by Dallas Cole
Until about ten miles outside of the city limits, when I saw the flashing lights in my rearview mirror.
I pull over on the shoulder and roll my window down. I don’t speed when I’m not racing—mostly—and I know all the lights are working fine on the Firebird. Already I’m on edge, and the chilly desert air pouring in from the open window isn’t helping. I don’t feel even remotely buzzed. I couldn’t have been swerving. And it’s been weeks since we pulled our last job—all those parts are long gone.
What the hell is going on?
A plainclothes officer approaches the window. Shit. Plainclothes cops typically don’t have dashcams running, and I haven’t bothered to install one on this new car. Whatever’s about to happen, it’s going to be off the record, which makes me nervous. Especially if it has anything to do with our side jobs.
The officer knocks on the glass. I roll it down, though he doesn’t bother to lean down to show me his face. “License and registration.”
“I’m gonna need to see a badge first,” I say. I want some kind of record, whatever happens me. I pull out my phone to snap a shot.
He props both arms on the windowsill—tan, beefy—and presses his sneering face, eyes hidden behind aviators, toward mine. Studies me for a minute, or at least I assume that’s what he’s doing, since I can’t see his eyes at all. Finally, he pulls a badge from his back pocket and holds it out.
AGENT BRENNAN. His thumb is covering the agency’s logo, but I get the feeling it isn’t the Ridgecrest PD. Something federal. My stomach sinks.
I hand my license and registration over and he disappears for a few minutes. I drum my fingers nervously against the steering wheel, tension building in my chest. Finally, he comes back and hands them to me through the window. “I’m gonna need you to step out of there,” he says, with a crack of gum or chewing tobacco.
Shit shit shit. I unclip my seatbelt. “Stepping out now.” He shuffles half a foot back from the door, but not enough for me to open it wide enough to get out. “Look, I need you to move—”
He catches the partially opened door in his hand and holds it firm. “I said to get out of the car.”
“I’m trying,” I snap. Then force myself to take a deep breath. It’s not worth losing my temper. Not worth giving him even an inch. I force myself to wriggle out of the narrow gap between the door and the car’s body and stand up at full height.
Which is about a head shorter than this asshole.
He looks me over for a long minute, then wrinkles his nose. “You smell like a French whore.”
“Yeah, someone decided to hose me down with champagne. I’m sober.”
He snorts and gestures toward the shoulder of the road. “Straight line. Ten steps.”
What the fuck? It’s like this guy has something personal against me or something, though I can’t imagine why. I heave a sigh and line myself on the edge between the asphalt and the desert. I walk ten steps, easy, then turn around and walk them back.
“See?”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
He snatches me by the wrist and, with a quick twist, slams my stomach and torso up against the Firebird. I gasp in surprise as the door frame digs into my ribs. “Shit! What the fuck, man?”
He pins me in place with one side of his body, still gripping my wrist, then frisks me none too gently with his free hand. Thoroughly, too. I grit my teeth to keep from saying all the smartass things that immediately pop to mind. This is not the time. Finally, he stops, and releases me enough to spin me back around to face him.
“Jagger. I need to ask you some questions about your known associates.”
“My ‘known associates’?” I repeat, complete with finger quotes. “The hell are you talking about?”
“You’re close friends with Tomasz Drazic, owner of Drazic Muscleworks, LLC. Is that correct?”
Tomasz. None of his friends call him that, though this dickwheeze certainly doesn’t qualify. “Yeah. He’s my friend, and I work for him. Rent my apartment from him, too.”
The guy sneers. “What kind of work?”
Keep sneering, asshole. It pays the bills. Most of the time. “Inventory and billing for the shops. A few other odd jobs here and there. What’s it matter?”
“And you’re close with Lennox Solt, too, a known convict . . . That’s an ugly crowd you’ve got there, Jagger.”
He leans toward me, baring his too-white teeth. It makes me think of a shark. All I want to do is punch them out of his fucking face. But I know that’s what he wants me to do. He’s trying to goad me—he must be. Well, I won’t give him the fucking satisfaction.
