Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption Read online

  “You just partook in a drag race. We all saw it.”

  “Yeah,” another one cries out. “We’re gonna make sure your badge is taken too, dude. This is like… wrong!”

  Can I just say, the dude he added on there at the end kinda takes me out of the moment.

  “Yeah!” a bunch of them yell out in contempt of my reckless abandonment of the law. I laugh because, ah, youth.

  “I’m not a cop, asshole. So good luck with that.”

  I press my knee up against Donnie and jam the gun back into its holster. I grab my cuffs out of a back pocket and get them on him pretty quick. I’ve been doing this a long time; I’ve gotten pretty good and pretty fast at it. Plus, I only have a few more minutes, if that, before this crowd decides to mob my ass.

  When I’m done with the cuffs, I pull my S&W back out and drag poor Donnie over to the driver’s side of the car—amid the moaning and groaning of young adults unsure of exactly what the fuck to do with this situation. He complies when I push him into the back seat. After I get my ass in behind the steering wheel, I punch it.

  I don’t slow up until I’m on the well-lit, highly populated interstate, headed toward downtown Redemption. After about five minutes, I breathe easier when I see no hint of souped-up cars or crazy vengeful teenagers behind me.

  Bonus.

  “They’ll come after you, you know?” Donnie’s quiet when he warns me from the back seat, confident I’ll lose my nerve and let him loose.

  I grin at him and continue to check the road behind us.

  “I don’t think so, kid.”

  Sure, a few of them will be more than slightly miffed when they go to start up their cars only to find the spark plugs are missing. In my defense, it was a safety precaution I took when everyone else was paying attention to the pre-race festivities otherwise known as cranking loud music and swapping spit.

  Also, I left them to be found, eventually, which is more than I can say a few of my colleagues would have done.

  A little more relaxed, I pull the bandanna off my head and stretch the stress out of my neck as Donnie rambles in the back seat.

  “You crossed the line, man.” He’s got a discouraged tone in his voice. Not that it bothers me. “And broke about five different street laws.”

  We make eye contact via the rear view mirror and I cock an eyebrow for him. “Do you really think I give a shit about street laws, Don?”

  Seriously.

  He shakes his head, defeat bleeding from his eyes.

  “You’re about to go to jail for manslaughter. Maybe you should worry about that for a little while.”

  His expression changes as though he’s just now realizing why I’m taking him in.

  “I didn’t kill anybody.” His voice wavers slightly, and I see it in his eyes. He’s scared. He doesn’t want me to know it, but it’s there. Plain as day.

  He wants me to believe him, maybe even needs me to. But I’ve already been briefed on his record. I hear enough woe is me crap on a daily basis. I don’t need to hear it from this guy, too. And I definitely don’t need to hear it all the way to the precinct. So I nod, roll my eyes, then turn on the radio and crank up the tunes.

  I fast dial Tricky Ricky, the bail bondsman who contacted me about our friendly neighborhood Redemption police department needing a little help with this one.

  “I’ve got him.” I end the call almost as soon as it begins. Short and sweet runs in my family. Besides, Tricky and me, we go way back—he knows the drill.

  Personally, I'm over the moon. Not only am I a thousand dollars richer from the drag race I just nailed, but I’m also about to be another ten grand in the black when I drop this kid off at Redemption’s 1st Precinct for the night. Because I’m feeling pretty spectacular, I lean back, open up the engine, and just drive for a while.

  Also, before you ask, I wasn’t lying back there. I’m not a cop. And don’t even get me started on bounty hunters. These days, they’re a dime a dozen, and the level of service with those guys? Joke.

  I’m the guy they call when they can’t get it up. Or rather, can’t get the job done for whatever reason. Normally, I work directly through the bail bondsman I’ve known for a lot of years, but in certain circumstances, like this one, I deal directly with the men in blue.

  Name’s Jackson Stiles. I’m of the independent sector. A private dick, as some of my close friends call me.

  Kidding. I have no close friends.

