“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

He doesn’t obey. Instead, he takes a step back, putting space between us. I set my hand on the expandable baton at my belt. I’d like to taze him, but they weren’t part of the Painters Mill budget. “I’m not going to ask you again.”

My heart begins to race when I realize he’s not going to comply. Adrenaline burns my midsection and spreads like an arterial injection to my limbs with enough force to make me shake. I step toward him, and he bolts.

Glock and I tear out after him simultaneously, two sprinters out of their blocks and running. Brower is agile and fast. He jets through the back door, upends a shelf to block our way, and heads toward the alley.

I hurdle debris and blast through the door after him. In my peripheral vision I see Glock trip and go down. My vision tunnels on Brower. Blue coveralls. Arms pumping. Occasional look over his shoulder. The ground is slick with snow. My boots slide, but I recover quickly and keep running. I hear a shout behind me, but I’m too focused to make out the words.

To my surprise, I’m gaining on him. I visualize taking him down, kneeing him in the small of his back, sliding the cuffs onto his wrists. But I’ve been in enough foot chases to know nothing ever goes by the book.

Fifty feet in, the alley tees. Brower veers left. I crash through trash cans and gain ten feet on him. “Stop!” I shout.

He keeps running.

Four more strides and I’ll be close enough to take him down. My heart thunders. Adrenaline is a jet engine in my ears. His left foot slides, slowing him. I dive, wrap my arms around his hips, throw my shoulder into him.

An indistinguishable sound bursts from his mouth. He twists in midair. His hands slam down on my shoulders hard enough to bruise. His fingers squeeze like vise grips. “Get the fuck off me, you Amish bitch!”

We hit the ground hard and slide. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. Snow sprays into my eyes, in my mouth. Blind, operating on instinct, I get my knees beneath me. Sliding the baton from its holster, I snap it out. But I’m not fast enough. The blow comes out of nowhere. His fist is like a sledgehammer making nice with the bridge of my nose. The force rattles my brain all the way to my sinuses. My head snaps back, and I lose my grip on Brower.

Air whistles as I bring the baton down on his thigh. He snarls like a beast. “Bitch cop!” He draws back to hit me again. I try to get the baton in position, brace for the blow.

Glock moves in from the side, a Mack truck mowing down a VW. I scramble back. Snow flies. A single unmanly scream rents the air. Glock muscles Brower onto his stomach with the skill of a heavyweight wrestler. Climbing on top of him, Glock grinds his knee into the other man’s back and grapples for his wrists.