Corruption (4 page)

The new laws hadn’t helped much, though, and the bureau still dealt with a chemical equaling meth in Lucky’s eyes, and that at one time
had filled convenience store shelves, advertised as a legal high. The episode in the club opened the lid on a huge can of worms.

“Government measures curtailed the issue for a time, but the drugs are back. We’ve uncovered a pipeline from Mexico, traveling across
the South and up the East Coast.”

Interesting. Lucky used to travel that way back when he’d hauled narcotics for his former lover and boss, Victor Mangiardi. “Source of
intel?” While Lucky wasn’t above using criminal informants, they weren’t often reliable. He’d much prefer shared
information from law enforcement.

“Informant.”

Figured. “What’s he got?”

“A routine traffic stop uncovered two cases of packets later identified as bath salts, similar to the evidence taken from the lady arrested last
night. The suspect wants to cut a deal. According to his statement, he wanted out but was afraid what the others in the drug ring might do to
him.”

Yeah, right. It’s all fun and games until someone gets busted.
“In other words, he’s in bed with dangerous folks, got caught, and now wants us to bail him out.”

Walter nodded as he spoke. “He’s been cooperative thus far, allowing us time to build our case and position our personnel.”

Finally, a job worthy of Lucky’s experience. He nodded, itching to get back in the field. “I can be ready to leave in two
days.”

A flicker of confusion beetled Walter’s brows, smoothing out a moment later. “Not you this time, Lucky. You’re still
recovering from injuries. Besides, you’ll have your hands full.”

“There’s nothing you’ve got for me here that any other agent can’t handle.” Albeit not as well.

Walter’s jowls eased back, revealing a shit-eating grin. “That’s where I believe you’re wrong. You’ll
soon have a few more rookies to train.”

Rookies? Oh kill me now.
“I’m already training a rookie.”

Walter tapped a finger against a file lying on the desk. “As of today, and the completion of his annual review, Bo Schollenberger is no longer a
rookie.”

***

Reports filed, news articles about bath salts read, and forty-five e-mail inquiries to illegal internet pharmacies later, and Lucky was ready to call it a
night. But first, time for more research. He keyed “Jameson O’Donoghue” into the web browser, clicking on the first link to
appear in a long list.

“Jameson O’Donoghue, highly decorated officer of NYPD, consultant for the Drug Enforcement and Food and Drug Administrations, author of
three books on the subject of undercover investigations,” a web page declared.

Lucky expected a wizened grandpa of a man or a suited businessman type. Instead, judging by the picture posted online, O’Donoghue preferred jeans
to dress slacks and T-shirts to button-downs much as Lucky did. The man also inspired, or more than likely paid for, pages upon pages of officer
testimonials to his teaching techniques. Apparently, the man fooled some of the people most of the time. No way could anyone learn in a classroom the
lessons the street taught, yet Jameson laughed all the way to the bank.

Based on this jerkoff’s opinion, Walter might shove Bo out into a big ugly world he wasn’t ready for, where a single botched move meant
the difference between life and death. Should Lucky have lied for the review? Told Walter Bo never learned a thing or challenged authority? Wait. Walter
would have simply pointed out Lucky’s own authority-defying ways. And look where being a hard nose got him.

More pages covered news articles of Jameson’s field work with the DEA. Okay, so maybe he did have some street smarts after all. But not here in
the South and definitely not on both sides of the coin, like Lucky.

A click of a finger left Jameson behind and brought up the SNB home page, where an icon beckoned on the far right of the screen. A glance right and left
ensured no one approached. Lucky clicked on the innocuous looking
Memorial
button.

A twenty-seven-year-old father of two smiled from the page, wearing a 1970s era SNB uniform. Agent Martinez, the first casualty of the then newly-formed
Southeastern Narcotics Bureau, shot at close range during a raid. He’d be retired by now if he’d lived and stayed with the department;
his kids were grown with kids of their own, more than likely, with no grandpa to bounce them on his knee.

Scrolling down the page revealed poofed 80s blonde hair, bright green eyes, and an eternal grin, immortalizing the accountant who’d been hit by a
drunk driver on her way to pick her kids up from school. Poor buggers never saw their mom alive again. She may not have been an agent on a drug bust, but
she’d been a member of the SNB nonetheless.

