Stars & Stripes (Cut & Run 6)

He could sprint and he could cover long distances, and he could f**king parkour up the side of a wall, but he wasn’t built for dashing across entire cities after suspects who were part gazelle and greased up like that slimy green thing from Ghostbusters.

“I lost him,” Alston panted over the earpiece. “He’s like a cyborg or something.”

Ty looked around as he tried to catch his breath. He and his teammates had been enjoying lunch at a sidewalk café after closing a difficult week, debating if they should order a bottle of wine or just walk a few blocks over to the nearest bar and start Sunday off early like good little heathens. And then a man had paraded up to them in a trench coat and whipped it open to reveal nothing underneath but a huge, unfortunate tiger tattoo on his chest. His ni**les formed the tiger’s eyes, his navel acted as the nose, and Ty hadn’t allowed himself to examine it any further before he’d turned his head and spit his water all over Alston. Lassiter had jumped to his feet and knocked Perrimore’s bowl of hot pasta into his lap. And Clancy had almost fallen out of her chair laughing. She’d thought it funny until the man had grabbed her, kissed her, and then run off with her sidearm.

“Maybe not having any clothes on makes him aerodynamic,” Lassiter muttered, sounding just as out of breath as Alston was.

“Wouldn’t the trench slow him down?” Perrimore wheezed. The man was built like a brick shithouse: good for barreling through locked doors, but not made for long-distance.

“I’ve got his coat,” Ty said with a laugh. He was barely winded, but then, he ran every day and had for years. The hotdog cart had fared better than he had, though.

“Eyes on the suspect!” Clancy shouted, her piercing voice nearly busting Ty’s eardrum. He reached up to his Bluetooth piece and turned the volume down.

“Clancy!” Alston shouted. It was a safe bet that he’d just been outdistanced by his spitfire of a partner and was now huffing and puffing to catch up to her.

Ty jogged to the end of the street, looking both ways.

“Where the f**k are you?” Ty asked.

“I got to get a treadmill,” Perrimore said.

“I think . . . I think I’m outside Ty’s house,” Lassiter added.

“You’re not, Lassie,” Ty assured him. “You can’t run that far.”

“All these f**king houses look alike!”

“You went the wrong way, you f**ktard!”

“West Lombard! Heading toward downtown,” Clancy shouted.

“We might need backup with this f**ker,” Alston gasped. He was still on the move.

“If you say ‘he’s slippery,’ I’m going to knock you on your ass,” Ty grumbled.

“Someone, for the love of God, get ahead of him!” Alston was gasping for air. “I’m done. I’m done. I’m dying.”

Ty fished his badge out of his pocket and stepped into the middle of Pratt Street, flagging down a taxi. When the man stopped, Ty went to the driver’s side door and flipped his badge open. “How good are you with hairpin turns?”

They sped along the busy streets that connected the Inner Harbor with the downtown financial district, narrowly missing parked cars, pedestrians, and further hotdog vendors. Ty caught a glimpse of Clancy, her red hair and even stride unmistakable as she sprinted along the sidewalk. Just ahead of her was the streaking man with the tiger tattoo, Clancy’s gun clenched in his hand, a grin in place. He had no idea what sort of pain would rain down on him when she caught him.

She wasn’t gaining on him, but she wasn’t losing ground either. She would catch him, eventually. In heels.

Ty tried to raise her on the conference call they had initiated, tapping his Bluetooth headset, but his phone had either died or ended the call on its own.

“Get ahead of Naked Guy,” Ty told the driver as he gripped the door handle.

The taxi took a turn that almost put it up on two wheels, and it came to a screeching, jarring halt just as the streaker darted across the street. He dodged the taxi, leaping up onto the hood to try to slide across it. No doubt the guy had seen it in a movie somewhere, because no one in their right mind would try that otherwise. He hit the hood of the taxi, and the driver let out a horrified scream.

“Ball prints on my hood!” the man cried as he gripped his steering wheel and shook it.

Bare skin squealed against the windshield. The man didn’t even make it halfway across the car before his own nakedness stopped him dead, and he lay splayed against the hood and windshield like a squashed bug. A big, sweaty, squashed, naked bug.

Ty got out of the car, joined by Clancy just in time to hold the man down for her as she disarmed and handcuffed him.

A crowd was gathering, laughing and pointing, applauding and booing.

Ty had to turn away from their prisoner so he wouldn’t laugh when he called in the arrest. But his phone was full of mustard and pickle bits and wouldn’t turn on. Alston joined them, holding his side and wincing as he pulled his phone out to make the call. Then he called Perrimore and asked him to bring one of the cars to them.

“What the hell happened to you?” Alston asked Ty as he looked him up and down.

Ty looked at his shirtfront—gray with a huge badge on it, and the words “Gravity – It’s the Law” printed across the top. It was now covered with splatters of ketchup, mustard, relish, and chili.

“You smell delicious,” Alston said with a smirk.

“Bite me, Scott.”

“I might, Hot Dog; I didn’t finish my lunch back there.”

Ty couldn’t help but snort.

“Hot Dog. That one might stick,” Clancy said. When Ty looked at her, she snapped a picture of him with her phone.

“Really?”

“For Garrett,” Clancy said, eyes wide and sincere.

“Hey, pretty lady,” the streaker said to Clancy. He was oblivious to his own ridiculousness.

Ty and Alston both turned to look at him, eyebrows climbing. Whatever this guy was on, it was good stuff. The tiger on his chest was one of the worst pieces of art Ty had ever seen, and it got worse as the man moved. He was jutting his hips out, shameless, knees rocking like he was hearing music. His hair was slicked back and he had a full-blown  p**n  ’stache, complete with gel in it to make it curl upward.

“Is that a mirror in your pocket, baby?” he said to Clancy with a goofy leer. “’Cause I can sure see myself in your pants.”

Clancy rolled her eyes as she checked her weapon and stuffed it into her holster.