He sneers. “You’re a real pretty boy. Just begging for a few scars.” His knuckles crack as he forms a fist. “What, your junkie slut mama didn’t beat you enough?”
I clench my teeth so hard I think they might crack. I can’t give him the satisfaction of making me lose my fucking temper. I can not give in. For the crew, if nothing else. For Sophie. They can’t take that kind of heat.
He holds his sneer right in my face for a few seconds longer, then relaxes with a laugh. It sounds cold and brittle. “Sooner or later, you’ll crack.”
What the fuck is he talking about? I keep a fist tight at my side. I won’t be the one to crack first, but if he’s going to force me to defend myself, I sure as fuck will.
Then he pulls a flashlight from his felt loop. Clicks it on. Sweeps it inside the Firebird.
“Open the trunk,” he says. “I’m going to need to search inside.”
I reach for the door handle, but stop. “I believe you need a warrant for that. Sir.” I practically spit that last.
He narrows his eyes, eyebrows drawing down beneath the aviator lenses. “And what if I don’t give a shit about warrants?” He jabs the flashlight toward his vehicle. “Unmarked car. No dash cameras. It’d be your word against mine, trailer trash. There’s nothing to stop me from wrecking your pretty little face.”
I meet him, stare for stare. I should’ve started recording on my phone the second he pulled me over. I won’t start it, but if he does, then I’m going to make sure he thinks twice about pulling a stunt like this again.
“I’m just fucking with you.” He laughs and tags me on the arm with his fist. What the hell? I glower at him. “Don’t worry, Jagger. Next time, I’ll bring your fucking warrant. And a whole lot more.”
Then he opens the driver’s door for me and gestures for me to get in. I narrow my eyes, but comply. As I buckle my seatbelt, I’m already planning to sic Cyrus on his trail. See what kind of shit he can dig upon Agent Brennan.
Then he pops his head back into the window. “Oh, one more thing.” He grins. “Say hi to Sophie for me.”
9
Jagger
I pump some iron when I get home to burn the restless energy out of my system. But I still toss and turn all night. Finally, the sun comes up, and I’m pretty sure the others are back from Rose Grove. I storm into Drazic’s office the next morning and latch the door closed behind me. He peers up at me over his reading glasses, eyebrows raised, but the moment he sees my face, he goes from calm and fatherly to hardened warrior. “We’ve got a big fucking problem,” I say.
Drazic stands up.
“Some asshole federal agent pulled me over last night. He was asking all kinds of weird questions about the shop. He knew about you, he knew about Lennox and his prison stint, he knew everything.”
Drazic pulls his reading glasses off and squeezes them in his fist. “What the fuck?”
“I mean—not everything. Not about—you know. But he sure as shit knew enough.”
“What was his name? What agency?” Drazic asks, snagging a notepad off the desk. “His description. I need to know everything.”
“I don’t know what agency. But probably FBI or something.” I let out my breath. “He was about six-four, and definitely hitting the creatine powder. Tan, brown hair . . . didn’t get a look at his eyes.”
“Did he give you any hint why he�
��d pulled you over? What he wanted from you?”
“I think mostly he was just trying to goad me into fighting him. Like he had some sort of vendetta against me. But then he wanted to snoop around in the Firebird. I told him to come back when he had a fucking warrant.”
“Snoop in your car? What the fuck did he think he’d find?” Drazic finishes writing, drops the pencil, and runs a hand through his hair. “Drugs? Weapons? I mean—we aren’t some fucking motorcycle club, some gang—”
“I don’t know, okay? I didn’t understand it, either. But he knew . . .” I hesitate. Drazic is going to have my ass for this part. I drop my voice and lean toward him. “He seemed to know Sophie.”
Drazic’s upper lip curls back and he turns away from me. I brace myself for a punch. Instead, though, he puts his fist into the side of the nearest metal filing cabinet. The metal dents in with an eerie warping noise.
