He saw a man. Medium height and build. Brown hair.
He tore after him; he was in decent shape himself, but contrary to what he saw on TV most of the time, he hadn’t been in that many situations where a perp had run.
But he was after him in a flash.
This guy could run.
“Stop!” Chase shouted.
The man turned to look back—and in doing so, he tripped, thankfully. Chase didn’t think that he could have outrun him.
But he was on the ground, moaning. Chase reached him, dug plastic cuffs from his wallet and dragged him to his feet.
He frowned as he did so. The man didn’t seem to have packets or...anything.
And, as Chase looked at him, he started to laugh.
“You’ll never beat a king, you know.”
“You handed it off!” Chase said.
“Me? I didn’t do a thing. In fact...hey, you’re the damned drummer. Cool. I can sue the venue, the promoters—and Skyhawk!”
“Oh, I don’t think so!”
Chase pushed the man along before him, wishing he’d gotten set up with earbuds and a mic, but that hadn’t been feasible when he’d been playing the drums, and he had to keep one hand on the guy while he used the other to call Wellington.
“I’ve got him, but he’s passed it off!”
“Get him in here.”
“He’s suing us all,” Chase said dryly.
“I don’t think so. Too many witnesses, and I’m willing to bet he’s got a rap sheet a mile long. Who did he pass it off to?”
“I don’t know—”
“Back on lockdown. Now!” Wellington said. “Agents ready to get him—”
“I have to get back in—Sky—”
“Agents at the door. Hand him over—get to Sky.”
“On it.”
He ended his call, dragging the man back toward the stage doors.
“He’s going to shoot your ass, you know.”
“Who is?”
“The king.”
“Well, he can try. What’s the king’s name?”
“It’s King, obviously,” the man said.
“What’s your name?”
“Myron.”
“Myron what?”
“Myron Mouse. What the hell. Hey, I want an attorney.”
“That will all be arranged for you.”
“You should stick to the drums. Now I’m just suing you personally!”
“Yeah, go for it!”
Chase was finally getting him back toward the rear-stage doors. As Wellington had promised, the door opened, and two agents appeared. He knew the one man—he’d worked with him before in Baton Rouge in a small sting at a bar. He was Gene Shepherd, another agent who worked a lot of undercover cases and was excellent at sliding into just about any group anywhere.
He and his companion, an attractive female agent, were casually dressed. He was wearing a Skyhawk T-shirt while she was dressed in jeans and a soft, light sweater—but one bulky enough that he knew she was armed beneath it. They’d naturally been filtered into the audience and looked the part of any couple heading to a rock concert.
“Got him,” Shepherd assured them. “Hey, cool, thanks, we weren’t expecting this kind of help from a drummer.”
“Hey, he’s trying to ruin what was a good concert. And he might be an accessory to murder,” Chase said.
