Stone Cross

by Marc Cameron

  Cutter shrugged on the raincoat and opened his door to a gust of wind.

  “I was thinking,” he said a minute later as they trudged side by side through the rain toward the lot. “You can’t do any better than a hundred percent on your FIT test.”

  “Not true, boss,” Lola said. “SOG looks at times, not max points. I’m competing against other applicants, not the standard.”

  Cutter thought on that. In his forties, he could still run a sub-ten mile-and-a-half, bench press his body weight fifteen times, and pump out seventy pushups without any trouble—but contemplating Lola Teariki’s workouts made his bones ache.

  They paused two hundred feet from the shop, scanning for security cameras. Cutter found two—one facing outward from the front door, and another that pointed toward the lot. The side of the building next to the roll-up garage doors appeared to be a blind spot. Sean Blodgett and Anchorage PD Task Force Officer Nancy Alvarez were parked around the corner in another SUV, giving them a view of the front and side doors as well as the driveway onto the lot, but not the garage.

  “Keep your hood pulled up around your face,” Cutter said to Lola. “In case we missed a camera.”

  She adjusted her jacket around the thick bun of hair on top of her head. “Okay. But I’m still not sure what we’re doing.”

  “Ranucci says Twig is on the move,” Cutter said. “So time is of the essence. We have a cell number for Sam, but I don’t want to burn it if we don’t have to.”

  Lola’s shrug was almost lost in the oversized rain jacket. “Agreed.“

  “Sam is our only real lead, but APD says there’s no one at his address of record.”

  “Right . . .” Lola said, still not tracking. “So how do we get in touch with Honest Sam if we don’t want to call the only number we have?”

  Cutter squatted to the ground, as if he’d dropped something. “You brought your binoculars with you?”

  She patted the chest of her raincoat.

  Cutter wiped the rain out of his eyes, pointing at the shop with an open hand. “Take a look at that sign in the shop window and tell me what you see.”

  Lola fished out the binoculars and raised them. “‘Warning: Facility Protected by All Guard Security.’” She gave Cutter a wary side-eye, then looked back through the binoculars. “I get it,” she said, finally tracking.

  Cutter picked up a rock the size of a golf ball and stood, hurling it through the four-by-four window next to the garage doors. “Exactly. We’ll get his alarm company to call him.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Blodgett and Alvarez didn’t have eyes on the broken window, but Cutter was fairly sure they knew what was going on when the alarm siren wailed.

  Officer Alvarez came over the radio.

  “I’ll let Dispatch know it was us.”

  “Stand by on that,” Cutter said. “We don’t have a three-sixty view of the building. Owner should still respond.”

  There was radio silence for a beat before Alvarez broke squelch again. “Copy that,” she said. She’d not seen Cutter throw the rock, and though she surely had her suspicions, didn’t quiz him for any details. She let APD know the US Marshals were already on the scene, and requested a single marked unit to keep Honest Sam honest when he arrived to check on his dealership. The rest of them would stay in the shadows until he left, following him back to wherever he was staying, hopefully with Twig.

  Anchorage was Alaska’s largest city, but the law enforcement community was small enough that Cutter had worked with many of the same APD officers on multiple occasions over the months since he’d transferred in from Florida. Officer Leon Cho rolled up in his SUV two minutes later. Cho had what Nancy called swing-shift hair—full and expertly cut, unlike the buzz cuts of her cohorts on mid-shift, where she’d worked before coming to the fugitive task force. His Ken-doll do notwithstanding, Cho was no pretty boy. He was a sniper with APD SWAT and was built like a sprinter, a welcome trait when hunting fugitives.

  Nancy Alvarez’s boyfriend, Theron Jensen, was in the area, knew Nancy was there, and dropped by with K9 Zeus when he heard the call. Jensen was a muscular thirty-something who’d served with Army Special Forces before joining APD. Easy to like. It was difficult to tell who was more devoted to whom, Zeus to Jensen, or vice versa. Cutter had watched the agile Belgian Malinois work before, and was more than happy to see the dark face and amber eyes peering out the side window of Jensen’s patrol car.

  Everyone met on the side street next to Honest Sam’s lot. The rain had slowed to a cold spit. Vapor filled the night air each time anyone spoke.

