Backtrack

Book 8: Arliss Cutter Novel

by Marc Cameron

Genres: Crime Fiction

Synopsis

A generations-old vendetta catches up to Deputy U.S. Marshal Arliss Cutter in a propulsive thriller about revenge and blood ties on the deceptively calm waters of Alaska’s Inside Passage.

1977. D Wayne Cutter is a former U.S. Army Green Beret, part-time horseshoer, and a full-time Texas deputy sheriff with a second grandchild on the way when a quiet Sunday morning ends in murder and a manhunt. The theft of five million dollars in diamonds from an armored truck leaves two guards dead, one outlaw tracked down and taken out by Cutter, and another, Ricky Lee Pink—two-hundred-forty pounds of teenage rage—sentenced to life. The diamonds were never recovered. And Pinky never forgot that heist gone violently wrong.

2026. Following in the righteous footsteps of his late grandfather, Deputy U.S. Marshal Arliss Cutter gets word that Pinky has been granted release. Nursing a grudge for decades, Pinky vows to avenge the murder of his criminal mentor and find the whereabouts of the stolen gems that he believes is a buried Cutter family secret. Boarding an Alaskan cruise ship, and joined by two miscreant cellmates and his penpal girlfriend, Pinky aims for Anchorge—home to his ultimate target: everyone Arliss holds near and dear. Arliss must move fast because Pinky has the edge. And he has the mind to make the last living Cutter pay.

Release date: July 28, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

July 1977

PARKER COUNTY, TEXAS

6:38 a.m.

“It’s better you let me and Duvall do the shooting,” Vince Millner said from behind the wheel of the stolen Crown Victoria. An unfiltered Camel cigarette bobbed in the corner of his mouth. “If you have to pull, make damn sure you aim for the belt buckle, just like I showed you. If the first shot don’t kill him, there’s not a man alive with the wherewithal to shoot back while he’s holding in his own guts.”

Ricky Lee Pink gave an exhausted groan from the passenger seat. Vince Millner was like an older brother, but this constant nagging weighed on him like the Texas heat—and it was hot as hell.

“We’ve gone over the plan a million times. You act like this is my first job.”

Millner clutched the steering wheel so tight his knuckles flushed white around his prison tattoos. His shoulders twitched like he was nervous, but Ricky Lee knew him better than that. Millner was just restless. Time in the joint could do that to a man.

“You listen to me, kid,” Millner said. “Prying off the back window of the American Legion is a hell of a leap from hitting an armored truck in broad daylight. There’s gonna be blood on this one.”

“I hope so.” Ricky Lee didn’t mean it. It just sounded like something that would impress his friend. “You ever seen a real diamond?”

“Sure,” Millner said.

“I haven’t,” Ricky Lee said. “Not up close, anyhow.”

“What about your mom’s wedding ring?”

Ricky Lee shook his head. “No rock. Probably not even real gold, knowing my dad. Anyway, my mama wasn’t one to let me get a close look at her jewelry.”

“Well, buddy,” Millner said. “We’re about to see five million dollars’ worth of diamonds.”

A baby face and unruly black hair gave Pink the look of an earnest farm boy. Even his eyes were kind—until they were not. When he was younger his mother once told him that his eyes turned cloudy when he was angry—like he was “about to make it rain.” She said it scared her, which was probably why his parents left him in Texas and moved to Arkansas with his brother and sisters. Six-foot-four with shoulders like a barn door and hands the size of shovels, he didn’t have much experience in the armored car robbing business, but he was big enough to be useful. What he didn’t know, he could learn.

Millner was the real pro, with no less than nine robberies under his belt, ten if you counted the botched 7-Eleven job that earned him four and a half years in the Texas Department of Corrections. It was just dumb luck that an Oak Cliff patrolman had decided on that moment to take advantage of the convenience store’s generous policy of free coffee for on-duty cops. Millner had used the old finger-in-his-jacket-pocket trick instead of a real gun or he would have gotten more time—maybe even been shot by the cop. At sentencing, the judge had threatened him with ten years on account of the sniveling little store clerk had peed himself. He ended up with eight, which turned into a little over four with early release for good time. Still, he’d switched to a real-guns-only policy after that. Four years was long enough to see all of prison he ever cared to see. He was not going back.

Millner glanced at the rearview and smacked the steering wheel like he’d seen something he didn’t like. Ricky Lee craned his neck around. The self-described brains of this outfit, Allen Duvall, was two cars behind them in a 1965 Buick LeSabre. Like the Crown Vic, the Buick was stolen. You didn’t pull a job like this in vehicles that could come back to you—or that you ever wanted to use again.

