Vice Enforcer

by S. A. Stovall

  Bloody tears weep from my injured eye, but I double down, knowing I have to get him here or else I’ll lose later.

  Pressing my full weight on the blade, I drive it down on his throat, slow and steady. His skin and muscles offer little resistance against the edge of the blade, and the moment I cut through, blood gushes over the handle, getting everything slick. Despite me cutting into him—despite hearing him choke on his own fucking blood—he continues to fight me, his struggle becoming ever more intense.

  Castor lifts up and elbows me again, my eye socket bruised and my eyebrow cut open. Why won’t this fucker just die? I pump down with my body, like I’m giving CPR, and plunge the knife deeper. The next ten seconds play out as though neither of us moves, but the strain is real. Finally his strength fails, and I feel the life leave him as the cold sets in.

  I stand, leaving the knife, and stumble back, shaken. I’ve fought lots of thugs before, but no encounter was quite so fervent. I pick up my gun and limp to the side of the boat. I disembark with the grace of a drunkard, half falling into a stack of boxes.

  I chuckle to myself. Nothing lifts my spirits like fighting to the death and coming out on top. I’m a goddamn animal—that’s eight men dead. Well, I didn’t kill the surgeon, but still. Eight motherfuckers thought they could do me in. I didn’t run as Big Man Vice’s top enforcer because of my good looks, and I guess they all learned that lesson the hard way.

  Rhett goes to stand, though it’s awkward given his arms are trapped behind his back. I point my handgun at him. He freezes midway, his eyes narrowing with realization. He gets back down on his knees as I hobble over.

  He regards me with a look of uncertainty. I continue until I’m a foot away, my gun half-cocked but not pointing straight at him. I have all the power, and he knows it, but the man has a spine of steel. He glares up at me, one eye black and blue, with dried blood stuck to the side of face and neck.

  Rhett doesn’t quaver or shake when I bring the handgun up. The intensity in his gaze tells me he’s ready for anything, even death.

  He’s been a thorn in my side since we met, and he wants to lock me up for the rest of my life. It would be easy—so easy—to shoot him here and have the Worldwide Decurion people take the blame. No one would know. There aren’t any witnesses, and I could make my getaway before anyone tracked me down. Simple stuff.

  But….

  I exhale and lower my gun.

  “You don’t want to die here, I take it?” I ask him, more amusing thoughts crossing my mind now that I’ve decided I won’t kill him. No reason I can’t fuck with him.

  Rhett hesitates for a moment. “What’re you saying?”

  I smirk. “Well, you like men, don’t ya? That’ll make what comes next real easy for you.”

  His resolve flickers for a moment as my words settle over him. He regains himself and shifts his gaze to the floor, glaring at the wood planks that creak with the water.

  “Don’t get shy, Princess. All I’m asking is for a run of your pretty mouth. That’s fair, right? Your life’s worth that much, at least?”

  “You’re a sick bastard,” he forces out, no longer able to meet my gaze.

  I can practically see his internal struggle, and I get an inordinate amount of pleasure in watching the turmoil play out. I have to stifle my laughter lest I sound like a cartoony villain—but I fucking love it. His face gets red from what I imagine is both indignant rage and hot shame.

  Heh. He’s considering it. The conflicted look of a man ready to break down and suck cock gets me in the mood. Hell, the whole fucking situation has me rock-hard, who I am kidding? Even the pain that permeates my body can’t diminish the feeling.

  “There isn’t any other way?” Rhett asks, like he’s hoping he can talk his way out of this situation.

  “Maybe I just like fucking arrogant pricks.”

  “So that’s your game? You want to watch me swallow my pride?”

  “I wanna watch you swallow a lot more than that.”

  He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw.

  I’m such an asshole.

  After a long, tense moment, Rhett goes to answer, but I press the barrel of the gun to his forehead. He quiets himself and finally looks up at me, confusion written across his face.

  “I know you were secretly looking forward to it,” I drawl, “but you don’t get to suck anything tonight.”

  His expression turns to livid anger in the blink of an eye.

