by L. J. Martin
"Now, see here…"
"Shut the fuck up, Conelius," I order, and begin unwrapping the ace bandage from my thigh. In moments, I've exposed that ugly puckered—now green, yellow, and purple—wound as well.
"I don't know what—"
"The what is you sent me into a battle and expected me to go in unarmed? This is the result of going in…and had I gone in unarmed, you wouldn't owe me the million four as I'd be full of embalming fluid. Those are bullet wounds you're seeing. Your sweet little girl is back here safe, per our agreement. So I'd suggest you pay up."
Just as I finish the sentence, his office door opens and the svelte secretary enters, my bottle of cold water in hand. She stops short, smiles as she looks me up and down, jeans resting on the top of my boots, and stammers, "Am I missing the party?"
"Get out," Remington snaps as she places the bottle on a coaster in front of me, her eyes sweeping me again, and with a broad smile she exits.
Jane cuts her eyes from my eyes, to my crotch, to her father. Her jaw clamped, speaking through her teeth she asks, "Did you promise to pay him, Daddy?"
"We talked about it—"
"No," I snap, re-wrapping the ace bandage on my leg. "We didn't talk about it, we shook hands on my returning your daughter, and my receiving twenty percent of the amount of her trust fund for doing so. You wanted your attorneys to draw up a contract. I said no, that you're a smart man…too smart to cross a man like me. Now do you remember?"
"You didn't return her. She came on her own volition."
"After I dragged her and two of her friends out of a fire. After I went after the asshole who coerced her to pay him and tried to turn her into a bucket of ashes. I'd understand your reluctance to pay up if I poured her out all over your desk and you had to take her home in an urn."
"Arne didn't actually coerce," Jane says, a little sheepishly.
"I shot Arne over his right eye so he won't be testifying for my success or failure. For whatever reason," I say, the most gentle way I can present my case. "You were there and under Arne's persuasion, and you were paying him lots of money. Most of which he was putting in offshore accounts, along with money he was getting from three or four other girls. Then he tried to barbecue you, Inga, and some redhead."
"I'm not paying," Cornelius growls. "She came home on her own."
I merely smile at him. "As you wish, Mr. Remington. But I'll tell you that you should find a good chiropractor."
"Why, I'm fine, thank you."
"Now, maybe. But you're gonna have a very sore neck from looking over your shoulder. I hate drug dealers, I hate human trafficers, I hate thieves of any kind and most of all I hate welching rats who don't do what they say. That would be you, Cornelius."
"Pay him, Daddy. I wouldn't be here were it not for him."
"Pay him, Daddy," I repeat. "Or you may never get another good night's sleep, for one time in the not so near future you'll wake up and I'll be standing at the foot of your beddy bye…maybe with my own can of high octane."
That makes his eyes widen. Then he murmurs, "How about the four hundred thousand we talked about?"
"We never talked about it, you talked about it. Pay up, one million four hundred thousand dollars in good old American greenbacks."
Jane stands and moves shoulder to shoulder with me, and glares at her old man. "If you don't pay him, I will, fifty thousand dollars every month, plus interest."
I flash her a smile. "At least one of the Remington family is a stand up dude."
Cornelius clamps his jaw so hard I'm surprised he doesn't bust teeth, and he actually stomps a foot, then shouts, "All right, God damn it. All right. If he'll just get the hell out of my office."
"Call your bank," I suggest. "I'll wait right here until the money arrives. Nice packets of hundreds will do. Then I'll be happy to have us part friends."
He grabs the phone, and I relax in my chair and sip my water while he makes the call, then gets up and stomps to the window and folds his hands in the small of his back. He glares at the great view.
Jane smiles at me. "You're not leaving right away are you?" she asks, then batts her eyes like the schoolgirl I hope she'll become again.
"I'll be happy to buy you dinner," I say.
"No you won't. I'm buying. I know this great little vegan—"
"No way. You can get French fries and spinach at Daddy's favorite, the Homestead."
Epilogue
Pax picks me up at the airport with a sunburn and a big smile. He's been flyfishing while I collected our money. He's happy with the quarter mil I give him, and Hunter, who's still in the hospital, is a little astounded when I tell him where in his backyard he can dig up the seventy-five grand I'm paying him for his trouble. I figure twenty five grand for his leg, same for his arm, same for his spleen, which is now in the hospital incinerator. I also put fifty grand on deposit for his hospital bill which should cover it and only proves how guilty I feel for leaving him to the wolves.
Pax and I fish the Bitterroot, Rock Creek, the Madison, the Jefferson, and finish on the Big Hole, and in a week are about ready to leave Montana for now very, very hot Las Vegas. Then I get a call from an unknown caller.
Inga. She must have gotten my number from Jane Jasper or Al at the bar.
"Hutchins bailed," she informs me.
"You're kidding?"
"No, I'm not. The judge set a half million and he got some guy in Helena—"
"Isenberg?"
