The outlaw screamed something unintelligible. Cutter heard banging, like a trashcan or metal building. They were close now. Then the dog broke into a series of frustrated, high-pitched barks.
“He’s climbed up high,” Jensen said as he ran. “Zeus is trying to get to him.”
Cutter and Jensen were shoulder to shoulder when they rounded the corner of the church. Fifty meters away, Twig Ripley stood on top of a large metal dumpster alongside an eight-foot chain link fence, just out of reach of the dog.
Zeus was incredibly athletic, able to scale ten-foot walls if he had a running start, but the sides of the dumpster were angled outward and a fraction too tall to get a toe hold. He bounced up and down, growling and whining in frustration.
Cutter scanned for other routes, hoping to find a way around and make up some time. Twig put both hands on the fence as if to vault, and then he stopped, grabbing something that was hanging on the chain link. It took Cutter a half second too long to realize it was a crowbar. Instead of running, Twig turned and stepped to the edge of the dumpster to peer down at the dog.
Jensen attempted to call Zeus off, his voice tight with worry, nearly as high pitched as the dog’s whines.
“Stop!” Cutter yelled.
Twig ignored him, stooping slightly, holding the crowbar like a golf club. He waited, timing his movements with the Malinois’s bounce, and then swung hard, directly to the side of the dog’s head with a sullen thud. The powerful K9 yelped pitifully at the horrific impact, and fell to the grimy pavement like a sack of sand.
Jensen let loose a guttural yowl.
Twig dropped the crowbar, seemingly aware that holding it gave the officers cause to shoot him. Then he turned and made for the fence, teetering there a moment, nearly losing his balance on the dumpster.
Zeus lay still at the base of the dumpster, looking much smaller than he had only a moment before. Enraged, Cutter shot Jensen a quick glance as he ran. “See to your partner. I’ve got this guy.”
Twig’s attack on Zeus slowed him enough that he was still in the process of climbing down the other side of the fence when Cutter reached the dumpster. Instead of climbing up, Cutter ran straight past, slamming with all two hundred and twenty pounds into the loose chain link as if he intended to run straight through it. His shoulder impacted Twig Ripley’s groin, sending the outlaw flying like a billiard ball backward onto the filthy pavement.
Cutter was prepared for the sudden impact and used the rebound to scramble onto the dumpster and over the fence. His boots hit the ground on the other side at the same time Twig clambered to his feet.
“U.S. Marshals!” Cutter boomed. “On the ground!”
Ripley spun, squaring off, ready to fight. He had three inches and at least a fifty-pound advantage, both of which made it look much less like Cutter was kicking his ass for no reason. This guy had chosen to stop running and viciously attack a police dog. Cutter didn’t concern himself with the niceties of de-escalation. Filled with rage, Cutter plowed straight, letting a sloppy haymaker from Twig slide off his shoulder. Moving close, he delivered a staggering head butt, nearly peeling Twig’s nose down the front of his face. The outlaw doubled over but kept his feet. Cutter snapped in a lightning-fast jab, followed by a right uppercut, intent on hitting the man until he got heavy. The outlaw fell backward, turning over to push himself up on all fours, and receiving a boot to the ribs for his trouble.
A piercing whistle cut the chilly night air as Cutter reared back for another blow.
Cutter planted another boot, feeling ribs crack and separate.
“Arliss! You good?” It was Lola. “Hang on. I got your back.”
Cutter blinked, then looked down at the moaning Twig Ripley, who had curled up on the wet asphalt like a dead spider.
“Let’s have those hands,” Cutter barked. He rolled the outlaw over, and, pressing a knee none too gently in the small of the man’s back, ratcheted on the handcuffs.
Twig groaned, spitting out a mouthful of gravel. “What’s . . . your problem?”
“You had to hit that dog?” Cutter hauled Twig up by his elbow.
Twig shrugged, wincing from the pain in his ribs. “It would have just kept coming after me. Anyhow, you didn’t have to beat the hell out of me. It was just a damned dog—”
Lola swooped in and took control just in time. “I got him, boss.” She leaned in. “Word to the wise, Mr. Ripley. Keep your mouth shut around Officer Jensen. You’re lucky it was my partner and not Jensen who got to you first.”
Twig groaned. “I don’t feel lucky.”
Cutter glared at him. “How about that.”
Nancy Alvarez and Sean Blodgett met them as Cutter and Lola came around the corner with the prisoner.
Blodgett nodded at Twig. “You want us to take him, boss?”
“I catch ’em, I’ll clean ’em,” Cutter said. He looked at Nancy. “What’s the news about Zeus?”
“Theron took him to the twenty-four-hour animal hospital,” she whispered. To the prisoner, she said, “You’re lucky the marshals got to you before he did.”
“People keep tellin’ me that,” Twig groaned.
Cutter gave him a more thorough pat-down before putting him in the back seat and buckling him in. The Expedition had no cage, so Cutter secured his pistols in a lockbox in the rear hatch.
Lola put a hand on his arm as he got ready to open the door and climb in the back seat with the prisoner. “You okay?”
He gave her a curt nod. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She glanced at his skinned knuckles, and then touched her own face to signal he had a bit of Twig’s blood on his cheek. “You are aware that the Marshals Service issues pepper spray and Tasers now?”
“It was handled.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I saw that. Good thing for Twig I came along when I did. It looked to me like you were about to handle his teeth in.”
“Arrests can be dynamic.” Cutter shrugged. “Sometimes things aren’t what they seem.”
Lola folded her arms across her chest and stood hipshot, looking at him for a long moment. Rain moistened her high cheekbones and made them shine under the streetlight. “And sometimes, they are exactly what they seem.” She winked. “Fortunately, you have yourself a Polynesian Jiminy Cricket.”
CHAPTER 4
“This is death,” Sarah Mead thought, fighting the urge to vomit. She panted, gulped for air, then panted some more, trying to focus on her surroundings to take her mind off the pulsing agony in her head. Summoning her last ounce of courage, she choked back the sobs and forced herself to take long, slow breaths. Her skull felt like it would explode any moment. Something was tied over her eyes, but the acid pain in the center of her brain brought with it a blue light, throbbing with each beat of her racing heart.
Her arms were pulled behind her, her hands tied. Whoever had done it obviously didn’t care if her hands eventually fell off and had cinched them so tight that they’d gone completely numb. She could hear voices, but they were muffled and unintelligible. She lay on her stomach, left hip pressed against something hard and cool—a log wall maybe. Was she still in the lodge? That wasn’t likely. Chaga had a slight mothball stench that she’d hated when she first arrived. She’d gotten used to it, somewhat, but it had never gone away completely. This place smelled like old socks and urine—and something else she couldn’t quite place. She heard more voices, still garbled. The left side of her face was warmer than the right, as if there was a fireplace or a stove on that side.