Free The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery by Richard Cain Page B

first signs of cracking. His stride had shortened, his arms swung more as if he were trying to pull himself through the air and he was even pushing off of parking signs to try to maintain speed while Morrison closed the gap. With a steady pace, consciously sucking in more air to prepare for the inevitable fight upon capture, Morrison was ready to rip him to pieces.
    A horn bleated, stirring Morrison from his tunnel vision. He glanced to see Radix in his truck appear out of nowhere, driving parallel to the chase. At first Radix pulled up alongside Morrison and shook his head like he was ashamed of Morrison’s efforts. Morrison was too tired to hate him in that moment.
    Radix shouted, “Hurry and catch him, you big fucking vagina.” He beat the truck’s baseboard with a hammer fist.
    Morrison felt a gush of relief that it would be over soon. They wouldn’t have to go to the property lockers for a while and McLeish was about to pay for making him run so hard.
    Radix lurched ahead through traffic and pulled alongside McLeish. He shouted something that Morrison couldn’t hear from a distance but McLeish slowed considerably. For good measure Radix aggressively turned to the right at the next intersection, bumping into McLeish and knocking him sideways onto his ass.
    The chase was over. Morrison slowed to a jog. By the time he stopped at the truck, Radix had McLeish handcuffed and sitting in the back seat of his personal pickup truck. Pedestrians stared sideways at them, not knowing whether to be relieved that undercover cops had arrested someone who likely deserved it or pissed off by the way they had done it. Morrison eyed the thick and heavy backpack McLeish had been carrying and decided he didn’t care what they thought.
    McLeish was hunched over, sucking air, a defeated, scared expression on his face. Radix unstrapped McLeish’s backpack and tossed it into the bed of his truck. Radix said, “Hop in, let’s move someplace more private.”
    Morrison nodded, too tired to speak. McLeish pulled his legs into the truck and Morrison closed the door behind him. Radix went back over to the driver’s side and drove a few car-lengths down a side street then jerked the truck to a stop. Large maple trees loomed overhead providing shade and a sense of seclusion.
    Surveillance on McLeish had been an all-day effort. They watched him complete transactions with a few men in Moss Park. These weren’t high-school dime-bag sales. This guy was bigger, selling a few ounces at a time to monthly buyers.
    Morrison and Radix had caught it all on video. Radix had relished taking note of these men’s licence plates for future reference, suggesting that they could start their own blackmail scam.
    Morrison could practically smell the money sitting just waiting to be counted in that plump backpack.
Let’s get rid of this asshole and get on with it.
He waited to catch his breath before he spoke. Radix turned to the prisoner in the back seat but before he could say anything a police car pulled up alongside him.
    Morrison felt a knot of anxiety ball up in his stomach. His eyes bugged out and his mouth dropped open in abject fear. He recognized the cop as Brad Sweeney, a young blond kid with spiky hair and a permanent smile. Sweeney would know both of them and their work assignments and that they weren’t supposed to be out doing plainclothes jobs.
    Radix dropped his window down. He had a calm demeanour, like this kind of thing was all in a days’ work. “Hey, man.” He flipped open his wallet so the cop could see the tin. “We’re doing some work for Intel. We were following this guy but can’t say much more. It’s all good in the ’hood, bro.”
    Sweeney exited his car and came around. “Yeah, I recognize you guys from the station. Didn’t know you were doing shit for Intel.” Sweeney was skeptical, he wasn’t buying it.
    Radix said, “I hope you