"That's the guy. Treasure State Bail Bonds. Anyway, he's out, and I'm scared. I agreed to testify."
"You got an aunt in Pittsburgh or someplace you can go visit until the trial date?"
"No. And he'll never show up for the trial. He'll run for it."
"Good, then I can go after him."
"Where are you?" she asks, and I can hear the desperation in her voice.
"Over in the Big Hole. We're spending the night in Dillion then driving straight through to Vegas."
"Please, please, can I go with you?"
Who am I to turn down a request from a beautiful, tan, long-legged blond?
The hell of it is, a gentleman can't take advantage of a desparate woman. I'll have to wait until she's settled in a new job, and probably with a new identity before my conscious is clear and we're on even ground. So I'll work very hard finding her a good job in Vegas, a car, a place to live, and some confidence.
She says don't bother to drive back to Missoula, where she's hiding out, but that she'll ride the morning dog, the Greyhound, to Dillion.
"You heard about the stash?"
"What stash?" I ask.
"The sheriff, that cowboy from Phillipsberg, got a warrant and searched our cabin…I guess I should say Rostov's cabin…and found all the stuff he stole from Funky Furs under the floorboards. They lost a son, but at least they get most of their money back."
"Did he find anything else?"
"Not that I know of."
"See you in the morning, in Dillion."
"Thanks, Mike."
She has no idea how much it's my pleasure. Now if I can keep my horndog buddy, Pax, from beating my time.
As soon as she hangs up, I call the Granite County Sheriff's office, and the sheriff is in. "Sheriff Petersen. How's it with the county mounty?"
"If it isn't the mad motorcycle man, Mike Reardon."
"I'm complimented you recognize my voice."
"Who could miss a nice baritone like yours?"
"I understand you recovered some goods from Rostov's cabin?"
"I did, matching the description of the stuff stolen from Funky Furs."
"Anything else of interest?"
"Nope, that's enough."
I laugh. "Not quite enough. Wander up the south hill beyond the camp, about a hundred yards or so and you'll come across a nice crop. You do have a weed district in your county?"
"You bet. A real active one."
"Well, this weed may not qualify for one of their grants, but I'll bet you'll want to irradicate i
t none-the-less."
"The hell you say."
"I'll bet there're five hundred or maybe even a thousand plants."
"Why, thank you, Mike. That'll be a feather in my cap."
"Okay. See you around."
"You come on back anytime, ya hear. Hell, I'll even take you elk hunting."
"Sounds like a winner to me."
I hit the disconnect and turn to Pax. "Dillion?"
"Sure, I've caught and released two hundred pounds of fish. I'm ready for a steak."
"Okay. Hey, I got a bet for you, pretty boy."
"Oh yeah, what's that?"
"I'll bet that before we leave Dillion I can pick up a much better looking woman than you can. Mine'll make anything you drag in look like a skank."
"And you won't flash that sack of hundreds you're carrying?" He's very condescending, thinking I'd use money for such a thing.
"No, sir. No money involved. Besides, you got a full sack yourself. A hundred bucks suit you?"
"Suits me fine, dickwad. There's a first for everything."
I smile. I got him this time.
V
Target Shy & Sexy
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Prologue
No one could have been more surprised, after returning from a very tough job in Montana which ended in a week's fly fishing with my buddy—which wasn't so tough—to find a call waiting from a former employer.
Tammy Houston, rapidly becoming a very famous, very successful, country and western singer.
The hell of it is, the last time I did a gig for Tammy she fired me and it cost me fourteen grand to pay for the medical bills of a couple of young eco-terrorists who tried to defend a smartass kid who threw paint on what the destructive little bitch thought was a fur coat. One lousy broken arm, only a slightly broken jaw, and the assholes deserved it. So I was out lots of dough and a month doing community service in a Seattle soup kitchen.
I'd snatched the wrist of the hippy girl who'd just thrown paint on Tammy's fur coat. The hell of it was the coat was faux fur and not that expensive. That didn't keep me from turning the young lady—if you can call a rude young hippie girl a lady—over my knee, right outside the Gaucho restaurant on 2nd Street in downtown Seattle, and tanning her butt until she bawled like a baby.
Of course I spent the night in the hoosegow…not for the spanking, but for breaking the jaw of one long-hair and the arm of another who decided to come to the property-destroying hippie girl's rescue. I take umbrage when someone is stupid enough to pull a two-inch blade penknife on me and broke that one's arm to cure him of said stupidity, and the jaw of the other as he called me a son of a bitch and a cocksucker and tried to kick me in the gonads. “Son of a bitch” I don't mind so much as I'm sure he was not really casting dispersions on my mom. My nads? Now that's another matter altogether. And a cocksucker? Now I take real umbrage at that. It was clearly a case of self-defense, however Judge Polkinghorn, who I'd like to poke in the eye, didn't agree.
It doesn't pay to beat up on rich-kid-liberals in Seattle, particularly when one's daddy is on the city council.
No good deed goes unpunished.