  Cho canted his head in disbelief at the shattered window.

  “So you guys just happened to be here when the window broke?”

  “No,” Cutter said, nodding to the tire tracks in muddy gravel where Lola had spun out. “It’s a hundred percent our fault. The Marshals Service will pay for the damages.” He would not have actually said the tires had thrown the rocks, but he didn’t mind implying it. Thankfully, Cho didn’t press any further, whether he made the inference or not.

  “This is what broken window policing has come to . . .” Cho shook his head smugly and said, “That’s convenient.”

  “So,” Officer Jensen said, “you got no paper on Sam Ripley, just his cousin, Trig?”

  “It’s Twig,” Nancy said, giving Jensen a mock punch in the arm. Alvarez was a compact woman, reaching just below Jensen’s shoulders. He outweighed her by at least eighty pounds. But that didn’t matter. Zeus saw her as a threat and went berserk in Jensen’s back seat, ears pointed forward like targeting radar.

  Lola grinned. “I think somebody’s jealous.”

  “Tell me about it,” Alvarez said. “That dog’s batshit crazy . . . in a good way. He’d do anything for Theron, so you gotta love him.”

  Cutter tapped the powder-blue warrant folder in Lola’s hand to get things moving. She folded back the face sheet and showed Twig Ripley’s Nevada driver’s license photo to both Cho and Jensen.

  “Seriously?” “Jensen scanned the folder. “This guy’s actual name is Twig Ripley?”

  “Seems so,” Alvarez said. She touched him on the arm, inciting another round of frenzied barks and growls from Zeus.

  Jensen chuckled. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll let you throw the Kong for him tonight and he’ll be your bestie.”

  APD dispatch advised over the radio that the owner of Honest Sam’s was en route, ETA ten minutes.

  Everyone pulled well back from the building, except Cho, who waited out front as the officer responding to the alarm.

  Six minutes later, they’d just taken up their previous positions when Sam Ripley skidded a white late-model Dodge crew-cab to a stop in front of Cho’s police car—and he wasn’t alone.

  “Boss . . .” Lola’s voice buzzed against her hands as she peered through her binoculars. “That big dude in the passenger seat look like Twig to you?”

  “Yep,” Cutter said, looking through his own binoculars.

  Honest Sam got out and strode quickly toward the door of his business. He swung a lanyard full of keys as he walked. The passenger stayed put in the Dodge.

  Cutter keyed his radio. “Let’s let Cho get Sam away from the truck.” He called out a play by play of what he knew the others would do. None of them needed the direction, but it helped to keep everyone on the same page as the situation progressed. “Nancy, Sean, go ahead and roll up. Lola and I will come in from the east.”

  “I’ll approach from the south,” Officer Jensen confirmed over the radio, mixed with Zeus’s excited barks. “We’ll box him in.”

  “Good deal,” Cutter said.

  Half a block away, Nancy Alvarez started her engine and pulled into the street—evidently a little too slowly for Twig Ripley.

  Fugitives didn’t get to stay fugitives for long unless they were endowed with a healthy dose of paranoia. Paranoia had been Twig’s daily companion since he’d jumped bond almost eleven months prior. His head snapped up
as soon as Alvarez pulled the SUV onto the street. He jumped behind the wheel of the white Dodge before she could close the gap. Instead of running, Twig threw the pickup into reverse and stomped on the gas, slamming into the oncoming SUV with enough force to deploy both airbags, stunning both Blodgett and Alvarez.

  Sam Ripley spun at the noise of the crash, saw what was happening, and decided to take up for his cousin. He growled and ran directly for Leon Cho, who sidestepped deftly and stomped on the back of the big man’s heel as he went by, following him to the ground to wrap him.

  Cutter pounded on the dash. “Get him stopped!”

  “On it,” Lola said, speeding down the street to plow into the pickup’s left rear wheel with the push bumper. The Dodge spun, folding up the side of the Expedition to slam driver’s door to driver’s door, so Twig and Lola were looking directly at each other. The outlaw mouthed something unintelligible and then lay down in the seat, disappearing from view. The passenger door flew open before they’d even stopped moving and he hit the ground at a dead run.

  Officer Cho had Honest Sam well in hand. Alvarez and Blodgett were obscured from view by their air bags, still inside the idling SUV.