Millner’s eyes flitted between the armored truck ahead and the LeSabre in the rearview mirror. “Son of a bitch needs to make a decision.”

“You’re just ticked off on account of Duvall gets to drive the Nailhead and we’re stuck in this granny mobile.”

“I am ticked off because I’m ready to get this done.” His shoulders bounced in time with his words. “We’re getting way too close to Weatherford.”

Ricky Lee gave a tight chuckle. “‘M, I, double L, NER,’” he said, mimicking the “Tigger” song from the Winnie the Pooh cartoon. Millner’s experience made him “bouncy” like Pooh’s stuffed tiger friend—sleeping with one eye open in prison for four and a half years.

Ahead, the armored truck loomed larger as Millner closed the distance.

Ricky Lee rubbed a hand across his chin, then reached down to ease back the slide on his shotgun. He checked the chamber for the fifth time.

Millner glanced sideways with one of his disapproving frowns. “Knock that shit off. You checked it already.” He grabbed the pack of Camels from his T-shirt pocket and shook one out, shoving the pack toward Ricky Lee. “Burn one of these. It’ll help your nerves.”

“I’ve told you,” Ricky Lee said. “They don’t agree with me.” The truth was, he liked the smell of the Camels, but he’d have to practice smoking them somewhere by himself, where Millner couldn’t see him doubled over and coughing his head off. He looked in the side mirror again. Millner was right. Duvall needed to make a move. The chances of getting caught rose astronomically the closer they got to town. For such a little wide spot in the road, Weatherford, Texas, was Cop City USA. All the diamonds in the world wouldn’t be worth much if they got themselves caught by the law from the jump.

Ricky Lee grabbed the folded map from the dash—something he did almost as much as he checked the shotgun.

“I’ve known you for what,” Millner said out of the blue, nodding slowly, as if something had just occurred to him. “Three years now, and I never asked where you got the name Pink.”

Vince Millner was always bringing up subjects out of left field. He probably thought it would calm Ricky Lee’s nerves before the job.

“What do you mean, where’d I get it from?” Ricky Lee’s voice was half an octave deeper than Millner’s. “It’s my name. I got it from my dad.”

“I know how names work!” Millner scoffed, sounding exasperated. He hit the gas, chewing up more distance between them and the armored truck. “What I mean to say is, you don’t hear of many Pinks. What kind of name is it?”

“My mother told us it’s German,” Ricky Lee said. “The sound a hammer makes on an anvil. You know, pink, pink, pink—”

“That’s right.” Millner glanced sideways, looking him up and down. “You did tell me that once. Makes a hell of a lot of sense.”

“Why’s that?” Ricky Lee bristled. “You got something against blacksmiths?”

“Simmer down, kid.” Millner chuckled. “It makes sense on account of you’re as big as a damned ogre, that’s all. You’d make a good blacksmith.”

Ricky Lee relaxed. He nodded. “I think I would, too.”

Duvall’s voice crackled over the CB radio.

“Mile marker 397. The Brock cutoff. I’ll flash my headlights to signal.”

That was two miles ahead—less than two minutes.

Millner glanced sideways through narrow eyes. “You sure you’re up for this? Don’t forget, if you have to—”

“I know,” Ricky Lee groaned. “Aim for the belt buckle. I’m fifteen, Vince. I’m not an idiot.”

The black velvet bag full of diamonds was locked in a quarter-inch steel vault about the size of a carpenter’s toolbox. This box was secured in the back of the TexSafe Armored truck, which, when novice guard Robert Foster thought about it, was just a bigger metal box. Mr. Moffit, the company’s lead supervisor, had been at the pickup point to oversee the loading before heading west for other business in Abilene. Moffit and the client, an Eastland, Texas, rancher named Hiram Dietrich, had locked the strongbox and signed the seal, ensuring that none of the guards helped themselves to even a tiny portion of the cargo. As a measure of extra security, Moffit, who talked like some kind of antebellum plantation owner, had assigned an armed guard up front with the driver, in addition to the standard one in the back.

Twenty-two-year-old Robert Foster drew the front passenger seat. As far as this armored car business went, Foster was about as green as could be. Just a couple of months ago, he’d been grating coleslaw at the Long John Silver’s in the College Park Shopping Center while his wife worked double shifts at the fried pie shop on the Weatherford courthouse square. They weren’t even getting by, not really. Now here he was in a TexSafe uniform making enough money they could actually pay his wife’s grandparents some rent for their little farmhouse.

