Page 73 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

Carmen had barely finished dealing with one crisis and she was already barreling headlong into the next.

Selina was safe, but now a killer was getting away.

Two killers, she reflected. Damon Garr and Lauren Brock—if she’d finished her mission to murder him.

Carmen had left her sister with Ryan Hall, taking Heron with her as she raced to the SUV to help in the search. While she drove toward Lauren Brock’s last known geolocation, Heron had gotten Mouse back on the phone to coordinate communication between the satellite, CHP, Customs and the SHIT detail.

And, of course, the tireless Declan.

She had the pedal to the floor, and for once Heron wasn’t telling her to slow down. She wasn’t sure if it was a sign of the level of crisis they were dealing with or if he’d finally gotten used to her driving.

It was then, rounding a curve, that the white Camry came speeding right for them, over the centerline and forcing Carmen to steer onto the shoulder, which ended in a hundred-foot drop into a rocky arroyo.

Carmen gasped but controlled the skid expertly, missing the edge by inches.

Heron swore under his breath.

Back onto the faded asphalt and braking fast.

“Where’d you learn to drive like that?” he asked, as she made a quick three-point turn.

A pause. “Frank.”

“Tandy?”

“It’s how we met. He teaches the tactical driving course for LAPD, and the Bureau and DHS sometimes do in-service training in Los Angeles when it’s not practical to go across the country to FLETC.”

Peering over the side and the rocky gulf that might have been their grave, he said, “I’ll have to thank him.”

“Call it in,” she instructed and hit the accelerator once more, sending up a plume of dust and gravel and tire smoke behind them.

Heron tapped in the last dialed number—Grange. The tactical team leader picked up at once, and Heron told him where they were and that they were in pursuit of Lauren Brock.

Grange agreed to send a tac team to cut her off and alert the highway patrol.

Lauren had the more agile vehicle, but Sanchez was the better driver, and she narrowed the distance.

“Heron,” she said, frowning. “You see Garr?” She didn’t think there was anyone in the passenger seat.

“No. She’s alone. He’s already dead.”

After a longstanding moratorium on capital punishment in California, the death penalty had been reinstated, but only in special circumstances. This situation wouldn’t qualify, but there were those who strongly advocated expanding the list of crimes justifying the ultimate punishment.

Carmen maneuvered the SUV through a series of tight turns and was soon on the Camry’s tail. The Suburban’s blue-and-white grille lights were flashing, and she could see Lauren glance into her rearview.

Lauren accelerated, and her car surged ahead on a straightaway.

Carmen caught up again when the road began to twist once more, and Lauren had to fight to control the vehicle. Carmen bleeped the siren.

Lauren didn’t slow in the slightest.

Until they rounded a curve where the road was blocked by Grange’s big tactical SUV and two CHP cruisers.

In addition to Grange, two of his agents and two men in highway patrol uniforms stood beside the vehicles, weapons out.

Lauren skidded to a stop.

Carmen braked and slid sideways, coming to rest across the road, blocking the Camry in. Canyon walls were on either side. Lauren wasn’t going anywhere.

She climbed out, unholstered her weapon and approached. She gestured Heron to stay back, and he stopped about twenty feet from the Camry.

Carmen checked the back seat. Empty.

“Engine off, Lauren. Pop the trunk.”

She did as instructed.

With a click, the lid lifted.

Garr wasn’t inside.

“Get out,” Carmen said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

A pause, and Lauren slowly climbed out. Grange approached, along with his men and the CHP officers. They covered her while Carmen stepped close and frisked her. No weapons.

“Where is he, Lauren?”

She pointed her chin toward the desert.

The gesture covered about a hundred square miles.

“Is he dead?”

“Maybe.”

Which could mean any number of things.

“Tell me, Lauren.”

“No.”

“You’ll go to jail for the rest of your life. With these aggravated circumstances, there’ll be no possibility of parole. You’ll never see the light of day again.”

Lauren’s eyes became wild. “Why should I care? He took my brother away from me. The only person who lifted a hand to help me. I’m an addict and no one else gives a shit.”

Carmen sensed waves of pent-up emotion rolling off her. This was clearly the tip of a very large and jagged iceberg hidden beneath the surface.

“So what you told me before, in the interview room. It was pretty much the story.”

A nod.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Terrible.” And in truth her heart went out to the young woman. “But it’s premeditated murder.”

If Garr was in fact dead.

Maybe . . .

“Sometimes you have to make sacrifices, Agent Sanchez. Whatever the consequences. Haven’t you ever felt that way? I’ll bet you have.”

Carmen’s mind instantly made the leap to her father’s murder and the fact that her sister had very nearly been killed today. How would she have reacted if that had happened and she were confronting the killer?

She wanted to tell Lauren that she would have been completely professional under similar circumstances, but the words stuck in her throat.

Lauren studied her closely. Then her eyes flashed with understanding. “Exactly.”