He got it.
And it felt good.
“Break off pursuit, Unit Seventeen,” Frady ordered.
Instead of slowing, Mark whipped the cruiser to seventy and veered between the painted lines that designated Cedar Street. The “street” was only forty yards long, ending in a fence, and beyond it was a strip of lawn and landscaping that buffered the college from the highway.
Now where’s that suspect?
Where are you hiding?
Officer Morgan has a surprise for you.
Armed and dangerous. That was an excuse to shoot him, right?
Mark tossed the mike away, barely aware of Frady’s frantic jabbering on the radio.
Mark reached below the seat to where the Glock was strapped above his ankle. Sure, the college didn’t allow concealed weapons, but how did they expect Mark to keep the streets safe if only the crooks had guns? What was he supposed to do, write a warning ticket?
The baggy pants that had disguised the bulk of the weapon were a barrier, and Mark nearly let go of the wheel in his haste to free the pistol.
“Break off, Morgan!” Frady shouted, one last attempt to restore order.
“Fuck off, Frady Cat,” Morgan shouted to the sky.
The fence was dead ahead, approaching fast, and Mark glanced around, surprised. The suspect was nowhere in sight.
You’re not getting away that easy.
The cruiser plowed into the fence, jerking Mark forward. He bounced against the seatbelt and the passenger’s-side air bag exploded. The chain links stretched taut with a brittle skreee. Then Mark was through, peeling the fence loose from its posts as metal grabbed at the cruiser’s flanks. He bounced over the uneven terrain and plowed through a stand of flowering shrubs. By then, he was sufficiently slowed to merge with the midday traffic.
The other cars miraculously made way, even slowing to the speed limit so Mark could easily move through them. Going with the flow, Mark was able to free the Glock and lay it on the seat beside him.
He checked the side and rearview mirrors, then peered through the windshield.
Somewhere there was a maroon SUV that had made the mistake of stepping out of line while Officer Mark Morgan was on duty. It would be a mistake the crook would live to regret. Or maybe not live. Whatever.
He was humming, glowing, flushed with heat as he clicked off the chattering CB radio.
It felt good to be a cop.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dominic Scagnelli didn’t like the way this was going.
That wasn’t unusual.
He hadn’t liked the goddamned Drug Enforcement Agency. He hated the FBI. And this new gig as a fixer for Danny-Boy Burchfield was about the bottom of the fucking barrel.
The bitch of it was, this new job paid better than any of them. At least on the numbers reported to the Internal Revenue Service. But the IRS could roll up those check stubs and cram them up their puckered little buttholes, for all he cared.
They were all part of the same machine, the upper end of the trough. And people like him were paid to stand guard while the hogs fed.
Simple as that.
And in a way, he was getting his share of the swill, too.
Scagnelli reached into his pocket to touch the metal tin of “breath mints.” You’ve got to hand it to that two- faced bastard, Wallace Forsyth. He really knows where to score some good shit.
Scagnelli glanced out the car window. He was parked in a handicapped space near the rear exit to the neurosciences building. He wasn’t sure when Dr. Alexis Morgan would make her daily trek to her car, but it was close to lunchtime and that was as good a bet as any.
He drifted into that semi-alert state of surveillance and was startled when someone knocked on the driver’s- side window.
Holy fucking guacamole on a crispy corn fritter.
He glanced over to see a young woman, college-aged, wearing a bright orange vest and holding a little booklet. He was getting soft. What if that had been a punk with a gun?
He rolled down the window. She was cute, but he didn’t like cute. He smiled anyway. “Good morning, miss. Nice day, huh?”
She glanced around as if noticing it was daylight for the first time. “You’re in a handicapped spot, sir.”
Scagnelli nodded and pointed at the sign. “Fine of two hundred and fifty dollars. That’s a lot, considering half the people with handicapped stickers are faking it.”
She fanned herself with her ticket book, a little perspiration on her flushed skin. She was a brunette with television hair and a body that would go to cheese in about five years, right after she married some dumb frat boy with a business degree. “The spot’s for people with stickers,” she said.
“We’ve established that.”
“You don’t have no sticker.”
“We’ve also established that.”
“Are you picking somebody up?”
“You might say that.” Scagnelli’s eyebrow twitched. He’d only taken one hit of speed this morning. He didn’t like to get too wired while he was on a stakeout, but he also didn’t want to drowse off, either.
“There are metered spaces over by the parking deck,” the young woman said, the first sign of exasperation entering her tone. She had a little two-way radio on her belt that squawked and fell silent.
“If I wanted to be in a metered space, I’d be in a metered space. I want to be here.”
“Sir, university parking regulations requires a civil penalty of-”
“Yeah, I know.”
She looked into his aviation sunglasses as if trying to read his hidden eyes. “I’m afraid I have to write you a ticket if you don’t leave.”
He nodded. “Yeah. That’s your job, right? You should always do your job to the best of your abilities. That’s what they teach you here, right?”
You and the other fucking corporate slaves.
“Yes, sir.”
“What do they pay you to be a Parking Nazi? Minimum wage plus a quarter, but you turn around and give it all right back to the Man.”
She glanced around as if deciding whether it was easier to fill her quota elsewhere, or maybe she was debating hitting her little radio and calling in the university rent-a-cops. Scagnelli didn’t want the hassle of showing his federal badges and playing the one-up game.
“Go ahead and write your ticket,” Scagnelli said.
She was nearly in tears now, and relief washed over her face as she walked to the rear of the rental sedan. Scagnelli monitored the building’s exit again, glancing once in the rearview mirror to make sure she was writing it all down. The pedestrian traffic had picked up, and Scagnelli wondered if he should change his plans.
The traffic monitor came back to the window and ripped a copy of the ticket free, then stuck it out toward him. He brushed his lips-speed made his skin itch-and then popped open the briefcase on the seat beside him. His guns were stuck inside padded mailing envelopes, and a few papers were clipped together on top to make it all look legit. He reached into a fold and pulled out a handicapped sticker. “Sorry, miss. I forgot I had this.”
She stood there with the ticket held out to him, still a foot away from the window, as if afraid he’d grab her wrist and pull her into the car.