I also paid a five thousand dollar fine and did four weeks community service in a Seattle soup kitchen serving goulash to guys who drove up in BMW's. Truthfully not all of them drove up in anything, as many actually needed a hot meal. Having never begged, I'm not positive, but suspect it's much easier to work for a living. All that said, I know some guys who came back from Iraq, as I did, who were too screwed up to hold a job. I gave the vets an extra portion.
I even made a few new friends while on the job, including a priest, Father Sean O'Donnel, who runs the joint. I traded some carpentry work—hanging doors—for a basement room while I paid my penance. I could have afforded a nearby hotel room, but one adds to life's experiences as one can…and I did.
As it turned out the judge did me a favor with the community service as I recognized a guy for whom I was dishing up some slop; a guy who'd skipped a hundred grand bail in Las Vegas. Carrying a bail enforcement badge—thirty five bucks will get you one—I called the bondsman, got a contract, put the guy face down on the sidewalk after his next bummed bowl of soup and collected a twenty grand recovery fee for hauling him into the same lockup I'd recently left.
God works in mysterious ways.
Tammy still owes me for that week's work. I was not holding my breath waiting to collect, however it seems I'm now in demand. And she's a little more interested in my specialties, as someone knocked a great big chunk out of her fireplace in the multi-million dollar condo she now occupies. Cops said a 50 cal mag did the dirty deed from a thousand yards away.
The long-hairs’ medical bills cost me fourteen thousand, so, after my three grand premium to a local bondsman, the fine, a few expenses, and the medical bills, I came out about three grand in the hole.
Living in the basement of a homeless shelter was not such a bad gig, as my primary residence, my second home, and my third and fourth are ministorage rooms…or at least had been until I invested in a 250 Ford truck and a camper. I also own a van, which is a necessity for the occasional bail enforcement—bounty hunting—I do. One occasionally needs tie downs and room to hook up a perp or two.
Of course I have an iPhone, and a half dozen throw away phones, so I really didn't need to drop by my buddy Pax Weatherwax's office. But he does have the best coffee in town, and the price is right.
Pax owns an Internet Service Provider company with offices in six cities, and keeps me out of trouble and loaded with information on clients and bad guys. Information that is probably just short of what the NSA could procure. He's really, really, really good at what he does.
And he's also my best friend, as we rambled through Desert Storm together, kept each other alive, and would have thrown ourselves on a grenade to save the other, if need be. As it is, he has one leg an inch and a half shorter than the other thanks to dragging me out of a street singing with AK47 rounds and taking one through the thigh.
He still is the best man with a .308 I know—Marine sniper trained—and damn good with any other weapon. I don't want him after me, short leg or no.
I take the stairs up the back way to his two-car garage sized office, his back looking at the Vegas strip a few blocks distant, and catch him with his nose in some software manual.
"Hey!" I shout, and he jumps a foot.
"You son of a bitch," he stammers.
"Watch your mouth, fat boy," I say with a laugh.
"Fuck you. I can take you in anything but a foot race."
"I need to use a phone and want to put my butt in an easy chair to do so."
"Good, I'm busy here."
So I plop down in a far corner, grab the phone, and dial the area code 310 number Tammy left.
"Miss Houston's residence," the male voice answers.
"Funny, that's who I called." I'm feeling a little sassy as she's had to phone me, and I know it grates at her.
"May I say who's calling?"
"Mr. Michael Reardon, you may say."
"Is she expecting you?" he asks, his voice slightly more gruff.
"She might be expecting twins for all I know. I'm returning her call."
"You're a little flippant." His voice is even more gruff.
; "You've got one minute to get her on the phone, or I'm hanging up. One more time, Sherlock, I'm returning her call."
"Right, hold on." I know he's put a hand over the receiver, but can hear him nonetheless. "Some smartass says he's returning your call. Michael Reardon."
It's far less than five seconds when she picks up the phone, and she's slightly out of breath like she's run to grab it.
"Hi, Mike."
"Hi, Miss Houston," I say, slightly tongue in cheek.
"You know it’s Tammy to you."
"Okay, Tammy. So long as I'm not working for you, it's Tammy. What's up?"
"I need your help."
I have to chuckle a little. "As I recall, you don't like my help."
"That was when I was young and naive. I've learned some things."
"Two years ago you were naive and now you’re mature?"
"I've learned a lot."
"Okay," I sigh. "What do you need?"
"Protection. I'll explain it when you get here."
"Hell, there are a thousand guys out there—"
"I want you."
"You owe me for a week's work. You dropped me in the grease and cost me twenty grand."
"So, I was paying you five grand a week and cost you twenty grand, so a twenty-five thousand retainer will get you back to work."
"Hardly. That's what you owe me. I now get ten grand a week for my services and require a two week retainer."
"Ten grand…who do you think you are? Merle Haggard?"
"Nope, I've never done time in the big house."
She's quiet for a moment, then, "So, twenty thousand will get you here?"
"Plus the twenty-five grand you owe me."