Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“You stop and wait for me!”
“You know I can’t do that,” I ground out as Vargas took the right turn down the alley and I followed, close on his heels.
“Goddammit!” His strained voice was loud in my ear. “I’m driving on the sidewa—get the fuck out of the way!” Then to me, “I hope you’re happy.”
I wasn’t anything but focused on Vargas, to whom, I calculated, I was close enough to dive after. There was always the risk that you might leap too late and miss, and once that happened, those precious seconds were hard to make up. It was like watching football, which I played in high school and college, and you wondered how some asshole had missed that tackle. That’s what it was, a miscalculation that allowed yards or a touchdown. But what Vargas didn’t know was that I had been a damn fine strong safety and might have gone pro had I not blown out my knee in my junior year of college. So when I leaped, I had years of practice on my side and tackled Vargas hard. We both struck the ground, had the wind knocked out of us, but he hit concrete, and I hit him, so I was in much better shape. I had him facedown on the ground as two guys ran up to me.
“Hey, man, you all right?” the older of the two asked me.
I should have been scared—most guys would have been, maybe even pulled their gun and told them to back off—but I still had enough small town in me to assume people were there to help first.
It was nice of them. They were security guards, going by the logo on their shirts, and they must have seen me take down Vargas from their vantage point. There were a lot of doors in the alley, and they had probably been on a break.
“I’m fine,” I assured them with a grin.
“You on the job?” the same one asked me.
I leaned a bit to my left so they could see the star on my belt beside my gun. “Deputy US marshal. Thank you for your concern.”
Both of them nodded as Vargas yelled, “Help! This guy’s gonna murder me!”
They scowled at him.
Vargas tried it in Spanish then, thinking that might work, but they shook their heads and left us, clearly unconcerned about my prisoner, whom I had on his feet, all zip-tied and ready for Lang to pick us up.
“Really?” I said to Vargas. “Murder you?”
“It was worth a shot,” he grumbled.
“Why’d you run, man? It’s hotter’n hell out here.”
“Same thing. How did I know you were gonna chase me? The chances of losing you were pretty fuckin’ good.”
Hard to fault his logic.
We both heard the car before we saw it. Lang and I got lucky and were the first ones down to asset forfeiture last time for the new cars and got a 2007 Chevrolet Monte Carlo from impound. It was clean inside—so many of the cars were not—and, bonus, the radio worked. Not that Lang and I ever had the same opinion on music, but every now and then we could find some middle ground, especially on a stakeout when it was so late, we were both past caring.
The car came to a sharp, squealing stop and was left idling as Lang threw open the door and got out, looking mad enough to spit nails.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly.
“The hell did I say to you?” he roared as he came up beside me. “If I am more than a block behind you, you do not run down an alley! What if he had friends here?”
But it turned out that I had been the one with friends, and I waved at the two guys who had come to check on me. “They would have backed me up.”
The scowl said he was not convinced.
“This is police brutality,” Vargas complained to my partner.
“Shut up,” Lang barked. “The hell were you thinking, running in this heat?”
Vargas groaned. “Put me in the car, man.”
The car was an oasis of cool, easily a twenty-degree difference, and Vargas and I were quiet, absorbing the change in temperature. We enjoyed the ride, the only sound the blowing of the arctic air through the vents.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get heatstroke.”
I was. Lang was right.
“And now we have to stop and get water so you and our fugitive can hydrate.”
“Yes, please, let’s get some water,” Vargas agreed. “I’m sorry I was stupid before. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”
“Do not throw up in this car,” Lang warned, taking a left and turning into a gas station. “I’m going to fucking kill Pazzi.”
I was too tired from running to defend Eric Pazzi. He was a nice enough guy, but somehow or another, if something got screwed up, it was usually because of him. Some guys simply had that kind of shitty luck.