Bad Beat (Regulator Biker Series Book 1)

by Carolina Mac

  “Here are my clothes, officer. I’ll be out on the patio,” I said as I filled Angel’s water bowl.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Talbot.” He took my clothes without a second glance and passed them to on of the CSI guys.

  Detective Crocker announced, “The Feds are here.”

  Angel wagged her stubby tail when I arrived outside with her water bowl. She slurped non-stop while I let out a breath and sat down at the patio table. It was refreshing to get away from the hullabaloo and confusion that was taking place inside. Tension tightened my chest and I was frantic to leave but the wiser path would be to speak with the FBI first. Perhaps then they wouldn’t realize I had gone to find Jackson on my own.

  Moments later the Feds came outside and introduced themselves. “Mrs. Talbot? I’m Special Agent Sam Wolinski, and this is Special Agent Gloria Connor.”

  Agent Wolinski was average height and weight, not bad looking, with a swarthy complexion and dark curly hair. Agent Connor was a pretty black woman in her mid-forties, tall, slim with dark hair pulled back from her face.

  I shook their hands, “Have you made any progress finding my husband?”

  “Not yet, but any information you could provide would be helpful.”

  “I don’t know what I else I can tell you. He and his father left here on foot, and I have no idea where they might be headed. The only destination I heard mentioned by Stan Traynor was Mexico.”

  “And you don’t think your husband went willingly to help his father?”

  “Are you kidding? His father will kill him if he gets in the way. If you’re going to ask me a bunch of bullshit questions, you can leave now and I’ll find him myself.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Talbot, I have to have a clear picture of the situation.”

  “Here it is in a nutshell, Agent. Father escapes from prison, kills two guards. Uses his only son to get him to Mexico and then kills him. That’s what’s fucking happening here,” I was on my feet waving my arms and yelling.

  “No need to get upset, Mrs. Talbot.”

  “No need? Are you nuts? I am upset. I’m crazy upset. The man I love is gone and I want him back,” I hollered. Tears of frustration came of their own accord.

  “We’ll get him back for you Mrs. Talbot. You just have to be patient,” said Agent Connor. “Why don’t you try to get some rest?”

  “Thank you, for your concern. “I’ll sit out here awhile with Angel and try to calm down.”

  “You do that,” said Wolinski with a frown and motioned for Agent Connors to watch me. Trapped.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  JACKSON STUMBLED AS Stan dragged him through the neighbor’s yard. Sirens wailed at the front of the house. They emerged into the street a block away. Jackson tried to fight his way out of Stan’s grasp, but from all his prison time, his father was too strong for him.

  “Fuck, Jackson. Don’t slow me down, or I’ll kill you, you little shit.” Stan spat on the ground. “You’re going to help me get to the border, then I don’t care what the fuck you do. I hope I never see your chicken-shit ass again.”

  Jackson was happy that Stan was on the move, happy to hand over his poker bankroll to get rid of him and he wanted him as far away from Portia as possible. A few blocks over, Stan boosted a blue Ford Taurus parked at the curb and they headed for the highway. Once they passed the city limits and were miles south of Vegas, he stopped for gas and picked up a map. “Find the fastest route to Mexico,” he said, thrusting the map at Jackson. “And don’t screw with me or you’ll wish you were dead.”

  “I do already,” Jackson mumbled. He tried to focus on the map when all he could think about was Portia and what she must be going through with the cops. He ran his hand in a straight-line south of Vegas and saw Yuma. He thought if Stan threw him out of the truck and didn’t kill him, Portia might find him in Yuma. She was a thinker. “Drive straight south to Yuma. You can cross there,” he said.

  On the highway south of the city, Stan drove through a McDonald’s and ordered food for himself. He ate three big Macs while he drove. “I haven’t eaten a fuckin thing in two days.”

  “Yeah, you must be hungry.” Jackson didn’t want to antagonize him any further.

  “Your bitch is a looker, kid. Wouldn’t mind doing her myself.” He chuckled and Jackson felt like hurling. “What’s she like in bed? Really hot?”