Several more former SNB agents’ and employees’ biographies filled the page: some succumbed to natural causes, many more died in
performance of their duties. Most were younger than Lucky at the time of their deaths. Narcotics enforcement and longevity didn’t run hand in
hand.

At the bottom of the page, a pictureless obituary stated, “Agent Richmond Eugene Lucklighter, killed on assignment.” The image of an
SNB shield further marked the man’s status of having died in the line of duty, along with a gold ribbon proclaiming that he’d saved the
life of a fellow agent. Was something wrong with the sudden surge of pride? Although Lucky now bore the name Simon Harrison and continued in the land of
the living, to have left the world fighting for the good guys choked him up every time.

What did his parents think of their son dying to save another man’s life? Or did they remember Lucky at all? Did Mom and Dad visit this memorial
page, regretting having turned their backs on their oldest child?

Lucky scrolled back through the listing, stopping whenever the shield symbol popped up. Each of the men and women who’d died on the job had
gotten up for work one morning and hadn’t come home, firmly believing they’d learned everything they needed to about the job and how to
stay alive for another day. Hell, even Lucky’s fake death could’ve been real. A few lofty words from some overpaid hotshot in a
classroom didn’t mean jack shit either. Walter, typically rational, wasted his time by even putting stock into such nonsense. However, if
O’Donoghue lived up to his hype, the department could save a bundle of turnover-related training costs and worker’s compensation
claims.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside the cube, heralding the evening mass exit for the elevators. Five o’clock. And Lucky had a date to keep,
though his target didn’t yet know it. He powered down his laptop, waiting until the last of the stampede passed to make his way to the nearly
deserted parking garage.

Chapter 3

Creatures of habit made easy prey, and if Lucky couldn’t run his man to ground with a badly healed ankle, he’d rely on the element of
surprise. The normal crowd of skateboarding or loitering teens deserted the park, heading for home or warmer places to plot how to piss off their parents.

Huff, huff, huff
, a lone runner panted, tennis shoes pounding an even beat on the park’s worn jogging trail. Muscles bunched, Lucky waited. Ah, the thrill of the
hunt. When the guy slowed around a curve, Lucky jumped.

“Yah!” the man screamed. Lucky knocked into him. The “Yah!” changed to a yip. They crashed to the ground together,
their fall broken by a cushion of fallen leaves. The impact still jarred Lucky’s shoulder. He bit back a yelp of his own, pinning his quarry.

Months of observation and learning his opponent taught him what to expect, though he barely dodged a right hook. A left jab caught him in the good
shoulder.
Nice one!
The world spun and Lucky found himself staring up at furious brown eyes and a fist drawn back to punch again. “Hey,
darlin’. Miss me?”

Those eyes narrowed, brown-black brows nearly touching. The anger gave way to recognition. “Damn it, Lucky. How many times do I have to tell you?
Don’t sneak up on me. You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack.” Bo braced on his arms, taking some of the weight off of Lucky.

“Pretty good lick you got in there.” Lucky rubbed his shoulder. “Aren’t you glad to see me?” Damn, how
he’d missed the man the last few days. Their schedules and determination to keep their personal relationship on the down low separated them far
too often. Unbidden, a low moan escaped. He thrust his hardening cock at his partner, and was met by an answering hardness.

“I’ve been saving up since Walter told me about your close call last night. You should have called me! Don’t you
ever…”

“A little more than a close call. A lady shot me.”

Bo changed his tune. “Shot? Oh my God! Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He ran his fingers over the shoulder
he’d hit.

Lucky shrugged, planning to play up his injury for sympathy points later. Maybe a blowjob after a tasty dinner, cooked while the invalid lay sprawled out
on the couch. “Other arm, and she only grazed me. I’ll show you later. Did you miss me?”

“Did I miss you not telling me shit?” Bo poked a finger into Lucky’s side. “No. Giving me heart attacks?”
He poked again. “No. Miss you knocking me over?”
Poke, poke.
“No. Miss you greeting me with a training exercise
instead of a kiss?”
Poke, poke, poke.
“No.” Lucky’s extra squirming brought his cock closer against
Bo’s. Neither body part seemed to mind the contact, judging by how they stood to say “Howdy.”