  “You check on Sean and Nancy,” Cutter yelled over his shoulder to Lola as he flung open his door. “I’ll back up Jensen and the dog.”

  * * *

  Along with luck and paranoia, Twig Ripley had incredible speed for a man of his hulking size. He’d made it almost to the end of the block by the time Jensen released K9 Zeus. Target in sight, the dog tore down the street like a growling missile, claws clicking on the wet pavement. Twig had disappeared, but the dog veered left, cutting through the parking lot behind a Korean church.

  Cutter sprinted to keep up with Officer Jensen, staying a half step behind so he didn’t risk getting in between handler and dog—a surefire way to get bitten.

  Frenzied barking echoed through the darkness ahead, bouncing off the walls of the church.

  The K9 officer called out encouragement to his dog as he ran. “Get him, Zeus! Hold him, Zeus!”

  Jensen and Cutter homed in on the riot of threatening shouts and growls. Uncomfortable with the dog out of his sight, Jensen picked up his pace, still shouting. “Hold him, Zeus. I’m coming, bud. Twig Ripley! Do not move!”

  The outlaw screamed something unintelligible. Cutter heard banging, like a trashcan or metal building. They were close now. Then the dog broke into a series of frustrated, high-pitched barks.

  “He’s climbed up high,” Jensen said as he ran. “Zeus is trying to get to him.”

  Cutter and Jensen were shoulder to shoulder when they rounded the corner of the church. Fifty meters away, Twig Ripley stood on top of a large metal dumpster alongside an eight-foot chain link fence, just out of reach of the dog.

  Zeus was incredibly athletic, able to scale ten-foot walls if he had a running start, but the sides of the dumpster were angled outward and a fraction too tall to get a toe hold. He bounced up and down, growling and whining in frustration.

  Cutter scanned for other routes, hoping to find a way around and make up some time. Twig put both hands on the fence as if to vault, and then he stopped, grabbing something that was hanging on the chain link. It took Cutter a half second too long to realize it was a crowbar. Instead of running, Twig turned and stepped to the edge of the dumpster to peer down at the dog.

  Jensen attempted to call Zeus off, his voice tight with worry, nearly as high pitched as the dog’s whines.

  “Stop!” Cutter yelled.

  Twig ignored him, stooping slightly, holding the crowbar like a golf club. He waited, timing his movements with the Malinois’s bounce, and then swung hard, directly to the side of the dog’s head with a sullen thud. The powerful K9 yelped pitifully at the horrific impact, and fell to the grimy pavement like a sack of sand.

  Jensen let loose a guttural yowl.

  Twig dropped the crowbar, seemingly aware that holding it gave the officers cause to shoot him. Then he turned and made for the fence, teetering there a moment, nearly losing his balance on the dumpster.

  Zeus lay still at the base of the dumpster, looking much smaller than he had only a moment before. Enraged, Cutter shot Jensen a quick glance as he ran. “See to your partner. I’ve got this guy.”

  Twig’s attack on Zeus slowed him enough that he was still in the process of climbing down the other side of the fence when Cutter reached the dumpster. Instead of climbing up, Cutter ran straight past, slamming with all two hundred and twenty pounds into the loose chain link as if he intended to run straight through it. His shoulder impacted Twig Ripley’s groin, sending the outlaw flying like a billiard ball backward onto the filthy pavement.

  Cutter was prepared for the sudden impact and used the rebound to scramble onto the dumpster and over the fence. His boots hit the ground on the other side at the same time Twig clambered to his feet.

  “U.S. Marshals!” Cutter boomed. “On the ground!”

  Ripley spun, squaring off, ready to fight. He had three inches and at least a fifty-pound advantage, both of which made it look much less like Cutter was kicking his ass for no reason. This guy had chosen to stop running and viciously attack a police dog. Cutter didn’t concern himself with the niceties of de-escalation. Filled with rage, Cutter plowed straight, letting a sloppy haymaker from Twig slide off his shoulder. Moving close, he delivered a staggering head butt, nearly peeling Twig’s nose down the front of his face. The outlaw doubled over but kept his feet. Cutter snapped in a lightning-fast jab, followed by a right uppercut, intent on hitting the man until he got heavy. The outlaw fell backward, turning over to push himself up on all fours, and receiving a boot to the ribs for his trouble.

