Page 11 of Backtrack

“Johnson!” Cutter barked.

“Ten-four …” Surely feeling his initial suggestion absolved him from a bad plan, the younger deputy kept any other thoughts he had on the matter to himself.

Cutter braced his gun hand against the door pillar and began to count. He made it to twenty-five when the Kenworth belched smoke and gave a barking squawk as the trucker threw it into gear. A moment later, the trailer lurched forward.

Ponytail couldn’t help himself. He craned his head around in earnest now, astounded that his plan was actually working. This slight movement took the muzzle of the revolver away from the hostage’s head and exposed Ponytail’s right leg all the way to his groin.

Cutter’s time in the military had taught him to chop the target that presented itself. His first .357 magnum round shattered the outlaw’s knee. Underpinnings gone, Ponytail listed sideways, his shoulder and then his head tipping into view—where Cutter was waiting. The outlaw made the fatal decision to hang on to his gun. Cutter took advantage of both new targets, firing three shots in total—knee, shoulder, head in quick succession. The lifeless outlawtoppled sideways, slamming into the Pontiac’s wheel before slumping across the steering column like a rag doll. His handgun clattered harmlessly onto the convertible’s hood.

Revolver in one hand, Cutter dragged the former hostage away with the other, passing her to a stunned Lafayette Johnson. Far from being frozen in fear, the girl’s mother began to scream with rage, smashing her fists over and over into what was left of Ponytail’s face. Cutter holstered his gun and put a strong arm around her shoulder, guiding her away from the gore and out of the car.

The poor woman’s legs buckled as soon as her feet hit the ground. She collapsed into Cutter’s arms, her face and chest spattered with her captor’s blood.

“Is … is it over?”

“It is,” Cutter lied.

A dozen sirens wailed in the distance. At least one of these bastards was still on the run.

This was far from over.

CHAPTER 4

9:35 a.m.

EMTs loaded both women from the Pontiac convertible into an ambulance and transported them to Weatherford Hospital before the dust settled.

Lafayette Johnson shuffled forward as if on wooden legs, slack-jawed at the bloody scene. Cutter was focused on getting the women to safety and hadn’t noticed the gun still dangling from the kid’s right hand.

“Go ahead and holster up,” Cutter said, voice quiet but firm. “Then pat this guy down for a second weapon. He may have a pocket gun.”

“Pat him down?” Johnson asked, incredulous and more than a little green around the gills. “Half his head’s g … I mean, no way you can think he’s a threat anymore.”

“For hell’s sake,” Cutter said. He leaned into the Pontiac and checked the body himself. “Outlaws are not known for carrying the most dependable firearms. Let’s say the medical examiner goes to move the body and a two-dollar pistol with masking tape for a handle falls out of this guy’s pocket. Some bystander gets shot in the face, and whose fault would that be?” Cutter nodded across the highway. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got a sizable peanut gallery in the westbound lanes. It’s not a good look for me to be going through the pockets of a man I just gunned down.”

Johnson put a knuckle to the brim of his hat, tipping it back. Forjust a moment, his eyes flashed with the fury of a child who’d been scolded with the truth. The flash subsided as quickly as it came.

“I never thought about it that way,” he said, almost like he meant it.

Chastened and hangdog, Johnson finished the search. He found no more weapons. A crumpled electric bill and a pay stub from Comanche Peak Nuclear Power Plant identified the dead man as Vincent Kirby Millner. The power bill showed an address in Glen Rose, about an hour south of Weatherford. That all tracked. Cutter knew the frequent flyers in Parker County. This guy was new.

The sun blazed away in earnest by the time the medical examiner took custody of Vincent Millner’s body. Cutter’s paperwork would contain little more than the basics of the man’s offenses, names of other officers at the scene—and the weather. Millner was an armed robber and probably a murderer, shot to death in the course of taking hostages. Sheriff Langford would glance at the report, but that was about as far as any postshooting investigation would go.

It was well before noon, but the inside of Cutter’s patrol car had reached volcanic levels by the time he climbed inside. The metal seat-belt clasp was hot enough to raise a blister. He started the engine and, passenger window down, opened and closed the door a couple of times, replacing the hundred-thirty-degree air with hundred-degree stuff that the air conditioner could more easily handle. The odor of burning brakes still lingered.

Outside, Deputy Johnson had recovered from Cutter’s “course correction” and now sauntered down the shoulder of the interstate toward his own patrol car like John Wayne. His right hand rested on the butt of his revolver, canting his holster to the side. A swagger didn’t come naturally to many folks. Most, like Lafayette Johnson, looked awkward, like they were trying just a little too hard.

Cutter shook his head and sighed. The kid was teachable, but it would be an uphill slog. He grabbed the mic from his dash.

“Parker County 62,” he said. “I’m clear from the interstate. You want me at the crime scene?”

Manhunts weren’t common in Parker County, but when they did occur, the Sheriff’s Office took command.

Sheriff Langford broke squelch before Dispatch had a chance to answer.

“Wayne, this is Bud,” he said, as if the whiskey-rich voice neededan introduction. “I need you at the ground search. Weatherford PD’s got I-20 shut down for us a half mile west of the armored car. Morton and Garza are handling that scene.” The sheriff was an old Parker County cowboy. A hell of a lawman, but he didn’t go much for ten codes, preferring plain talk over the radio. His voice grew quieter as he turned to issue orders to someone nearby but kept the radio keyed. Then, “Cutter, you still with me?”

“I am.”