“I’ve got a gun.”

“Is it as big as Tank’s?”

Tank was holding a .44 Magnum.

“I swear to God,” Butchy said, “if you come in I’ll blow your head off.” And he disconnected.

“He’s not coming down,” I told Tank. “And he says he’s armed.”

Tank walked up to the door, put his boot to it just left of the handle, and the door flipped open. “Wait here,” Tank said.

I had my gun in hand, too. “No way. This is my bust.”

Tank turned and looked at me. “Anything happens to you, I have to answer to Ranger. Frankly, I’d rather take a bullet from this moron.”

Okay, that made sense to me. “I’ll wait here,” I told him.

“I’m coming up the stairs,” Tank called to Butchy. “When I get to the top I want you unarmed, face down on the floor with your hands where I can see them.”

I looked up and saw Butchy ass first, half out the window above me. He was waiting for Tank to get to the top of the stairs and then Butchy was going to go out the window, onto the small roof over the stoop, and drop to the ground.

I ducked into the doorway so Butchy wouldn’t see me. I held my breath and waited to hear him on the roof. Tank got to the top of the stairs, Butchy’s feet scuffed on the roof, and I jumped out. I had my gun two-handed and I yelled for Butchy to stop and freeze.

“I’ve got him,” I yelled to Tank. “He’s on the porch roof.”

Tank jogged down the stairs and moved to join me on the small patch of front lawn. He cleared the porch just as Butchy catapulted himself off the roof, and the two of them crashed to the ground with Butchy on top of Tank.

I rushed in and grabbed Butchy by the arm, cuffing him behind his back while he still had the air knocked out of him. I rolled him off Tank and shoved him aside. Tank was on his back with his leg twisted at an impossible angle.

“Just shoot me,” Tank said. “It’d be less painful.”

I called EMS and then I called Ranger. A half hour later, Tank was rolled into the EMS truck, his leg held stable by an inflated cast.

Ranger and I stood side by side and watched the truck disappear around the corner. A big, bald, jug-headed guy, neatly dressed in black jeans and T-shirt, stood by Tank’s truck. He had his muscle-bound, bulging arms crossed over his massive chest and his tiny eyes fixed on Ranger and me.

“I need to go to the hospital and get Tank admitted,” Ranger said. “I’ve asked Cal to follow you around.”

“Cal has a flaming skull tattooed onto his forehead. And he has muscles in places muscles aren’t supposed to grow. Cal looks like . . . Steroidasaurus.”

“Don’t underestimate him,” Ranger said. “He can spell his name. He’s not overly violent as long as he remembers to take his medication. And he gives good shade.”