“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.
“Bronnncoooohhhh,” she croaked – the air escaping a slashed tire.
“Stay down!” Lola hissed. She sidestepped to cover Cutter. “What was it? I didn’t see a spider. You okay?” Her head moved as if on a swivel, searching the room, while the muzzle of her pistol covered the armoire.
Cutter nodded at the crushed scorpion on the floor. “Got me a good one,” he said, then flung open the armoire door.
Worse than empty, instead of Watts and McGrone, they found a four-foot hole cut out of the back of the armoire and completely through the wall into the next condo.
“Sneaky bastards,” Lola whispered. “They made a Habitrail.”
Cutter jerked the radio out of his pocket while Lola rolled the redhead onto her belly. She laughed maniacally as Lola zipped a pair of nylon restraints around her wrists.
“Watts and McGrone have gone through the wall,” he said. “They’re in the adjacent condo.”
Sean Blodgett answered, “The wall?”
“Affirmative,” Cutter said. “Watch the windows. Nancy, if able, you or Brooks keep an eye on the front. The name Bronco ring a bell with anybody?”
Blodgett spoke again. “Billy Gorman. He goes by Bronco. Five-nine, a buck eighty. Used to fight in the AFC octagon until he started running with McGrone.”
“Copy,” Cutter said. “Nancy. Let’s get some more PD folks here and set up a perimeter before we—”
The radio bonked, garbling Cutter’s message as one of the other units attempted to talk over him.
Officer Slavich broke squelch as soon as Cutter released the transmit key. Blodgett could be heard shouting in the background.
“Three just bailed out the back,” Slavich said, breathless, moving. “Gorman took out Blodgett’s knee, so I’m going after him. McGrone and Watts are running north, about to disappear into the woods.”
Officer Brooks appeared at the bedroom door, announcing herself so she didn’t get shot.
“Stay with her,” Cutter said, nodding toward the redhead before starting for the stairs.
Lola followed tight on his heels. Almost giddy with the joy of a foot pursuit, she chuckled as they bounded down the stairs. Cold air hit them in the face as they burst out the back door – and ran toward the dark line of trees.
Chapter 4
Anchorage PD patrol officer Joe Bill Brackett’s primary field training officer once told him that every cop who stayed on the job for more than a few months would have at least one call that stuck with them. The haunting, he called it.
Joe Brackett’s haunting came the first day he was by himself on patrol. He was on his own – that is, absent a field training officer critiquing his every move, for a grand total of two hours.
He’d heard Brooks and Slavich dispatched to link up with Nancy Alvarez not far from Chester Creek – that meant the Marshals task force was hitting a house. Brackett loved working fugitives. He would have killed to help with a call like that.
Instead, he got an 11-38. A mental subject.
Brooks and Slavich got to arrest a wanted felon while Brackett had to deal with a crazy out on Point Woronzof. He’d probably have the opportunity to talk to some homeless guy who muttered about how aliens were scanning his brainwaves. Brooks and Slavich might get to boot a door.
Lucky bastards.
Brackett glanced down at the open laptop connected to the mobile data terminal in his patrol car. His designator turned red, joining the column of officers who were attached to calls. Officers who were free were in yellow. A long column of green designators indicated day shift, who were at this moment sitting in fallout at the new HQ downtown. It was a few minutes before seven in the morning, and they would hit the street shortly, providing overlap staffing with midshift. The sun would be up for real an hour after that. Brackett cracked his passenger window to jolt himself awake. The chilly odor of birch and melting snow was like the ozone smell after a rain, only more biting. He couldn’t help but smile.
Even an 11-38 was better than his last two jobs, peddling supplements at GNC or loading money into ATMs. He’d wanted to be a cop since he was a little kid, and now here he was – on his own, the Alpha unit in his area. His city.
In truth, this was to have been Brackett’s last day of field training, but Chip Robertson, his FTO for the first and final phases of his eighteen weeks of training, had pronounced him “ready enough” and cut him loose to patrol on his own for the last few
