Page 79 of Backtrack

Pink slumped forward against his seat belt, head lolling out the broken side window, mouth open. Blood from multiple cuts streamed down his face. It was impossible to tell if he was unconscious or dead. The driver’s side of the truck looked empty. At first Cutter thought Duvall might have slid down in the cab, or, if he wasn’t wearing his seat belt, been violently ejected during the rollover. Rapid gunfire erupted from behind the front of the dually, answering that question. Three of the rounds struck Cutter’s patrol car, popping metal. A fourth shattered the glass on the passenger door. Five and six missed completely and zinged off the ground to Cutter’s left. Seven, eight, and nine again riddled the Caprice.

Sweat—from tension and the oppressive heat—soaked Cutter’s shirt and stung his eyes. He put a single bullet into the hood of the truck, bringing a barrage of how-dare-you rounds back in his direction. This guy either had an endless supply of ammunition or he was terrified. Spray-and-pray tactics rarely worked in real life.

Cutter was too far away to hear when the pistol ran dry, but he heard the outlaw curse. He’d counted fifteen shots. A nine-millimeter. Cutter put another round into the truck’s fender, bringing another string of curses and more return fire. Cutter had four rounds left in his revolver, two speed loaders on his belt, and a rubber Speed Strip in his shirt pocket, each with six rounds. If he burned through all that, he had a five-shot Chief’s Special in his boot. This guy’s pistol carried fourteen in a single magazine.

Cutter fired again, bringing more shots his way. An outlaw might have two guns, but he’d not met many who carried more than one extra magazine.

Making sure his legs were protected behind the wheel, Cutter retrieved the rubber Speed Strip from his breast pocket. He kept an eye on Pink, who looked to still be unconscious. Cutter had a clear shot at him if he came up with a weapon.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Cutter flicked open the revolver’s cylinder, thumbed out the three spent casings, and quickly replaced them with three from the Speed Strip. He dropped the rubber strip back and aimed in again.

“Throw down your gun and show me your hands!” he barked.

Duvall answered with more gunfire.

Cutter fired again, just once, enticing Duvall to expend more ammunition. Cutter counted thirteen shots. With Duvall facing the death penalty, he half expected the outlaw to save the last round for himself. Instead, Duvall fired blindly, in full panic mode, running the pistol completely dry. Again, he let loose with a string of vehement curses.

Pink was sitting up now. Blood and saliva dripped from his open mouth. He blinked stupidly, as if trying to make sense of what was going on around him.

The sirens grew louder—but not nearly loud enough.

“Hands!” Cutter barked again, this time to both men. Pink turned and glared directly at him and then pushed open the door. Cutter put the front sight of his revolver in the center of the Man Cub’s chest. “On the ground!” he roared.

Ricky Pink raised his hands, both of which were empty. He staggered forward, more animated with each step.

Cutter expected gunfire at any moment. Surely Duvall had a second gun. Instead, the outlaw threw down his empty pistol—and ran.

Cutter turned his focus on an advancing Ricky Pink. “I said get your ass on the ground! Now! Your partner’s leaving you to rot.”

Pink didn’t take the time to look over his shoulder. He kept coming, dead sharklike eyes looking somewhere beyond Cutter.

“What?” Pink smirked. “Are you gonna shoot me, pig? Like you shot my friend? Like you shot Vince? I’m fifteen years old, you son of a bitch!” Tears streamed down the cheeks of his baby face. Men were often the most dangerous when they were crying—and mentally, this man cub was likely even more irrational.

Jaw set, Cutter holstered his revolver. He rolled his shoulders and brought his right foot back, readying himself for a fight. “Ricky Pink,” he said. “You’re under arrest—”

Pink lowered his head and roared, rushing in like an oncoming train. Cutter stepped offline, but not before Pink caught him with a flailing fist to the ribs. Wild and unplanned the lucky shot was like getting hit with a baseball bat. Cutter turned to keep his opponent in front of him. He had age and experience. Pink had youth and a seventy-five-pound advantage—not to mention stupid luck.

Pink stopped his forward movement with remarkable agility, spinning to catch Cutter with a wicked elbow that, because of their size difference, landed with sickening effect in the center of the deputy’s forehead.

Exploding stars filled Cutter’s vision. He staggered backward, careful not to cross his feet while he put some distance between himself and this teenage ogre. Pink pressed his attack, raining a flurry of wild punches. Cutter slipped and faded past most of them, but too many landed, ringing his bell. One thing was certain—this kid had far more gas than Cutter. This fight was going to be over quickly one way or another.

Pink rushed in again. It seemed the only real tactic he knew. This time, Cutter sidestepped like a matador, avoiding the wild elbows and fists but staying close enough to send a devastating boot to the side of the kid’s leg.

Pink yowled in pain, collapsing inward toward the damaged knee, and colliding with a cross elbow from Cutter that all but destroyed his nose. He roared again, spewing blood but clearly not stunned enough to stop the fight. Cutter looked for an opportunity to attack the knee again, intent on chopping the big guy down to his size bit by bit. Pink caught on quickly. He turned, protecting his injury while at the same time crashing forward again, attempting to grab Cutter around the chest from behind and trap his arms. From there it would be all too easy to slam him against the ground. The extreme height difference meant Pink had to hunch over to get a good grip. Cutter quickly widened his stance and shrugged, forcing the kid to bend a hair further. Cutter took advantage of the temporary imbalance, snatching Pink’s right arm while at the same time throwing his own hips backward and dropping to his right knee. Pink tried in vain to jerk his arm away, but months and years of swinging a three-pound sledgehammer and wrestling shoes onto rank horses had turned Cutter’s grip into a vice. He used his body as a fulcrum and Pink’s own weight to throw him.

The Man Cub landed flat on his back, croaking for breath. Cutter could have dropped a knee into his throat and killed him—and probably should have. Instead, he drew back to deliver what he hoped was a fight-ending kick to the kid’s ribs. Pink absorbed it like he was in a pillow fight, rolling away and springing to his feet,zombie-like. He lumbered in for another flailing bum-rush. Cutter felt ribs give and crack as the point of Pink’s shoulder knocked him away like a cue ball. He fell hard, careful not to throw out a hand to catch himself and earn a broken wrist.

Again, Pink turned on a dime, rushing in to stomp Cutter’s head. Instead of trying to get out of the way, Cutter rolled toward him, grabbing Pink’s ankle on the same leg as his injured knee. The kid screamed, hopping backward and then falling flat on his tailbone. Both men scrambled to their feet, panting. Pink leaned forward, hands on his knees.

Severely wobbled and feeling he might vomit at any moment, Cutter was pleased to see that blood spewed with each exhaled breath from the open gap on the bridge of Pink’s nose.

“We checked up on you, you know,” Pink said, between croaking gasps, a cat toying with a wounded mouse. He knew he’d won. Might as well prolong the moment. His bloody lips curled into a fake pout. “I heard your old lady is real sick. Guess she might just keel over dead any—”

Cutter looked the Man Cub square in the eye.

Pink edged forward, continuing to goad him. “Are you pissed at me? You want to shoot me so bad, don’t you? But you can’t. Too bad for you I lost my gun in the wreck.” Pink sneered, young and inexperienced enough to believe that taunting was part of the fight. He narrowed his dead eyes and glared. “You’re a lawman. I’m an unarmed kid. You can’t shoot m—”