The DEA had arrested Pringle for possession of heroin the month before. They had some intel that he was trying to establish a foothold for a Jamaican posse in Anchorage, but he’d been holding only a couple of grams at the time – not enough to prove intent to sell. His defense attorney had convinced the judge that he was only holding the drugs for his troubled girlfriend – merely a good man, doing the right thing to help curb the terrible opiate epidemic. The magistrate hadn’t exactly believed that theory, but was troubled by the small amount of heroin if Pringle was supposed to be such a player, and allowed him out on bond. He’d promptly gotten arrested again for the DUI. The state judge allowed him out on his own recognizance as soon as he was sober enough to stagger, but the incident had triggered a federal supervised release violation.
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
