Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (2 page)

BOOK: Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption
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“That’s right,” he says with a smug kind of a look. He loves that I’ve heard of him. Too bad it was for all the wrong reasons.

“My friends call me Donnie, though.”

“Well, congratulations, Don.” I nod and jerk him toward me as my smile dissipates. I spin him around and push his face against the hood of the Charger. And yeah, maybe a little harder than I need to. I like to make an impression that says,
don’t even fucking think about trying to run
, right off the bat.

“Ow. Shit.”

“I’m taking you into custody for jumping bail and for being stupid enough to stick around and show your face after jumping said bail.”

“The fuck?” Someone in the crowd is not happy. A few of his friends, once they understand what’s happening, start in for me.  I whip the Smith & Wesson out, with my free hand, and point it in their general direction.

I sincerely hope they don’t rush me. If they do, I’m done for. So is the Charger. I don’t have the kind of money lying around that it’ll take to get dental surgery again or to reimburse that “friend” I was talking about earlier, so…

“Anyone got a problem with me arresting Mr. Leary here?” Suddenly, I’m a crazed lunatic waving my gun around. I gotta say, it surprises me that no one else pulls one out. I thought all these street racing types carried.

Apparently not, but that doesn’t mean a few of them don’t try to get all law-abiding-citizen on me.

“You can’t do that, man!” one kid hollers while he points an angry finger at me. Another one comes dangerously close to approaching me but thinks better of it at the last moment.

“You just partook in a drag race. We all saw it.”

“Yeah,” another one cries out. “We’re gonna make sure your badge is taken too, dude. This is like… wrong!”

Can I just say, the
dude
he added on there at the end kinda takes me out of the moment.

“Yeah!” a bunch of them yell out in contempt of my reckless abandonment of the law. I laugh because, ah, youth.

“I’m not a cop, asshole. So good luck with that.”

I press my knee up against Donnie and jam the gun back into its holster. I grab my cuffs out of a back pocket and get them on him pretty quick. I’ve been doing this a long time; I’ve gotten pretty good and pretty fast at it. Plus, I only have a few more minutes, if that, before this crowd decides to mob my ass.

When I’m done with the cuffs, I pull my S&W back out and drag poor Donnie over to the driver’s side of the car—amid the moaning and groaning of young adults unsure of exactly what the fuck to do with this situation. He complies when I push him into the back seat.  After I get my ass in behind the steering wheel, I punch it.

I don’t slow up until I’m on the well-lit, highly populated interstate, headed toward downtown Redemption. After about five minutes, I breathe easier when I see no hint of souped-up cars or crazy vengeful teenagers behind me.

Bonus
.

“They’ll come after you, you know?” Donnie’s quiet when he warns me from the back seat, confident I’ll lose my nerve and let him loose.

I grin at him and continue to check the road behind us.

“I don’t think so, kid.”

Sure, a few of them will be more than slightly miffed when they go to start up their cars only to find the spark plugs are missing. In my defense, it was a safety precaution I took when everyone else was paying attention to the pre-race festivities otherwise known as cranking loud music and swapping spit.

Also, I left them to be found, eventually, which is more than I can say a few of my colleagues would have done.

A little more relaxed, I pull the bandanna off my head and stretch the stress out of my neck as Donnie rambles in the back seat.

“You crossed the line, man.” He’s got a discouraged tone in his voice. Not that it bothers me. “And broke about five different street laws.”

We make eye contact via the rear view mirror and I cock an eyebrow for him. “Do you really think I give a shit about street laws, Don?”

Seriously.

He shakes his head, defeat bleeding from his eyes.

“You’re about to go to jail for manslaughter. Maybe you should worry about that for a little while.”

His expression changes as though he’s just now realizing why I’m taking him in.

“I didn’t kill anybody.” His voice wavers slightly, and I see it in his eyes. He’s scared. He doesn’t want me to know it, but it’s there. Plain as day.

He wants me to believe him, maybe even needs me to. But I’ve already been briefed on his record. I hear enough woe is me crap on a daily basis. I don’t need to hear it from this guy, too.  And I definitely don’t need to hear it all the way to the precinct. So I nod, roll my eyes, then turn on the radio and crank up the tunes.

I fast dial Tricky Ricky, the bail bondsman who contacted me about our friendly neighborhood Redemption police department needing a little help with this one.

“I’ve got him.” I end the call almost as soon as it begins. Short and sweet runs in my family. Besides, Tricky and me, we go way back—he knows the drill.

Personally, I'm over the moon. Not only am I a thousand dollars richer from the drag race I just nailed, but I’m also about to be another ten grand in the black when I drop this kid off at Redemption’s 1st Precinct for the night. Because I’m feeling pretty spectacular, I lean back, open up the engine, and just drive for a while.

Also, before you ask, I wasn’t lying back there. I’m not a cop. And don’t even get me started on bounty hunters. These days, they’re a dime a dozen, and the level of service with those guys?
Joke
.

I’m the guy they call when they can’t get it up.  Or rather, can’t get the job done for whatever reason. Normally, I work directly through the bail bondsman I’ve known for a lot of years, but in certain circumstances, like this one, I deal directly with the men in blue.

Name’s Jackson Stiles. I’m of the independent sector. A private dick, as some of my close friends call me.

Kidding. I have no close friends.

And I get the job done, by the way.

Every damn time, my friends.

Every.

Damn.

Time.

Not that I have anything against the police force in any way, shape, or form, mind you. Hell, my brother’s a cop, but do you have any idea what those guys make? Freelance is the way to go, in my humble opinion. Or what I like to call “consulting.”

