’s Alicia?” asked Bill Tasker.

“I got a room at a hotel in case Wells tries to look for her.”

Tasker nodded, avoiding words that rattled in his head. He blinked hard at the bright overhead light as the small Latin doctor inspected the last of his stitches.

“Not bad,” said the forty-year-old doctor, with a light accent. “You won’t have much of a scar on your arm, and the two deeper cuts on your left leg will look like a Christmas wreath. Good work if I do say so myself.” He smiled, filling out crow’s-feet that showed he was sincere. “Judging from some of your other scars, these won’t bother you a bit.”

Tasker timed the throbbing in his head and let out a quick “Thanks.”

“You’ll be sore for a week. That was some tumble you took. Next time you two are fishing, you should ride in the truck’s cab.”

“Will do,” managed Tasker.

“Nothing’s broken, but I want you in bed for at least five days. Understood?”

Tasker nodded.

“Why don’t I believe you?” The doctor looked at Sutter, standing silently in the corner of the small walk-in clinic’s main exam room. “Like I don’t believe the fishing story. But my job is to patch up, not lecture.”

Sutter said, “Good plan.” He handed the man a stack of twenties. “We gotta boogie.”

“Let me get his prescriptions and give this to the cashier,” the doctor said, as he ambled out of the room.

Sutter quickly turned to his partner. “Tell me again why we didn’t go to Jackson and you claim worker’s comp?”

“No time. They’d have me on my back for a week.”

“Like this guy wants.”

“And I will. After we find out what the fuck is going on and grab Daniel Wells.” Tasker looked at him. “And these twenties came from where?”

“Your front pocket.”

“Derrick, that was evidence.”

Sutter nodded his head. “So, when you bend the rules and don’t use worker’s comp and lie to a doctor, it’s to save time. When I do something like that, it’s ‘destroying evidence.’ ”

Tasker’s eyes bulged of their own will. “It is destroying evidence.” They sat in silence a few seconds. Tasker realized these were extraordinary times. “Okay, what do you think we should do next?”

“Let’s go talk to Bolini and figure out what the damn FBI is up to.”

“Not if we’re just fishing. We need some proof.”

“This feels too damn close to the business with Dooley. Fuckin’ Bureau causing shit, and we got our thumbs up our ass.”

Tasker winced as he pulled his shirt up to look at his bruised ribs. Along with the twenty-seven stitches he’d just received in three different places, his legs had a few good patches of road rash, his left arm was turning blue with bruises and he thought one of his teeth felt funny. “We’ve gotta tie up the loose ends.” He slid off the examining table.

Sutter put his hand on Tasker’s tender shoulder. “I know exactly how to tie up the FBI loose ends.”