Lethal Rage Read Online Free PDF

the dealer kept running.
    Son of a bitch, you ain’t losing me,
Jack swore and doubled his efforts.
    They crossed Ontario Street. Half a city block and Jack was dying. Running for exercise was one thing, but an all-out sprint in this heat wearing a black uniform — mostly polyester, thank you — a vest and a gun belt was simply hellish. He thought he might puke.
    By the time they reached the next street, the dealer was starting to falter. He dropped from a sprint to a run and when he cut north on Berkeley he was down to a quick jog. Jack was right on his tail, but his legs were burning.
    The dealer made it about three houses up the street before staggering to a halt, hands on his knees, labouring for breath. Jack stopped short of him, fighting the urge to double over as well.
    â€œGet . . . get on . . . your knees,” he gasped.
    The dealer raised his head, drawing deep breaths, and looked at Jack.
    Jack wiped sweat from his eyes. “Get on — fuck!”
    The dealer took off again and Jack forced his screaming legs back into a run.
    The side streets in this area were all residential, with older homes, mature trees and well-travelled laneways. The dealer cut into the first lane, doubling back on himself. Jack was past the point of pain, running on anger and determination. Neither of them was moving very fast and Jack would be damned if he was the first one to give up.
    The lane cut across Ontario, but the dealer never reached it. Sy screeched the cruiser to a halt across the lane, plugging the dealer’s escape route. The dealer stumbled the last few steps to the cruiser and put his back to the passenger door. He started to squat down but jerked upright when he heard Jack’s footsteps approaching. His running footsteps. The dealer’s eyes widened in alarm and he raised his hands, whether in surrender or protection Jack didn’t know and didn’t care.
    Jack plowed into the dealer. The man’s body made a very satisfying thud against the door of the scout car and they tumbled to the ground, Jack landing on the dealer’s back.
    He wanted nothing more than to lie still and rest, but lying across a drug dealer’s back was not the most professional position to be seen in and, besides, the guy stank like he hadn’t showered since the start of the heat wave. As Jack straight-armed himself up, the dealer showed signs of wanting to get up. Jack dropped his knees on the dealer’s back and the air woofed out of the man. His face made an agreeable smack on the asphalt.
    â€œStay . . . down . . . this time.”
    Jack slowly climbed to his feet and collapsed against the car. Black dots swam across his vision and his head spun wildly. Gasping hot air, he fought the urge to heave.
    If I do puke, I’ll make sure I puke on him.
    Sy sauntered around the rear of the car. “Nice tackle.” He squatted and dragged the dealer’s unresisting arms behind his back. Snapping on the cuffs, he asked Jack, “He piss you off or something?”
    Jack shook his head, still gasping. “First time . . . he stopped. . . .” He held up a hand and took several deep breaths. “Okay. First time he stopped I told him to get down and he took off again. I didn’t want to have to chase him a third time.”
    â€œAh, I see. You tackled him because he was getting ready to run again.”
    â€œI wasn’t gonna run,” the dealer protested, trying to lift his face from the hot pavement.
    â€œI wasn’t talking to you, Mumblee.” Sy shoved the man’s face down. “Damn, this guy’s soaked. Jack, get the hand cleaner, would you?”
    Jack opened the car and grabbed the bottle of gel sanitizer that all cops carried in the car. He squirted some for Sy and then himself. Once their hands were clean, they both slipped on their search gloves.
    â€œAll right, buddy, up you get.” Each grabbing an arm, they hoisted the dealer to his feet.