Foster took a sip of coffee from his thermos and pondered how easy it would be for someone to knock over an armored truck. The company paid better than Long John Silver’s, but it wasn’t like they gave their guards any training. You got a half day of orientation—which was mostly telling you what not to do—then they issued you a hand-me-down uniform and a .38 Special revolver that had probably belonged to Eliot Ness. After that, you hit the road. One minute the supervisor, Mr. Moffit, was counting out twelve .38 Special cartridges like they were precious gemstones, the next you were in a truck guarding … well, precious gemstones. Moffit knew guns and stuff and got all pissy if you called cartridges bullets. “The bullet is what comes out of the gun, not the whole cartridge,” Moffit would chide. The older guards told him to shove it that he knew exactly what they meant. Foster said, “Yes, sir” and took his issued bullets … cartridges.

If you were lucky—or if Mr. Moffit deemed it a special run—you got to sign out one of the coveted Remington 870s. He’d been stingy about it this time for some reason, but Mr. Dietrich, the rancher in Eastland, had insisted the guards carry more firepower than the puny revolvers. The Remington rested muzzle down between Foster’s knees. Mr. Moffit had still only given him four 12-gauge shells—even a novice knew not to call those bullets. Moffit warned him to come back with all four. Foster resolved to buy a box of buckshot next time he got paid so he could carry a few extra in his pocket. He took another sip of coffee and peered out the thick bullet-proof glass at the Texas countryside—dusty, distorted stands of live oak on rolling, drought-stricken pastures.

A rising sun painted everything bright orange, like it was on fire. Black Angus cattle with their freakishly long shadows looked like creatures out of that new Star Wars movie. Almost pleasant for now, the heat would soon make it miserable for anything outside.

The winter had been brutally cold, with more snow than Foster could remember in his life. Spring brought torrential rains, filling the rivers and lakes—and drowning several in Dallas. Then, in May, the spigot just shut off. The rains stopped, and the temperature shot up. It wasn’t long before people started wishing the snow would come back. Endless hundred-degree temperatures blistered the once lush fields.

Armored trucks weren’t known for their ventilation. Even with the AC on full blast, the walls felt like they were closing in. The plastic from the seats gave off some kind of gas, like those cheap blow-up pool toys. Curtis Watts, the big-bellied driver, grabbed the steering wheel and shifted back and forth as if he was brooding on a clutch of eggs. Sweat blossomed from the pits of his tan uniform shirt.

Watts was almost forty, an old man, in constant need of a restroom break. Stopping was always dangerous. Today it was out of the question. Hauling around enough loot to retire made the hair on Foster’s neck stand up. Armored truck robberies weren’t exactly unheard of around the Metroplex. Just a month ago, three guys wearing pillowcases over their heads had blown a three-foot hole in the back of a truck when it was stopped at a red light in South Dallas. The overpressure from the blast made sausage out of the guard riding in the box—which was why Foster had jockeyed to ride up front with the shotgun. That, and temps in the box were just slightly below the surface of the sun.

Watts drove on, squirming and sweating.

Foster took another sip of coffee and broke the silence.

“Does it seem at all weird to you that some rancher in Eastland would keep five million in diamonds laying around?”

“Who knows with these rich sons of bitches,” Watts said. His face twitched into a squint, like he was trying to keep a pair of nonexistent glasses on his nose.

The little six-by-six-inch window on the bulkhead behind Foster snicked open. Bruce Goddard’s mouth and nose appeared from inside the cargo box. Foster had puked in an empty money bag the last time he rode back there. Worse than that, it was boring. Mr. Moffit needed to put in an AM radio or something.

“It’s hot as a bitch back here!” Goddard said. “Where we at?” He kept talking before Watts or Foster could answer. “You know, the lock on this box would be so easy to pick.”

“Knock it off,” Watts said. “Don’t even joke.”

“You know you want to see what five million in diamonds looks like!”

Foster licked his lips. He couldn’t wrap his head around five million dollars. “Not today,” he said. “I need this job. You break the seal on that box and Mr. Moffit will fire us all.”

“I can open the lock without breaking the seal,” Goddard said. “Easy peasy. Fact is, I’ve already picked it twice.”

“What!?” Watts barked like a drill sergeant. “You—”

“Relax,” Goddard said. “I didn’t break the seal. I just like to practice.”

“That’s a good way to practice going to prison,” Foster said.

“I locked it back. Nobody will ever know unless we tell ’em.” Goddard shrugged off the advice. “I read in Nat Geo where some guy in India found a big old diamond stored in the toe of his dead father’s slipper. The fifth-largest diamond in the world or something like that.”

