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  Pringle was no rocket scientist, but he was probably bright enough to realize an arrest warrant was trickling down to some guys somewhere with guns and badges. Cutter wanted at least a couple of those badges and guns to be APD. The uniforms gave clarity in these hazy morning hours.

  Sean Blodgett, a stocky stub of a deputy with a map of scars visible through his buzz cut, sauntered up beside Cutter. He took another quick look at the Battle Board on the hood of the SUV and gave a knowing nod. A bit of a shit magnet, Blodgett couldn’t seem to get out of his own way. He ended up with some sort of sprain, scrape, or contusion at least once a month. Still, he was tough as a bull, spending nearly as much time in the gym as Lola. Other deputies in the office had taken to calling him BAF – for Big-Armed Fed – but Cutter had always thought he looked a little like a T. rex with his arms sticking out of the oversize ballistic vest.

  Nancy Alvarez, Blodgett’s partner on the task force, wore the same vest, but she wore it better, more naturally. A hell of a man hunter, she was on loan from Anchorage PD – and often acted as liaison, smoothing the way for Cutter when they needed to steal a couple of uniforms to hit a house but didn’t want to call in SWAT.

  The responding officers – a black female named Brooks and a tall kid named Slavich, who looked like he should have been playing for the NBA, gravitated toward Alvarez. She carried special deputy US marshal credentials, but at heart, she was one of them.

  Cutter opened the Battle Board and took out four copies of Pringle’s last booking photo. A cold wind rattled out of the birch forest to the northwest, making him thankful for the vest and long-sleeve shirt. He’d have been scuba diving this time of year if he were back in Florida.

  Cutter went over the layout of the house and the suspected occupants. “Should be just him and his girlfriend. No kids that we’re aware of.”

  “This Pringle guy a fighter?” Officer Brooks asked. She studied the booking photo under the glare of the streetlight, making a couple of notes in a little pad.

  “Not exactly,” Cutter said, forcing a half smile for the sake of the two officers. He’d inherited his grandfather’s tendency toward a mean mug, but he didn’t want all the young troops on patrol thinking the boss of the fugitive task force walked around looking pissed off at the world. He tapped his copy of the photo with his index finger. Pringle was a heavy man, well over three hundred pounds, with a fountain of dreadlocks sprouting off a head that looked the size of a basketball. “He’s what my granddad would have called a butterbean – like a regular bean, only bigger. He’s got more mass than meanness, but that much mass can hurt you, even if he’s just trying to get away.”

  “We popped him last year at his baby mama’s house,” Lola said. “He tried to hide his fat ass under a pile of dirty clothes. He had a pet tarantula, though… or at least he did… kind of freaked me out, to be honest.”

  “Kill it with fire,” Blodgett observed, sounding and looking dead serious.

  Cutter put a hand flat on the hood of his SUV, the movement pulling everyone’s attention toward him in the scant light. “It goes without saying, but spiders do not constitute a deadly force scenario. Not even big, hairy ones.”

  “Still,” Alvarez said. “Don’t hesitate to Tase the SOB if he doesn’t comply with your orders. And, for Pete’s sake, don’t stop in front of him once he starts moving.”

  “Copy,” both officers said at once.

  “Small favor,” Cutter said, addressing the two uniforms. “Deputy Blodgett is covering the rear of the residence. Would one of you mind helping him out?”

  Slavich scratched the top of his head and yawned. It was nearing the end of his ten-hour shift. “I’ll go.”

  “Outstanding.” Cutter nodded at Alvarez, who was to explain the tactics. “Nancy.”

  “We’ll try not to kick the door,” she said. “Pringle’s girlfriend is good for dozens of vehicle burglaries, and thieves are paranoid as hell about anybody stealing the stuff that they stole from someone else. The Silverado parked out front looks to have a working alarm. I’ll try to get in it, set it off. She’ll come to the door to see who’s trying to take her shit…”

  She outlined the rest of her plan, rocking back and forth to keep her feet warm.