  And I get the job done, by the way.

  Every damn time, my friends.

  Every.

  Damn.

  Time.

  Not that I have anything against the police force in any way, shape, or form, mind you. Hell, my brother’s a cop, but do you have any idea what those guys make? Freelance is the way to go, in my humble opinion. Or what I like to call “consulting.”

  It’s the least I can do, really. Besides, if I can get one more douchebag off the streets, win-win for both me and the men in blue. Forget about the fact that they’d rather lose out on a bust than disobey their precious leaders.

  Call me bitter. My family does. Most of them anyway.

  Donnie hollers something from the back seat as we get closer to our destination. I turn down the music, irritated.

  “What?”

  “You don’t have to do this.” He’s jittery, now, and desperate.

  Great.

  Kid better not piss his pants on the seat of this fucking car is all I’m saying.

  “We can take this conversation somewhere else. Anywhere. Just not…there.” He glances over at the brick building off in the distance, then swallows a lump in his throat.

  “What’s there to talk about? You fucked up.” He inches his way forward and sits up straight.

  “No, I know, I totally fucked up, but this rap is not mine. I’m telling you, you’re making a mistake. Don’t give me to these guys.”

  I meet his eyes again.

  The confident little shit from earlier isn’t quite so confident any more. He’s more like a scared little kid who realizes he’s about to be held accountable for the shit he’s been pulling.

  Or, you know, a murder, if you’d like to get specific.

  “Please.”

  And now I’m curious. So I let off the gas and bring the car to a coast for a stretch.

  “Tell me something, kid. If it’s not your rap, then whose is it?”

  I’m all about getting to the point.

  He contemplates saying something else, but doesn’t. So, apparently he trusts me enough to beg me to set him free, but not enough to expand on his claims of innocence. Gotta love the younger generation. Never wanting to take responsibility for their bullshit.

  “Who escapes a murder scene then sticks around to drag race, anyway?” That’s been bugging me all night.

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” He’s defiant now. Ticked.

  “But you somehow know exactly what the fuck I’m talking about?” Obviously, since he knows what he’s going to jail for.

  “Unfortunately.” He’s leaving something out, and it annoys the shit out of me. Like a puzzle I need to finish, only I can’t because he threw the last piece out the window, and the timer’s about to go off. It’s not in my job description to get the story, though. All I'm supposed to do is take him in. Something I have to keep reminding myself of tonight, for some reason.

  “Well, I say no worries then.” I try to make light of the situation as I press on the gas pedal again. “You get a defense lawyer assigned to your case. They prove you weren’t the killer. Bam. Done.”

  “Right.” He laughs out a sarcastic huff of air and watches the shrubbery go by outside. He’s got about as much confidence in the justice system as I do, it seems.

  “Tell ya what, if I ever become a life coach, I’ll give you a call. We’ll talk shop, and I’ll tell you how to keep your nose clean as opposed to getting involved with the wrong kind of people.” It’s a half-hearted promise. Redemption doesn’t have a whole hell of a l
ot of the right kind of people.

  When I’m almost up to the home of Redemption's Police Department, I take my foot off the gas and hesitate for a second.

  Not gonna lie, part of me wonders if this kid is being truthful or if he’s just good at pulling the wool over people’s eyes. Then again, he wouldn’t be the first person with good intentions to get sucked into a world so fucked up you can’t quit.

  I drift into the lot and find a spot to park. I cut the engine and, despite the fact that I have zero investments in this kid other than the money I'm about to make off turning him over, I stretch around to face my backseat compadre. “You seem like a nice kid, Don. For the record, I don’t see you as the physically harmful type.”

  “I’m not.” He's hopeful when he says it. Like maybe I’m about to let him go but then he spots someone off in the distance and his voice becomes tired. “Not anymore.”

  Lo and behold, three of Redemption’s finest are walking out to greet us. Which is odd. So I step out of the car and help Donnie out of the back seat. Before either one of us can say anything else, the welcoming committee is upon us.

