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Her hand instinctively shot up and came away. Blood.
She kept moving, though. Police were spilling down the same hill she had used. Also rushing towards the golf course. Ahead, she spotted a small office space. A miniature patio outside a restaurant off to the side. She moved towards the restaurant.
This building was darker than the office. And her outfit helped to disguise her against the black painted structure. It wasn’t a perfect ruse. But any amount of distraction or obfuscation would help.
She kept moving, arms pumping at her side. Every few seconds she changed trajectory slightly: the same amount of time it took a trained shooter to aim, train, and fire.
She reached the patio to the restaurant without incident.
Cora sprinted through the seating and lunged over a metal table. One of the advantages of not carrying a weapon, nor being restricted by body armor, was how quickly she could move compared to her pursuers.
She sidled along the building, moving around the wall adjacent to the front window.
The gunshots had faded; they wouldn’t risk hitting a civilian place of business, especially if they didn’t know whether any people were still on the premises.
Cora kept going. She could hear the helicopter overhead. The light swished across the ground in front of her.
But the helicopter was the least of her worries. Off to her right, the terrain dipped down, and it led towards a sand trap, and farther past that towards a low, woodsy area. The trees, though, were sparse, and interspersed by small suburban homes.
Straight ahead, there was a field. This one laden with tall stalks of corn.
She made her choice. Again, there wasn’t time to think. She sprinted forward, towards the cornfield. The helicopter above kept pace, the light following her. The shouting behind her drew nearer once again.
She entered the cornfield, the green, drooping leaves swatting at her as she ran by. Head down, shoulders braced.
The faster she went, the more distance she put between herself and her pursuers.
There was always a window of time between when a chase started and when a suspect could outrun the police.
Often, if helicopters were involved, it was already too late.
Cora’s experience gave her the edge.
When reinforcements arrived, though, when the streets were packed with every available vehicle on the fleet, that’s when it would be over.
She had fifteen minutes, tops. Especially for such a VIP as Castillo.
And so, she kept moving, cutting through the field, and this time angling off to the right; the trees she had spotted earlier culminated in a larger forest preserve. Of course, the police, once they realized where she was headed, would be able to cut her off at the pass. But all of this was about buying time. Earning distance.
She kept going, sweaty arms like pistons, her legs a blur beneath her. She crashed through the field, feeling the sensation of the soft leaves occasionally interjected by a rough nub ricocheting off her arm or elbow or cheek.
The helicopter kept pace. But the soldiers behind her, on the ground, would struggle to aim through the tall stalks.
She reached the tree line, stepping from the field under the dark boughs laden with leaves.
And now, the helicopter lost its line of sight.
This was her opportunity.
Instead of continuing through the forest preserve, she raced along for about a hundred feet, and then, carefully, she doubled back into the field. This time slower. Low, practically in a crouch. The stalks barely moved as she stepped through them. The helicopter’s spotlight was still on the location where she had entered before cutting through the field, moving stealthily and quiet; if they had thermals on that helicopter, this would all be a waste of time. But though she wasn’t entirely familiar with whirly birds, the one above looked like a standard police helicopter, unlikely to have anything save a spotter.
The spotlight remained on the trees. The voices swept the field, heading in the direction of the forest preserve. As she cut back through the field, heading in the direction she had come from, no one called after her. No gunshots. Slow, stealthy, and quiet, she made her escape.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Her clothing damp as strands and fibers from the cornfield stuck to her outfit, Cora moved along the side of the highway.
For nearly an hour she had been cutting across streets, over bridges, through underpasses, and finally, the sound of sirens was a distant thing.
