Free Supreme Justice by Max Allan Collins

stoop, Rogers in the lead as she’d dictated. A screen door protected a varnish-blistered wooden front door whose small window provided no look inside.
    She got her pistol out, her other hand on the screen-door handle. With a glance at Reeder, she said, “Ready?”
    He was regarding her with a lifted eyebrow. “We left the SWAT team back at the ranch, remember? It’s his mother’s house. You could ring the bell.”
    She shook her head. These old-timers. They always wanted to keep faith with the Fourth Amendment, even though the Supreme Court had rejected it years ago. She’d be damned if she would give up the element of surprise just to coddle a living legend who most people wanted to see drop dead.
    With a quick nod to her supposed partner, she yanked the screen open, and it squeaked and creaked like something out of an old horror film. Within, a small dog started yapping.
    Shit —so much for the element of surprise.
    She twisted the handle of the inside door, and it was unlocked but sticking, so she thrust her shoulder against it like a tackle throwing a block. Gun at the ready, she almost tumbled in, Reeder behind her, though he halted as he reached the threshold.
    The house smelled of sweat and urine, the latter probably courtesy of the barking terrier that came charging from the kitchen. The dog sprinted past her, as if to attack Reeder, but instead darted between his legs and outside.
    As Rogers fanned her pistol around the room, a woman’s voice from the back of the house called, “Who is it? Butch, is that you? Damnit, don’t let Yanni out!”
    The little dog, a vapor trail now, did bear a slight resemblance to that long-haired ancient musician.
    “ Federal agents!” Rogers announced, and the back of the house went still.
    Then she heard a screen door slap shut somewhere back there. She turned to say something to Reeder, but he was already gone. Circling the house, she supposed, with his no gun and superior attitude.
    Nothing to do but follow him, but when she got to the back of the house, Reeder was already three houses away, running through backyards, chasing a youngish long-haired white male in a wifebeater T-shirt and blue basketball shorts and Nikes.
    She joined pursuit.
    Cutting through yards, keeping them in sight, Rogers pushed herself to close the distance. The guy kept running, lank dark hair flying behind him, the older Reeder staying with the guy—hell, closing in on him.
    Rogers was narrowing the distance, as well, but as they neared the end of the block, the guy abruptly stopped, turned to face Reeder, and was pulling something small and dark from the waistband of his shorts— a revolver.
    Yet Reeder still ran at the guy, suit coat flapping.
    Didn’t he see it?
    Feet planted, Rogers brought up her pistol, ready to take this prick down; but she couldn’t get a clear shot, not with Reeder between her and the target.
    She tried to will Reeder to take one step to either side, so she could drill the guy, but he didn’t, and by the time she moved into a better line of fire, it would be too late to do anything for Reeder except maybe avenge him.
    Then the ex–Secret Service agent took three more quick steps as the guy was bringing up the gun. Reeder made a whipping motion with his right hand, and something appeared there, like a magician producing a wand.
    And it really was a wand, only there was nothing magical about it beyond its stopping power—Reeder had been carrying an ASP telescoping baton the entire time!
    Just as the perp was about to squeeze the trigger, the baton struck. Reeder brought the thing down, and, even at this distance, she could hear the guy’s forearm snap; and then the perp was screaming, a wail that prefigured the police sirens that would surely follow. The revolver plopped to the grass as Reeder kept plowing forward, driving a shoulder into the perp’s gut, taking the man off his feet, going down with him, and landing with a whump , Reeder on top.
    Rogers was running