Risk: A Military Stepbrother Bad Boy Romance (18 page)

DAMIEN

On Monday, I cornered Teddy at school. I told him the plan. He was hesitant, though sympathetic.

“I just… I don’t know what’ll happen if they catch me,” he stammered. I punched him gently in the shoulder.

“That’s where I come in. And a couple guys I know. You’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. You just need to get on that computer and see… You know. What all you can find.”

He bit his lip.

“You’re asking me to betray my father, here,” he said, his voice low and deep. Deep with sorrow, with confusion, with—bullshit.

“Bullshit,” I grunted. “I’m not asking you to betray your father. I’m asking you to make things right. I’m asking you to be a man for once in your goddamned life. I’m asking you to take responsibility and see that justice is done.”

He nodded, seriously. That had worked.

“Right. When do we do this?”

“Tonight. I’ll pick you up. We’ll drop you off, wait for you, get you out of there. That’s all you need to do.”

And so it happened, that night.

Lance was ready and rearing to go when I told him I needed some help. He called up a few of his buddies from around Georgia and by the evening, they had assembled at Riley’s. Riley brought us over a pitcher himself, sat down, and lit up a cigarette in stark defiance of the “No Smoking” sign posted above.

“We’ll take two cars,” I told them. “Mine, and Lance’s truck. Riley, do you—“

“On the house,” the big man said with a smile, reaching under the table and pulling out a paper bag. I peaked inside, and pulled out a large, heavy metal object wrapped in a white cloth.

A revolver. A big one, too. The kind of weapon that could put a hole in a man the size of a vinyl record.

“She’s clean, too—wear gloves when you’re using it, will ya’? It cost me a pretty penny to get something with no record, something they can’t trace.”

“I’ll get her back to her in one piece,” I murmured, wrapping the gun back up and returning it to the bag.

“Y’all are practically planning a revolution here,” Riley said with a grim chuckle. “Logan and Richards done run this town since as long as I can remember.”

“Consider this your declaration of independence, then,” I returned with my own grim chuckle.

“Now, Christina’s got an FBI contact. We’ll meet him here with the flash drive. That’s all. We’ve just got to run from the police station to the bar, and then we’re done. Simple as that.”

“You make it sound easy,” Lance laughed. “I sure as hell hope you didn’t call out the troops just for a grocery run…”

“If Richards’ boys get wind of what’s happening, they’ll go to war,” Riley growled. “They’ll be shootin’. I promise you that.”

“And when that happens, we’ll be ready,” Lance shot back. “We’ve got three rifle, five hand guns, and a couple grenades too—we’ll be ready to give this town a show they’ll never forget.”

I glanced at the date on a calendar tacked to the wall, showing a half-naked pin-up girl from the 1970’s, baring her cleavage and wiggling her hot-pants clad ass. Today was the fifth of November. Where had all the time gone?

“Well, guys…” I murmured. “You know what they say… Remember, remember, the fifth of November…”

An hour later, I was outside Teddy’s aunt’s house. I waited, and waited, and waited—I texted him, and then called him, and then was about to drive away when he came out, clad in a hoodie and jeans. Very non-descript. You wouldn’t be able to pick him out in a crowd.

“What took you so long?” I demanded.

“Sorry. I was feeling sick. I thought I was going to puke.”

“Don’t wimp out on me now,” I growled as I pulled away from the house, heading towards the police station. “The last thing I need from you right now is to get cold feet.”

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’m in it to win it tonight.”

We pulled up at the police station, an older brick building with the words “LARAMIE POLICE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS” in bronze over the doors. It was clearly a relic from an older time and it had certainly seen better days.

“You’re sure your dad is gone now?” I asked, parking the car. I glanced into my rear view mirror and saw Lance’s truck pull up.

“Yeah, of course. He’s always out of the office by seven o’clock.”

“Perfect.”

It was 7:45 now.

Teddy climbed out of the car and I watched him stride confidently—or so it seemed to me, at least—up the steps, into the office. He lifted his hand to greet one of the police officers at the door and I saw the cop smile at him.

So far, so good. I was proud of the kid.

I glanced down at my phone to see a text from Sarah. Her FBI contact—some big wig from down in Florida she had met while at a law school conference—was at Riley’s now. Everything was going according to plan.

And, of course, I knew from my experience overseas that this meant it was the perfect time for the shit to hit the fan.

So, I guess you could say I was half-expecting it when I saw a police car pull up and Oliver Richards himself climb out and start into the building.

I texted Teddy quick, telling him to get ready, and I dove into the glove compartment of my car, finding my gun. I slapped five rounds into the chamber just in time to look up and see Teddy putting those quarterback’s legs to good use, racing out of the department with his father in tow, roaring something incomprehensible.

Teddy crashed through the doors, hurtled down the steps, and all but flung himself into my car.

