“Just say when,” Officer Calhoun replied.
“Car’s stopped. Now facing toward exit,” Officer Prasko reported.
“What are they doing?” Officer Grider inquired.
“Getting out of the car. Baby’s out. Amos is out. Opening trunk.”
“And? And?”
“Baby’s got a beach bag.”
“Go! Go! Go!” Officer Grider ordered.
Officer Prasko stood up and walked as far as he could toward the stairs without losing sight of the Olds 98, the Hertz Chevy, and the door to room 138.
The van came in first, tires squealing, the rear door already open and stopped in front of the Olds 98. Half a dozen plainclothes police officers, weapons—four pistols, two pump-action 12-gauge shotguns—at the ready, jumped out.
Officer Calhoun’s unmarked car skidded to a stop in a position blocking the Hertz Chevy. Calhoun and another plainclothes officer, revolvers drawn, jumped out of the car.
Prasko descended the stairs as rapidly as he could, considering the fucking binoculars were banging on his chest, and he had to be careful holding the walkie-talkie, otherwise he’d drop the son of a bitch and have to pay for the fucker.
As he reached the ground floor, Prasko stooped and drew his snub-nosed .38 Special-caliber revolver from its ankle holster.
This act coincided with the appearance, at a full run, of an individual black male, twenty-five to thirty, five-ten, 150 pounds, noticeable scar tissue left cheek, who had not obeyed the orders of the other police officers to subject himself to arrest.
Just in fucking time!
“Freeze, motherfucker!” Prasko ordered.
The individual almost visibly debated his chances to evade Prasko and then apparently decided attempting to do so would not be in his best interests.
He stopped running and raised his hands above his head.
“Up against the wall!” Prasko ordered, spinning the man around, then pushing him toward the wall.
“Oh, shit, man!” the individual responded.
“Spread your legs!” Prasko ordered, as Calhoun appeared around th
e corner.
“I got the bastard, Timmy,” Prasko said.
“Put your left hand behind your back,” Prasko ordered, then looked at Calhoun.
“You want to cuff him, please, Timmy?”
Calhoun placed handcuffs on the man’s left wrist, then grabbed the other wrist, which caused the man’s face to fall against the wall.
“Shit!” he exclaimed.
Calhoun finished cuffing him, then performed a per functory search of his person to determine if he was armed.
“Clean,” Calhoun informed Prasko.
“Do him,” Prasko requested.
Calhoun emptied the man’s pockets onto the ground beside him, but no controlled substances or any other illegal matter were discovered.