Chapter 87 Jordan
EIGHTY-SEVEN
JORDAN
—LAPD radio transmission
Jordan arrived in time to see Campbell streak through large wooden gates and freeze in the middle of the road. His eyes searched the darkness until he saw what she saw.
Silverman. Drawing down on her, holding the gun in one hand like a wannabe gunslinger.
Jordan was so stunned he could hardly think. Then instinct kicked in.
Not a man. The goddamn sheriff.
He threw the car into park and kicked open the door, unstrapping his Glock and slipping off the safety.
Dylan Danvers came through the gates, dripping wet, one hand holding his face.
“You’re Cara Campbell, and as a citizen of California, I have the authority to—” Silverman was saying.
“Get that bitch!” yelled Danvers.
“PUT THE GUN DOWN!” bellowed Jordan, drawing a bead on Silverman.
All three heads swung toward him in surprise.
Silverman’s arm moved, too. There was a report as his pistol fired.
Danvers staggered and screamed in pain. “Troy, you fucking idiot!”
Campbell bolted into the trees while Silverman stared at the gun in his hand.
Letting her go for the moment, Jordan closed the space and clubbed Silverman’s hand with his Glock. Silverman’s gun—a chrome-plated Colt revolver—clattered on the pavement. Jordan kicked it away, then grabbed Silverman’s vest and kicked his feet out from under him.
Silverman flailed his arms, fighting back, giving Jordan an excuse to put a knee in his back.
It felt good.
Ten yards away, Danvers sat down in his street. He was holding his thigh and looking down at the blood oozing through his fingers.
“Face down, with your hands behind you!” Jordan ordered. “Lace your fingers together!”
“My leg . . .”
“Do it. And what the hell are you doing here, Silverman?”
“Catching your . . . fugitive.”
“Yeah, great job on that,” spat Danvers. “You fucking shot me.”
“It was an accident,” Silverman insisted indignantly.
“That can be your new campaign slogan,” Jordan told him.
Campbell was gone.
Jordan put away his weapon. Then he sat Silverman and Danvers back-to-back, like captured outlaws in an old Western, and zip-tied their hands together. He made a tourniquet out of Silverman’s belt and cinched it tight above Danvers’s thigh wound.
“You keep turning up at the wrong time,” Jordan told Silverman as he hobbled his ankles, just in case.
“You left your cruiser sitting in that motel parking lot, so I put an Air Tag on it,” he said, with what sounded like petulant pride.
“I was following you around until Dylan called me and told me he was going to record Campbell and then let me arrest her. So I came here. I was waiting outside his house when I saw them leave.”
“She was suicidal,” said Danvers. “I was trying to talk her out of it.”
“I guess that’s why she was running away from you,” said Silverman sarcastically.
“What really went on up there?” asked Jordan.
“I won’t say another word without my lawyer present.”
Jordan walked away from them and took out his phone. Dropping a location pin on Google Maps, he texted it to Wen, then called her as he started off on foot.
“Jordan? I heard on the police scanner that you’re still in LA.”
“Send everyone to the location I just texted. You’ll need EMTs. Silverman shot Danvers and Campbell got away.”
“Wait. Like, seriously? What are—”
“I’m in pursuit.”
He ended the call and started running down the path Campbell had taken.