Page 8 of Backtrack

“Sounds like something you’d be damn good at,” Teague muttered.

“Thanks,” Johnson said. If he understood the jibe, he didn’t let on. He started in on his foot pursuit story again, but the trooper raised a hand.

“I’m gonna stop you there,” he said. “Wayne, wouldn’t you say as DPS troopers go, I’m one of the more agreeable ones?”

“Yep,” Cutter said. “You are indeed.”

Point proven, Teague nodded at the youngster. “There you go. Now, Cutter won’t say anything because you’re related to his boss, but you’d be wise to keep something in mind. Nobody gives a pinch of coon shit about your daring exploits unless you’ve whacked a shooter in the UT Austin clock tower or some such.” The highway patrolman jammed his index finger on the tabletop in time with his words. “You are not entitled to war stories until you been on the job at least five years.” He leaned forward, locked in on the young deputy’s eyes. “Until then, do yourself a favor and keep your ears open and your piehole shut. That’s all there is to it.”

Johnson shot a nervous glance at Cutter, who shrugged.

“He’s not wrong.” Cutter slid out of the booth. “I need to wash my hands.”

Teague and the crestfallen young deputy sat and nursed their Dr Peppers while they waited for breakfast. “I know I was hard on you, LJ,” the highway patrolman said. “Better I give you a littletune-up than someone who doesn’t have your best interest at heart.”

“Yeah,” Johnson said, like he almost believed it.

“Be a weasel …” Teague mused. “You know, there might be some wisdom in that. …”

“It’s actually pretty smart if you think about it,” Johnson said. “My academy instructor told us—”

Trooper Teague’s eyes narrowed to thin slits. “Piehole …”

“Right,” Johnson said. “I’m—”

A sudden thump against the window caused the young deputy to jump in his seat, nearly upending the Dr Pepper. Cutter held his radio in one hand while he beckoned the lawmen outside with the other. A battered pickup that was more rust than red paint idled in the parking lot alongside him. The driver leaned out his window and pointed west, waving his arm wildly above his head as if to illustrate a crash or explosion.

Teague fished a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and threw it on the table.

Karlene, who’d just come back with their food, stood and stared out the window. “What’s going on?”

“No idea.” The highway patrolman snugged down his hat and nodded at the window. “But if Wayne Cutter gets excited, it can’t be good.”

CHAPTER 3

6:47 a.m.

Cutter alerted Dispatch about the possible armed robbery as he ran. This wasn’t how he expected his Sunday morning to go. His wife would be getting ready for church soon—if she was feeling good enough. He and the good lord weren’t exactly on speaking terms, so he’d decided to catch up on a few cases while the office was quiet.

His best-laid plans “gang aft agley,” as his poetry-loving bride would say—after she chided him for skipping his Sabbath meetings.

The Chevy’s 350 engine roared to life, snapping Cutter back in the seat when he threw it in gear. He hit forty miles an hour by the time he left the Wayside Truckstop lot, blues and reds flashing on his light bar, siren wailing. Gravel flew as he drifted through the turn onto the I-20 frontage road, counter-steering to keep the Caprice on the road. Straightening the wheel, he stomped hard on the gas, heartened to hear the growling V8 open up. He took the westbound on-ramp to the interstate at eighty. A quick glance in the rearview confirmed that Trooper Teague was getting on the interstate behind him, gaining rapidly in his newer Caprice.

Cutter nudged the wheel, floating his patrol car into the right-hand lane and giving the trooper the road. It didn’t matter who got there first.

Deputy Johnson sped by on the left, tight on the tail of the DPS black-and-white.

Weatherford PD Officer Ray Gene Bryant broke squelch over the radio. The city officer had a place out toward Brock and was likely on his way in to work. His voice was barely audible over the blare of Cutter’s siren. Prolonged exposure to gunfire and the drone of military aircraft had done a number on Cutter’s hearing. He turned up the volume.

“Four-thirty-one, I’m out with that armored truck,” Bryant said. “Roll an ambulance my way. Suspect vehicle is a dark blue Ford Crown Victoria, last seen heading eastbound on I-20. Two occupants, according to my witness. No description, but they’re well-armed and dangerous. Have that ambulance get a move on. It’s bad. Real bad.”

Half a breath later, Cutter caught sight of a blue Crown Vic in the oncoming lane, barreling toward him.

The trooper’s brake lights flashed a quarter of a mile ahead. Lafayette Johnson kept going west.

Cutter took his foot off the gas, bleeding off speed without touching the brake—a dangerous endeavor in his ancient patrol car. He gave his mirrors a quick check to make sure he wouldn’t get rear-ended, then cut the wheel sharply and stomped on the gas. The rear of the big Chevy came around in a one-eighty. Heading the right way now, Cutter accelerated through a cloud of dust and flying debris as he crossed the grass median. He was back in the lead, with the suspect Crown Victoria in sight.

Siren waling, his left hand on the wheel, Cutter double-checked his seat belt and then reached for the radio mic hanging on his dash.