  “Let’s make a deal,” I say. “I let you go, and you don’t tell anyone about my past. I didn’t hire Donny to kill Shelby—I’m sure you know that by now—and we can both go on our separate ways. Fair, right? Better than the alternative.”

  I pull back the hammer of the handgun until it clicks into place.

  For another long moment, Rhett is silent.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “FUCK YOU,” Rhett growls.

  “Don’t be like that,” I say with a laugh. “Your pride is wounded, but that doesn’t mean you can’t think straight.”

  “There’s nothing left to think about. You’ve heard my answer.”

  I press the gun hard against his forehead. He doesn’t flinch.

  “Why?” I ask. “Is turning me in really worth dying for? At least tell me you’re gonna take the deal and then turn me in after. What’s the point of taking a stand? No one is here to reward you for being heroic.”

  Rhett shakes his head, his entire body tense. “You think men like Anderson and Thompson started killing their fellow officers one day out of the blue? No. I’m sure they made minor deals with criminals and their fellow cops, bending the rules here and there until it became a full-blown problem they had to cover no matter the cost. Now look at them. They can’t turn back—they’re the worst kind of criminal. I’m not going to make a deal with you, asshole. I’m going to do my job, and I’m going to do it right.”

  “That won’t happen if you’re dead, genius.”

  “Men like you will never understand. When I die, there won’t be any regrets.”

  Ugh. Rhett is the definition of self-righteous. I’m sure it’s his holier-than-thou attitude that blinded him to the questionable activities of his coworkers.

  I lower my gun.

  Even if I hate him for who he is, he’s a better man than me. He doesn’t deserve to die. And I guess he called my bluff.

  “Get up,” I command. “We should get out of here.”

  He waits for a moment, his expression shifting back to one of confusion. “Just because you’re not shooting me doesn’t mean I’m letting you go.”

  “Yeah, I got that,” I snap.

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Stop bitching, already. Arrest me once we’re not in the heart of Vice family territory.”

  He gets to his feet. I stumble over to the thugs’ makeshift table. All of Rhett’s gear sits off to the side, ready to be planted on his body once he died. I pick it up and toss it toward him, but my aim is terrible. The gear hits a pile of boxes halfway over and clunks onto the dock, the stuff spilling everywhere. Rhett gives me a sardonic are you serious? kind of glance.

  I point to my eye—the one sealed shut and weeping blood. “I’ve got problems.”

  I can still feel the contact lens wedged deep into my eyelid. Everything hurts, but that bothers me most of all.

  “Can you at least get the keys to the handcuffs?” Rhett asks.

  With a heavy sigh, I walk over to his gear and fish out the keys. He turns around, and I unlock the damn handcuffs. He stretches for a moment, rotating his arms, and then turns back around to face me.

  “You handled yourself well with a gun,” he states. “Despite your problems.”

  “Yeah, by using way more bullets than necessary. Kids on the street call it spray-n-pray.” I check the clip of my gun. I’ve got two inside and one in the barrel. Not the best ratio of kills to ammunition.

  The rumble of an engine causes me and Rhett to stiffen. I listen to the skid across dirt and
the familiar sound of doors slamming before I turn my attention back to Rhett.

  “Castor must’ve called for backup,” I mutter. That’s what I would’ve done—clever fucking bastard. He’s still trying to kill me, even after he’s dead.

  Rhett slips on his bulletproof vest, and I hand him my gun. He looks at it, then to me, and then back to the handgun. “Giving up your only weapon?”

  “We’ve already established my shortcomings. Handle these guys, or else we’re both dying here.”

  I duck behind a pile of boxes and take a seat. My body feels heavy, like I won’t be able to stand again, and I’m placing all my chips in the basket of Rhett’s gunplay. The door to the boathouse opens, and I glance around the edge, despite the pain in my neck and shoulder. Three guys. That’s more than I would have sent for, but I guess Castor wanted to be thorough.

  Perhaps the element of surprise is still on our side. I return to cover and hold my breath.

