Chapter One
Jeremiah “Jim” Borden ducked and dashed among the bushes and trees as he neared his problem parolee’s small house. Judging by the racket coming from inside the ramshackle dwelling, his parolee was either in trouble or creating it himself. No doubt for a minute that it was the latter. Pesci had been a problem from the word go.
The porch step creaked as Jim climbed, and he flattened his back against the siding. “Pesci? You there?” He banged on the front door as someone screamed from within the house. “Aw, shit.” Why had he gotten out of bed that day?
He snatched his civilian-registered .22 caliber gun from its holster and slammed open the unlocked door. Air sliced through his lungs, adrenaline kicking in. The cluttered living room with its old-fashioned furniture had a few recent additions—fist-sized holes in the wall.
“Pesci, answer me. It’s Jim Borden. I’m armed, so come out slowly.” He crept down the carpeted hall and quickly checked each room.
Tension hung in the air, so thick and oppressive it nearly clogged his lungs. A loud bang shattered the silence. He inched farther along the wall, his heart pounding like a gavel. Some days, being a parole officer had more bad points than good. Today was one of those days where the good forgot to show up for work. If only he’d done the same.
Sweat dripped between his shoulder blades as he eyed his target. The last door on the left. Goddamn it. He wasn’t a cop. He shouldn’t be dealing with this crap.
After a few more careful steps, he rapped his knuckles on the door. “Stay calm. I’m coming in.” He fumbled with the doorknob. Damn this cast! The fiberglass sheathed his broken left arm from beneath his armpit to his fingers and made that limb essentially useless. He tightened the digits on his good hand around his weapon as he tried the doorknob again. Finally, the door unlatched and swung open. He crossed the threshold. Muggy air slicked his skin.
Curtains hung in shreds. Long tears ruined the sheets. Glass shards glistened on the carpet from a smashed mirror. Several colorful pills lay scattered atop the vanity.
Floyd Pesci sat on the floor in the middle of the destruction, hugging his knees and clutching a gun with one hand. He rocked back and forth, mumbling incomprehensible words.
“What’s going on? Where are Jodie and the kids?” Jim aimed his gun at the floor.
Pesci squeezed his eyes shut, his body trembling. Tears leaked down his pale cheeks. “G-gone. Jodie left me. Took the kids.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He tunneled his hand through his dark hair. “Ten years together, and she said she couldn’t take it anymore. That fucking bitch. It’s not my fault.”
“Drop the gun, Pesci. Slide it to me. Don’t make this worse.” The stench of body odor and piss turned his stomach. Pesci’s fingers whitened around the gun, and Jim stiffened. “You begged me to come here. You said you needed help. I told you to call my supervisor, or 911, but you refused. Do you remember that? It was only an hour ago.” He licked his lips as Pesci nodded. “I’m on suspension for two weeks. As of now, I’m not legally your parole officer, so I shouldn’t be here. Did you get the message I left on your cell phone yesterday?”
Again, Pesci nodded. “What should I do? I’m so angry. I want to hurt someone.”
“But you haven’t. Not yet. You called me for help. That means, on some level, you trust me. Drop the gun. You’re not supposed to have firearms.” He nodded toward the pills on the vanity. “What is that? Speed?”
“Jodie left me. Without her, I have nothing. Nothing!” His words bounced off the walls like hail during a storm.
“That’s not true. You have a job. You haven’t contacted anyone from your old crew since you’ve been on parole. That’s something to be proud of.” He flicked his gaze back to the drugs. “Well, I could be wrong. Where did you get the contraband? From Capularia?”
The former gang member had been on parole for the last year and was doing okay until he showed up drunk at work and punched a coworker. So much for being lenient and having the guy attend AA meetings. Why hadn’t Jim trusted his instincts?
“Explain the situation to me, Pesci. From how it looks, you’re going back to prison.”
“It’s your fault. You gave Jodie those stupid pamphlets. You warped her mind against me.” The haze in his dilated, bloodshot eyes faded. He scrambled to his feet. The gun wobbled in his grip.
Jim stepped back, lifting his weapon a few inches. His muscles tensed. “Stay calm. Think about your actions.”
Pesci smacked his lips. “You wanna help? Call my wife. Tell her to come back. She’ll listen to ya. Jodie says you’re a nice guy, and I’m nothin’ but a damn bum.”
Hell, no. He’d rather eat glass than ask the woman to come back. In situations like this, the innocents always paid the price.
Thank God He wasn’t an innocent. His mouth dried. He bit his tongue, squeezing out a few drops of moisture. Goose bumps raked his skin.
Pesci stomped forward, his heavy boots pounding hard. Then he groaned and stumbled sideways. His eyelids fluttered. He pointed his weapon at the floor and rubbed his head.
