Page 2 of Backtrack

Cutter focused in on the two would-be Rolex Rippers. Maybe they’d provide a little excitement.

Ahead, Rich Watch staggered forward in the shadows. His girlfriend’s heels echoed off the brick walls on either side of the narrow, feebly lit alley.

Phillips took out her cell and punched in a number as she walked. She held her hand over the receiver as she waited for the call to connect. “Listen to me, Arliss,” she said. “I know how you like to swing in and save the day without thinking, but remember, you don’t have your gun or handcuffs. More important, you have no law enforcement standing in this country. You hear me? Zero authority. We are guests here.”

“Yep,” Cutter said. The chief was wrong about one thing. He rarely acted without thinking. He’d simply decided a long time ago what he would and would not tolerate.

He noted security cameras mounted on the brick walls above and what he suspected were microphones, much like New York City’s ShotSpotters. With gunshots few and far between in the UK, Cutter imagined these mics were to pick up screams. A worthwhile notion in crime fighting, but if this was anything like law enforcement in the United States, help, though well-intentioned, would arrive just after the nick of time.

A dozen or so patrons mingled in front of The Nell Gwynne’s bright red door, taking advantage of the cool, rainless summer night. Their buzz and laughter carried up the alley.

Hoodie leaned in close and whispered something in his partner’s ear.

Cutter picked up his pace.

Phillips ended her call and walked faster to match his stride. “Did you hear a word I said?”

“Loud and clear, Chief,” Cutter said, moving faster. “You told me to be a responsible guest while we’re in the UK. That’s what I’m doing.”

“That is not at all what I said. DS Macpherson is five minutes away with reinforcements.”

“This’ll be over before they get here.”

“You know your badge doesn’t carry any weight here.”

“Since when do I let a badge get in the way of good behavior?”

Cutter sprang into action a split second before Hoodie and Ballcap made their move.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” Phillips muttered, breaking into a run behind him.

Sneak thieves were sneaky for a reason. They were rarely any good at toe-to-toe fighting. These Rolex Rippers were so focused on their marks, they remained completely oblivious to the two Yanks sprinting up behind them until it was too late. They ignored the blonde completely, going for the expensive Sea-Dweller like hungry dogs on a bone. They could rake in a thirty-thousand-dollar profit if they sold it for half what it was worth.

Cutter rushed in and grabbed Hoodie’s sweater by the waist with both hands. He yanked upward, effectively trapping the man’s arms inside his own shirt. The would-be robber had viewed himself as the attacker and screamed at the sudden assault, as if he’d been shot. His partner fled like a cartoon character, departing the scene so quickly he ran out from under his Manchester United ballcap, leaving it on the pavement.

Still blinded by the sweater over his head, Hoodie yanked away, tripping over a series of wood construction planks at the entry of a neighboring business and face-planting against the wall. Cutter grabbed the back of the man’s belt and then push-pulled him into and then away from the wall, bouncing him over and over until he got heavy.

“Mind the gap,” Cutter said, drawing a round of applause from the gathered patrons of The Nell Gwynne.

Detective Sergeant James Macpherson showed up moments later with two uniformed constables to take custody of the known Covent Garden Rolex Ripper.

“His partner fled on foot,” Phillips said.

“We nicked him around the corner, running down the Strand,” DS Macpherson said. He shook his head and gave Cutter a mischievous grin. “Your headquarters warned us you could be a bit of a Tarzan.” He nodded toward the pub. “What say you two Yanks buy me a pint and we’ll keep this little escapade to ourselves? You know, avoid an international incident and all that.”

The Alaska Airlines flight from Seattle touched down in Anchorage shortly after six p.m., crabbing into a heavy cross wind. The plane bounced twice, hard, rattling overhead bins and startling Cutter out of a wakeful stupor.

A flight attendant’s voice came over the speaker, dead calm. “That wasn’t the pilot’s fault,” she said. “That was the ass-fault.”

It would have been funny had Cutter not heard it so many times. Air travel in Alaska was often a rodeo.

The flights from Heathrow to Seattle, then Seattle to Anchorage, had been long and tedious. Sitting nearly on top of each other in the cheapest seats the government could buy, Cutter and Chief Phillips passed the time with conversation, catching up on each other’s lives in a detail that the daily grind of work rarely allowed between chief and supervisor.

He’d spent the remainder of the time reading and working the budget. His late brother Ethan’s former employer had provided a sizable settlement after his murder, but that money was for his kids. Becoming a new father saw Arliss making a lot of lists.

Nearing exhaustion by the time they landed, he stuffed his Moleskine notebook in the backpack at his feet and grabbed his phone from the seat pocket. He took a long moment to stare pensively at his background screen—a recent photo of Mim in a T-shirt and leggings, her hand under a very pregnant belly—and then switched out of airplane mode.

As usual, a cascade of emails, texts, and voicemails began to download at once. He scrolled past the incoming messages and called home to check in. Good news would keep, and bad news tracked him down.