“My grandma says too much money makes you go batty,” Foster said.

Goddard scoffed. “Wouldn’t mind finding out—”

Foster glanced at the side mirror. A blue Crown Victoria was camped out in the right lane. A copper-colored LeSabre moved up, looming large. Something about the vehicles made him think they were on a mission. Foster had no official training in bad-guy identification, but the older guards were always warning him to keep an eye on the mirrors. It made sense.

“Asshole in a copper Buick coming in hot at six o’clock,” he said, hoping it didn’t sound too dramatic. “There’s a blue Crown Vic back there, too. I’m thinking they might be together.”

“Probably just a couple of rich kids racing with Daddy’s wheels,” Watts said. He gripped the wheel and started shifting in his seat again.

Foster snapped the safety on and off his shotgun. “No rich kid’s gonna be up at six thirty on a Sunday morning.”

Bruce Goddard adjusted his position in the slot, trying futilely to get a look at the side mirrors. “What are you talking about … cars coming up fast?”

“Probably nothing,” Foster said.

Goddard backed off enough that Foster could see his whole freckled face through the sliding hatch. He had a new baby at home, which made him extra jumpy. “You sure it’s nothing?”

“Pretty sure,” Foster said, trying to convince himself. He glanced across the seat at Watts, trying to see what the old guy was thinking. The man’s uniform shirt was one giant sweat stain. “Speed up and see what they do.”

Behind them, the copper Buick flashed its lights off and on.

Watts let out a deep groan. His eyes locked straight ahead. “I’m really sorry, boys,” he said. “I never intended for it to go down like this.” He stomped the brake.

In the back, Goddard began to pound on the wall. “You bastard!” he screamed. “Foster! Don’t let them blow me up!”

Watts slid the heavy truck to an abrupt stop on the side of the interstate, throwing everyone forward.

Shotgun in hand, Foster braced himself against the dash.

The pounding in the back fell off and Goddard’s eye appeared in the hatch again. “Foster! Listen to me, man! Listen! Please—”

Eight miles east of the TexSafe Armored truck, Parker County Sheriff’s investigator D Wayne Cutter glanced up from his window booth at the Wayside Truckstop. It was early and the café smelled of fresh coffee and Windex. The waitress approached at a hustling run—like she’d just remembered anyone was sitting there. Her white nursing shoes squeaked against the waxed tile floor. The tag on her brown polyester uniform said her name was Karlene.

Coffeepot in hand, Karlene stifled a hacking cough in the crook of her elbow and then smiled down at Cutter and the DPS trooper sitting across from him.

The tall, drum-chested state trooper stopped his story about a fatality accident he’d worked the day before and gave a sleepy smile to the waitress. A creased red patch on the shoulder of his olivegreen short-sleeved shirt indicated he was Texas Department of Public Safety Highway Patrol—never to be confused with Weights and Measures or Driver’s License troopers. His Stetson hat—straw for summer wear and dyed a muddy gray-green to match his uniform—rested on the seat beside him, brim up.

Cutter was shorter than the highway patrolman by a good six inches, with a weathered, rawboned face and calloused hands that looked just a bit too large for his forearms. His white, pearl-snap dress shirt was freshly starched and ironed, and just tight enough to suggest strong shoulders. A five-pointed Parker County Deputy Sheriff’s star hung over his left breast pocket. He, too, had a hat on the seat beside him, though his was plain straw, blond like his short-cropped hair and slightly stained with sweat around the band from constant wear in the brutal Texas heat.

Both men had spent time in Vietnam. Where Teague had seen significant action with the 173rd Airborne Brigade, Cutter spent the bulk of his career officially stationed in Bad Tölz, Germany, with 10th Special Forces. He’d rotated into Southeast Asia periodically to augment other SF groups, but the bulk of his time was spent in Berlin. The highway patrolman dished out a considerable amount of good-natured ribbing about how he was tromping through rice paddies during Cutter’s cushy European vacation.

If he’d only known.

Karlene batted naturally long lashes and moved in with the coffeepot. “Teague,” she said. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

The trooper put his hand over the empty coffee cup. “A Dr Pepper when you get a chance.” He glanced across the table. “This here is Wayne Cutter. He’s an investigator with the SO.”

Cutter gave her a polite nod, eyeing the door like he might need to escape. Even in the heat of the day, he preferred outside to being cooped up indoors. The refrigerated air reminded him too much of a morgue.

“Gonna be a hot one,” Karlene said, as if she were reading his mind while she filled his coffee cup. “You a new hire?”

“No, ma’am.”