  Boots on wood echo throughout the area, and I suspect the thugs are searching the joint. I’m not sure what Rhett’s up to—he could have left me to these goons, for all I know—and I close my one good eye to revel in the comfort of darkness.

  “Look at all this blood,” I hear a guy mutter.

  “Stay focused,” another growls.

  “This is Lieutenant Rhett Walker with the Joliet City PD,” Rhett shouts. “Lay down your weapons and get down on the ground, or I’ll be forced to shoot.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. We did have the element of surprise.

  “The cops are here?” the first guy says, his voice shaken. “Man, I knew this was a bad idea!”

  The same buddy replies with a grunt. “I swear to God, Lopez, if you put your gun down, I’ll shoot you myself.”

  “The cops are supposed to be helpin’ us. I didn’t want to fight no cops.”

  “Lopez.”

  I hear the thunk of metal on wood. I’m surprised one of them wanted out so bad he’s willing to throw down his weapon. I’ve known a few guys who got cold feet on missions. Didn’t turn out well for them, though.

  I flinch at the sound of two gunshots. That’s it. Two. There’s a crash and another gunshot, but afterward all I hear is silence. Although I’m concerned about the outcome, I’m more concerned about my messed-up calf. I bring my leg closer and remove the last of the bandages covering my tattoo. With careful movements I wrap my injury, trying not to focus on the visible muscle that glistens thanks to the missing chunk of skin.

  “Get down on the floor,” Rhett yells.

  I breathe easy. At least, whatever happened, Rhett came out on top.

  Once I’m done with my leg, I attempt to stand. It doesn’t work, and I struggle against the boxes. I give up and wait. When Rhett rounds the corner of the pile, I stare up at him with my one eye. He gives me the once-over, and I know I look like shit.

  “Just give me a hand,” I mutter.

  “Maybe I should do a cute bit where I hold a gun to your head until you do what I say,” he quips.

  “I’d like you a little more if you did.”

  Rhett lets out a single laugh and smirks. I laugh too, if only because I didn’t think he would appreciate that joke. He offers his hand and I take it. I get to my feet, and it’s hard to stay standing, but I manage.

  I spot one of the thugs facedown on the dock with his hands on top of his head. The other two are dead in a pool of their bodily fluids, each with a hole through the back of their skulls.

  “Two shots was all it took you?” I ask Rhett.

  “Kids on the street call it going to the gun range and practicing.”

  What a smartass. I had eight guys to deal with—he’s still playing in the baby leagues.

  Rhett walks over and takes a cell phone out of a guy’s pants pocket. He dials something quick and then holds the phone close to his mouth.

  “Hello?” he says into the speaker. “There’s been an emergency at the Noimore docks. Officer down. Ten bodies. One in custody.”

  Before anything else is said, he ends the call and throws the device back on the corpse. He rummages around the other pockets as I watch, half amused.

  “I’ve fondled plenty of things in my day,” I drawl, “but dead bodies aren’t one of them.”

  Rhett snorts but otherwise doesn’t reply. Instead he pulls a key ring from the sad sack on the floor and turns toward the boathouse door. He motions for me to follow. I limp after him, leaving my blazer and knife. Without the rush of a life-or-death fight, things slow down. I want to lie down and sleep. It’s all I think about until we reach the little four-door sedan parked in the dirt lot.

  He unlocks the vehicle, and I slide into the front passenger’s seat, comforted by the soft fabric of the chair. After sitting in a metal van, fucking around on a dock, and tussling on a shitty boat, I’m ready for some luxury.

  Rhett starts the thing up and peels out of the parking lot, speeding away as if he’s avoiding someone. I get my seat belt on, but not without struggle. My shoulder aches with each movement, and I tilt the seat back in order to rest. He blasts the heater to fight the cold. Within seconds I’m sweating, and I roll up my sleeves and press my skin against the coolness of the window.

  “You have a cigarette?” I ask.

  “No,” he replies, curt.

  I kick one foot up on the dashboard and relax. Rhett shakes his head.