“If you’re doing or selling drugs, and keeping a gun, she had a good reason to leave. Jodie and the kids deserve better.”
“Fuck that. They’re my family, not yours.”
Damn it. Why bother? Pesci was so high he wouldn’t listen. Jim scoffed. Of all the times to get suspended. He couldn’t arrest the prick for this bullshit. If only he’d called the police before he stepped foot inside the residence. “Tell me about the pills. Are you dealing again?”
The spaced-out loser blinked, his head swaying. “That’s why Jodie flipped out. She found the drugs. I told her my job pays crap. We got bills on top of bills.” He spat yellow mucus on the floor. “Yeah, I’m slinging trash for Capularia again. My old set welcomed me back with open arms. When I told Jodie, the bitch slapped me. I fuckin’ lost it. I smacked her back. A woman should respect her man.”
“You shouldn’t have hit her.”
“She deserved it. She should know by now not to run her damn mouth.”
“It’s about time you admit it.” Jim shrugged, feigning nonchalance as Pesci sneered. “I’ve seen the bruises on Jodie’s face. She always blamed the marks on clumsy accidents. Who’s she fooling? I should’ve taken her to a women’s shelter, instead of giving her those pamphlets, but she refused to go. Refused to admit anything was wrong.”
What was it with women thinking they could survive toxic relationships? If a man hit them, why stay and try to change him? They should get the hell out.
Pesci swung the gun toward Jim. “You planned this, didn’t ya? I’ve seen the way you look at my wife. You fucking her?”
Jim growled. He’d looked at Jodie in pity, not with lust. Hell, they were both screwed. He couldn’t have the woman he wanted either. Calista was too good for him. Focus. Not the time to think about the sexy waitress. He stared at the weapon, then at the parolee. “Easy, now. I’m not threatening you with my gun. Show me the same courtesy. We’re talking. Everything is fine.”
“Fine? Fine!” Pesci fired the gun, the bullet slamming into the wall three feet from Jim.
Jim darted through the open doorway, stalking backward down the hall. “Don’t do this, Pesci. You’re digging your hole deeper.”
“Get back here. Fight me like a man!” The irrational dealer raced after him.
Gunfire blasted. Jim dropped to one knee, the bullet striking something behind him. He fired back, aiming at the ceiling.
Powdery-white dust rained from the tile, and a cracked piece fell on Pesci’s head. “Shit.” The other man lost his footing, hit the wall, and swiped his hand across his flushed face.
Jim leveled his firearm on Pesci. “Enough. Don’t make me hurt you.”
Anger flared in Pesci’s eyes. Then he dropped his gaze, his shoulders deflating. He threw the gun down the hall, away from both of them.
Jim bit his tongue. He’d give anything to use his left arm. A sling cradled the bent appendage to his chest. The fiberglass would work great as a weapon, if he could lift his shoulder the right way.
After holstering his semi-automatic, he pulled a pair of plastic zip handcuffs from his blazer pocket. How to get the cuffs on the man? “Turn around. Place your hands on your head. I’m gonna pat you down.”
Pesci braced his forehead on the wall. His thick jowl and neck quivered as he breathed.
Jim stepped up behind him, and the dealer hauled back, slamming his elbow in Jim’s ribs. “Aargh!” Jim doubled over, dropping the cuffs, as the man barreled down the hall. What the fuck? Air rushed from his mouth. His lungs strained from the wind being knocked out of him. Pain sliced through his side. Should’ve known the loser would try something.
Pesci snatched his gun off the floor and hurried back into the master bedroom. The door slammed shut.
Jim fisted his gun again and pushed open the door. He jerked back, awaiting gunfire. Silence rang. He dared a glance into the room, then rushed back in. Empty. A light breeze wafted from an open window. He popped his head through the opening.
The overgrown, fenced-in backyard prevented escape, but the swinging, clanking side gate led to the road. An engine revved. Squealing tires peeled off into the twilight.
“Damn it.” He drew back inside the room, holstered his weapon, and snatched the phone from his blazer’s inner pocket. After calling the police, he stomped outside to wait on the porch.
God, this was a mess. If gangbangers weren’t trying to snuff him, his damn parolees were. Despite drug lord Bristol Rieger—known as Thorn in the criminal underworld—letting him go two weeks earlier, Jim’s life had been falling down quicker than a snowstorm in hell.
He rubbed his stiff shoulders. Pesci had almost stolen Jim’s new chance at life. He was like a cat. How many lives did he have left? He plopped in a rusty metal chair and leaned back. Crickets chirped, easing his tension. He dialed his chief supervisor, Duane Hamlin.
The man’s smug voice pierced the line. “What’s going on, Borden? You gonna beg me to reinstate you already? Shit, it’s only your first day on suspension. Suck it up.”
“Yeah, well. I wish I wasn’t working today. I got a situation, and it’s not pretty.”
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