Hard Ground Read Free Page A

door.”
    â€œThink they made us?”
    â€œNah, we’re good.”
    Morton checked his watch. “Shift’s pushing eight hours.”
    â€œOkay, let’s see this dealie through, then head for the barn.”
    â€œPlans tonight?” the driver asked.
    â€œSleep,” Camden said. “Too much sun for me yesterday.”
    â€œOne out of five,” Morton said.
    A lame old UP joke: 360 days of winter and five days of lousy sledding, the season downstaters called summer.
    Camden kept his binos on the vehicle ahead. “Looks like a ’59 Buick Electra with fins, a lot of chrome, black ragtop.”
    â€œIs there a classic car rally somewhere near here this week?” Morton asked.
    â€œNo clue, and this one ahead of us ain’t classic or tricked out. It’s just old. We’re starting to close on them. Fall back a little, or we’ll have to tow these assholes out of something,” Camden said.
    â€œProjectiles out both sides,” Camden then reported.
    â€œBoth marked,” Morton said, making mental notes of locations. Reaching the spot, Camden jumped out and fetched two more cans.
    â€œPBR,” he said, making a face.
    â€œGot a case on the seat between them. Bet?”
    â€œNope, you’re right.”
    â€œLittering,” Camden said drolly. “Major crime. Jump them now?”
    â€œNot yet, keep watching,” Morton said.
    Camden looked at his partner. “You feeling something?”
    â€œNot sure. You?”
    Morton shrugged. “End of shift: My old lady wants dinner out tonight.”
    â€œQuid pro quo?”
    â€œPretty much,” Morton said. “Say when you want me to close on them.”
    Ten minutes later the Buick stopped and didn’t move. Two men got out, pissed beside their vehicle, chugged new beers, and sailed the empties into the weeds.
    â€œStill don’t see weps,” Morton told his partner.
    â€œLet’s get this over,” Camden said.
    Morton drove fast without lights until they were thirty feet behind the Electra. Only then did he turn on the emergency blue flashers, headlights, spotlights, and give a sharp whirp on the yelper siren. The Buick rolled and lurched another hundred yards before lumbering and jerking to a stop.
    â€œSlow reaction time,” Morton said. “Maybe a few too many drinkies for the driver.”
    The two officers went forward cautiously, Morton to the driver, Camden to the passenger window, where he looked down.
    â€œGot alcohol?” Morton asked the driver.
    â€œNo, man,” the driver said. “Ya know, just road pops.”
    Camden’s passenger stared straight ahead, his body rigid, head down, chin pulled in, slumped slightly forward.
    While the driver was carrying on with Morton like they were asshole buddies, Camden saw the cords tighten in his man’s neck, saw the man had his right hand under the seat, groping around, trying to do it without being seen.
    Camden grabbed the man’s wrist, jerked up the hand clutching an automatic. He could hear his partner still yapping happily with the driver as he got both hands on the passenger’s gun hand, yanked him violently through the window, slammed him hard to the ground, dropped onto the man’s back with his knee, and smashed the gun hand with his fist into the wrist. The gun came loose, and in one fluid motion Camden wrenched the gun hand behind the man, cuffed it, then cuffed the other hand. Camden popped to his feet, breathing heavily from the sudden exertion. He waved the automatic at his partner.
    â€œGet that sonovabitch out and pat his ass down! The passenger had this under the seat.” Camden felt his heart pounding, adrenaline still pumping.
    Morton made his man show his hands, got him out, cuffed him, and patted him down. “Clean here,” he reported.
    Camden yanked his prisoner to his feet. “You have something in mind?”
    â€œBlow your ass to hell,