  “Okay,” Cutter said, knowing how quickly briefings could devolve. “Last condo on the end of four. Dirty white siding with black trim.” He jabbed at the map again to get it set in everyone’s mind. “Wooden planter on the right side of the porch.”

  Much like the “time out” that surgeons did before an operation to make sure they were cutting the right bits off the right patient, Cutter liked to remind everyone of the physical location of their target one last time before they moved. Booting the wrong door could prove every bit as dire as taking the wrong kidney.

  “Weapons?” Officer Brooks asked. She was bright-eyed, fit, smaller than Lola, with hardly enough room on her waist for her Glock, extra magazines, Taser, pepper spray, radio, and handcuffs.

  “There was a handgun in the drawer during the last arrest,” Lola said. “It was stolen, so we took that one, but I’d assume he’s replaced it – if only to keep from getting robbed by other heroin dealers.”

  Brooks nodded slowly, as if she expected as much.

  Sean Blodgett’s face screwed into an angry grimace. “And maybe a spider,” he said.

  Chapter 3

  Cutter tapped the Colt Python revolver at his side – his grandfather’s service weapon. The USMS regulation Glock rested over his right kidney. He moved quickly down the street with Lola and Officer Brooks on his heels. They stopped in a line at the edge of the driveway, fifteen feet from the front door, using the shadows of a fat blue spruce for concealment. Cutter took a deep breath of the chilly air, centering his thoughts. There was a certain smell to working a warrant. Brighter, more alive. Grumpy always said if you didn’t smell it, you were in the wrong business. Cutter had been creeping up on bad guys for nearly twenty years if he counted his military time. Mud hut, remote cabin, or residential neighborhood – it never got old.

  Pistols out and stacked single file, they were close enough to hear one another breathing. Officer Brooks, who brought up the rear, gave Lola a firm tap on the side of the thigh with her nondominant hand. She was good to go. Lola repeated the gesture to Cutter, who did the same to Alvarez, who trotted off without another word.

  From this point on, things would unfold at lightning speed.

  Officer Brooks and Lola peeled off the line as soon as Alvarez reached the car, padding softly up the concrete steps to take up positions on the porch on either side of the doorjamb – out of the fatal funnel.

  Cutter covered Nancy, watching the windows above while she approached the truck.

  Another dog barked. This one closer. Each tiny noise sounded exponentially louder than it really was. The zip of spruce boughs against a ballistic nylon vest surely woke everyone in the neighborhood. Lola’s stifled cough echoed all the way down the street.

  It was getting light enough to see Alvarez clearly as she lifted the door handle on Pringle’s blue Silverado, using the body of the vehicle for cover. She put her hip into the truck, rocking it. Headlights flashed and the horn blared. That part of her mission complete, Alvarez trotted up the steps and parked herself behind Lola.

  Now Cutter could move. He reached the porch in four quick strides, skipping all but one step to fall in behind the others at the same moment the door yawned open.

  Pringle’s girlfriend stepped out wearing nothing but a terrycloth robe and a very large pair of panties. She was a corpulent woman, and the robe, meant for someone much smaller, did little to hide everything that wasn’t covered by the undies. One hand shielding her eyes from the flashing headlights, the other held a cell phone. As Alvarez had pointed out, it was astounding how quickly felons called in help when someone tried to steal what they’d stolen from someone else.

  Officer Brooks identified herself and motioned the woman the rest of the way out with a flick of
her hand. Lola and Alvarez covered the open door with their handguns.

  Cutter bumped Lola so she could take a step inside and cover the entry. The stairway to the second floor was eight feet across the small foyer. Back to the door, Cutter took note of the coat closet to his right – there was always a closet – and the open hall leading to the rear of the house. He covered the landing above with his Colt, while Alvarez covered the interior hall. The heat inside the house was turned up full blast, and the moldering odor of dirty socks and sour dishes hit them full in the face.

  It smelled like a felony warrant.

  Officer Brooks turned the heavy woman so she could cuff her before the shock of seeing cops at the door wore off.

  The ratchet sound of the handcuffs brought the woman out of her stupor. “Why you doin’ this? Am I under arrest?”

