Blanchart's mile-munching cruiser steadily closed the gap between himself and the SUV.
Blanchart followed his target for several miles until the chase concluded on a seldom traveled patch of county road—where the runaway driver suddenly felt more inclined to face a ticket than let a bad situation get worse.
Blanchart got out of his car in his sheriff's hat and black leather driving gloves. He secured the hickory baton on his duty belt and unbuckled his holster strap. He approached the Hummer from the driver's blind spot near the rear quarter panel and tapped the window with a D-cell flashlight.
The glass powered down.
Blanchart shone the light at Vince Parr, a former addict and low-end dealer he'd busted several years ago for the sale and distribution of methamphetamine. A former dirt bike racer turned tweeker, Vince Parr spent more effort getting high from his own product than he did trying to sell it.
Blanchart directed the light inside the Hummer's cabin.
"Is there a problem, Sheriff?" Parr asked. His pupils contracted from the halogen bulb's intensity.
"Turn the motor off."
Parr killed the engine. Blanchard eyed him as he licked his tongue along his gum line and snorted. "My debt was settled, Sheriff. Your words, not mine." He stretched across the seat to reach for the glove compartment. "The car's legal. I got the papers right here."
Blanchart drew his service weapon. "Get out of the vehicle."
"Just a sec—"
Blanchart fired inside the cabin, shattering the passenger window.
"What the fuck!" Parr shouted.
Blanchart wrenched open the door, yanked Parr out by the hair and shoved him against the hood. He frisked him from head to toe. "Do you have anything sharp in your pockets?"
"No."
"Are you concealing any weapons?"
"Hell, no! What do you want from me?"
Blanchart holstered his service pistol. He pulled his baton and cracked it against Parr's sciatic nerve.
Parr crumpled on the pavement by the Hummer's beefy tire, clutching his upper thigh.
"That's for speeding," Blanchart schooled him. He belted Parr's other leg about the knee and shin with bone-crunching precision. "That's for trying to get away."
Parr moaned in agony, rolling side to side on the ground, his lower extremities throbbing from the pain.
"I need information," said Blanchart. "Tell me what I need to know, and you'll survive with broken bones. Lie to me, and your quality of life goes downhill fast from there."
"What do you want?"
"My deputy found a meth lab on Lipscomb Street."
"So?"
"It wasn't mine. Someone's trying to step on my product. I need to know who."
Parr scooted himself backward against the Hummer's bumper. "Some biker dude rode through here a few days ago. I heard a rumor he was in the business. That's all I know. I swear on my mother's grave."
"I need a name."
Parr put a hand out in a defensive posture. "I swear that's all I got."
"I need a name," said Blanchart. He walked around the vehicle and opened the passenger side to inspect the glove compartment.
Out of view from the sheriff, Parr reached underneath the bumper to retrieve the compact .25 semi-auto concealed in a Velcro clasp. "I've been out of the game. I'm not plugged in anymore."
Blanchart opened the glove box to find a loaded .45 tucked behind a stash of condiments and fast food napkins. He tucked the gun in his belt and aimed the flashlight on Parr's wallet stuffed between the seats. He snagged five hundred in cash and a stolen Visa card.
Outside the Hummer, he panned the light at the back of the vehicle. "I found your prints on a gun in that meth lab," he said out loud. "Someone was there that day and got away. I think that someone was you."
Parr crawled away from the bumper. His view from the front of the Hummer remained obscured by the open passenger door. "I was out of town."
"When?" said Blanchart. "Think about it, carefully."
"All week. I was out of state all week."
"I need a name."
"Morallen. Manny Morallen. He worked the job on Lipscomb
Blanchart followed his target for several miles until the chase concluded on a seldom traveled patch of county road—where the runaway driver suddenly felt more inclined to face a ticket than let a bad situation get worse.
Blanchart got out of his car in his sheriff's hat and black leather driving gloves. He secured the hickory baton on his duty belt and unbuckled his holster strap. He approached the Hummer from the driver's blind spot near the rear quarter panel and tapped the window with a D-cell flashlight.
The glass powered down.
Blanchart shone the light at Vince Parr, a former addict and low-end dealer he'd busted several years ago for the sale and distribution of methamphetamine. A former dirt bike racer turned tweeker, Vince Parr spent more effort getting high from his own product than he did trying to sell it.
Blanchart directed the light inside the Hummer's cabin.
"Is there a problem, Sheriff?" Parr asked. His pupils contracted from the halogen bulb's intensity.
"Turn the motor off."
Parr killed the engine. Blanchard eyed him as he licked his tongue along his gum line and snorted. "My debt was settled, Sheriff. Your words, not mine." He stretched across the seat to reach for the glove compartment. "The car's legal. I got the papers right here."
Blanchart drew his service weapon. "Get out of the vehicle."
"Just a sec—"
Blanchart fired inside the cabin, shattering the passenger window.
"What the fuck!" Parr shouted.
Blanchart wrenched open the door, yanked Parr out by the hair and shoved him against the hood. He frisked him from head to toe. "Do you have anything sharp in your pockets?"
"No."
"Are you concealing any weapons?"
"Hell, no! What do you want from me?"
Blanchart holstered his service pistol. He pulled his baton and cracked it against Parr's sciatic nerve.
Parr crumpled on the pavement by the Hummer's beefy tire, clutching his upper thigh.
"That's for speeding," Blanchart schooled him. He belted Parr's other leg about the knee and shin with bone-crunching precision. "That's for trying to get away."
Parr moaned in agony, rolling side to side on the ground, his lower extremities throbbing from the pain.
"I need information," said Blanchart. "Tell me what I need to know, and you'll survive with broken bones. Lie to me, and your quality of life goes downhill fast from there."
"What do you want?"
"My deputy found a meth lab on Lipscomb Street."
"So?"
"It wasn't mine. Someone's trying to step on my product. I need to know who."
Parr scooted himself backward against the Hummer's bumper. "Some biker dude rode through here a few days ago. I heard a rumor he was in the business. That's all I know. I swear on my mother's grave."
"I need a name."
Parr put a hand out in a defensive posture. "I swear that's all I got."
"I need a name," said Blanchart. He walked around the vehicle and opened the passenger side to inspect the glove compartment.
Out of view from the sheriff, Parr reached underneath the bumper to retrieve the compact .25 semi-auto concealed in a Velcro clasp. "I've been out of the game. I'm not plugged in anymore."
Blanchart opened the glove box to find a loaded .45 tucked behind a stash of condiments and fast food napkins. He tucked the gun in his belt and aimed the flashlight on Parr's wallet stuffed between the seats. He snagged five hundred in cash and a stolen Visa card.
Outside the Hummer, he panned the light at the back of the vehicle. "I found your prints on a gun in that meth lab," he said out loud. "Someone was there that day and got away. I think that someone was you."
Parr crawled away from the bumper. His view from the front of the Hummer remained obscured by the open passenger door. "I was out of town."
"When?" said Blanchart. "Think about it, carefully."
"All week. I was out of state all week."
"I need a name."
"Morallen. Manny Morallen. He worked the job on Lipscomb
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