along those same lines.
All the way.
No matter what, Gauge would have his back. The man always did, as did Morgan. Cutter made his decision right then. If this were just about him, then he’d play his role for all he was worth and give Morgan and Gauge the opportunity to continue the mission without him.
On the tarmac, the Gulfstream’s engines continued to whine, slowly spinning toward a stop. He stepped down the jet’s short stairway and sized up the not so friendly looking party of Feds.
A pale guy wearing a black jacket and narrow necktie stepped forward. “Hands up where we can see them, Mr. Cutter.” The man was pushing fifty and also pushing a belly that was seriously threatening to tear the second button of his suit coat clean off if he inhaled too deeply.
Standing next to the guy was a very stern-looking woman in a dark pantsuit. She appeared to be the guy’s boss. She had the face of someone who had not been properly laid in years. Decade maybe? Her face was screwed up so tight with self-righteous importance and indignation that it was amazing she could walk with that stick shoved so far up her—
“Where is she?” the woman asked.
Cutter halfheartedly raised his arms in surrender. Gauge stepped beside Cutter, who then rested his right hand on the man’s shoulder, as if he were subtly restraining the larger man from attacking the FBI agents.
It did not have the desired effect. The smug look stayed a firm part of the woman’s countenance. She showed not even a hint of fear at Cutter’s rather mean-looking attack dog.
“Where is she?” the woman repeated. Wrinkles followed her every utterance, cracking her Spackle-job makeup.
“Who?” Cutter replied innocently.
“Don’t get smart with me, Mr. Cutter. We know she is onboard with you. Harboring a fugitive and crossing state lines with said fugitive is a felony. Federal. I’m sure you are well aware of that.”
“A fugitive?” Cutter asked with mock surprise while suppressing a hint of real surprise. He let go of Gauge. “I think you may have us confused with someone else.”
The woman did not appear to buy his disjointed line of reasoning.
Cutter let his hands drop slowly. “Besides, isn’t hunting down fugitives and bringing them to justice the purview of the U.S. Marshal Service?”
“Not if it has to do with a Homeland Security incident involving computer espionage.”
“Sorry,” Cutter said, head shaking. “I never have been able to figure out all that overlapping governmental responsibility bullshit out. There are just too many layers—if you ask me.”
“We didn’t ask you. Where is she?” the fat man beside the stern-looking woman asked.
“Where is who?” Cutter asked in return. “Or is it whom? I never could quite remember which is the rig—”
Two men with guns raised broke off and rushed forward to surround Cutter. Four others hastily surrounded and restrained Gauge.
“Easy,” Cutter said as his arms were wrenched behind his back, and he was patted down for weapons.
One of the men tried to take Betty away from Gauge.
“I wouldn’t recommend doing that,” Cutter warned.
The man grunted and took the Desert Eagle .50 anyway. Gauge shrugged off the men surrounding him.
More guns were raised.
“Now’s not the right time,” Cutter said out of the side of his mouth. “You’ll get it back. I promise.”
The woman in charge stepped forward. “Doubtful. You know it is a felony to have a loaded weapon at an airport?”
“Is everything a felony now?” Cutter asked, figuring just about everything was except for paying taxes.
The woman sneered at him.
Two men entered the plane and returned with Morgan walking between them. Her head was bowed low. Both men held her by an arm so she could not twist free from their grips.
“ Mizz Crow,” the woman in charge buzzed. “You are under arrest.”
“On what charges?” Cutter asked.
“You stay out of this,” the lead agent snapped.
“She’s with
All the way.
No matter what, Gauge would have his back. The man always did, as did Morgan. Cutter made his decision right then. If this were just about him, then he’d play his role for all he was worth and give Morgan and Gauge the opportunity to continue the mission without him.
On the tarmac, the Gulfstream’s engines continued to whine, slowly spinning toward a stop. He stepped down the jet’s short stairway and sized up the not so friendly looking party of Feds.
A pale guy wearing a black jacket and narrow necktie stepped forward. “Hands up where we can see them, Mr. Cutter.” The man was pushing fifty and also pushing a belly that was seriously threatening to tear the second button of his suit coat clean off if he inhaled too deeply.
Standing next to the guy was a very stern-looking woman in a dark pantsuit. She appeared to be the guy’s boss. She had the face of someone who had not been properly laid in years. Decade maybe? Her face was screwed up so tight with self-righteous importance and indignation that it was amazing she could walk with that stick shoved so far up her—
“Where is she?” the woman asked.
Cutter halfheartedly raised his arms in surrender. Gauge stepped beside Cutter, who then rested his right hand on the man’s shoulder, as if he were subtly restraining the larger man from attacking the FBI agents.
It did not have the desired effect. The smug look stayed a firm part of the woman’s countenance. She showed not even a hint of fear at Cutter’s rather mean-looking attack dog.
“Where is she?” the woman repeated. Wrinkles followed her every utterance, cracking her Spackle-job makeup.
“Who?” Cutter replied innocently.
“Don’t get smart with me, Mr. Cutter. We know she is onboard with you. Harboring a fugitive and crossing state lines with said fugitive is a felony. Federal. I’m sure you are well aware of that.”
“A fugitive?” Cutter asked with mock surprise while suppressing a hint of real surprise. He let go of Gauge. “I think you may have us confused with someone else.”
The woman did not appear to buy his disjointed line of reasoning.
Cutter let his hands drop slowly. “Besides, isn’t hunting down fugitives and bringing them to justice the purview of the U.S. Marshal Service?”
“Not if it has to do with a Homeland Security incident involving computer espionage.”
“Sorry,” Cutter said, head shaking. “I never have been able to figure out all that overlapping governmental responsibility bullshit out. There are just too many layers—if you ask me.”
“We didn’t ask you. Where is she?” the fat man beside the stern-looking woman asked.
“Where is who?” Cutter asked in return. “Or is it whom? I never could quite remember which is the rig—”
Two men with guns raised broke off and rushed forward to surround Cutter. Four others hastily surrounded and restrained Gauge.
“Easy,” Cutter said as his arms were wrenched behind his back, and he was patted down for weapons.
One of the men tried to take Betty away from Gauge.
“I wouldn’t recommend doing that,” Cutter warned.
The man grunted and took the Desert Eagle .50 anyway. Gauge shrugged off the men surrounding him.
More guns were raised.
“Now’s not the right time,” Cutter said out of the side of his mouth. “You’ll get it back. I promise.”
The woman in charge stepped forward. “Doubtful. You know it is a felony to have a loaded weapon at an airport?”
“Is everything a felony now?” Cutter asked, figuring just about everything was except for paying taxes.
The woman sneered at him.
Two men entered the plane and returned with Morgan walking between them. Her head was bowed low. Both men held her by an arm so she could not twist free from their grips.
“ Mizz Crow,” the woman in charge buzzed. “You are under arrest.”
“On what charges?” Cutter asked.
“You stay out of this,” the lead agent snapped.
“She’s with
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