  “Sit normally. It’s dangerous to position yourself like that.”

  I kick the other foot up and hook my ankles. “Life’s short. I don’t give a fuck.”

  He takes a hard turn onto the street, and I have to grip the door to keep in my seat. I give him a glare. “You tryin’ to make this dangerous?”

  “We don’t have time to mess around.”

  It’s a manual shift vehicle—I haven’t seen one of those in two decades—and he shifts the thing like he knows what he’s doing. I admire the fact he can drive, but I can’t bring myself to compliment the man. I’ve already dug a pit of hatred for him… climbing out now would be tiresome.

  I close my eye and focus on breathing even. Soon I’ll be in a jail cell, and I’m sure they’ll have some drugs for me. Rhett takes another hard turn, and I jerk my gaze over to him.

  “What’re you doing?” I demand.

  “Beating Charleston to the punch,” he mutters.

  “What’re you trying to beat him to?”

  “Your house.”

  “You think he’s going there to get the evidence?”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind.”

  Eh. Even at the rate we’re going, it’ll take at least thirty minutes to get to Joliet. I relax back in my seat and exhale. At least I might see Miles again before I go to the slammer. Though, the more I think about it, the more I don’t want to see him at all. He’s not the type of guy who would leave me to my fate in a jail cell. He’s the type of guy who would visit three times a week and write daily.

  And if Rhett exposes the crooked cops with Shelby’s evidence, Jeremy won’t have an easy avenue to reach me, which means I’ll be locked up for some time, no doubt.

  We reach the back roads of Noimore, and Rhett speeds along the dark lanes with tunnel-vision focus. He must know his way through the city—he avoids all the major cop spots. When we get halfway to our destination, he relaxes a bit, but not enough to take either of his hands from the steering wheel.

  “Hey,” I say to him, breaking the silent tension that had settled between us. “Do cops ever have a say on which prison convicts are housed in?”

  “No,” Rhett states. “There’s a prison designation board that determines your facility based on your security rating, criminal record, area code of residence, and availability. Sometimes a judge can make a recommendation on your behalf, but that’s rare.”

  I mull over the information and offer no further commentary.

  “Why?” he asks. “You have friends you want to reconnect with?”

  “I wanna be placed as far away from Miles as possible.”
>
  He squints at the road and tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “Why?”

  I turn to Rhett, half-tempted to tell him everything on my mind, but I hold myself back. After another round of uncertainty, I decide to speak, though I look away, unwilling or unable to stare at him directly, I don’t know.

  “He won’t leave his siblings, and I’d rather him not visit. He’s got…. Well, he’s got better things to do with his time. Maybe once things are all said and done, you can… you can be the one who helps him move on. If he has someone, it’ll make things easier.”

  “You want me to be the one who helps him move on?” He chuckles. “What’re you implying, Pierce?”

  “You know damn well what I’m implying!” I slam my feet on the floor of the car and sit up straight, riled with anger and frustration. I bite back all my crude remarks and grit my teeth. I was the one to suggest this. Why does it hurt so much to think about?

  “I know you want him,” I force out. “You two are similar in, well, many regards. I know he wouldn’t be unhappy. That’s what I care about, all right? Did I make myself perfectly fucking clear?”

  Rhett doesn’t answer. We sit in the sweltering cab, no radio, and say nothing. I know he’s not comfortable with himself—not with the way he seems to hate me talking about his sexual proclivities—but I don’t know what else to say to him. I think I’ve made my point; all I can do now is hope Miles doesn’t do anything crazy.

  I turn off the heater. Fuck that heater.

  “Why are you so deep in the closet?” I ask, unabashed. I need to know.

  “I’m not,” he snaps. “I just like to keep my personal life private. Is that so much to ask for? Privacy?”

  Nothing wrong with privacy. I love my privacy. Still, I wouldn’t deny the fact I like men. Then again, I guess Rhett never has. He simply avoids the conversation, which isn’t a bad way to handle it if he wants to keep things private. Maybe Miles was right. Maybe I do have more in common with Rhett than I realized.