Desert Exposure Read Free Page B

looked like two wheels, its lights flashing and siren squealing as it drove toward him. Then it pulled to the side of the road. The truck pulled over, and came to a stop, facing the cop car. What the hell?
    Michael braked, and watched in surprise as a deputy climbed out of the cop car and went to the truck. Half of the cop’s body seemed to lean into the driver’s side window, his butt hanging out into the highway.
    What the hell is going on?
    He slowed the Hummer to a crawl as he watched the scene unfold, and eased up behind the truck, cut the engine, and reached for the door handle. The door ripped from his hand, and a gust of cold morning air swept inside. He pulled back a little, startled by the action, and looked into the angry, red face of a cop. One who held a gun pointed at his chest.
    “Get out of the vehicle. Slowly,” the cop said. “Put your hands above your head.”
    The deputy’s name, on the uniform pocket, was Stanton. The guy was about to go bat shit on him. Michael slid off the seat, his feet hitting the road, and straightened, hands raised.
    “Indio PD,” he said softly, so the man in the truck wouldn’t overhear. “Undercover.”
    “Right,” Stanton said. “Sure you are. Get on the ground. Face down, spread your legs, hands on the back of your head.”
    Michael followed orders. Well, he knew he looked like hell. Even his own mother wouldn’t believe his story. He had dark jaw bristles, hadn’t washed his hair in days, and his eyes were about to fall out of his head from lack of sleep. His jeans were muddy, and the torn Nickelback t-shirt he’d worn for three days straight reeked of sweat, and it had splotches of food stains down the front of it. Mustard, mostly. He supposed the beaten up leather jacket didn’t help much, and figured he looked worse than most of the criminals he dragged in for questioning.
    He felt the cuffs, heard the snap, and the chant of his rights.
    “ID is in the front right pocket of the jacket,” he said, his voice muffled from his position on the road. “I’m armed, and the gun is in the left side shoulder holster.”
    A woman’s voice sounded nearby, and he tried to get a look, but the cop touched the pistol to the back of his head as he straddled him and patted him down. She must be his partner.
    “Stay over there, babe, while I get his ID.”
    Babe? Damn red-necked cops. Riverside female officers would have his ass kicked all over town for a comment like that. Michael tried not to show his annoyance. There’d be time for explanations. Stanton’s hot breath huffed on his neck, and he felt the man’s weight as he leaned on him to remove the gun from its holster, the ID from his pocket. Michael remained still and quiet during the process.
    The whoop-whoop of a chopper, as it came in across the low lying mountain range, bought him a sense of relief. A minute passed. Nobody spoke, but Michael sensed the non-verbal communications and almost smiled.
    “Ah, sorry,” Stanton said, and eased the gun away. He took the cuffs off. “Doing my job. You can get up sir, and, and—”
    “It’s fine. No need for apology,” Michael said, drawing his aching body up and resting on his knees for a second or two. He used the top of his arm and the leather sleeve of his jacket to brush away the sand. Above his head, the helicopter’s circles were narrowing, and the noise had increased. Stanton had followed protocol. Michael understood. He glanced up at the chopper. Even if the guys at the Indio PD gave him a good ribbing, he’d get over it. Finally upright, with his back pressed against the closed door of the Hummer, he eyed Stanton up and down.
    “Aren’t you out of your jurisdiction?” he yelled above the noise.
    “Yeah…well see…I got this call, and—”
    “He held me at gunpoint,” a woman’s voice said. “And then he shot at me when I ran.”
    “What? Who?” Michael asked and turned.
    A slight figure stepped out from behind the cop and peeled off the