The sergeant made a face. “My ex-wife ate that crap all the time. Shit cost an arm and a leg, but she never lost an ounce from that fat ass of hers.”
Brad Dallas had met his partner’s ex-wife. She was an attractive woman with nice legs and a biting sense of humor, and he didn’t think she had a particularly fat ass, either. Officer Dallas wasn’t going to argue the point, however.
“Hey, this is weird,” Dallas said a minute later. “Someone else jacked a Dodge Sprinter this morning. Over near Mulberry Mall. It was white, too… Same model year.”
He flipped through the pages. “Damn. Here’s another one. Nine AM, a uniform supply company van in front of a Dunkin’ Donut.”
“Okay, so you’re thinking that somebody’s planning a big heist using a trio of Dodge Sprinters? How likely is that?”
“I didn’t say that,” Dallas replied. “I was just saying I thought it was interesting, that’s all. Anyway, if you’re thinking about it, why stop with three?”
“Okay, partner. I’m hooked,” Sergeant Locklear declared. “I think it’s time you check the police data banks in Reno and see if they’re losing Dodge Sprinters, too.”
They turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard. Traffic was moving, but the streets were already packed with cars.
Washing down the last bite with a gulp of Diet Coke, Dallas put his greasy burger wrapper on the seat and swung the dashboard computer so it faced him. The young policeman wiped his fingers with a napkin, then cracked his knuckles. The RATS patrol had special access to up-to-the-minute car theft data from all over the state, not just Vegas. In a moment, Brad Dallas was exploring the state’s law enforcement database, city by city.
With each swerve and bump, Curtis managed to shift position, until he could observe the two men in the front seat. The driver was grizzled and well into middle-age, with sagging eyes and a blubbery neck. Curtis recognized that one — the fellow who beat him into unconsciousness and tied him up.
The man in the passenger seat was young, with dark, excited eyes under bushy eyebrows and close-cropped hair. His name was Hector and he seemed nervous and jumpy. While Curtis watched, the man swallowed an amphetamine without water. Both men wore nondescript navy blue uniform-type overalls that appeared black in the gloom of the truck’s interior.
Right now Curtis was helpless to do more than watch. There was no way he could free himself from the wires binding his wrists. They were firmly embedded in his ravaged and swollen flesh. Fortunately, after the older guy had beaten him down, he did a sloppy job of wiring Curtis’ legs. By twisting around for several minutes — and ignoring a considerable amount of pain — he’d managed to loosen the wires enough so that he could sit up, maybe get to his knees or even his feet, when the time came.
“You missed the turn, Salazar. The Babylon is on the other side of the boulevard,” Hector cried.
The young man suddenly turned his head around, to peer over the back of his seat. Curtis froze, but the man’s gaze passed right over him, to the view out of the rear windows. After a glance, he turned around again. Curtis relaxed enough to breathe.
“You have to circle around now, old man. Try making a U-turn and be quick about it. Come on, come on, do it man. we’re running behind schedule.”
The younger man’s voice was laced with adrenaline. He trembled with nervous impatience.
The older man frowned, rubbed his hairy neck. Then Salazar jerked the steering wheel into a sharp turn. Hector grunted in surprise, clutched the dashboard. Curtis, still on his back, used the vehicle’s momentum to help him roll to his knees. Fighting to remain upright, the steel truck bed digging into his kneecaps, Curtis heard tires squeal and the angry blare of a horn.
“Watch out,
“Would you look at that,” quipped Sergeant Locklear. Still behind the wheel, he stared down his nose at a white van swerving none too safely across two lanes of traffic.
“Dude. That’s a white Dodge Sprinter!”
Still staring, Officer Dallas read the stenciled letters on the side of the panel truck. “Sunflower Gardens Florist.”
“I know the joint,” Locklear said. “It’s over near the University. A little late to be delivering flowers, though.”
Officer Dallas grinned in anticipation. “What are you gonna do, Sarge?”
A thin smile crossed Locklear’s worn face. He sped up, weaving through traffic to catch up with the white truck. They just made it through two traffic lights and ran a third, until the Metro squad car was finally tailing the rear bumper of the truck. Locklear flipped on the bubble lights, blasted the siren.
To both officers’ surprise, the vehicle slowed down immediately. But it still rolled for half a block, along a fairly deserted stretch of road bordering on the newly built Wynn Hotel. Finally the truck turned off Las Vegas Boulevard, onto a ser vice road made of uneven concrete, that led to a fenced-in construction site. The truck halted at the locked gate, perhaps fifty yards away from the busy boulevard.
Locklear rolled to a halt bumper to bumper with the Sprinter so the truck could not flee the scene, threw the police car into neutral.
“Check the plates. I’m going to talk to this guy.”
Before Dallas could reply, Sergeant Locklear was out of the car and approaching the truck, one hand on his holstered gun. The younger man entered the plate numbers and waited for the computer to spit out a report.
“I told you not to pull over, man,” Hector hissed, a drop of saliva flecking his sweating lip.
“What was I supposed to do, drive away, have him chase me? This truck is full of explosives.” Salazar clutched at Hector’s arm. “Calm down,
“Too late for talk.” Quivering, Hector pulled the MP5K automatic from under the seat.
“No, Hector,” Salazar cried.
Sergeant Locklear appeared at the driver’s open window at just that moment. “Okay, step out of the car —”
Hector squeezed the trigger and the shot cut the Sergeant’s command short. The burst blew past Salazar’s face and the man howled. The policeman’s head exploded, and the torso dropped from view.
Curtis made a desperate lunge over the seat, too late to save the officer. He looped his arms around Hector’s neck and yanked the man backwards. The
Clicking on an empty chamber, Hector let the gun fall and clawed at the suffocating arms coiled around his throat. Curtis groaned as the wires around his wrists dug deeper, but he did not let up on the pressure. Bracing his knees against the back of the seat, he pulled until he heard Hector’s neck snap. The fingers raking his arms went limp, and Curtis let the dead man slide out of his grip.
The passenger door opened. “Out with your hands up!” Officer Dallas shouted in a voice tinged with panic.
Curtis immediately raised his hands to show us the wires binding his wrist. “I’m not armed!” he cried. “I was a prisoner of these men. I’m a federal agent—”
“Shut up,” Dallas screamed. “Shut the fuck up and get down on the ground.”
Curtis could hardly move. The wires still bound his ankles as well as his arms. Instead of arguing with the cop, Curtis stumbled through the door, landed on the pavement.
The policeman loomed over him, gun waving in Curtis’ face. “I can’t hurt you, but you have to listen to me,” Curtis said in a reasonable tone.
The policeman saw the wires around Curtis’ arms and legs. But instead of freeing him, Officer Dallas circled the front of the Sprinter to the driver’s side. Curtis heard the cop moan.
