Maggie ignored the ache in her back. Something pinched where she had slammed against the front of the car. At first she had tried to unzip her jacket to get at her Smith & Wesson. It slowed her down too much. The kid wasn’t armed. She’d do without it. Besides, she was the only one who could catch him now. They’d all listened to her. Stood down.

Behind her she could hear footsteps crunching but they were too far back. Her radio crackled from her shoulder, “Subject headed south, southeast.”

The kid had slipped a couple of times, little traction in his sneakers. Each time she closed the distance between them, two paces, three. Only a car length between them now, but he was wiry, flexible, spinning around bumpers and twisting to avoid rearview mirrors. He was scared. Didn’t matter that he wasn’t one of the bombers. He didn’t understand what had caused all the attention. Maggie wondered if he even understood much English.

As soon as she had gotten a good look at him she knew immediately he wasn’t a part of the group of young men she had spent the afternoon watching. He was too young. And he was black. Tall, skinny—almost anorexic thin. But it was that look in his eyes that gave him away, that terrified panic of someone who’s been accused and hunted before. She’d seen that look. It wasn’t fear from guilt. It was fear of persecution. She was guessing about his lack of English.

There were drifts between the cars and one of them had swallowed Maggie’s boot, sucking it right off her foot. Cheap slip-ons. She didn’t let it slow her down. Her daily exercise regimen included a three, sometimes four-mile run.

From the radio, more static then, “Don’t let him leave the lot.”

She heard the clicks of metal behind her. Closer. Damn it! Was that the sound of rifles getting set? Is that what she was hearing? Someone bracing a weapon against the metal of a vehicle? Taking aim?

“Hold your fire,” she yelled into her shoulder, only it came out in gasps, hardly coherent.

“Suspect fleeing. Considered dangerous.”

“Hold all fire,” she tried again. He’s scared, not dangerous. Could they shoot him with her trailing this close?

She heard more movement coming fast behind her. Heavy boots crunching snow, the slap of leather, the clack of metal, shouts garbled by the wind.

The boy slipped again, wiping out and thumping his knee against a bumper. Another two paces lost. Then he glanced over his shoulder. Big mistake. Slowed you down every time. He thought he’d regain momentum by taking a sharp left, and running parallel back in her direction, only with a lane of cars between them. Maggie spun around.

He was right there. Right alongside her. She could see slices of him between the parked vehicles. The cars were all that separated them. She pushed herself. A little faster. Her lungs were already burning from the cold air she’d sucked in. But the wind was at their backs now. Just a little more. She needed to get a step or two in front of him. She’d still lose him if she had to twist between the vehicles. She decided on a shortcut.

Maggie glanced ahead at the long uninterrupted row of vehicles. She chose wisely. Then she jumped on the hood of a compact and let the slide of snow-caked rubber soles on metal propel her right on top of the boy. It knocked him completely off his feet. His elbow jabbed into Maggie’s side, catching her right under her vest. It knocked the air out of her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain, but still held on.

He was shoving and kicking until she grabbed his arm. One twist and his body went rigid. She pulled his arm back behind him and almost automatically he went down, face down. Her knee was in his back, his legs sprawled.

“You may not feel like it now,” she told the boy in machine-gun bursts of breath. Each intake of cold air stabbed her lungs. “But you’ll thank me for this later.”

Better a knee in the back than a bullet.

When she finally looked up she was surrounded by men in helmets and scoped rifles. One of them held the red backpack that had gotten discarded somewhere along the chase. Another held the boot she had lost.

Charlie Wurth squeezed through the group, a head shorter than the rest of them, looking small and out of place. But he had a huge smile on his face as he offered a gloved hand to help Maggie up.

“Son of a bitch, O’Dell. You are something else.”