  “Hey, Stiles. Thanks for bringing this one in.” Hank Riley waves as they approach us. He’s one of those cops with too much ego and not enough common sense. And he’s smiling a tad too wide for my taste this evening. Morning. Either or. “We’ll take him from here.”

  When he reaches for the kid, I stop him with a hand to his chest. It’s kinda like pushing against a huge, police-uniformed Peep. The guy is far too overweight, which makes him slow. Too slow for this job, if you ask me. Which is why he’s been glossed over for promotions for the past half a decade.

  The guy thinks he’s got nothing new to learn. Hence, the ego.

  His bushy brow pulls together, but I don’t hand anyone over until I’m paid. Rule number one.

  “I’ll take him in, Hank. I have paperwork to sign anyway.”

  And money to collect.

  Rule number two. Don’t forget to sign the paperwork.

  When the overweight long-timer blocks my path, a thin line forms across his lips. “Captain said no need, tonight.” He plants an envelope against my chest that I assume is full of cash. I check it, anyway.

  Rule number three, always, always, always, count the money.

  While I’m confirming my paycheck is all there, I can’t help but wonder why Captain on-my-ass-all-the-time wouldn’t want me to sign the paperwork. I always sign the paperwork. There hasn’t been one time that I’ve taken a case for the RPD when I haven’t signed the goddamn paperwork, for Christ’s sake.

  Would it be nice to skip it and go home? Yes. I haven’t had a decent night's sleep in a long ass while. However, am I planning on throwing my rules out the window right now for a few extra winks?

  I don’t fucking think so.

  “Bullshit. I’m signing the paperwork, Riley.”

  I push him aside with everything I’ve got. And trust me, you need a lot to push that monstrosity out of the way. Good thing I work out. Sometimes. Then I take the kid by the arm and lead him into the building with the three stooges following close behind. This would make for a much more dramatic moment if the kid wasn’t dragging his fucking feet the way a dog might fight against its owner when being forced into taking bath.

  Inside, I’m ready to pound through security and make my way to delivering Leary into the Captain’s hands personally, but I’m stopped short by… no one.

  “Okay.” I’m about to ring the hell out of the I-need-some-goddamn-assistance bell when a skinny little fucker comes running around the corner of the nearby hallway like he’s Roger Rabbit running from the law itself. He’s got a fist full of something crumpled in his hands, and when he gets to me, he grabs the counter for balance to hold himself up.

  “Captain,” he huffs a few times, out of breath. “Wanted me,” he bends over, then holds the papers up for me to take. “Here.”

  “The fuck is this shit?” I read the standard set of drop off papers I generally skim when I hand someone over. When the newbie can finally breathe normally again, he stands up straight and tells me, “Captain had to leave early. He said you can sign those whenever… drop them off tomorrow. At your convenience.”

  I chuckle at the joke of the year. “At my convenience?”

  He breathes heavy and nods. “That’s what he said.”

  I let go of Donnie and he glances down, abruptly. His jaw clenches and he swallows hard. I can just about see the thoughts running through his mind. He knows these guys, or he’s familiar with them, at the very least. And he’s scared shitless.

  Possible reasons for his fear start ticking through my brain.

  There’s definitely a personal relationship of some kind going on here. Like maybe he hijacked one of their cars, or something along those lines, at some point. Maybe stole some wheels. Or maybe they knew the guy he offed. They might be looking for some payback. That should probably bother me, but been there, done that.

  A twitchy little brown-nosing type, whom I’ve never met before, takes a pen from the holder next to the front desk computer and hands it to me.

  “We’ll sign for you tonight, if you want.”

  Hank agrees. “I’ll sign personally if it’ll make you feel better.” Then smiles in a creepy I want to kill your family kinda way.

  Everyone knows the captain and I don’t exactly get along. It’s more of a begrudged association, really. Another long story. So any excuse for me to get out of having a not-so-nice face-to-face with him is fine by me.

  Paperwork is paperwork.

