Page 73 of Backtrack

The man complied, arms raised. His hands were even with his shoulders. His sandy hair was feathered back like some television heartthrob, leading Cutter to believe he spent a good deal of time in front of a mirror. He wore khaki slacks and expensive leather loafers. A light cotton sport coat covered a suspicious bulge over his right hip. Texas firearms laws were draconianly strict. No reason for this guy to have a gun unless he was a cop.

“I have to say, you scared me, Sheriff,” the man said. “When I saw you lurking around behind the house.” He took a half step.

“Nope!” Cutter barked. “I said stay there.”

“Of course, of course,” the man said. “I can see you are under the misapprehension that I am burglarizing Mrs. Odom’s home.” He flicked a hand toward the back property. “I live close—”

“You sure your name isn’t Moffit?” Cutter said.

The man gave a low chuckle. “I’m afraid you caught me in a falsehood,” he said. “IamGerald Moffit, manager at TexSafe Armored. I mean no harm, I assure you.”

“Are you armed?”

“Why, yes, sir, I am,” Moffit said. “We’re talkin’ about the theft offive million in precious stones, not to mention the murder of two of my men—”

“Three of your men,” Cutter said. “You forget Foster?”

“My error,” Moffit said. “I heard. So tragic.” His hands dropped an inch. “I’m happy to turn over my pistol to you, if you wish.”

“Keep your hands where they are,” Cutter said again, matter-of-fact, his voice firm and even. This Foghorn Leghorn affect was beginning to grate on him. He kept his revolver raised with one hand, drawing the radio with his left to call for backup. Finished with his transmission, he eyed Moffit from the safety of the thick truck of the pecan tree. “Why did you lie to me, Mr. Moffit?”

“I know how this looks,” he said. “Simple as that.”

“Why are you here?”

“Well, I imagine the same reason you are, sir.” Moffit started to lower his hands again, but Cutter tut-tutted him, motioning with the barrel of his gun to keep them up. Moffit gave a wan smile. “I do say, you are serious about your safety.”

“Have you got ID?”

“Why, yes. Yes, I do. By all means, check my identification. Gerald B. Moffit. As I’ve told you, I am a supervisor at TexSafe over in Fort Worth.”

“Okay, Gerald B. Moffit,” Cutter said. “I ask again: Why are you here?”

“I do believe I told you that as well,” Moffit said, his Old South accent coming on stronger now. “Someone stole my company’s diamonds, and I am doing my best to retrieve them.”

Moffit shifted slightly, letting his right foot slide back a hair. His hands dropped again, almost imperceptibly, like he was testing to see if Cutter noticed.

“Nope,” Cutter said. “Keep them up.” He imagined the man calculating angles and distances.

Moffit’s eyes shifted toward the barn, presumably where his vehicle was parked.

“How’d you know to come here?” Cutter asked. “I only found out about this address an hour ago.”

“It is embarrassing to say, sir, but I have no earthly idea,” Moffit said. “The company sent me. I suppose our private investigators are just that talented.”

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Moffit’s hands began to crawl downward. Again, he glanced toward the barn. You could tell a hell of a lot about a man’s intentions by watching his eyes, even from thirty feet away.

Cutter’s finger curled around the trigger.

It was clear that Moffit intended to shoot his way out and make a run for the barn.

Action is faster than reaction.Period. Military and law enforcement instructors beat that drum daily during training. Cutter was aimed in and Moffit still managed to draw his pistol and fire a shot before two rounds from Cutter’s Smith & Wesson slammed into his chest. The shot buzzed past Cutter’s ear, close enough to feel. Cutter might have missed it had he been overly focused on the man’s hands, but the whites of Moffit’s eyes telegraphed his plans a split second before the draw.

Moffit fell to his knees, coughing and sputtering. The pistol slipped from his grasp. He teetered there for a long moment, blinking as if he was astonished to find himself in this predicament. The bullets had shredded his lungs, washing his teeth in frothy pink blood.

Cutter stayed at the pecan tree, covering the house now, just in case one gunfighter turned into two.