Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(3)

I have to give it to this kid, he’s not half bad. Disappointed, though. I can tell by the way he’s walking slower than before. But being who he is, he comes over to congratulate me anyway, impressed. As well he should be.

The money chick jogs up to us, handing me tonight’s take. The kid smiles as he praises me, in a solemn kind of way.

“Good race, man.” He shoves a hand toward me, and I debate it, sure, but I shake it in the end as I add another characteristic to his profile.

Respectable.

I find myself letting the moment hang there between us. A nice, firm grip holds onto him as I stuff my winnings into my front pocket with the other hand.

The bottom drops out of the pit of my stomach for a second. Damn if I don’t almost feel bad for what’s about to go down.

Almost.

He seems like a good kid but that's not my problem. And it’s not my job to feel bad. It’s my job to find the bad guys, take them in, and get paid. So I shove the doubts to the back of my mind.

“Thanks.” I point at him. “You’re Don Leary, right?”

Gotta get some confirmation. Just in case I’ve been following the wrong guy for half a month. Not that it’s likely.

“That’s right,” he says with a smug kind of a look. He loves that I’ve heard of him. Too bad it was for all the wrong reasons.

“My friends call me Donnie, though.”

“Well, congratulations, Don.” I nod and jerk him toward me as my smile dissipates. I spin him around and push his face against the hood of the Charger. And yeah, maybe a little harder than I need to. I like to make an impression that says, don’t even f*cking think about trying to run, right off the bat.

“Ow. Shit.”

“I’m taking you into custody for jumping bail and for being stupid enough to stick around and show your face after jumping said bail.”

“The f*ck?” Someone in the crowd is not happy. A few of his friends, once they understand what’s happening, start in for me. I whip the Smith & Wesson out, with my free hand, and point it in their general direction.

I sincerely hope they don’t rush me. If they do, I’m done for. So is the Charger. I don’t have the kind of money lying around that it’ll take to get dental surgery again or to reimburse that “friend” I was talking about earlier, so…

“Anyone got a problem with me arresting Mr. Leary here?” Suddenly, I’m a crazed lunatic waving my gun around. I gotta say, it surprises me that no one else pulls one out. I thought all these street racing types carried.

Apparently not, but that doesn’t mean a few of them don’t try to get all law-abiding-citizen on me.

“You can’t do that, man!” one kid hollers while he points an angry finger at me. Another one comes dangerously close to approaching me but thinks better of it at the last moment.

“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, *. 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 f*ck 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.