The Promise of Surrender (2 page)

He walked like a cop. And his eyes scanned the area like a cop—like he was trying to see where his backup was located just in case he needed a rescue. Surely working undercover hadn’t changed that much in the last ten years. This guy was lucky to be alive if his commander was sending him out with that much green on him.  

Mia wasn’t the most patient of people on her best days. And today wasn’t one of her best days. It was barely noon, and a variety of customers had already come into the shop. Each one had made her head pound a little harder. 

She’d opened Pawn to Queen six years before with nothing but sweat, blood, and the money she’d taken in one lump sum from her pension. There’d been no rhyme or reason as to why she’d picked Surrender, Montana. Not that she wasn’t familiar with the area and all the little towns that dotted the Montana landscape like pictures on a postcard. But there’d been something about Surrender that had called to her to make it home.

Even with the appeal of the rolling hills, white fences, and the shops downtown with matching black awnings and flowers placed along the wooden walkways, she knew she couldn’t sully the peaceful image of the town with her shop. She’d never fooled herself into thinking her clientele was a cut above all the other pawnshop owners out there. For the most part, she was dealing with the dregs of humanity. So she’d built her shop on the outskirts of town, just outside the city limits on the other side of the hill.

Surrender was unique in that it was located at the base of several large hills, nestled like a little green jewel in the valley. Any direction visitors came from, the exits led to one main road, up and over the hill, so when they reached the top there was a crystal clear view of the little town tucked below—the
Welcome to Surrender
sign gleaming a bright and polished green at the summit.

Mia lived in a pretty little apartment above the bakery. It was painted white and had beveled windows and a spindled railing along the balcony. Smells of cinnamon rolls and fresh baked bread wafted up through the vents each morning. She was still considered an outsider, though people were friendly when she did her weekly grocery shopping or stopped to grab a bite to eat at the diner. They were friendly—but wary.

The people in Surrender came from a different era. The men were rugged and muscled from working the ranches. The denim of their jeans worn at the knees and back pockets, their boots scuffed and comfortable from use. The ranch women were as sturdy as their men, and they all worked like dogs to preserve a heritage that would go to their own children. Ranching was harsh, but it provided a good life.

The town ladies—at least that’s what Mia liked to call them—were a whole different story. It was almost comical the way they scurried about from shop to shop, gossiping more than attending to errands. It was their pastime and they made no apologies about enjoying it immensely.

They’d start the day at the bakery, then take their recyclable shopping bags over to the mercantile. They’d eventually wander to the bookstore, the florist, and a little place that only sold honey and homemade candles made of beeswax, visiting with the shop owners and catching up on any news they might have missed—engagements, new babies, whose cows got loose and caused a ruckus, or who got drunk and disorderly down at Duffey’s Pub the night before—all news was met with equal excitement.

There was a clothing boutique for ladies owned by Annabeth MacKenzie, but it didn’t exactly cater to the kinds of things Mia liked to wear, though Annabeth was very sweet, if a little shy. Next door to Annabeth’s shop was a clothing store for men that carried the hardy clothes for ranch life—Wranglers, Stetsons, and boots. There was a feed store next to that, an ice cream parlor, and the bakery occupied the corner building.

There was always some kind of ladies club meeting happening one place or another. Casserole recipes were doled out like gold bullion, and they all dressed like every day was Sunday.

Mia was a puzzlement to the women in town. She didn’t talk about herself, though she was always friendly when they spoke to her. But she’d had a lot of practice avoiding invasive questions, so she smiled and turned the conversation around so she wasn’t the focus.

She’d had to fill out a background check when she’d rented the little apartment, but law enforcement records didn’t show on a standard check. All they knew was that her name was Mia Marie Russo and she was a thirty-four-year-old female with no family and no criminal history. And it hadn’t hurt that she’d been able to pay six months rent up front.

