Damn my ass hurt!
I was running as fast as I could, chasing after a suspect fifteen years younger than me. He was extremely quick. I was holding my own, yet not gaining on him. My fresh New Balance track shoes, loose fitting jeans and T-shirt kept me light on my six-foot frame. My rear cheek, where I’d been shot several months earlier by an angry former female client, was feeling the strain of the chase. The teenager was a breaking-and-entering suspect I’d been hired to catch in Highlands Ranch by a community watch group. There had been a lot of B&Es in the area. Residents were tired of coming home to missing jewelry and small electronic devices, and demanded action. I’d been working for about two weeks when I finally caught a break on surveillance and spotted him trolling the neighborhood. He popped a sliding glass door with a pry bar, quickly grabbed what he could easily carry in a white bag and took off. I took several snapshots for proof and got out of my car. When he saw me, the chase was on. I cut him off from his approaching escape vehicle driven by his partner.
My stamina was good, but the leg was holding me back. I’d rehabbed for two months, first hobbling with crutches, then limping without them, and finally walking normally. I had pushed myself hard to get back in form, but running on a treadmill is much different from sprinting full bore after a suspect. It wouldn’t be long before I’d have to stop as fatigue grabbed at me, and my butt was throbbing.
Down several streets, cutting through a few backyards after hopping fences, and into some open fields we ran. He looked back at times, but I still was there. In full gallop, I saw him grab his cell from a pocket, punch some numbers, and yell into the phone. I couldn’t hear what he was saying over my own heavy breathing, but I doubted he was calling for a cab or the police. He cut back down another street and I heard a car moving in, its wheels screeching. He leapt into the open window of the speeding Camaro and off the car went, his legs and feet sticking out as it drove away. There was no plate, and I stood there trying to catch my breath and soon had to sit down from exhaustion. In the distance, there was laughing, and I wondered who was making fun of me. Before me in the field, I saw several prairie dogs barking away with their chirp-like noises filling the air. Apparently, they thought I was funny. I was a joke to them too!
“Oh shut up,” I yelled while flipping them off. That would show them.
If I’d been carrying my .38 I could have shot the driver or taken out the tires as they do on TV. Of course, Hollywood made life more dramatic than it actually was and I was trying to cut down my bullet usage after the pre-Christmas bloodbath. Besides, firing my gun in this case was overkill, though my clients might disagree.
“How did they get away again?”
“You let some kid out-run you!”
“Give us back our retainer!”
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