“What the fuck are you doing, Jagger?” Drazic’s voice is ragged and torn as he looks at me, red-faced. “Is she a plant? Did you bring a fucking plant into this shop?”
“No,” I shout. Not nearly as confidently as I should. I turn from him with a groan. “I—I don’t know.”
“Which is it, Jagger?” Drazic snarls.
“She’s not like that. She’s just a college student—grad student, sorry—she’s a fucking youth counselor, for god’s sake. She’s not remotely like that. I swear.”
Drazic works his jaw back and forth as he considers. “She left early last night.”
“Okay, but just—just fucking think for a minute! She hasn’t seen anything incriminating at all. Hasn’t had time to snoop around the shop alone—not that there’s anything to find here now.
“Please, D.”
“Please, what? You don’t find it awfully suspicious that she bails early, and then all of a sudden, this CHiPS douchebag shows up?”
“She had to watch her niece and nephew, okay?” I shout. “And yes, they exist, they’re real. I’ve met them. Her sister and brother-in-law were out on date night and she had to relieve the babysitter at midnight. Look, I can go over there right now and verify it.”
“It’s just—awfully coincidental, that’s all.” Drazic rubs his jaw.
I bite my lower lip, trying to think. “If Sophie were really undercover, why would the cop have brought her up at all? Seems like it would put too much attention on her. I just—I don’t think they’re working together or anything like that.”
“Maybe.” Drazic exhales. “But maybe they are.”
Suddenly the metal on the filing cabinet pops back out, startling us both. Normally we’d get a good laugh out of it, but neither of us seems to be in the mood. Drazic sinks into his work chair and laces his fingers together. The crew leader about to issue a proclamation. I cringe, already dreading it. If he tells me not to see her anymore, or tries to kick me out of the crew . . .
No. I won’t stand for it. I’ve worked too fucking hard to get where I am. It may not be much—one decent car to my name, a couple of circuit wins, and a cute girl on my arm—but it’s mine. I can’t give it all up.
“Ask her some questions. Pointed questions. I need to know how she responds. If she’s evasive, playing it off, then we have our answer. Just—prepare yourself.”
Prepare myself for the possibility that Sophie is a fucking plant, he means. In which case, I’ll have to cut her out of my life. My stomach thinks at the thought of it. But I grimace and nod.
“In the meantime, we need to run an airtight fucking ship around here.” He gestures to the auto shop at large. “This shop is my baby. I’m not going to let some asshole tear it down.”
The way he looks at me, I can’t be certain if the ‘asshole’ means Agent Brennan or me. “Yes, sir.”
“I came over here with Elena’s parents with jack shit in my bag, you know? A couple shirts, pairs of underwear. I’ve bussed tables, I’ve shined the shoes of fucking kingpins. But when I dropped the lease on this place, I finally knew I’d arrived.”
I wince. I know the feeling. People may look down on me plenty, but I spent every hour of every day fighting to get to where I am.
“Talk to Cyrus. Today. Tell him we can’t run any more of this darkweb shit until we’re one thousand percent sure we’re safe.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” I say. “We’ve burned through all of our stockpiles of merch, anyway.”
“And there’s no way this guy could’ve latched onto us via the darkweb sales?” Drazic asks.
I shake my head. “Not according to Cyrus. Even when we mail the shit, it’s been scrubbed, wiped for prints, mailed through a remailing service . . . It’s as good as fresh off the factory line.”
“Good.” He nods to himself. “We can’t pull any more jobs until we figure out what the fuck is going on.”
I swallow audibly. I’m not deeply involved in Drazic’s finances, but I see the bills for the shop pile up. We’ve been hit with a few too many canceled orders of late, too, which always cuts into our bottom line. Some rich asshole requests a custom Mustang, we buy the body and the expensive parts, then rich asshole loses his money in the market and can’t pony up. Now we’re stuck with the parts and have to hustle to find a buyer. It’s no wonder we find boosting free shit much easier.
“Can we really afford to do that?” I ask.