Her landlady had been disappointed at the lack of news to carry on to her friends. It wasn’t every day a single woman with a sleeve of tattoos and purple streaks in her hair moved to Surrender. And it wasn’t every day that same woman built a pawnshop on the outskirts of town and carried a visible weapon everywhere she went.

Mia had built her shop just after the exit at the base of the other side of the hill, away from the pristine beauty of Surrender. She’d picked the perfect location. It was nothing but open land—no trees or hills or valleys. With the amount of cash and valuable inventory she often had on hand, it was best not to give people available hiding places.

A long, rectangular cabin with a metal roof had given her the most efficient space for the best price, and it was surrounded by a graveled parking lot. In a year or two she’d be able to afford to have it paved. She’d had bars installed on the windows for extra security and the door at the back of the cabin was solid steel and bolted tight unless she was unloading a shipment or leaving or entering the premises. Her front door was always locked and customers had to be buzzed in. She was always armed. Which she was grateful for after the customers she’d already dealt with that morning.

Her first customer of the day had been an addict trying to pawn what looked like family heirlooms. He’d probably stolen them from his own mother, as he’d seemed familiar with each piece. She’d lowballed him, hoping he’d reject the offer, but he’d taken the cash with shaky hands and a gleam in his eye that told her he was already focused on his next fix. She entered the information into the online database, put the heirlooms in an envelope, and stuck them in the safe beneath her register. Maybe someone would come in looking to get them back.

Her second customer had been a woman on the verge of a breakdown. The woman carried a baby in a sling around her chest and held a toddler by his chubby hand. Mia had listened with a pounding headache while the woman sobbed out a story of betrayal about her no-good husband. And in the end, she’d given the woman a little more than she should have for the wedding ring set. Everyone deserved a fresh start.

Her third customer had been a big brute of a man, decked out in Vaquero biker colors and 1% patches. He’d parked his Harley sideways in front of the steps that led up to the door, and she’d felt the reverberation of his footsteps as he made his way onto the porch and hit the buzzer multiple times. She debated whether or not to let him inside. It was the reason she’d had the system installed in the first place and the cameras in the lot. It was her business. Her terms.

Her gun was holstered at her waist and her right hand rested comfortably on the sawed off she kept beneath the counter. She flicked the button to release the door latch and allowed him entry. Each step he took shook the floor-to-ceiling metal shelves.

Her display counter was three sides of a big square—the fourth side was a blank wall and door that led back to her office and the storeroom. Her register was centered in the middle of the square so no one could reach over the counter and take money. Her customers didn’t know it, but she’d invested in bulletproof glass to protect the more expensive items she kept in the display counter.

Biker dude pressed his palms down on the glass and stared her down. She’d been stared down by worse than him, so she just stared back.

“Can I help you?” she finally asked.

“I believe you have something of mine. It’s a music box. Very old. Wooden. And when you open it and wind it up you can see all the workings on the inside.”

“You’ve lost an antique music box?” she asked skeptically.

“It was my mother’s,” he lied easily. “I was told it was brought here and you paid someone for it. I’ll give you double what you paid.”

“That’s very generous of you, but the only music boxes I have are sitting on the shelf over there. You’re welcome to check them out.”

His jaw clenched and his smile sent chills up her spine. “Maybe you forgot you bought it,” he said. “So I’m going to ask you one more time.” He pressed against the counter and leaned forward until his face was inches from hers. “Go get the music box from the back.”

He couldn’t mistake the sound of her cocking the shotgun, and his brown eyes narrowed with malice. “Like I’ve already said. I haven’t acquired any music boxes recently. Maybe check down the road at
Pawn and Go
in Myrna Springs.”

Her voice was calm, but her heart hammered in her chest. She’d have to be fast if things went to shit. If it weren’t for the bulletproof counters, she could’ve pulled the trigger and shot straight through. But she knew in her gut there was no way she could be fast enough to pull the shotgun out, aim, and fire. She’d let him get in too close. Her mistake, and she knew better. Civilian life had made her soft.

She stared him down with nothing but bluster, and to her surprise, he took a step back and dropped his hands down to his side.

