But not before snagging a woman’s fanny pack slung over a chair on his way out. The woman—tourist, distracted by her phone—didn’t notice as he tucked it under his arm like it belonged there.
C’mon.But what did she expect?
“Harls—” Echo started, but Harley was moving, throwing her sling bag over one shoulder as T-Bone shoved through the door, the bell jangling.
She followed, the cold slapping her face as she hit the street.
“Hey!” she barked, her voice punching the morning air.
T-Bone glanced back, eyes wide, then bolted.
And that’s how she found herself working up a sweat along the boardwalk.
Now, Harley sprinted, her legs pumping.
He skidded, slipping on ice, and she saw her shot.
She aimed and pulled the trigger. The little projectile gun made a pop, and powder dusted her target, hitting him in the back. T-Bone made a sound of pain—no real damage, just a bruise—then he stumbled.
It was just enough for her to catch up. She launched herself, tripping him, putting her knee in his back.
T-Bone swung an elbow andbam! The hit landed on her cheek, sent stars. But she’d been hit before, and she shook it off. Galvanized, she drove her knee into his back harder, grabbed hiswrist and bent his hand back. He stopped twisting, and she put her other hand on his neck. His stolen fanny pack slid away.
He snarled. “Get off me, you—”
“I’m authorized by the state of Alaska to take you into custody for skipping bail.”
Right then, a truck rumbled up—a rusty Ford. The window rolled down, and she braced herself, not sure why.
Becausehewasn’t here—wasn’t coming back, and just because she’d showed up in town to hunt down a piece of the past didn’t mean—
Topher Dahlquist stuck his head out of the window, his sandy hair tousled, his grin crooked. “I can’t believe it, Trouble is back in town!”
Oh brother.
Topher opened the door and hopped out, his work boots hitting the gravel. “Harley Tatum, is that really you?” He glanced at T-Bone. “What is going on?”
“Fugitive recovery.”
Topher gave her a look. “Seriously. Of course.” But he grinned at her. “Need a hand?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Topher grabbed the wiry fugitive, who appeared a waif in his beefy grip. He barely struggled under Topher’s grasp.
Harley swung her pack around and yanked out the flexicuffs from her back pocket. Snapped them onto one wrist, then the other.
Shouting erupted behind her. She looked over, spotted the woman from the coffee shop, who ran up, out of breath. Harley grabbed the fanny pack, brushed off the dirt, handed it to her.
“Thank you—oh, thank you!” the woman said, opening the bag to check the contents.
“Still a cop, huh?” Topher asked Harley.
“Nope. PI.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Too many rules.”