He was sprinting, moving at a pace that jarred his feet and made his head throb with the force of his motion. He turned into an alley on the left, slapping the rough wall to keep his balance. Momentum carried him a few metres, but he grabbed a rust-darkened drainpipe and stopped. There was a mound of rubbish bags and cardboard boxes in front of him, not exactly Everest but enough of a delay to get him cuffed. There was nothing for it. He let go of the drainpipe, and took a cautious step into the pile of detritus.
"FBI. Don't move," said a voice behind him, young and female. Relaxed. "Hey there, Charles." He turned around slowly. She was standing at the end of the alley, feet apart in a textbook firing stance. She wasn't the usual kind of Fed; a little too short and blonde to be properly intimidating in her neat jacket and slacks; the kind of girl he liked to start with in a new town. But her eyes were hard, her smile was cold, and the gun was steady on his centre of mass.
"Good morning, ma'am," he said carefully, trying to decide what to do. Take her as she tried to cuff him, or rush her now?
"Back up a little, Charles," she said, and the gun is still steady so he shuffles backwards into the trash. She moves further into the alley, still smiling. "End of the line, Charles."
"Line's always going somewhere, ma'am," he says, just tossing out words while considers distance and speed. He'd lost the other Feds in the old warehouse he'd been bunking in, but this one would have called them in. He had to get away before they closed in around him.
"Not for you," she said, and her smile deepened. She had dimples. "Serial rapist with a history of domestic violence, that's not a man who gets early parole. But don't worry – the first night's the toughest."
"I didn't do that," he said stoutly. He cursed himself for backing up – the bags of trash will slow him down if he has to jump her.
"DNA says differently," the Fed said conversationally. "You're going to prison, Charles. The big house, the joint, the bucket, good old Cub Fed. I hear rapists have a real hard time, all that fucked-up karma they're carrying around. Glass in their food, beatings in the yard that miraculously no one sees, and sooner or later – I'd put money on sooner, ugly guy like you – they find you dead, probably with a shiv stuck up your ass."
He was sweating, remembering the few nights he'd spent in the county lock-up after Tina got all bitchy. A little cell with scratchy blankets, and he'd just had to get out, even signed the divorce papers just to get out. He couldn't go back to that. He was going to have to rush her, damn it.
"But," she said suddenly, throwing the word down like a dare, "That doesn't have to happen."
He'd heard this song before. "If I let you take me in, you'll do what you can? Screw you, you little Fed bitch. Like you said, I'm running or I'm inside." He cursed inside his head. Now he'd put even more on guard.
"I don't have to take you in," she said, and he laughed. "I'm serious. We've already got you, Charles. You can run for a day, or a week – but we'll get you. But your last girl, she said you had help. And we don't have him. So I'm going to give you a deal, Charles. You tell me who that man was, and I watch you leave. This time."
She sounded serious, but the trick was obvious. "Yeah, I tell you and then you take me in anyway. You've got the gun."
"True." And she lowered her weapon, her hand twitching towards her hip holster, but then she dropped it on the ground. For a moment he was too shocked to move. Then he shifted his weight, ready to take her stupidity and rush past her. But she spoke again before he could take a step, voice sharp enough to cut into his dreams of escape. "There are agents nearby, Charles. I can't stop you, but I can slow you down. Or you can give me what I asked for, and I let you go."
It had to be a trick, had to be. But she was standing there all serious, and she'd dropped her gun. "You'll let me go?" He wasn't sure if he was being smart or stupid.
"Yes," she said, and then moved a shoulder. "Well, I'll need you to hit me first."
"The fuck?" It slipped out, but she smiled. Did the bitch ever stop smiling?
"It needs to look real, Charles. Can't have everyone at the office wondering about me, can I? Give me the name, hit me in the shoulder or something, and then we're quits."
"No. I hit you first, I don't want you moving for that pistol." And now he was setting conditions, and he realised he was really going to try this. Was he crazy? Was she?
"Fair enough," she allowed. She stepped forward, closer to him. "Come on, Charles, don't you like hitting women?" Well, that was all he could take from a smartmouth (crazy) Fed bitch. He balled up a fist and hit her with a lovely cross on her left shoulder.
It was a beautiful hit. He felt the pop and crunch that meant it had hurt, done some serious damage. He watched her on the ground, right hand clutching her left shoulder as she tried not to cry. Served her right, the crazy girl. Now he had to get gone.
"The name," she choked out. He couldn't believe it. Girl had a broken shoulder, he could kick her head in if he wanted, and she was interrogating him. Well, what the fuck. He didn't owe the guy anything, and maybe it would get the Feds off him for a bit.
"Jason Morgan," he told her. "Big guy, taller than me. From Texas, although he said it was Michigan. You enjoy that shoulder now, you hear?" He kicked her gun behind me, back into the pile of trash. He went to leave the alley, not moving too fast in case the Feds weren't around yet. He heard something from behind him, and paused to look back at the crazy Fed one last time.
The fed had propped her right shoulder against the wall. Her hand was inside her suit jacket, and it came out with a gun from a shoulder holster.
"Thanks for the tip, Charles," she said brightly, and then the world roared with noise. His body shook. He was on the ground, everything hurt, oh God he could feel how everything hurt. Something was stabbing, tearing at his insides, and his shirt was wet. Something whispered in his ear. "Guys like you won't talk from a position of weakness. You need to be in control. So thanks for the tip, and you owe me one for keeping you out of prison."
His shirt was wet. That was all he could think, as he heard her doing something outside his greying vision. There were beeps, and then her voice. She was panting, breathing hard like she was running.
"This is Agent Mars, I'm in pursuit of the suspect eastbound on Shumpeter Boulevard. Requesting backup – shit, he's going into an alley. Request assistance urgently. Mars out." There was silence for a while. "You do good work, Charles. No one's gonna suspect a thing, with bruises like this."Another pause. "Jason Morgan, huh? Texan. Should be more than enough." And that was all he heard.