by Lorie O
Maybe he didn’t get the protection offered when he wore the uniform. He had to be careful how he went about making his arrests. But at least today red tape was something he would slice through with his handy little pocketknife. Greg ran his own show these days. All that mattered was that the bonds company got their fugitive and Greg got his check.
He sliced the screen, starting in the top left corner and gutting it down the middle, then cutting along the bottom until the screen peeled to the side for him. Greg reached through it, feeling it scrape his damp flesh above his leather glove, and pushed the window up. It lifted with a whiny squeak, obviously complaining from lack of use.
“I’m heading in,” he whispered to his sons. “Move now!”
Greg King wasn’t a small man. More than once in his life, living in Los Angeles, people had asked if he was a professional wrestler. His size didn’t bother him, and it wouldn’t slow him down now. Snapping his pocketknife shut and sheathing it into the leather case attached to his belt, Greg hoisted himself through the window, feeling the wooden frame of the window rake over his shoulders and then his legs. He fell to his side on a dirty wooden floor and immediately pulled his gun, forcing his eyes to adjust quickly to his surroundings as he looked around.
Other than a box spring and mattress that didn’t have a sheet or blankets on it, there wasn’t any furniture in the room. Crumpled fast-food bags and crunched beer cans gave the room the appearance of being one big trash dump.
“Did you hear that?” a man asked from the other room.
“Sounds like we have company.” The thick Hispanic accent sounded just like Pedro Gutierrez, a well-known drug lord and arms dealer who’d been arrested last month and yesterday afternoon failed to show up for court. His probation officer couldn’t find him and the bondswoman was getting nervous.
It was a stupid move on Pedro’s part. He obviously didn’t check the statistics before deciding to run. No criminal ran from Los Angeles and got away. This was his town and Greg was too good. His track record spoke for itself.
“Who the fuck is back there?” the man roared, obviously not afraid at all of the boogeyman being in a dark bedroom.
Nor did he turn on the bedroom light as he stormed in, which was just fine with Greg.
“Hello, Pedro,” he said calmly, pointing his gun straight at the man’s face.
Pedro apparently had no manners. He didn’t return the greeting but instead hauled ass toward the other end of the house. Greg charged after him, feeling the house shake from the two of them running through it.
It wasn’t a long hallway, but Greg didn’t catch the shadow in time that appeared from the bedroom across the hall. He saw the baseball bat, heard the whooshing sound when it sliced through the air.
“Son of a bitch,” he wailed, turning and raising his arm. He braced himself for the pain he’d experience in the next moment as he planned on smacking the bat out of his assailant’s hands.
Intense pain shot across his shoulder and down his spine. The bat hit the side of his neck, just above his shoulder, with enough driving force to knock Greg against the hallway wall.
“Fucking hell,” he roared, although the words damn near caught in his throat when his windpipe smashed closed, stealing his breath, and racking every inch of his body.
Hitting the wall with the other shoulder didn’t make matters any better. The intense headache he’d probably have to deal with the rest of the day slammed into his brain instantly.
A dark, burly-looking man bellowed something in Spanish that didn’t sound very friendly and Pedro responded, their guttural slang difficult for Greg to translate. Especially when pain ransacked his body and a ringing started in his head as he slumped against the wall. The burly motherfucker shoved him out of the way, causing Greg to lose his footing, and then bounded after Pedro, leaving him to hold up the slimy wall.
At least he hadn’t been shot. Maybe the two men weren’t armed. The pain hurt like fucking hell, but he’d have to worry about that later. Reaching for his neck, he cringed from the intense pain that shot down his arm. There wasn’t any blood, though.
“I didn’t give up a night’s sleep so you could give me a migraine and get away,” Greg cursed, using the hallway wall to push himself to his feet. It seemed his legs were heavier than usual when he tried running after them, and he damn near fell on his face. “Tough it up, King,” he ordered himself.
They couldn’t get far. His boys were out front and on the side of the house. Unless they’d already entered. He was in the living room, staring at the open front door when he heard gunfire.
“Son of a bitch!” he hissed. Haley would never forgive him if one of the boys were seriously injured, or worse, while working a job.
He ignored the pain and ran out of the house, not having to worry about his eyes adjusting this time. It wasn’t much lighter outside than it was in the house, but the pain made everything blur. Flashing reds and whites gave the front yard a surreal look. It was odd that moments like this caused him to think of his deranged wife.
“You have the right to remain silent,” a young rookie Greg didn’t recognize said as he continued shoving Charlie Woods toward a squad car. His tone was harsh and full of himself, as if he’d been the one chasing Pedro all night.
“Dad!” Jake yelled, hurrying across the yard.
Greg noticed Marc talking to Margaret Young, one of the bondsmen, or to be politically correct, bondspeople, that the Kings worked with on a regular basis. Jake reached Greg’s side, grabbing his arm on his injured side.
“Where’s Pedro?” Greg demanded, grabbing his boy’s arm and holding on to it tighter than he probably should have when he pulled his son’s hand off him.
“We got them,” Jake said, not complaining even if Greg’s hold on him was painful. “Are you okay?” he asked, as Marc headed across the lawn to join them.
“I nabbed Pedro,” Marc announced, giving his dad a quick once-over. Although Marc was the oldest at twenty-five, Jake stood an inch or so taller. Both were built like their old man, although at the moment, Greg didn’t feel incredibly intimidating as many claimed the three of them appeared when standing together. “Charlie Woods was with him and they’re reading his rights to him right now. Margaret has one more. Apparently this one was nabbed at the same time as Gutierrez and missed his court date yesterday afternoon, too.”
There were squad cars up and down the street, their lights flashing and lighting up the whole block. Greg and his boys might have done all the grunt work, but the uniforms loved being there for all the glory. It didn’t surprise him the moment they called in for backup that it was a race to get here so one of the men on the force could make the arrest. Greg had years of putting more of these hoods behind bars than he cared to count. He didn’t need to slap handcuffs on some punk to know he was good. But he’d run his ass off throughout the night and the officers now on the scene weren’t giving him the time of day. Now if any of the older boys had been here for the bust, they would have treated Greg differently. It was these young punks in uniform who didn’t know how to show respect.
Another time he might have grumbled that he didn’t make the arrest after doing all the grunge work but suddenly none of that mattered. Something distracted him.
Greg barely heard his son. He stared at a woman who stood down the street, partially hidden in shadows. His head and shoulder were pounding, causing a ringing sound in his head that damn near drowned out anything his boys said. But it was as if tunnel vision had kicked in and all he saw was the woman, returning his stare while standing a good distance from the crowd of officers around the house.
As crazy as the scene was becoming, she stared at him as if it were just the two of them there. She wore a pale pink jogging outfit, tight spandex that hugged her small waist. Her skin was tanned and her light brown hair cut short, shorter than he remembered it, her natural color that he hadn’t seen since high school, and it was kinky from the humidity.
Six years might ha
ve passed, but he would know Haley if it had been sixty years and a hundred people stood between them.
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Document ID: fbd-df611a-5ea6-9a4b-6db1-7d7b-2f27-45a0cf
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Document creation date: 09.06.2011
Created using: calibre 0.8.4, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
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