She stood there holding the coffeepot like a pistol, waiting for more.

Cutter took a sip of coffee, black, but said nothing. He wasn’t naturally blabby to begin with, and even less so this early in the morning.

“I do believe we are ready to order,” Teague said.

Karlene set the pot on the table and then snatched a pencil from the same apron pocket that held her cigarettes. Pencil to notepad, she raised a brow. “Shoot.” She grinned at her own joke. “I mean, not really.”

“You’re a real hoot,” Teague said, deadpan. “Three eggs over medium, hash browns, and a couple of those fresh biscuits.”

Karlene turned toward the deputy, but Teague touched her elbow. “Better add a side of gravy.”

She smiled. “You bet.” Back to Cutter. “And you, darlin’?”

“Toast,” Cutter said.

“Just coffee and toast,” she said, scribbling on her pad. “And maybe a good woman to put a smile on that grumpy face of yours …”

Teague opened his mouth to speak, but Cutter shook his head. The bell at the front entry chimed. Cutter, in the seat facing the door, groaned within himself.

Teague craned his neck around to have a look. He chuckled. “The ego has landed …”

At twenty-one years old, Deputy Lafayette Johnson—LJ to those who knew him—was barely old enough to buy his own bullets. Tall and fit, he was fresh off half a year of a regional law enforcement academy, followed by five months with a field training officer. On his own now, he was eager as a new puppy. He was also the sheriff’s nephew.

“I heard y’all check out for breakfast.” He took off his hat to reveal a curl of jet-black hair in the center of his forehead like a comic book Superman. His light brown uniform shirt was new enough that it still had the original creases. “Mind if I join you?”

Deputy Cutter scooted out of the booth and stood, offering Johnson the inside seat.

Karlene took the kid’s order—chicken fried steak and a Dr Pepper—and then squeaked away on her white shoes.

Teague folded his hands on the table and leaned forward to finish his story about the fatality accident.

LJ started talking before the trooper could even open his mouth.

“Y’all hear about my foot pursuit this side of Poolville Friday evening? I stopped a guy who was 10-99 on an assault warrant outta Jack County. Almost got into a hellacious fight over—”

Teague snorted. “You either fight or you don’t. No almost about it.”

“I hear that,” the kid said, missing the point. “But this guy was something else. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was gonna run on me—”

“Hang on,” Teague said. “Fight or run? My experience, someone who runs isn’t fighting. They might hurt you, or even shoot you, but that’s just because you’re standing in their way. A fight … that’s a whole ’nother animal.”

Johnson sat back in his seat and chewed on that a second, then said, “Well, he hoofed it, so I guess that’s what he had planned. Ran right through old man Fulton’s barn. My backup was half an hour away, so I had to go in myself. I remembered something one of my instructors taught us in the academy: Be a weasel.”

Cutter raised a brow. That was a new one.

“A weasel?” Teague said.

“Yeah,” the kid said. “Don’t go barging through the door or window but poke your head in and get a lay of the land first.”

“Sounds like a good way to get your head blown off,” Teague said.

The kid gave a sheepish grin. “Not if you do it right. You gotta be a weasel.”

“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 little tune-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.”

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.

“Six-two to County,” he said.

The dispatcher, a young woman named Nikki, answered immediately. “Go ahead, 62.”

Cutter settled deeper into his seat, working the wheel gently so as not to overcorrect while he held the mic with his right. “County, I’m eastbound on I-20 passing … Tin Top Road … Suspect Crown Victoria is ahead of me doing well over a hundred miles an hour. I’ll get you a plate number when I’m close enough to read it.”

The dispatcher read back Cutter’s broadcast. Two highway patrol units chimed in, responding from the Department of Public Safety offices off Santa Fe Drive—a couple miles ahead. Cutter glanced at the speedometer. The needle bounced erratically, bumping a hundred and five. The Crown Vic was still pulling away. At these speeds they’d pass the Santa Fe exit before the troopers made it out of the DPS parking lot.

A dawdling panel van loomed dead ahead, camped out in the passing lane. Cutter didn’t so much move the wheel as he thought about where he wanted the car to go. His Caprice floated like an air hockey puck across the interstate, cutting between the van and a farm truck with a bed piled full of watermelons. The needle passed a hundred and ten miles an hour. Rather than gripping the wheel tighter, he loosened his hold, allowing it to dance slightly in his hands. Even a sideways glance could bring a sudden lane change.

Every County patrol car had three radios—the good-time (music or talk shows on long nights), law enforcement, and the citizen’s band. Around the melon truck and in the clear for the moment, Cutter rep