Thrill Kill by Brian Thiem Page B

contain him. But Sinclair was the faster of the two by far.
    Sinclair threw open the door and yelled, “Cut him off!” to Braddock. He then yelled the obligatory, “Police! Stop!” to the suspect and sprinted down the sidewalk, his open raincoat flapping behind him. The man had a hundred-foot head start, but Sinclair cut the distance with each step. He was confident that Braddock was climbing into the driver’s seat and advising everyunit on the radio that her partner was in foot pursuit, stressing that he wearing a suit and a black London Fog raincoat to prevent a blue-on-blue shooting accident.
    The man cut between two parked cars and ran into the street, apparently hoping open ground would increase his chance of escape. Sinclair followed into the street and began gaining even more now that he was off the broken and cracked sidewalk. The man’s arms pumped up and down as he ran, and Sinclair could see his hands were empty. If he was armed, as Tanya alluded to, his gun was tucked in his waistband or a pocket, so Sinclair didn’t draw his own gun, preferring to keep his hands free.
    The man looked over his shoulder at Sinclair, surely surprised to see a cop gaining on him. Although Sinclair had lost a few ticks in his forty-yard dash split since he played wide receiver in high school and junior college, he was still fast enough to stay with all but the most fleet-footed criminals during the first minute or two of a foot chase. After that, most street thugs ran out of steam. Sinclair didn’t.
    Sinclair heard the roar of the police interceptor V-8 behind him before his car shot past. When Braddock was a few houses past the man, she swung the Ford across the street, flung open the door, and drew her gun.
    The man did a stutter step and glanced over his shoulder at Sinclair. It looked like he was about to give up. Instead, he cut left, leaped across the sidewalk, and raced between two houses. Sinclair continued the pursuit, now no more than forty feet behind as they entered the backyard of a house.
    As Sinclair pivoted around a rusted washing machine, his leather dress shoes slipped in the wet grass. He planted his left hand on the ground to keep from falling. By the time he was back in stride, he had lost the distance he’d previously gained. Sinclair knew Braddock was racing around the block to the next street and calling in his location so that responding units could set up a perimeter. All Sinclair had to do was keep the suspect in sight.
    The man ran around a detached garage set behind an old, falling-down Victorian. For a second, he lost his visual with the man as he disappeared into the shadow of a large tree. Sinclair stopped. The man could be drawing his gun and lying in wait for him. He wiped the rain from his eyes and scanned the darkness. With his hand on his pistol, he was ready to clear the leather holster and begin a methodical search.
    The man reappeared out of the shadows and sprinted into the pool of light emitted by the next house. Sinclair continued the chase. The man ran down the long driveway of a house that fronted Brockhurst Street, the next street north. He was starting to lose steam. Except for the initial sprint, Sinclair had been pacing himself, steadily gaining on the man as he tired. When the man popped out of the yard and hit the street, Sinclair was only thirty feet behind him.
    Hoover Elementary School took up the entire block on the opposite side of the street. A ten-foot metal fence, which was topped with outward-facing rods specifically designed to keep the gangsters and drug dealers off the property, surrounded the entire school ground. Had the man been from this neighborhood, he would have known that, too. In the darkness, he nearly ran into the fence. At the last second, he turned and ran up the sidewalk paralleling the school fence. Sinclair was only three steps behind.
    Sinclair saw the headlights of a car speeding toward them and heard the unmistakable sound of the police