put it to his ear, and the scout said, "Straight up Snelling."
The shooter saw the truck again as it turned down the ramp onto I-94, headed east. He was ten seconds behind it.
JOHN WIGGE was a big red-faced man, bullet-headed and bullet-brained. He'd retired with a full pension from the St. Paul cops, where he'd spent most of his career working Vice. His nickname had been R-A, pronounced "ARR-AYY," which stood for Resisting Arrest. Sell dope in his territory without Wigge's okay, run a hooker without a nod from Wigge, and there was a good chance that you'd resist arrest and get your head busted, or an arm or a leg. He'd walked right up to the edge of criminal charges a few times, but he'd always walked away again.
A different proposition than Sanderson or Utecht. Sanderson was like a banty rooster, but a banty rooster was still a chicken. Wigge was not.
Still, the shooter could take him. There was no question about that. If he could get Wigge alone for thirty seconds, or even ten seconds. He had a gun, a lead-weighted sap, a roll of duct tape. Sometimes you had to take calculated risks; and sometimes, if you work at it hard enough, you get lucky.
Wigge merged left, leaving I-94 to take I-35 north, staying in the left lane, picking up speed. Going somewhere. The shooter settled in one lane to Wigge's right, and fell back until he could see only the top of Wigge's truck, and let the ex-cop pull him up the highway.
And they kept going, out of the metro. The shooter got on the phone, said, "He's past 694, still going north," and the scout came back: "I'm coming up behind you. I'll take it for a while."
The scout was in a new rented Audi A6, gave the shooter a wave as he went past. A minute later on the phone: "Okay, I've got him."
They rolled in the loose formation, through the night, then the scout came up again, "He's slowing down, he may be looking--I'm going on past."
The shooter slowed, slowed. The scout called, "I'm past him, still going away. He's definitely looking, he's going maybe fifty."
The shooter slowed to fifty, wondered briefly if Wigge had a trailing car. Well, if he had, there was nothing to be done.
The scout: "I'm off. I'll let him get past me. . . . Okay. He's still up ahead, still slower than anything else on the road. Look for a trailing car ..."
The shooter couldn't see a trailing car. Couldn't see Wigge, either.
The scout: "I'm back on. I can see him, way up ahead. . . . I'm gaining on him, again." Then: "Okay, he's picking it up. He's picking it up. Really picking it up . . ."
They played tag, letting Wigge out of sight between exits, a delicate task made easier by the GPS video/map screens in the Audi. Thirty miles out of St. Paul; forty miles; coming up to fifty. The scout: "He's getting off. He's getting off at the rest stop. I have to go by, it's over to you. I'll come back quick as I can."
The shooter slowed again, back to fifty, and then moved onto the shoulder of the highway and stopped. He didn't want to pull into the parking lot, then have to sit in the truck without getting out. Wigge would be watching the vehicles coming in from behind, which was why the scout kept going. If the shooter waited, he might lose him, but he had to take the chance.
He made himself wait three minutes, then pulled back onto the highway. Another minute to the rest stop, two lanes, one for eighteen-wheelers, one for cars. The rest stop pavilion was a round brick building, sitting in a puddle of light, with a bunch of newspaper stands out front. A couple of kids were wandering around, and a couple of adults, killing time while somebody peed.
And there was Wigge, out of his truck, walking down the sidewalk, away from the pavilion, under a row of dim ball lights. Farther on, sitting on a picnic table, was the Indian, Bunton.
Jackpot.
THE SHOOTER called the scout: "We've got Bunton."
His mind was racing. There were a number of techniques for capturing two men, but the conditions here were difficult. He
The shooter saw the truck again as it turned down the ramp onto I-94, headed east. He was ten seconds behind it.
JOHN WIGGE was a big red-faced man, bullet-headed and bullet-brained. He'd retired with a full pension from the St. Paul cops, where he'd spent most of his career working Vice. His nickname had been R-A, pronounced "ARR-AYY," which stood for Resisting Arrest. Sell dope in his territory without Wigge's okay, run a hooker without a nod from Wigge, and there was a good chance that you'd resist arrest and get your head busted, or an arm or a leg. He'd walked right up to the edge of criminal charges a few times, but he'd always walked away again.
A different proposition than Sanderson or Utecht. Sanderson was like a banty rooster, but a banty rooster was still a chicken. Wigge was not.
Still, the shooter could take him. There was no question about that. If he could get Wigge alone for thirty seconds, or even ten seconds. He had a gun, a lead-weighted sap, a roll of duct tape. Sometimes you had to take calculated risks; and sometimes, if you work at it hard enough, you get lucky.
Wigge merged left, leaving I-94 to take I-35 north, staying in the left lane, picking up speed. Going somewhere. The shooter settled in one lane to Wigge's right, and fell back until he could see only the top of Wigge's truck, and let the ex-cop pull him up the highway.
And they kept going, out of the metro. The shooter got on the phone, said, "He's past 694, still going north," and the scout came back: "I'm coming up behind you. I'll take it for a while."
The scout was in a new rented Audi A6, gave the shooter a wave as he went past. A minute later on the phone: "Okay, I've got him."
They rolled in the loose formation, through the night, then the scout came up again, "He's slowing down, he may be looking--I'm going on past."
The shooter slowed, slowed. The scout called, "I'm past him, still going away. He's definitely looking, he's going maybe fifty."
The shooter slowed to fifty, wondered briefly if Wigge had a trailing car. Well, if he had, there was nothing to be done.
The scout: "I'm off. I'll let him get past me. . . . Okay. He's still up ahead, still slower than anything else on the road. Look for a trailing car ..."
The shooter couldn't see a trailing car. Couldn't see Wigge, either.
The scout: "I'm back on. I can see him, way up ahead. . . . I'm gaining on him, again." Then: "Okay, he's picking it up. He's picking it up. Really picking it up . . ."
They played tag, letting Wigge out of sight between exits, a delicate task made easier by the GPS video/map screens in the Audi. Thirty miles out of St. Paul; forty miles; coming up to fifty. The scout: "He's getting off. He's getting off at the rest stop. I have to go by, it's over to you. I'll come back quick as I can."
The shooter slowed again, back to fifty, and then moved onto the shoulder of the highway and stopped. He didn't want to pull into the parking lot, then have to sit in the truck without getting out. Wigge would be watching the vehicles coming in from behind, which was why the scout kept going. If the shooter waited, he might lose him, but he had to take the chance.
He made himself wait three minutes, then pulled back onto the highway. Another minute to the rest stop, two lanes, one for eighteen-wheelers, one for cars. The rest stop pavilion was a round brick building, sitting in a puddle of light, with a bunch of newspaper stands out front. A couple of kids were wandering around, and a couple of adults, killing time while somebody peed.
And there was Wigge, out of his truck, walking down the sidewalk, away from the pavilion, under a row of dim ball lights. Farther on, sitting on a picnic table, was the Indian, Bunton.
Jackpot.
THE SHOOTER called the scout: "We've got Bunton."
His mind was racing. There were a number of techniques for capturing two men, but the conditions here were difficult. He
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