  I sign the thing and hold it out for Hank to take, and he disappears behind the desk to give it his John Hancock and make me my copy.

  “You’ve got a knack for the admin side of law enforcement, Riley.” I snigger but he doesn’t join in my amusement.

  “Your services are no longer needed for the evening, Stiles. You should go home, relax.” Jim Galley sniffs in my general direction. “Get a shower or something.”

  Galley’s a dick. Always has been. Always will be. Thinks he’s beyond the law and isn’t ashamed to say it in some circles.

  As the men in blue laugh among themselves, Brown-Noser begins to lead Donnie off toward another room. The kid stiffens suddenly, and his eyes begin to dart around like he’s trying to figure out a way to escape this situation.

  When they land on mine, there’s worry bursting from behind them. He swallows hard and shakes his head. “I don’t belong here, man. You know that, right?” The desperation in his voice causes the group of officers to cackle like a group of hens on crack, and I kinda wanna dick punch every one of them for it.

  Okay, I kinda wanna dick punch them on any given day of the week, but still.

  “You taking on the role of mommy now, Stiles?” Galley jibes. The rest of them applaud the ass-twat because, yeah, good one, Jim.

  Meanwhile, my Spidey senses are making the back of my neck itch. So let’s take a short time out here, shall we?

  Say I actually want to do something about this situation.

  There’re three of them. Four if you’re including chicken legs over there. Not great odds, but I’ve taken on more than that before. No need to re-hash the details of that incident. Not to mention the fact that if I was to take off with a perp, who’s wanted for murder, might I add, that I was hired to bring in, not only am I harboring a fugitive, but I am a fugitive.

  So the question is, do I have the energy, or the interest, to deal with the entirety of Redemption’s police department chasing my ass over this petty ass bullshit? Maybe even the entire state?

  Decisions, decisions.

  I check the time.

  Jesus. It’s getting late, and honestly, I’m probably just imagining things anyway.

  It’s been known to happen. Especially when I’m in sleep deprivation mode.

  Besides, this is a perp we’re talking about. Right? Sorry about your luck, Donnie.

  “See ya, kid,” I tell him. That’s my final decis
ion and he knows it. The disappointment that spreads across his expression tells me so. Not that I’m affected by it whatsoever.

  At that, Hank slaps an enthusiastic hand against my chest. It’s holding an envelope with my copy of the paperwork I need for tonight’s job. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

  I take it and shove it into my pocket while simultaneously making sure I still have the money envelope there. Then I back out through the front doors and head for the car.

  Sure, I left the kid to fend for himself. In my defense, I try not to make a habit of taking the word of delinquents I bring in when they tell me they didn’t do it. Which, by the way, is every single one of them. I mean, I would not make money that way, and I’d be a fucking laughing stock.

  I’ve got a reputation to uphold here.

  Worst case scenario, Donnie learns a tough lesson. Maybe he goes to jail with some bumps and bruises. Or maybe he’s telling the truth and he’ll be scot-free in a few days.

  Maybe.

  THERE’S NO ESCAPING FAMILY…OR STALKERS

  SOMEWHERE BETWEEN my dream state and the living world there’s a kid who visits my subconscious each morning. He’s not completely unfamiliar, but he doesn’t resemble the person I knew over a decade ago either.

  He’s grungy and distant. He hasn’t aged, but he hasn’t stayed the same. He’s about ten years younger than I am now. His eyes are dark and grim like his stare. They’re full of death. There’s a deep, un-healing gash just above his right eye.

  I can’t stop staring at it.

  No matter what I say, or how I say it, he never moves. He never speaks. He just glares.

  Not that I need him to say anything. I know what he’s thinking. I’ve thought it a thousand times myself.

  It was your fault.

  For the millionth time in the past ten years, I take pause at the irony of living in a city that’s literally named after what I crave worse than tobacco but am never going to get.

  A pounding somewhere off in the distance vibrates inside my head and draws my attention away from the kid. When I look back for him, he’s gone.