  “Not something I’m talking to you about.”

  “But probably something you think about a lot, eh?” He chuckled and Jackson felt his stomach heave. “Don’t want to talk about pussy, talk about her other asset—her money. Can you get your hands on any of it?”

  “Nope.”

  “If you needed money, would she come across?”

  “Don’t know.” Jackson stared at his hand knowing exactly where this was going.

  “I think she’d cough it up to get her stud back. Yep, I fuckin do.” He laughed.

  Fuck, he’s gonna ransom me. I won’t let him. I need to slow him down.

  At the first rest stop on the ninety-five south, Stan stopped the Ford Taurus beside a dark green pickup parked with the window rolled down. The owner was probably using the facilities. After he boosted the truck and got it started, Stan opened the passenger door to transfer Jackson and Jackson kicked him in the midsection with his Harley boot. Stan barely flinched. Grunted, grabbed Jackson by the neck, dragged him over to the pickup and shoved him in bodily.

  “Don’t fuck with me, kid, I can out-muscle and out-think you.” Stan drove like a madman for a solid two hours with the radio blasting out songs from the eighties.

  Jackson hated the music almost as much as he hated his father.

  Michael Jackson was screaming out ‘Billy Jean’ when Stan veered to the shoulder. He had spotted a truck parked at the side of the road by a bridge. “Son of a bitch is probably fishing,” he mumbled as he parked and hopped out.

  I have to make a move or Portia will never catch up.

  “I need to take a leak, Dad,” Jackson said, as he headed down the bank.

  “This better be for real,” Stan said, “don’t fuck with me or I’ll kill you and dump you in that fuckin river.”

  Jackson took his time relieving himself and ambling back up the bank. There was nowhere to run. He’d have to try again.

  “Hurry up, you stupid fuck. You think I don’t know what you’re doing. You think that trigger-happy, black-haired bitch is coming to save your sorry ass? Forget it.”

  They switched trucks and Stan drove like he was possessed. He steered with his left as he stretched out his right arm of steel and punched Jackson in the face. With blood gushing from his nose, Jackson retaliated instantly pounding Stan in the head. The truck veered off the road and bounced into a shallow ditch. Jackson took advantage of the reduced speed, flung his door open and rolled into an open hay field. He jumped up and was halfway across the field heading for a stand of trees before Stan caught up with him and dragged him by the neck back to the pickup.

  “I’m gonna hurl,” he hollered and Stan relinquished his hold on his son’s neck.

  Jackson gasped for breath and threw up in the ditch. He wiped his mouth with the back of this hand, spun around and aimed his fist at Stan’s head. Stan was ready, grabbed Jackson’s arm and twisted it up behind his back. He shoved him onto the ground close to the truck and punched him in the face.

  Jackson coped with the new surge of blood gushing from his nose and mouth while Stan searched the glove box of the stolen truck, came up with a spool of fishing line and bound Jackson’s wrists tightly together. With Jackson unable to defend himself, Stan vented his anger and beat and kicked his son until he was semi-conscious. He shoved Jackson’s limp body into the passenger seat, geared the burgundy Ram into four-wheel drive and sailed out of the ditch. He headed south on highway ninety-five for several hours until he came to a rest stop where he relieved himself then bought Cokes and chocolate bars from a vending machine.

  Jackson was borderline. He drifted in and out of consciou
sness. His thoughts dream-like and hazy. He thought he knew now what dying felt like. His face was so swollen around his mouth and nose his breathing was labored and he was unable to speak.

  His father berated him non-stop as he drove. “You’re a waste of time, Jackson. You always have been a huge pain in the ass. All those years I took care of you after your bitch of a mother died, and what for? What good did it do me? What a fucking waste of effort.”

  WHEN JACKSON OPENED his eyes, he looked around and tried to figure out where he was. A beige room. Maybe a cheap motel room. He was lying on a bed with his wrists still bound and Stan was sitting in a chair by the window fiddling with Jackson’s cell phone.

