The Crown Vic braked hard in the gutter. The door swung open. The driver took a riot gun from a holster between the seats. Climbed out. Pumped the gun and held it diagonally across his chest. He was a big guy. White, maybe forty. Black hair. Wide neck. Tan jacket, brown pants, black shoes, a groove in his forehead from a Smokey the Bear hat that was presumably now resting on his passenger seat. He stood behind the three guys and looked around. Surveyed the scene.Not exactly rocket science, Reacher thought.Three guys surrounding a fourth? We’re not discussing the weather here.
The cop said, “Back off now.” Deep voice. Authoritative. The three guys stepped backward. The cop stepped forward. They swapped their relative positions. Now the three guys were behind the cop. The cop moved his gun. Pointed it straight at Reacher’s chest.
“You’re under arrest,” he said.
5
Reacher stood still and asked, “On what charge?”
The cop said, “I’m sure I’ll think of something.” He swapped the gun into one hand and used the other to take the handcuffs out of the holder on his belt. He held them on the flat of his palm and one of the guys behind him stepped forward and took them from him and looped around behind Reacher’s back.
“Put your arms behind you,” the cop said.
“Are these guys deputized?” Reacher asked.
“Why would you care?”
“I don’t. But they should. They put their hands on me without a good reason, they get their arms broken.”
“They’re all deputized,” the cop said. “Especially including the one you just laid out.”
He put both hands back on his gun.
“Self-defense,” Reacher said.
“Save it for the judge,” the cop said.
The guy behind him pulled Reacher’s arms back and cuffed his wrists. The guy who had done all the talking opened the cruiser’s rear door and stood there holding it like a hotel doorman with a taxicab.