  “Depends,” Alvarez said, her voice calm but firm.

  “You gonna let me tie my robe?”

  “Just face the wall and you’ll be fine,” Alvarez said over her shoulder, standing just inside the door. “Which room is Jarome in?”

  “He’s not here,” the girlfriend said.

  “That’s a good way to be under arrest,” Alvarez said. “We know he’s here. If you hide him, you go to jail for hindering.”

  “Why you ask me that shit if you already know?”

  “I asked what room he’s in,” Alvarez reminded her.

  The woman gave an insolent shrug. “I’m freezing my ass off out here on the porch. How am I supposed to know where he is?”

  “Got a long gun leaning against the wall at the top of the steps,” Lola piped.

  “Who else is here?” Brooks asked.

  “Just us,” the woman said.

  Alvarez shook her head. “Us?”

  “Me and Jarome.”

  Cutter pointed to the left, motioning for Lola to come with him and clear the bottom floor while Nancy Alvarez watched the stairway. He didn’t like huddling at the door for too long.

  At that moment, Jarome Pringle stumbled around the corner from the direction of the kitchen. Dreadlocks stuck skyward from a hard night’s sleep. Belly rolls all but obscured his leopard-print Speedo. He didn’t appear to see Cutter until he made it well into the foyer. He tried to spin and run up the stairs but didn’t have the dexterity or speed.

  “Jarome!” Cutter barked. “Stop! US Marshals!” Unwilling to let him get to the gun, Cutter sprang forward, catching Pringle by the hairy shoulder before he made the second step. The big man roared, furious at having his castle invaded so early in the morning.

  Cutter was not a small man, but Pringle had him by at least a hundred pounds and, teetering on the stairs above him, nearly a foot of height. Prudently, Cutter took a step back, knowing from experience what Lola was about to do. The vast majority of fights Cutter had been in over the course of his law enforcement career hadn’t really been fights at all, but someone trying to get away while Cutter attempted to stop them. The trouble was, Pringle was running toward a gun.

  It was dangerous to deploy a Taser on someone on the stairs, but more dangerous still to let them get to a firearm. Cutter saw the red laser dots settle, one between Pringle’s hairy shoulder blades, the other in the geographic center of his buttocks.

  “Jarome Pring—” Lola said. He started to run again. “Tase, Tase, Tase!” Lola barked.

  There was an audible snap as the nitrogen canisters popped the plastic gates off the front of the cartridge, propelling twin barbed darts on gossamer wires, angling slightly to give a greater coverage, meaning more muscles for the electrical current to disrupt. The barbs followed the red laser dots. Pringle went rigid, the banister post at the base of the stairs arresting his fall and sending him sideways onto the landing. Onlookers might think Cutter stuck out his boot to give Pringle a kick, but in reality, he was making sure the man’s head didn’t smack the tile floor as he fell.

  “Hands!” Lola snapped. She was the one holding the Taser, so she gave the commands.

  Pringle moaned. He’d knocked a tooth out on the pillar at the bottom of the stairs and it lay on the ground beside his face.

  “You bitch…”

  “More where that came from,” Lola said. “Hands behind your back.”

  Teetering on his belly, the outlaw complied, hesitantly lifting his flabby arms so she didn’t shock him again.

  Cutter was closer, so he moved in to apply the handcuffs. Pringle’s back was as wide as a barn door, and Cutter had to use two linked sets in order to pull both wrists close enough together.

  A heavy clunk thudded from somewhere on the upper floor at the same moment the radio on Cutter’s belt squawked. He ratcheted on the cuffs and drew his Colt.

  Sean Blodgett’s voice poured into the room. “White female and white male looking out the top-floor window, boss. Might be Shiloh Watts. Pretty sure the male is Corbin McGrone. Both are 10-99.”

  10-99 meant the warrant gods were smiling. Bycatch, or scooping up unintended targets when rounding up a fugitive, was common enough. Like fell in with like – and fugitives running from the law tended to do their running in groups.

  Another thud came from upstairs, then a woman’s scream – long and piercing.

