Page 15 of Hard Game

“For fucks sake, Diess!”

But I don’t care. That bastard is one of them; I just know it. I’m almost behind him now, and I mentally take photographs so I don’t forget a thing.

Leather jacket.

Denim jeans.

Decent branded trainers.

Slicked back hair.

Strong cologne—ew, what is that?

“Hey!” I call out, and what does the fucker do?

He runs.

“Lockwood Police, stop!” Elijah roars as he runs, too, not taking his eyes off him.

My chest aches as we chase him through the mall, dodging shoppers and bags as we go. I lose sight of him, and panic fills me, but Elijah hasn’t.

He turns to look at me for a second, pointing in the direction of a side hallway that you’d miss if you blinked.

“Shit,” I mutter, vowing to get this bastard. Even if we get his phone, it will have the image of the cleaner. My shoes squeak against the shiny floor as our target slips through a door at the end of the hallway; Elijah barely steps behind him.

Elijah yanks open the door and flies after him, ordering him to stop. My legs feel like rubber as I chase them both, taking the stairs two at a time as my adrenaline takes over.

“Stop!” I hear Elijah roar, but it’s too late. “Fuck!”

Elijah is still running, and I follow him into the multi-story car park built beneath the mall. The door swings shut behind me, and I stop, trying to catch my breath.

Elijah’s pounding footsteps slow to a stop as a van peels around the corner, taking our target with it. I yank my phone from my pocket and snap a photo before it disappears.

Got it.

“Elijah…” I call out, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “That was one of them, wasn’t it? We saw one.”

Elijah rests his hands on his thighs as he catches his breath. “Motherfucker got away.”

“But we found him!” I say, excitement thrumming through me. “He got away, but this is their hunting ground!”

Elijah looks at me and nods slowly before rising to his feet. “Yeah, but what if we’ve scared them off?”

I shake my head with a grin. “It doesn’t matter. Now we need the mall’s CCTV, and we’ve got a whole lot of people to question.”

Elijah nods again. “Yeah, we’ll start with that cleaner.”

We return to the stairwell, and I swipe through my camera roll and zoom in on the photo. My heart sinks.

“Well?” Elijah says, waiting for me to tell him I got the van’s license plate number.

“Fuckers!” I say. “Nothing.”

“What?” Elijah frowns. “They had a license plate, right?”

“Yes,” I say with irritation. “But it was fake. Not a valid number, look.”

I show him the image of the van, and he groans.

---