  “Hey, you’re awake, Einstein. We’ll be having company soon. I told your pretty little piece of ass she could buy you back for a bargain price and she was eager to do it. Go figure.”

  “Don’t talk about her. I don’t want you to say her name,” Jackson mumbled.

  Stan laughed. “Fuck, you are a mess.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  AGENT CONNOR SET her coffee cup down when my phone rang on the table between the two of us. “Go ahead,” she pointed at my cell with her pen, “answer it.”

  “Jackson? Are you okay?” I sucked in a big breath and listened. I could barely hear him, his words slurred together and he mumbled like he was hurt. “Stan wants money.”

  “I figured he would. How much?”

  “Half a mil.” Jackson, sounded like he wanted to hurl.

  Agent Connor nodded and whispered, “Where?”

  “Where should I bring it?” I asked.

  “Yuma. Colorado River Beach Park. Stan will call you with the details.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can get the money and drive down. I love you.”

  “Where are they?” asked Connor.

  “Somewhere near Yuma.”

  “He wants the money before he crosses the border?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Half a million.”

  She appeared concerned. “Can you get that amount easily?”

  “I can get it—I just don’t know how long it will take. I’ll have to talk to the bank.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  I nodded and reached for my purse.

  The manager at Bank of America was most co-operative and an hour later Agent Connor and I departed with a briefcase containing half a million dollars. Now I had to deliver it and get Jackson back if he was still alive.

  When we returned to the house Agent Wolinski had organized a plan of sorts. He was an FBI legend in his own mind. “I’ve got so many units patrolling for Stan Traynor in Yuma, he’ll probably be under arrest before we even get there. The border crossing is locked down tight. Let’s go,” he said, parading to the door like a puffed-up peacock.

  I patted Angel on the head as I left her in the care of the CSI team in the kitchen. On the way to the truck, I sucked in a few deep breaths and assured myself that I’d be in time to get Jackson back alive. The alternative was unthinkable. I tossed the navy duffel bag onto the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel. Backing the Hummer out of the garage, I had to avoid the TV vans parked alongside the curb waiting for a tidbit of juicy news from the cops on the premises. Agents Wolinski and Connor followed behind me in a black Crown Vic as I headed down highway ninety-five. One of the agents had programmed the drop spot into my GPS. Colorado River Beach Park. A public place. It would be dark when we arrived.

  After two and a half hours of driving, I pulled in for gas and a bathroom break and my tail followed me. I bought a Coke and a couple of chocolate bars to keep me going. Agent Connor walked towards me while Wolinski gassed up their ride. “You okay?”

  “Yep, a little tired.” I hadn’t slept since Stan’s arrival on my doorstep and probably would never sleep another wink until I had Jackson home. I read in his voice on the phone how disgusted he was that Stan was using him to get my money. I would trust Jackson with my life.

  Please, Jackson, don’t do anything crazy. Let me pay the money and take you home.

  IT WAS FULL dark as the GPS lady directed me through the city of Yuma to the park. The Crown Vic shadowed me from a respectable distance behind. Wolinski had briefed me on how local law enforcement would provide back up and the park would be surrounded. There was no conceivable way Mr. Traynor could get away in Wolinski’s mind. He was underestimating the slippery reptile that was Stan Traynor, I was sure of it.

  I parked in the designated area—my tail nowhere in sight. As I eased my way out of the Hummer, I detected no one. Perhaps they were well hidden, but after an initial glance around I had the uncomfortable feeling I was completely unprotected and alone in the dark. The park was closed. The parking lot was as big as a football field with trees, bushes and flower beds dotted around the perimeter. Every few feet were trash receptacles.

  Stan had texted instructions saying my job was to find the one with the note in it telling me where to pick up Jackson. No note—no money for Mr. Traynor. I pulled out my flashlight and started looking in the trash. I felt like a homeless person looking for food and I felt just as desperate. I wanted Jackson as badly as someone might want their next meal. The fifth can I shone my light in had a scrap of paper on top. I grabbed it, shone the light on it and it was a bill of some sort. I tossed it back and kept going. Seven, eight, nine. I screamed and jumped back as I shone my light in bin number nine and a pair of eyes stared back at me.