“Why don’t you keep an eye out for that music box? My brothers and I will come back for a visit soon. Real soon.”

He left the shop, the door banging shut behind him, and she breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Perfect. Now I’ve got an entire outlaw motorcycle club to deal with. Must be my lucky day.”

Mia went to the front door and made sure the latch was closed tight, and then she went into her office and unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk. Inside it sat the wooden music box she’d bought from Tina Wolfe the day before. She’d given her a hundred bucks for it and the woman had gladly taken it.

Mia wasn’t one to judge—she dealt with people from all walks of life—and she knew that sometimes life dealt one shitty hand after another. That’s the impression she’d gotten from Tina. She was a woman who looked like she’d ridden a hard road. Her license placed her at twenty-six, but Mia would’ve guessed a hard forty. A combination of the sun, alcohol, and the smoke that reeked from her clothing had aged her face considerably.

She’d ridden in on a nice Harley and she’d dressed the part. But there’d been a look of weariness on her face Mia found impossible to ignore. And when she looked a little closer, there was also an edge of fear. Tina was running from something or someone, and whatever cash she could get on her way was how she was going to survive.

So Mia had given her the cash and taken the music box. It was a nice piece. Early 1940s and in good shape. And the music still played crystal clear and she watched, fascinated, as the intricate wheels and cogs played
You Are My Sunshine
. It was a piece that caught her interest enough that she’d decided to take it home. Though now she had to wonder what there was about it that made the biker want it so badly.

She’d moved it to a safe location and grabbed a couple of the estate boxes from the storeroom, moving them to the front counter so she could start documenting the new inventory. Less than twenty minutes later, she’d looked up to see the rookie cop in her parking lot.

He buzzed her door, box in hand, and had a smirk on his face. She’d had about enough of people for the day. The easiest thing to do would be to let him keep buzzing and slip out the back for an early lunch. But he’d be back. He seemed determined.

 Mia knew people. She knew how to read them and she knew how to fuck with them. It was all part of the job description—former and current. So she hit the buzzer and released the locks on the door. And then she barely glanced at him as he walked toward the counter. Just a quick look and an arched eyebrow. And then she dismissed him as nothing special and went back to the inventory she’d been cataloguing before bikers and cops had started overrunning her shop.

The box landed with a light thump next to her and he waited a few seconds in silence. His fingers drummed against the counter and he cleared his throat. She tried to hide her smile.

“What am I invisible?” he said. He wasn’t from around this area judging by the accent. Maybe Chicago, if she had to guess.

He was easily summed up. Hot head. Thought he was too good for the job and God’s gift to police. His badge was still shiny and new and he’d moved from the big city to Montana, where none of the departments were very big outside of the major cities. The only reason a man made that big of a change was for a woman or so he could start over. This guy didn’t look like the kind of man who’d do anything for a woman, so she was guessing door number two.

He wouldn’t last a month working undercover in this territory. Drugs were a huge problem, and the agents working u/c were used to the terrain—running suspects to ground across mountains and rivers—facing drug cartels one night and the outlaw motorcycle clubs the next. Manpower was short and physical characteristics determined the job more than ability—if you looked like a crackhead or a meth dealer you worked ops completely different than if you had the build of a biker.

She’d been neither. She’d always looked younger than her age and she’d ended up in various high schools across the state, looking for whoever was supplying the kids with drugs. It was a job that had been finite. She couldn’t look eighteen forever.

“I’m talkin’ to you, lady. Can you take a look at this? I’m in a hurry.”

“Everyone looking for fast cash usually is,” Mia said. “Give me a second. I’m almost done.”

“You don’t seem very concerned about customer service.”

“You’re the one trying to get cash from me. I don’t have to be concerned about customer service. There are other pawnshops. You’re welcome to go there.”

She could practically hear his teeth grinding together and decided she might as well see what he wanted and get him out of her shop. With the clientele she usually catered to, she wasn’t the only one who’d be able to sniff him out as a cop.