Despite his squirming, Lucky couldn’t quite evade the poking finger, especially after Bo captured both of his arms in one hand, robbing Lucky of
enough leverage to wriggle free. Bo probably didn’t even realize what he’d done. A year ago, due to a traumatic childhood, even the
thought of restraining someone or being restrained would have freaked him out.

“You’re an insufferable asshole who lives to give me grief. Why should I miss you?” Bo continued, holding up the poking
finger for another attack. He cupped the back of Lucky’s head instead, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Yeah, maybe I did.”
Then he took the brief kiss he’d complained about not getting.

“What did you miss the most? Having someone around to eat all the food you keep cooking? Or to appreciate what nature gave you?” Lucky
took advantage of Bo’s distraction to roll them again, breaking the grip on his wrists. He tunneled a hand beneath Bo to grope a handful of ass
cheek. He whispered, sending his breath skating along the exposed skin of his lover’s neck. “Did you miss having me in you? Sucking you
off? Shoving hard into you…”

Bo scrunched his brow in an exaggerated thoughtful expression. “Now that you mention it, I haven’t been fucked senseless in a
while.”

Lucky’s cock lurched at the thought of sinking into Bo’s heated depths. “Glad to be of service.”

Bracing his weight on the short arms that’d earned him the nickname “T-Rex” from Bo, Lucky stared down at a disheveled mass
of gold-streaked brown hair and a slight smattering of freckles across a ski-slope nose. His chest tightened.

“Lucky?”

“Yes?”

“Will you let me up so we can quit talking and get to doing?” Bo waggled his brows. “That is, if I forgive you for scaring
the crap out of me.”

“You’ll forgive me.”

“I will? Why?”

“’Cause I’m adorable and hung like a moose?”

“A moose with arms like a T-Rex!”

“There’s an advantage to short arms.” Lucky harrumphed. “Look.” He nodded down at the small space between
their bodies. “They put me closer.”

“Yes, now will you please move?”

“But I’m comfortable.” To prove his point, Lucky rammed his erection against Bo’s again.

“And risking obscenity charges. We’re in a public park, not some back alley.”

Back alley? Oh, reeeeallly?
Lucky filed away the suggestion for later use and writhed to make more room for his suddenly much harder cock.

“Come on, let’s go to your place,” Bo said.

Was this a trick? Often enough they’d argued over whether to go to Lucky’s duplex or Bo’s apartment. While Lucky preferred
his own home, he’d learned better than to demand his way all the time. Besides, like a dog getting a treat for good behavior, he was always
rewarded for staying at Bo’s: breakfast in bed, including bacon (turkey bacon, but still) or some added bit of kink to their play. Being on his
own turf seemed to free Bo to explore his wilder side.

The advantages of Lucky’s home included more square footage and a real, honest to goodness coffee pot instead of Bo’s wimpy little
K-cup dispenser that spat out a too-weak brew and only half of Lucky’s favorite cup’s worth at a time. Then came the matter of a
certain demanding feline who’d caterwaul Lucky into submission for daring to be away unnecessarily. Somehow the damn cat knew the difference
between Lucky’s being gone for assignment and spending the night at Bo’s, and gave Lucky hell when he came home after a night of wild
sex.
Bossed around by a freaking fur ball. What’s the world coming to?

Lucky tested the waters. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to your apartment?”

“Are you kidding? And have to deal with His Supreme Highness’s baleful eyes the next time I come over? Mark my words, Lucky. One day
you’ll piss that cat off once too often, and they’ll never find your body.” Bo laughed at his own joke. Lucky
wasn’t sure it was a joke.

However, the four-legged counselor always sensed when Human Lucky hurt deep inside. The day Lucky’d found out about a young friend’s
death, the cat climbed up in his lap and helped him ride out the storm. On his sister’s birthday, when Lucky would’ve given anything to
be in Spokane taking Charlotte and the kids to dinner, the black and white tyrant hadn’t let him out of his green-eyed gaze. And the day
Charlotte broke the unspoken rule of not talking about Mom and Dad and revealed Dad’s place on a liver transplant list, reproachful feline eyes
ensured Lucky didn’t hurl anything breakable.

While technically the cat belonged to the landlady, by all appearances, Human Lucky belonged to Cat Lucky. And Cat Lucky apparently viewed caring for his
human as a serious responsibility.