It’s the least I can do, really. Besides, if I can get one more douchebag off the streets, win-win for both me and the men in blue. Forget about the fact that they’d rather lose out on a bust than disobey their precious leaders.

Call me bitter. My family does. Most of them anyway.

Donnie hollers something from the back seat as we get closer to our destination. I turn down the music, irritated.

“What?”

“You don’t have to do this.” He’s jittery, now, and desperate.

Great.

Kid better not piss his pants on the seat of this fucking car is all I’m saying.

“We can take this conversation somewhere else. Anywhere. Just not…there.” He glances over at the brick building off in the distance, then swallows a lump in his throat.

“What’s there to talk about? You fucked up.” He inches his way forward and sits up straight.

“No, I know, I totally fucked up, but this rap is
not
mine. I’m telling you, you’re making a mistake. Don’t give me to these guys.”

I meet his eyes again.

The confident little shit from earlier isn’t quite so confident any more. He’s more like a scared little kid who realizes he’s about to be held accountable for the shit he’s been pulling.

Or, you know, a murder, if you’d like to get specific.

“Please.”

And now I’m curious. So I let off the gas and bring the car to a coast for a stretch.

“Tell me something, kid. If it’s not your rap, then whose is it?”

I’m all about getting to the point.

He contemplates saying something else, but doesn’t. So, apparently he trusts me enough to beg me to set him free, but not enough to expand on his claims of innocence. Gotta love the younger generation. Never wanting to take responsibility for their bullshit.

“Who escapes a murder scene then sticks around to drag race, anyway?” That’s been bugging me all night.

“I didn’t kill anyone!” He’s defiant now. Ticked.

“But you somehow know exactly what the fuck I’m talking about?” Obviously, since he knows what he’s going to jail for.

“Unfortunately.” He’s leaving something out, and it annoys the shit out of me. Like a puzzle I need to finish, only I can’t because he threw the last piece out the window, and the timer’s about to go off. It’s not in my job description to get the story, though. All I'm supposed to do is take him in. Something I have to keep reminding myself of tonight, for some reason.

“Well, I say no worries then.” I try to make light of the situation as I press on the gas pedal again. “You get a defense lawyer assigned to your case. They prove you weren’t the killer. Bam. Done.”

“Right.” He laughs out a sarcastic huff of air and watches the shrubbery go by outside. He’s got about as much confidence in the justice system as I do, it seems.

“Tell ya what, if I ever become a life coach, I’ll give you a call. We’ll talk shop, and I’ll tell you how to keep your nose clean as opposed to getting involved with the wrong kind of people.” It’s a half-hearted promise. Redemption doesn’t have a whole hell of a lot of the
right
kind of people.

When I’m almost up to the home of Redemption's Police Department, I take my foot off the gas and hesitate for a second.

Not gonna lie, part of me wonders if this kid is being truthful or if he’s just good at pulling the wool over people’s eyes. Then again, he wouldn’t be the first person with good intentions to get sucked into a world so fucked up you can’t quit.

I drift into the lot and find a spot to park. I cut the engine and, despite the fact that I have zero investments in this kid other than the money I'm about to make off turning him over, I stretch around to face my backseat compadre. “You seem like a nice kid, Don. For the record, I don’t see you as the physically harmful type.”

“I’m not.” He's hopeful when he says it. Like maybe I’m about to let him go but then he spots someone off in the distance and his voice becomes tired. “Not anymore.”

Lo and behold, three of Redemption’s finest are walking out to greet us. Which is odd. So I step out of the car and help Donnie out of the back seat. Before either one of us can say anything else, the welcoming committee is upon us.

“Hey, Stiles. Thanks for bringing this one in.” Hank Riley waves as they approach us. He’s one of those cops with too much ego and not enough common sense. And he’s smiling a tad too wide for my taste this evening. Morning. Either or. “We’ll take him from here.”

When he reaches for the kid, I stop him with a hand to his chest. It’s kinda like pushing against a huge, police-uniformed Peep. The guy is far too overweight, which makes him slow. Too slow for this job, if you ask me. Which is why he’s been glossed over for promotions for the past half a decade.

The guy thinks he’s got nothing new to learn. Hence, the ego.

His bushy brow pulls together, but I don’t hand anyone over until I’m paid.
Rule number one.

“I’ll take him in, Hank. I have paperwork to sign anyway.”

And money to collect.

Rule number two.
Don’t forget to sign the paperwork.

When the overweight long-timer blocks my path, a thin line forms across his lips. “Captain said no need, tonight.” He plants an envelope against my chest that I assume is full of cash. I check it, anyway.

Rule number three
, always, always,
always
, count the money.

While I’m confirming my paycheck is all there, I can’t help but wonder why Captain on-my-ass-all-the-time wouldn’t want me to sign the paperwork. I always sign the paperwork. There hasn’t been one time that I’ve taken a case for the RPD when I haven’t signed the goddamn paperwork, for Christ’s sake.

Would it be nice to skip it and go home? Yes. I haven’t had a decent night's sleep in a long ass while. However, am I planning on throwing my rules out the window right now for a few extra winks?

I don’t fucking think so.

“Bullshit. I’m signing the paperwork, Riley.”

I push him aside with everything I’ve got. And trust me, you need a lot to push that monstrosity out of the way. Good thing I work out.
Sometimes.
Then I take the kid by the arm and lead him into the building with the three stooges following close behind. This would make for a much more dramatic moment if the kid wasn’t dragging his fucking
feet
the way a dog might fight against its owner when being forced into taking bath.

Inside, I’m ready to pound through security and make my way to delivering Leary into the Captain’s hands personally, but I’m stopped short by… no one.

BOOK: Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption
4.69Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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