“I got the USB drive,” he gasped, as his father drew his gun, joined by two officers behind him reaching for their guns.

Shots rang out: one cracked my windshield as I reversed hard out of the parking lot, turning onto the road. More shots rang out, and they were greeted by return fire from Lance and his buddies in the truck. I could see in my rear view mirror as the truck reversed, following me, with a gunner aiming an AR-15 out the passenger window, forcing the three cops to run for cover.

I drove like the devil, slamming the pedal to the floor and leaning my head out the side of my window, since I couldn’t see shit out my windshield anymore. The truck was behind us and, then, two police cars. Then three. Sirens and everything.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit…” Teddy murmured, panting. I thought the kid was going to pass out and so I jabbed him in the gut. He gasped but that calmed him down.

“We’re almost to Riley’s,” I growled. “We can make our stand at Riley’s.”

“I don’t want to shoot my dad,” Teddy sobbed, his young face breaking out into tears.

“Well, your dad was just shooting at you right now, so I think the Richards family has just about burned all its bridges, kid,” I grunted. “But he won’t dare keep this shit up if there’s a federal agent involved…”

“Do you really believe that?” Teddy whimpered, his face pale and splotchy.

“I’m trying to,” I hissed as I turned into the parking lot next to Riley’s. We tumbled out of the car and dashed inside. I saw the truck follow us into the parking lot and park sideways in front of the door, barring entrance—a common tactical maneuver. War-fighting 101.

Inside, the bar was empty, except for Riley, Christina, and a man I had never seen before. Asian, in his forties or early fifties, and smoking a cigarette, he wore a wrinkled grey suit.

“You two boys look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

Gun shots rang out in the parking lot. Christina’s eyes widened and she looked at the agent.

“I’ll take care of this,” he said with a sigh, as if this were something he dealt with every day. He rose, reached into his jacket pocket, and retrieved his badge. We followed him outside as he held it up, almost nonchalantly.

Gunfire from both sides ceased.

“My name is Douglas Wong, and I’m the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Organized Crime Office Chief for Southern Florida. This is an official FBI investigation, and I’m going to interpret any further hostile action on anyone’s part today as tampering with that investigation—that’s a felony, boys.”

Oliver Richards stormed out of his car.

“This ain’t no FBI investigation,” he roared. “These sons of bitches are tampering with my personal files!”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve got a judge in Florida who, if I call him now, will issue a subpoena for your personal files at eight AM tomorrow morning. So, I think you’d better go on home, Chief Richards.”

“What the hell is going on here?”

Douglas looked from me, to the truck, to Christina and Teddy.

“Well, if I had to place money on it, I’d say a whole hell of a lot. For me, this is revenge, but I don’t think I’m the main character in this little mystery.”

He held up the flash drive that Teddy had given him.

“Fact is, I’ve had a bit of a grudge against Harry Logan for a few decades now.”

Oliver’s face paled.

“No, no, no…” he murmured.

“And if what I think is on here is, in fact, on here, well, then…” he smiled, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “You and he are going to be going to jail for a very, very long time.”

“You song of a bitch!” Oliver screamed, drawing his gun. Before anyone could react, Teddy, who stood next to me, grabbed the pistol from the waistband of my pants, leveled it on his father, and fired.

The big man dropped like a pile of bricks and so did the gun, sliding out of Teddy’s hands.

“You boys stand down,” Douglas growled at the other cops. Christina was already on the phone, calling for an ambulance. Teddy sank to his knees, and began to weep. Not having anything else to do, I joined him, putting my arms around him, and holding his sobbing head against my chest.

But then, my instincts kicked in. I tore off my shirt, ran to Oliver, pressed it into the wound. This was a battlefield, like any other, and I cradled his head in my lap, staunching the flow of blood as best I could while Christina took over the job of holding his son.

“You son of a bitch…” Oliver mouthed at me.

“You should have been nicer to your son,” I replied. “You reap what you sow.”

He coughed, and a trail of blood erupted from his lips.

An ambulance arrived within minutes and Oliver’s gasping, bloodied body was loaded in.

I stood, realized suddenly that I was shirtless and covered in another man’s blood.

“You’ll want to go to a hospital and get cleaned up there, kid,” Douglas said to me, after exchanging a few words with the paramedics. “I know you’re fine, but it’s standard procedure when dealing with bodily fluids.”

“Right.”

“You’re a cold-hearted son of a bitch, you know that?” he said with a smile, handing me a cigarette and lighting it. I don’t usually smoke, but the rush from the nicotine was well-appreciated right now. “Marine Corps, right?”

“That’s right.”

“I was in Vietnam. Last days of the war. Not pretty. Semper fi, mack.”

He started to turn away but then stopped.

“You know, you pulled off this operation basically flawlessly—are you in college?”

I shrugged.

“I’m finishing up my GED. Then, I was thinking I would go back to the service…”