I mean, fair enough: I’d had the snot kicked out of me. When the ambulance had hauled me in for the first time, they’d diagnosed me with a mild concussion, multiple serious bruises, two broken ribs, and a pretty bad case of heatstroke.
But even then, I was alive.
And that was a lot more than I expected to be, after everything that had happened in that abandoned mall.
So now? I felt more than alive. I was ready to get out of this goddamn hospital bed, and back on my feet.
“So,” Special Agent-in-Charge Barron asked me, looking up from the bowl of grapes. “You really don’t remember anything?”
I turned to the detective, and all my bluster about wanting to get out of bed evaporated.
I remembered the lie I’d told.
That I didn’t remember anything.
I lay back in the bed, and shook my head.
“Must have been that blow to the head,” I told Barron, as he stared at me expectantly. “I don’t remember a goddamned thing. Not since Dempsey and Sanchez threw us into the back of that police cruiser.”
The truth be told?
I remembered everything.
I remembered getting kidnapped from the motel.
I remembered that airless ride to the abandoned mall.
I even remembered confronting Coyle, in front of a baying audience of bikers.
Less happily, I remembered what happened later – the memory of choking the life out of Officer Dempsey with my bare hands.
I still shivered when I remembered that.
And then, finally, I remembered Coyle’s mock execution, in front of his gang of bikers.
I remembered everything.
But the big bruise on the back of my head? It was the perfect excuse to pretend not to.
And, as it turned out, that was a smart move.
“The girl filled us in as best she could,” Barron explained, apparently not questioning my convenient amnesia. “Apparently Officer Dempsey and Officer Sanchez got wind that you were an undercover agent. That’s why they snatched you two off the street.”
“Damn,” I murmured, because it sounded like the sort of thing Agent Barron would expect me to say.
“Yeah,” Barron nodded. “No idea how. But you know what these small town cops can be like. Call ‘em a lot of names, but don’t call any of those cunning little bastards dumb.”
Dumb had not been the first word I’d have picked to describe Dempsey and Sanchez.
In fact, a sailor would blush if I uttered the first word I thought of.
Oblivious to what I was thinking, Barron continued:
“Ms. Lange – Christi - said those two cops drove you out to the desert to kill you both – but after beatin’ you to a pulp, they chickened out. Guess those two motherfuckers were too cowardly to execute a fellow law-enforcement officer, so they threw you in the back of that trunk and hoped the heat and sun would do the job for them.”
I remembered the sweltering heat of that dark, airless trunk.
They’d very nearly been right.
“After that,” Barron continued, “it’s all guesswork – but we figure those two cops got scared and skipped town. They must have known you’d told us about them being dirty – so they packed up as much shit as they could, and fucking hightailed it before we came looking for them.”
He shook his head.
“We checked their apartments. Passports, clothes, toiletries. Everything they could grab in a couple of minutes – gone.”
I lay there silently.
I knew the truth.
It hadn’t been those two dirty cops who’d packed those bags. It had been Bowser, and a couple of other Knuckleheads – and they’d only grabbed enough shit to make it look like those cops had left in a hurry.
“It gets worse,” Barron continued, unaware of the truth. “Soon as we got wind of this, we called Internal Affairs, and they ran some checks.”
He shook his head, whistling through his teeth.
“Both those boys had twenty grand wired into their accounts the same day they left,” he explained. “Probably their payout for setting up the robbery of Bandy Canyon Cannabis.”
He shook his head.
“I hope they thought it was fuckin’ worth it.”
I lay there silently, my brain processing this information.
Coyle’s plan had worked perfectly. The FBI had figured those two dirty cops had gone into hiding – and by the time anybody with a badge cared to question that assumption, Officers Dempsey and Sanchez would be worm food.
But what about the rest?
“The cannabis,” I asked, finally paying attention. “What happened?”
Barron popped another grape into his mouth.
“Exactly what we planned to happen,” he explained. “Coyle and his boys swept in there in the middle of the night, and cleaned the place out. At least, we assume it was them.”
He shook his head, whistling out of respect.
“Three million bucks worth of marijuana plants and buds – gone. There wasn’t enough left to even roll a spliff.”
“Damn,” I muttered again – because I still didn’t have much else to say.
“Yeah,” Barron’s eyes lit up, and he leaned forward in his chair. “Yeah, but that’s where it gets weird. We left Coyle and his boys alone, so they could load up all that stolen weed…”
Barron’s eyes narrowed.
“…and then it fucking vanished.”
I didn’t say anything. I just turned to look at Barron, and kept my mouth drawn into a thin, straight line.
“I guess those two dirty cops must have figured out our plan,” Barron continued. “They must have told Coyle to skin out with that stolen weed someplace else. Because we had twenty cruisers planted on the road up to Old Man Grundy’s place, but when a bunch of Coyle’s goons rolled up… We didn’t find shit.”
I stayed silent. Barron kept talking.
“The Knuckleheads sent three fucking vans up to Old Man Grundy’s, just like you said they would… But when we fuckin’ busted them, they were all empty.”