  “Bronnnnncooooo!” It was a cry of anger, not ecstasy.

  Lola mouthed the name. “Bronco?”

  “That’s what it sounded like,” Cutter said.

  “Go ahead,” Alvarez whispered. “I’ve got this one.”

  Pringle’s body effectively dammed the bottom of the steps, forcing Lola and Cutter both to jump over top of him.

  Few things compelled Arliss Cutter to run faster than a scream. He forced himself to move methodically but quickly. Colt Python moving in concert with his eyes as he took each step, he brought the second floor into view bit by bit. Lola stayed two steps back, giving herself room to maneuver if things went south.

  The woman wailed again, long and trailing – desperate.

  The condo wasn’t big, allowing Cutter and Lola to clear the single bathroom and another empty bedroom quickly before slowing outside the room with the screaming woman. It was the only door left, so Corbin McGrone – or someone who looked like him – had to be inside. He glanced at Lola just long enough to make sure they were both on the same sheet of music. A quick nod told him she intended to buttonhook to the right around the doorframe while he went left. McGrone was a wiry tweaker who’d run track at Dimond High School. In addition to being fast, he was known to have a propensity to fight that Cutter had read about but never experienced firsthand.

  There was no good position of cover in a thin-walled condo, so Cutter rolled in without announcing, preferring not to get shot through the Sheetrock.

  He expected to find Watts and McGrone, but instead found a woman he didn’t recognize sitting on the edge of a rumpled bed in a pair of gym shorts and a stained white wife-beater shirt. She clutched her greasy red bangs and rocked back and forth, sobbing hysterically. Shiloh Watts was a head taller and had short bottle-blond hair. Neither she nor Corbin McGrone were anywhere to be found.

  “Hands!” Cutter barked as Lola did a quick peek through the open closet doorway.

  The woman raised her hands, but ratcheted up her screaming as soon as she saw the marshals. She spewed saliva with every curse, ordering them out of her room.

  If she was a victim, she wasn’t looking for help from law enforcement.

  The bedroom was cramped and hot, heaped with dirty laundry and old Chinese takeout boxes. A cloying barnyard stench, ten times worse than downstairs, hung heavy in the stifling space, made worse by the piercing screams. There were few places to hide. The window was closed, which left under the bed and inside a heavy oak armoire against the wall. A pile of clothing and coat hangers lay on the floor in front of the armoire. One or even both of them had to be in there. It would be tight, but Cutter had seen full-grown men contort themselves to hide under bathroom sinks.

  Cutter pointed toward the bed while he covered the armoire.
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  He wasn’t just clearing a room; he was instilling in Lola the correct way to clear a room.

  The redhead continued her spit-slinging tirade, glaring at Cutter as if she wanted him to catch fire. Lola kicked a leather boot that was on the floor, sending it sliding under the bed. She stooped at the same moment, getting a quick look. She shook her head.

  “Where are they?” Cutter asked, still aimed in on the armoire.

  “I’m not telling you shit!” the redhead screeched.

  “Hey,” Lola said, her voice pointed. “Who’s Bronco?”

  “Get out of my house!”

  Cutter reached for the armoire door with his off hand.

  The redhead sprang from the bed in a rage, rushing to intercept Cutter. She had something in her hand, not a gun, but something a shade larger than her fist…

  Cutter realized just before the searing pain hit his cheek that she’d tossed the contents of a clear plastic box at his head. The case held not a tarantula, but a small brown scorpion. It was hardly much larger than a quarter. Most of that must have been made up of stinger, considering the acid-like burning sensation between Cutter’s eye and the corner of his mouth. He slapped his own face out of instinct, getting stung in the hand for his trouble. The hapless scorpion fell on the floor, and Cutter’s boot ended its short reign of terror.

  Lola caught the screaming woman by the hair as she ran at Cutter, squatting slightly to lower her center. It had the same effect as clotheslining a runner. The redhead’s feet outran her body. Lola held on until just the right moment to let the woman fall flat on her back, knocking the wind out of her sails and mercifully silencing her screams.