Part 11 (1/2)

”What?” Paul said. ”What happened?”

”The guys in the Monte Carlo just scored. That's what I've been waiting for.”

”Okay,” Paul said. ”Now what?”

”Now we go take them down.” Mike was sitting up in his seat now, his eyes sparkling with antic.i.p.ation. ”This is what I want you to do. We're gonna roll up on them as fast as possible. When we do, you jump out, knock down the closest one to you, and grab him by the throat and squeeze. Don't let go until he spits out the dope, you hear?”

Paul looked at Mike like he'd just grown four heads. ”You're kidding?”

”Do I look like I'm kidding?”

Paul decided that he didn't. Of course, with Mike that didn't necessarily mean anything one way or the other.

”Can we do that?” Paul said. ”I mean, just start choking people.”

Mike grew very serious, and suddenly there was no doubt that he meant exactly what he was saying.

”Look,” he said, ”we play dumb jokes on each other all the time, but when it comes to dealing with the dope dealers, the fun and games stop. Those guys over there don't give a rat's a.s.s about you, and they don't care whether you go home in the morning or not. If they can kill you and get away with it, they will. Do not let your guard down for a second. I mean that. You keep choking that motherf.u.c.ker until he gives up. If you don't, he'll know you're weak, and not only will he swallow the dope, but he will proceed to f.u.c.k your world. We clear on that?”

”Yeah,” Paul said. ”We're clear.”

”Don't think it's like the Academy, where you let the other person tap out because you think they might get hurt. Out here, you go full tilt. You hear?”

”I hear you.”

”Okay. You ready?”

No, Paul wanted to say. Suddenly things were going way too fast for him. But he nodded. ”Yeah, I'm ready.”

That was good enough for Mike. He dropped the Crown Victoria into gear and charged out of the alleyway under full acceleration, closing the distance to the dealers in a matter of seconds.

The three men scattered. They were already running by the time Paul and Mike jumped out of their car, but they were hardly a match for Paul. Paul had played college football for a Division II school, and you don't make it to that level without being graced by a few rare gifts. He had size and raw physical strength and agility and above all speed. Plus, he was still close to his physical peak. The heroin dealer was not. One of them tried to feint left, then veered right, cutting a diagonal across Paul's track. Paul wasn't fooled for a second. He moved quickly and overtook the man within a few steps. Paul grabbed him around the neck and slung him face first into the asphalt.

He rolled the dealer over and dropped down on top of him so that he was straddling his chest. Paul pushed his hand under the man's chin and found the windpipe. His fingers closed down around it and he squeezed. He squeezed as hard as he could.

The man grabbed his wrist with both hands and tried to pull his hand away, but Paul kept up the pressure. He could feel the resistance in the muscles and the tendons beneath the man's skin. The man's jaw was clenched so tightly it seemed like his teeth might shatter in his mouth.

”Spit it out!” Paul yelled at him. ”Mother f.u.c.ker, spit it out.”

Paul didn't even realize he was banging the back of the man's head on the asphalt with every word. There was too much adrenaline coursing through him for him to do anything else but squeeze.

The man was trying to speak, but no sound came out. Finally, after what seemed to be forever, the man rolled his head to one side and spit out four small, brightly colored balloons. They looked like gumb.a.l.l.s.

”All of them!” Paul said, and squeezed harder.

Two more balloons came out.

The man wasn't breathing. His eyes looked as if they might turn up into his skull. Paul let go, and the man sucked in a huge lungful of air. His eyes regained their focus. But before the man could completely regroup, Paul flipped him over and forced one arm behind his back.

”Put your other hand behind your back,” he shouted. ”Sir, put your hand behind your back.”

”f.u.c.k you,” the man wheezed.

Paul dug his knee into the man's back. ”Put your hands behind your back. Now!”

The man kept his left arm tucked under his body, using his weight to keep it from Paul. There was no way he could get up, because Paul had him pinned, but he was still fighting to stay out of the cuffs. Paul rose up a little and then rammed his knee down into the man's spine.

”Give me your hand. Now!”

The man just grunted. He kept his left arm hidden under his body. Paul twisted the man's right arm further up behind his back, wrenching it so hard the man had to arch his back to fight against the pain.

”I'll break it,” Paul said. ”I swear I will. Now get your other hand-”

The high-pitched, metallic-sounding pop pop pop pop pop pop of a small caliber semiautomatic pistol erupted somewhere to his left. It was like a car backfiring, only faster, more purposeful.

Paul looked in the direction of the shots. His grip on the dealer slackened. The man jumped at the opportunity and started fighting. By the time Paul could regain his hold, the man had already squirmed out from beneath him and was up on his feet. He took off running, the cuffs still dangling from his right wrist, and didn't look back.

Paul started after him, but stopped after only a few steps. Even as the man was breaking away from him, Paul heard the sound of an engine revving up, and a moment later a beige Cadillac Deville skidded around the corner. It turned toward them, but the driver slammed on the brakes at the sight of the police car. The driver put the car in reverse and burned out backwards down the street. As Paul stood there watching, too startled to move, the car spun around and took off the other way.

”Come on, dammit!” Mike yelled at him.

He had already let his guy go and was running to the car.

Paul followed him. He jumped into the pa.s.senger seat as Mike threw the car into gear. They crashed down over the curb and fishtailed onto the street, the Cadillac's taillights disappearing around a corner two blocks down.

Mike keyed up the car's radio.

”44-70,” he said.

Mike sounded perfectly calm, like he was ordering a cheeseburger at the drive-thru. Paul was shaking like an epileptic.

”44-70,” Mike said again.

”Go ahead, 44-70,” the dispatcher answered.

”44-70, we got one running. Westbound on Wedding from Hall Street. Approaching Ash Street now. Still westbound.”

”10-4, vehicle description?”

”Beige four door Cadillac. Late model, rear end damage. Texas plate four-whiskey-golf-hotel-three-nine.”

”Copy that, 44-70. What's he running for?”

”On Ash Street now, going southbound.”

”10-4,” the dispatcher answered. ”Southbound on Ash Street from Wedding. 44-50, 44-60, start that way. What's he running for, 44-70?”

”We're westbound again. On Clarke Street now.”