“You’re kidding,” I breathed – even though I knew he wasn’t.
“They were empty,” Barron nodded, as if trying to convince himself as much as me. “And they were legal, too. Regular rental vans, from Enterprise or some shit.”
The FBI agent shook his head.
“We came down hard on the Knuckleheads at Grundy’s farm, and all we ended up bustin’ ‘em for was an unpaid parking ticket, and three arrest warrants for petty shit like assault.”
I lay there nodding, because I didn’t know what else to say.
But apparently, Special Agent-in-Charge Barron didn’t mind. He just kept talking.
“I mean, shit… When that happened, I even started second guessing myself. Maybe it hadn’t been the Knuckleheads who’d cleaned out that farm…”
Barron shook his head.
“But that’s nuts. I’m convinced it was Coyle and his crew behind it – just like you said they would be.” He growled: “But after bustin’ up Old Man Grundy’s farm and not finding a goddamn thing, the judge threw out any chance of getting a warrant to go after Coyle and find out the truth.”
His broad shoulders slumped in defeat.
“That big bastard and his posse are probably in Tijuana by now – laughing their asses off at us.”
I just lay there, silently.
Barron had apparently finished his tale.
Looking up, he asked: “Sure you don’t remember anything? You ain’t got nothing you can add?”
I shook my head.
“Sorry, Agent… It’s all a blur.”
Barron snorted bitterly.
But he didn’t seem to be bitter with me. In fact, he leaned over and patted my arm gently.
“Well, one way or another, you did good. We’d have nailed that fucker, if those two cops hadn’t blown your cover.”
A rare smile lifted the corner of his lips.
“You�
��re a good agent, Stone. I’m sure you’ll get the chance to prove yourself again soon.”
“Thanks,” I muttered – but I knew the truth.
There’d be no second chances. I was out of that game.
But he didn’t need to know that. Not yet, anyway.
Sensing that our debrief was at an end, Barron snagged a final grape from the bowl, and popped it into his mouth.
He clambered out of his chair with a groan, and gave me a fist bump – since shaking hands would have been impossible with the IV drip still in me.
“They say you’ll be out of here in a couple of days,” Barron nodded. “We’ll have a formal debrief then.”
“Sounds good,” I told him, even though it sounded anything but.
With another nod, Special Agent-in-Charge Barron headed to the door, and I was finally – blissfully – left alone.
***
There are plenty of undignified things about staying in a hospital – those gowns with your ass hanging out, for example.
But perhaps the worst was the way they insist on wheeling you out of a hospital in a goddamned chair – even if your legs are working just fine.
That’s how I felt less than 48 hours later, when I signed the discharge papers, and got the hell out of that place.
An orderly had to wheel me out into the bright California sunlight, and I felt ridiculous as he struggled to push my bulk over the bumps and potholes in the sidewalk.
Eventually, now officially out of the hospital, he allowed me to stand up.
“I used to tell people ‘see you again soon,’ the orderly quipped, as he pulled back the now empty wheelchair, “but after a while, I realized that’s not what you want to say to somebody leaving a hospital.”
I grinned at that – and it was the first time I could remember grinning for quite a while.
The second grin came just moments later, though – when I heard the sharp toot of a car horn, and wheeled around to see a bright red convertible lurch onto the edge of the sidewalk, and the pretty blonde behind the wheel shout out:
“Goin’ my way, handsome?”
It was Christi.
God, she looked gorgeous. Her hair was washed and brushed, her skin was sun-kissed and tanned, and even though I couldn’t see her eyes behind the oversized shades she had balanced on her button nose, I knew they would be bright and excited.
I stepped over to the car and slung the plastic bag the hospital had given me into the back seat. Then, without opening the door, I swung myself up and into the passenger seat.
Christi leaned over, and kissed me hotly on the mouth.
“Hello, handsome,” she purred hotly, giving my thigh a squeeze. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“And so are you,” I squeezed her bare arm, glancing around the car. “Where did you get this cute little number?”
Okay, so it wasn’t really a cute little number. It was a mid-nineties Pontiac Sunfire, with faded red paint and ripped and frayed seats. It was like something one of the characters from Saved By The Bell would have been driving, if they’d never graduated or moved out of mom’s basement.
But the little engine revved enthusiastically enough, and soon Christi was pulling the car out into traffic, and gunning her way down the highway at a rate of knots my Harley Davidson would have been impressed by.
“This is my car,” Christi explained, as she gripped the steering wheel with both slender hands, and guided the car through traffic. “I’d left it at a friend’s house when I went on the run – but I’m not running any more...”
I grinned. Running somebody over, maybe, the way that she was driving…
“Where are we headed?” I had to shout over the wind now, and as I turned to look at Christi, I could barely see her face beneath the whipping strands of her long, blonde hair.
“La Mediterranean,” she told me, as we zoomed down the highway. “You want to get your bike back, right?”
Jeeze, I’d almost forgotten about that.
