A Bad Feeling by Rick Hartford

The bounty hunters start their day before the sun rises. To catch a bad guy sleeping. A rude awakening. It works like this: You get busted. You get bailed out. You skip away. Now the bounty hunters come out to play. Street lights hum above us at the courthouse rendezvous as the dawn approaches. The bounty hunters rummage through the tools of the trade in the trunk of their car: There are the plastic handcuffs. There are the crowbars and the flashlights. There are the leather gloves lined with lead. There are the pistols and the shotguns. One of them spreads a rap sheet out on the hood of a car under the beam of a flashlight. He rubs his chin with his free hand, squinting as he reads. Seems the man they are after says he won't be taken alive. That sinks in. And now we are driving through the city in the dark running traffic lights. Somebody says: "I got a bad feeling about this one." "Cynch up your vest," is the reply. The head bounty hunter calls himself Viper. Usually its just him and a partner who covers the back door. This time they have a few more rough boys with a couple days stubble. Who might carry brass knuckles in their pockets along with the spare change. We pull up in front of the apartment building and everyone spills out. Viper goes to the lobby and he rings up every apartment. What idiot would buzz somebody in at 4:30 in the morning? Some hopeful soul, Who is now coming down in the elevator. A little man who sees he has made an error in judgement as the elevator door opens. The bounty hunters push their way into the box and everybody says nothing, a thick finger pushing a button for a floor. In a moment we are creeping down a hall and a man in a heavy plaid coat kicks the door open. They rush in. I follow with a camera. Flashlights wash over the walls as they search the bedrooms, the closets, under the beds. There is nobody here. Nobody. I walk into the living room and sit alone on a sofa in the dark, looking at a blank television screen. Listening to my heart pounding.