Free Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel) by D. A. Keeley Page A

and released the safety strap on her .40, glancing at the others, who had stopped running.
    People fled when they had contraband in their possession, and flight had been their original response. So why were they now all walking back?
    “Your pals don’t trust you to keep your mouth shut,” she said.
    Leather Jacket looked at her, then at his friends.
    “What’s in the car?”
    Ski-Doo and Sweatshirt followed Army Coat’s lead. Her flashlight darted from those three back to Leather Jacket, who was off the ground now. He covered his face with his hands, then he held them before him and saw the blood.
    “You bitch!”
    “Extensive vocabulary,” Peyton said, eyes darting.
    Army Coat was twenty feet away now and made eye contact with Leather Jacket. It was a warning glare: Don ’ t sell us out .
    “It’s over,” Peyton said, her flashlight bouncing from bloody-faced Leather Jacket to Army Coat.
    Except it wasn’t over.
    Leather Jacket swung—a full-out, over-the-top haymaker, which she easily dodged, sidestepping the punch. He gasped, still spent from his run. His pungent body odor reeked amid the crisp autumnal night air.
    “Nobody wants this to get out of hand,” she said.
    Drawing the .40 was a last resort. She clutched the Maglite like a billy club. If she could collar Leather Jacket, get him in wrist ties, she sensed the others would fall in line. They didn’t trust him.
    Leather Jacket lunged again.
    This time, she used his momentum, grabbing his lead arm, twisting it behind him, and shoving him hard to the ground. He hit the frozen dirt with a grunt. More blood on his face.
    “You’re getting your ass kicked by a woman,” Army Coat said.
    Leather Jacket climbed to his feet slowly, groaning.
    “You ought to be embarrassed. I wouldn’t let her do that to me.” Army Coat stepped closer to Peyton. “No way she’d do that to me. In fact”—he looked her up and down—“I think we could have some fun with her.”
    The flashlight showed a two-day growth on Army Coat. Greasy, shoulder-length hair. Tobacco-stained teeth.
    “Shut your mouth,” Peyton said, Maglite in her left hand, Smith & Wesson .40 now out, barrel pointing down.
    “A gun?” Army Coat said. He shook his head and smiled. “Can’t shoot an unarmed man.” He took another step. “So what now? Going to kick my ass, too?”
    It took her all of three seconds.
    The flashlight’s beam bounced once, illuminating her vertical right boot. Then Army Coat was on the ground, clutching his knee, screaming.
    Peyton put the light on the others. “Now, everybody put their Goddamn hands where I can see them.”
    By 2:30 a.m., the four men were in separate rooms awaiting interrogation. Bruce Steele, the station’s K-9 handler, had been called in to run his German Shepard, Poncho, over the Neon. The dog’s findings gave additional credence to Kenny Radke’s story.
    Peyton sat with Steele, Smith, and the station’s only other female agent, Pam Morrison, in Hewitt’s office. Hewitt, too, had gotten out of bed when told of the bust.
    “You’re sure it’s BC Bud?” Peyton asked Steele.
    He shot her an indignant look. “How long you think I been doing this?” He was well over six feet and had played college football in Alabama. He was in uniform, but his hair was disheveled since he’d been awakened to bring in the dog.
    “How much did you find? Twenty-five, fifty pounds, air-packed?” Peyton said.
    “Five pounds, give or take. Street value about twenty grand.”
    “That’s it?”
    Peyton looked at Hewitt, who leaned back in his swivel chair. Clean shaven, not a hair out of place. Had the guy showered before coming in? Over his right shoulder, his PC’s screensaver featured the US Department of Homeland Security emblem, complete with the eagle. The office smelled of stale coffee and, in the wake of the evening’s excitement, perspiration.
    “This place ain’t exactly Tijuana,” Steele said. “Five pounds of BC Bud’s a lot of dope