  A piercing whistle cut the chilly night air as Cutter reared back for another blow.

  Cutter planted another boot, feeling ribs crack and separate.

  “Arliss! You good?” It was Lola. “Hang on. I got your back.”

  Cutter blinked, then looked down at the moaning Twig Ripley, who had curled up on the wet asphalt like a dead spider.

  “Let’s have those hands,” Cutter barked. He rolled the outlaw over, and, pressing a knee none too gently in the small of the man’s back, ratcheted on the handcuffs.

  Twig groaned, spitting out a mouthful of gravel. “What’s . . . your problem?”

  “You had to hit that dog?” Cutter hauled Twig up by his elbow.

  Twig shrugged, wincing from the pain in his ribs. “It would have just kept coming after me. Anyhow, you didn’t have to beat the hell out of me. It was just a damned dog—”

  Lola swooped in and took control just in time. “I got him, boss.” She leaned in. “Word to the wise, Mr. Ripley. Keep your mouth shut around Officer Jensen. You’re lucky it was my partner and not Jensen who got to you first.”

  Twig groaned. “I don’t feel lucky.”

  Cutter glared at him. “How about that.”

  Nancy Alvarez and Sean Blodgett met them as Cutter and Lola came around the corner with the prisoner.

  Blodgett nodded at Twig. “You want us to take him, boss?”

  “I catch ’em, I’ll clean ’em,” Cutter said. He looked at Nancy. “What’s the news about Zeus?”

  “Theron took him to the twenty-four-hour animal hospital,” she whispered. To the prisoner, she said, “You’re lucky the marshals got to you before he did.”

  “People keep tellin’ me that,” Twig groaned.

  Cutter gave him a more thorough pat-down before putting him in the back seat and buckling him in. The Expedition had no cage, so Cutter secured his pistols in a lockbox in the rear hatch.

  Lola put a hand on his arm as he got ready to open the door and climb in the back seat with the prisoner. “You okay?”

  He gave her a curt nod. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She glanced at his skinned knuckles, and then touched her own face to signal he had a bit of Twig’s blood on his cheek. “You are aware that the Marshals Service issues pepper spray and Tasers now?”
/>
  “It was handled.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I saw that. Good thing for Twig I came along when I did. It looked to me like you were about to handle his teeth in.”

  “Arrests can be dynamic.” Cutter shrugged. “Sometimes things aren’t what they seem.”

  Lola folded her arms across her chest and stood hipshot, looking at him for a long moment. Rain moistened her high cheekbones and made them shine under the streetlight. “And sometimes, they are exactly what they seem.” She winked. “Fortunately, you have yourself a Polynesian Jiminy Cricket.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “This is death,” Sarah Mead thought, fighting the urge to vomit. She panted, gulped for air, then panted some more, trying to focus on her surroundings to take her mind off the pulsing agony in her head. Summoning her last ounce of courage, she choked back the sobs and forced herself to take long, slow breaths. Her skull felt like it would explode any moment. Something was tied over her eyes, but the acid pain in the center of her brain brought with it a blue light, throbbing with each beat of her racing heart.

  Her arms were pulled behind her, her hands tied. Whoever had done it obviously didn’t care if her hands eventually fell off and had cinched them so tight that they’d gone completely numb. She could hear voices, but they were muffled and unintelligible. She lay on her stomach, left hip pressed against something hard and cool—a log wall maybe. Was she still in the lodge? That wasn’t likely. Chaga had a slight mothball stench that she’d hated when she first arrived. She’d gotten used to it, somewhat, but it had never gone away completely. This place smelled like old socks and urine—and something else she couldn’t quite place. She heard more voices, still garbled. The left side of her face was warmer than the right, as if there was a fireplace or a stove on that side.

  She replayed everything she could remember in her mind. Someone had hit her. Twice. She knew she was fortunate to be alive. Blows to the head could be deadly. Whoever had hit her used enough force to knock her out, or even kill her. That could only mean they didn’t care whether she lived or died. Then why was she bound and blindfolded? And where was David? She remembered now. There was a body. Without thinking, she tried to scream.