“There, there. Turn there; Fifth street,” James pointed his meaty index finger on the windshield as I confidently nodded my head, turned the blinker, and checked my rear-view mirror before turning down the street. We came from a small use road into a neighborhood of similar, single family homes. The road winded down a small drop and started back up again on a gradual hill. James pointed his finger at the windshield again.
“Is that the son of a bitch?” To the right in one of the driveways, was a portly middle aged man pulling the ripcord on a small lawn mower. I leaned forward on the steering wheel and squinted my eyes. If I had to guess, it looked like the guy we were looking for. Again with the finger.
“That’s him. That’s the fucking guy. Just out mowing his lawn like a piece of shit.”
Before I can pull up to the curb and stop, James already has the passenger door open and is taking his first step. In his left hand is a short lead pipe and a pistol was tucked into the back of his pants. I slam the shifter into park. The car rocks hard from front to back. I step out of the seat and test the taser from inside my coat pocket.
“Hey!” James yells. “Sanderson!” If I wasn’t that sure that was the guy from the photo, I swear as hell am now. One look at James and that lead pipe in his hand, and he was off sprinting behind the house he was mowing.
“Hey!” James yells again as we both take off to the backyard.
