Chuck wheezed and said, "Looks like it's showtime."

The man from the Jaguar, Gastlin, stepped out of the low car, his eyes still scanning the parking lot. Dressed in shorts and a loud, untucked shirt with a photo of Jimmy Buffet covering his wide stomach, he looked like a bowling pin compared to Félix's lean body. He leaned casually against the Jag, chatting.

The two men were about four rows away and ten spots back. When the arrest signal came, Duarte and Chuck would close the distance in the yacht-sized Expedition, then spring out with five or six DEA agents to secure the target and make sure Félix was safe.

Chuck said, "I know the DEA wants that Jag. You watch, they'll treat that car like a crystal egg. No matter what happens they won't hurt that car."

Duarte nodded, concentrating. Once Félix gave the arrest signal, Duarte knew he expected to have the cavalry rush in right that minute. Cops always claim the slowest time in the world is between when you give the arrest signal and when your buddies rush in. Your heart pounds, and adrenaline courses through your body.

The visual arrest signal was when Félix opened his trunk. That was the sign that he had seen the pot.

The DEA supervisor came over the radio and said, "Looks like it's going smooth. Don't move until I call it over the radio. And don't ding the Jaguar."

Chuck perked up. "See, I told you, I told you."

Duarte nodded silently, involuntarily checking his pistol. He preferred to use his hands or feet in a fight, but only an idiot tried to punch someone with a gun. He watched as the two men continued to talk, then walk to the side of the Jaguar. The target leaned in and motioned for Félix to look, too.

Then Duarte saw Félix jump. It looked like a whole body twitch, then the DEA man jumped away from the car and shouted at Gastlin. The pot dealer looked like he was trying to explain something when Félix shoved him.

Duarte sat up in the Expedition. "Chuck, something's up. Get ready."

The radio crackled on. "Let's move in. I can't tell what happened. Go, go, go."

All at once, four cars started to move.

Duarte felt his pulse increase; this was the stuff he loved about his job. Keeping his right hand on his hip, he reached across to the door handle with his left. What had happened to cause the arrest to go early? He saw Gastlin look up and notice the vehicles as they closed on him, notice, too, that, like any good undercover agent, Félix had stepped away so the arrest team had free access.

Duarte saw the target reach into the Jaguar and thought he might be going for a gun, but before the big Expedition could come to a stop, the target sprinted away across the lot with a satchel in his hand. He had grabbed the pot sample. For a chubby guy, he could really move.

The man had timed his run perfectly as the front vehicles stopped and the drivers were getting out of the cars. They also blocked the other approaching cars. The man darted toward Southern Boulevard just as Duarte jumped from the ATF Expedition and started sprinting after him. He knew big, lumbering Chuck would be behind him somewhere.

The pot dealer was obviously panicked, his head swiveling, looking for an escape, and then he saw the Florida Power & Light bucket truck in front of him and bounded up to the cab.

Duarte yelled, "Stop, police," and drawing his Sig, he raised it in the direction of the fleeing man, the DEA agents closing in from the other side.

The truck had had the engine running to provide power to the bucket, and now it lurched forward as the dealer tried to drive it away, the supports for the extended bucket scraping on the asphalt as the truck started to move. The man in the bucket shouted something, then hung on as the truck picked up speed, passing the DEA agents.

Duarte heard a car horn and turned to see Chuck in the Expedition right next to him. This was a pleasant surprise. Duarte yanked the door open and leaped into the seat. Chuck hit the gas, and they were in the chase. Alone for the moment.

The FPL truck sped up as the dope dealer apparently figured out how to raise the supports, while the man in the bucket worked the controls to lower the extended workstation as quickly as possible. The truck tilted to one side, then the other, as the pot dealer tried to negotiate the parking lot, and then suddenly the man in the bucket leaped into the low branches of a black olive tree planted in the swale.

Chuck said, "Did you see that?"

Duarte looked out over his shoulder and saw the man clinging to the tree branches. "Now he can speed up. Catch him, catch him."

The truck turned onto the side street heading south and continued to accelerate as a DEA vehicle fell in with Duarte and Chuck's Expedition. The street was empty of traffic in both directions. Thank God, thought Duarte.

Chuck brought the big Ford SUV up behind the lumbering bucket truck in a matter of blocks, then said, "Know what?"

"What?" asked Duarte, still watching the truck.

"If I got next to this thing, you could jump into the back."

Duarte had to look to see if his partner was kidding. He looked serious. "Let's see what happens in the next few minutes."

"If you say so." Chuck didn't have any plan except to follow the big truck.

Two DEA surveillance cars screamed up next to them, obviously in the same dilemma. The truck took a hard left, causing the lowered bucket to swing wide to the right side. At the next corner, the pot dealer tried to take a sharp right, and as he turned, the arm to the bucket, which was sticking out from the truck since the last turn, caught a telephone pole and swung the truck violently in a tight arc until the arm was free from the pole. The truck kept running-only now it was pointed directly at a house's yard. The heavy FPL truck thumped over bushes, glanced off a tree, and then struck the side of the one-story, dark green, old Florida house, the sound of the impact shocking. It reminded him of the explosions he had caused in Bosnia. The effect on the house wasn't all that different from those of his C-4 concoctions. The wall to the house collapsed around the cab of the truck, and the destruction continued in a domino effect because the exterior roof began to sink until the entire peak of the roof dropped into the center.

Duarte sprang from the Expedition before Chuck had even brought it to a complete stop and raced to the front door, thinking about what might have happened to the residents of the house. The front door was unlocked, causing Duarte to fear that the residents were home. He shot through the wrecked house, noticing debris scattered across the furniture, a TV lying smashed by a falling beam, bright sunshine streaming through the wide swath now exposed to the elements.

"Hello, police!" shouted Duarte. "Where are you?" He no longer cared about the arrest, fearing only for the safety of the people who might be in the house.

He heard a voice and froze: "In here." It was faint and female.

He followed the sound and pushed at the only closed door, on the east side of the house where the truck would've struck. He turned the doorknob and tried to open it, but it was hopelessly jammed by something low. He shoved and felt little give. The upper half of the door bent slightly inward.

He yelled, "Stand clear of the door!" Then he stepped back and launched the hardest, highest sidekick of his fifteen-year martial arts career. The door cracked at the site of his foot's impact. He repeated this twice more until the door split in half and he could scurry over the broken lower section. The truck's cab had come all the way inside the wrecked room, but he stole a glance and the cab was empty. A DEA agent was crawling over the wreckage into the house.

Duarte twisted his head, searching for the source of the cry.

He yelled, "Where are you?"