Drazic’s face falls, and it hurts. This is all my fault, even if the reason why isn’t yet clear. Guilt washes over me. Even though I don’t know what I’ve done. How I could have possibly brought this on the crew.
“We’ll find some way to make do,” Drazic says. “We always do.”
I manage a curt nod. All I can do is try.
“Until then,” Drazic says, “I need you to find me some fucking answers.”
10
Sophie
“Miss Gallagher, I’m fucking sick of reading these bullshit books about white boys and their dogs,” Fenix tells me. I’m tutoring a pair of remedial reader boys at the youth center, and we’re all getting pretty worn out. “The white boys are dull as shit, and the dog always dies.”
“Okay, well, first off, impressive use of foul language,” I say, grinning in spite of myself. “Shows some creativity. Though it’s not really appropriate right now.”
“Don’t tell us what the fuck to do,” Ryan says.
I manage my calmest expression. “You’re in my care today, so yes, I think I will. Now, Fenix, Ryan, are you both really sick of these books?”
They both nod. Of course they are. They’re thirteen and fourteen years old, respectively—even if their reading level sucks, they don’t give a damn about eight-year-old chapter books. There isn’t shit for me to offer them that would be of interest to them, though, so it’s dead dogs and white boys for them.
But then again . . .
“I tell you what. I have a much better idea.” I rub my hands together. “How about we make up our own story together?”
Fenix and Ryan share a look, then roll their eyes.
“Oh, come on. I promise it’ll be way more interesting than more dead dogs.” I grin. “Fenix, you start. Write down a sentence about someone. Any sentence. Then Ryan will read it, and write his own.”
Ryan groans. “I can’t write for shit, Miss G.”
“That’s okay.” I pitch their assigned reading book over my shoulder. “Neither could this guy.”
We spend the next hour working back and forth to develop the story of Jaxon Blud, an assassin-slash-ex-gangster out for revenge against the perps who did him wrong. Ryan and Fenix are unconvinced at first, but they quickly warm up to the game, letting their enthusiasm for the story carry them past their own struggles with reading and writing. Plus, they’re actually working together instead of taking potshots at each other (and at me).
“Awesome job. Come back next week, and I promise, you’re ready for some much more interesting books. And if not, we can always write some of our own.”
“Thanks, Miss Gallagher,” Ryan says, and Fenix
echoes him. They shuffle off to the atrium to wait for their parents to maybe, eventually, show up to pick them up.
I look up to the classroom doorway and find Jagger there, watching me with a grin on his face. I blink a few times, surprised, then I bound up to him. I want to throw my arms around him, my fucking savior, but no touching—I don’t need the kids getting any information about me and my personal life than I explicitly give to them. “Hey,” I say.
“Looks like fun.” Jagger gestures toward the classroom. “You got any stories for me?”
I drum one finger against my lip. “Once upon a time, some hotrodding asshole did donuts around me, and somehow that made me fall for him.”
Jagger grins. “Not a bad start. You free for a bit?” He holds up a bag from Frenchie’s Burgers. “I brought lunch.”
“Ooh, Darla’s been raving about Frenchie’s. Let’s go to the break room.” I beckon for him to follow me.
Once we’re safely in the break room, I draw him in for a quick but deep kiss, and my toes curl up at the delicious taste of him. He squeezes my ass, pulling me on for more.
“No,” I whisper, pulling away. “Not now. I have to behave when I’m here.”
“Later?” he asks, his voice husky.
“We’ll see,” I tell him with a wink, but what I’m really thinking is God, yes.
Jagger hands me the bag. “Lady’s choice.”
I unwrap the first burger I come across, then wrinkle my nose. “Ugh. Bacon.”
“Seriously? You’ve got a problem with bacon?” He swipes the burger out of my hands. “Then that one’s mine. There’s baconless ones in the bag.”
“Thanks.” I fish one out and unwrap it, then breathe in the heavenly scent.
Jagger takes a big bite of his burgers, and the juice runs down his chin. “Seriously, who hates bacon, anyway?” he asks, reaching for a napkin.