  “Holy shit, a raccoon.” I gulped a couple of deep breaths and kept going. How much garbage could there be in a park in a day?

  When I hit the tenth one, I thought Stan was playing some kind of sick game. I knew he would laugh himself silly if he could fuck with my head. I shone the light on the paper. It was a sheet torn from a complimentary hotel scratch pad. Days Inn and the Yuma address. Bingo. I threw the duffel bag in bin number ten and ran to the Hummer. I punched the address into the GPS and burned rubber out of the parking lot.

  As I parked at the hotel, my phone was ringing. I ignored it and ran to the front desk. “Do you have anyone registered here named Traynor?” I asked.

  “Sorry, I can’t tell you that,” said the desk clerk. A young girl barely out of her teens.

  “My husband is in one of the rooms, and he’s badly hurt. Could you help me please?”

  “What’s his name again?”

  “Jackson Traynor.”

  This was a cheap motel that hadn’t converted to a computer system. They still used a registration book. “Sorry, no names like that from last night.”

  “Could I take a peek? I know I’m not supposed to, but I’m not going to do anything. I have to find him before he dies of his injuries.”

  The desk clerk screwed up her face. “Why do you think he’s hurt?”

  “His father beat him up and threw him in a room. Would you help me?”

  She turned the book towards me and I ran my finger quickly down the page of names. Mr. Millhaven. Good enough. “Room one fifteen.”

  She nodded, grabbed her key and we ran down the corridor together. She stopped outside the door and inserted her card. The green light came on and I burst past her through the door.

  The desk clerk screamed when she saw him on the bed. His face was purple, swollen and he was bleeding from his mouth and nose.

  “Oh, my God, Jackson,” I sobbed. “Call 911.” He was unconscious, sprawled across the bed just where Stan had tossed him like a sack of garbage. His wrists were bound together with fishing line and his ankles were secured to the end of the bed frame with cable ties.

  I pressed the call I had missed and told Connor I had him and I was waiting for an ambulance. “Did you get Stan?”

  “Not yet,” she said, “we’re waiting. We’ll come to the hospital after we get him.”

  In your fucking dreams, lady. That fucker is long gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  JACKSON LAY ON the stretcher in the treatment cu
bicle for most of the night while I slumped on the only chair and held his hand. His eyes were swollen to mere slits and quickly turning black, his face was purple and swollen and his wrists oozed blood where the fishing line had cut deeply through his skin.

  When the nurse wheeled him to X-ray, I rested my head on my chest and closed my eyes. If Stan wasn’t dead already, I would kill him for this.

  “His legs are badly bruised, he has a severe concussion, two broken ribs and his nose is broken.” The doctor rhyming off a laundry list of Jackson’s injuries woke me with a start. I shook my head to clear the cobwebs and tried to focus. “I’m admitting him. I’ve bandaged his wrists and I think they’ll heal, in time, but he needs rest and fluids. You can visit him tomorrow after eleven. He’ll sleep all night.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I phoned Connor and updated her. “I’m going to check into The Hampton Inn. It’s close by. I can’t see Jackson until eleven tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Talbot. I’ll call as soon as I know anything.”

  I wondered to myself if Stan had made it into Mexico, or if he had been shot down by the border guards. We would find out soon enough, and I was hoping in my heart of hearts that he had been permanently removed from Jackson’s life. I was filled with hate for a man I didn’t even know.

  I checked into the hotel, soaked in a hot tub and tried to calm myself. My negative feelings concerning Stan’s capture were filling me with dread. That man was slippery as an eel and I was sure he had carefully planned how he would get the money from the drop and not be detected. I flopped on the bed and lapsed into a coma-like sleep until my phone rang at seven in the morning. “Yes?”