When Officer Dempsey and Officer Sanchez had snatched us from the back court of that motel, we’d left everything behind us. Not that it was very much…
You tend to travel light, when you ride with a motorcycle gang.
But my old Twin-Cam was perhaps the one possession I did care about – and as Christi swung the car off the road into the parking lot of La Mediterranean, I was thrilled to see my gleaming bike resting on its kickstand, right where I’d left it.
Christi pulled into the parking spot alongside, and cut the engine.
The faded leather seats creaked, as she swiveled to face me.
Those oversized shades came off.
I’d been right. Her eyes were just as beautiful as I imagined they’d be.
Christi jerked her thumb over my shoulder, towards the bike.
“You still have the keys, soldier?”
I snorted.
“They’re in that bag,” I had to reach into the back seat to grab the few personal belongings I’d left the hospital with – including a jangling set of keys. “I wonder if the battery still has juice in it.”
Not that it mattered. I’d be able to kick-start that bike blindfolded.
Christi leaned forward and kissed me again.
“God, it’s good to see you.”
I reached up and placed my palm against her cheek.
“I love you,” I told her.
Her cheeks burned pink.
“I mean it.”
“Jeeze, you barely know me.” Still blushing, Christi turned away and refused to meet my eyes. “I don’t want to pretend this is anything other than what it is… We’re two lonely people, and we got thrown together…” Turning back to me, she murmured: “We just did what we did because we needed to.”
I reached over and grabbed her tiny hand in one of mine.
I squeezed it.
“No,” I insisted. Leaning forward, I promised: “This is real.”
She bit her lip.
Fuck, she looked sexy when she did that.
“You mean it?”
“I mean it,” I nodded.
Looking deep into Christi’s eyes, I told her:
“There’s been nobody since I left the Rangers. A few one-night stands and a few first dates, but nobody who ever made me feel the way you do.”
I squeezed her hand tightly again.
“I love you, Christi with-no-last-name.”
She laughed defensively.
“I do have a last name – and I can use it again now.” She shook her head. “Christi Lange. Going to take a bit of getting used to.”
If she thought that would take some getting used to… Imagine if her last name changed to something like…
Like, I dunno… Stone?
Suddenly serious, Christi looked up again, and squeezed my hand.
“M-Mason,” she murmured.
“What, baby?”
“Y-you said there’d been nobody in your life – not since you left the Rangers…”
“Yeah…”
“Well,” she bit her lip again, and this time looked genuinely concerned. “It’s not the same for me.” She looked away again, and I could feel her struggle to get the words out. “Y-you know a little of what I had to do while I was riding with the Knuckleheads…”
She gulped dryly.
“There might have been nobody in your life… But in the past few months I’ve been with… With everybody.”
I’ll admit, my stomach lurched a little when she told me that.
“Seriously,” she repeated, her voice cracking. “I don’t know how many men fucked me. How many times Coyle passed me around like I was a toy, or something.”
She turned to me, and Christi’s eyes were big, gleaming pools of tears.
“C-can you… Can you handle that? Knowing that?”
I’d seen it first hand – the first night we’d spoken.
The night we’d first kissed.
I’d been standing on stage as Rooker and Bowser had fuc
ked Christi front-and-aft in front of a room full of baying bikers.
And yeah, it was tough. I remembered the scene two ways, simultaneously. Part of me seethed with jealousy. The other part of me was getting a painfully hard erection.
But neither could exist without the other.
I squeezed Christi’s hand again.
“I can handle anything,” I promised her. “What you did… Well, you had to do it…”
I shook my head.
“And that’s just stuff that happened to you. What’s important is your strength. Your dignity. Your resilience.”
I leaned forward, and kissed Christi tenderly on her lips.
“You survived, despite all the odds. You did what you had to do, and you shut up and got on with it.”
I remembered all my own experiences, out in the desert sands of Iraq. Had that been any different?
Maybe fewer orgasms… But, essentially, the same.
Sometimes you have to shut down to survive. And now Christi had woken back up – and she’d never looked more beautiful.
So, I leaned forward and kissed her once again.
“I mean it,” I repeated. “The past is the past, and I love you for that as much as I love you for what’s to come.”
I kissed her again.
“Besides, maybe when we’re old and grey, we’ll look back and find it kind of hot.”
Christi laughed when I told her that.
Punching me playfully on the arm, she hissed:
“First off, you’re a pervert. And secondly, I like how you mention ‘when we’re old and grey.’”
She peered across the car at me, and I saw tears well up in her eyes.
“You’d stay with me until I was old and grey?”
I nodded: “You better fuckin’ believe it.”
She laughed again, and this time played with her long, blonde hair.
“Well, I’m not going to go grey,” she told me firmly. “I’ve been dying this since the week I joined the Knuckleheads, and I don’t intend to stop now.”
“Joke’s on you,” I laughed back. “I’ll probably be bald before I’m grey.”
We both laughed then, and for a second I could have happily stopped time and lived inside that moment for eternity.
Nobody else had ever completed me the way Christi did. And now we had the rest of our lives to explore that possibility.
No Way Out Page 27
