Vice Enforcer

by S. A. Stovall

  “The police. Not all of them. But some of them. Enough that I can’t trust them. I gave them information in the past, and they let those villains get away. Not anymore.”

  I laugh once and shake my head. “So you want me to continue investigating an entire organization of murderous human traffickers, and you want me to go against a corrupt police force, all while you sit here in a hospital, warming your feet with an electric blanket? What kind of fool do you take me for, old man?”

  “That’s why I needed more evidence,” Shelby mutters, his voice heated. “I need to figure out who’s behind all this, so I know who it’s safe to leak it to. Anything to bring them all down.”

  I say nothing. His crazy mission will get him killed for sure.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Shelby says, staring me straight in the eye. “Help me do this and I’ll sign off on all your training. All of it. All three years. You could strike out on your own or work with some larger firm if you want. What do you say, Pierce? Will you help me?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THIS IS a terrible idea. I’m one guy, not an army or a member of some greater organization I can call upon for aid.

  Then again, all he wants is irrefutable evidence. I don’t have to fight anyone or do anything too risky. I’m a pretty accurate judge when it comes to questionable situations. Plus, it would eliminate the long years of training before I can work on my own—away from idiots like Davis—and under no one else’s authority.

  And, if Shelby is right about the cops, who else is going to help those kids get back to their lives? But the how the hell did I become their last line of defense? There’s got to be other, more altruistic people out there who would help them. Right?

  “Just evidence?” I ask.

  “Just evidence,” Shelby repeats. “Nothing more.”

  “Credit for three years?”

  “Credit for three years.”

  I run a hand through my hair and sigh. “Fine.”

  Shelby smiles. “Good.” He claps once, a liveliness to his mannerisms unbefitting an injured old man. He grimaces right after, though, and rubs at his shoulder, like he forgot he’s wounded.

  “Listen,” he says, “go to the office and get the keys out of my desk. Open the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet. I have all my information tucked away there. Get it, and check all the locations I have marked.”

  “All right.”

  “And you need to stay on them.” Shelby holds up a finger. “They don’t keep strict schedules.”

  “Yeah, I understand. They’d be a lot fucking easier to track if they had a set weekly schedule of illicit activity.”

  “I knew you were a man I could turn to. You have this look about you. Like you know your way around a dark alley.”

  “Tsk.” I step away from his hospital bed and shrug. “Don’t die before I get you what you need,” I say. “Your face has been all over the news.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  With another long exhale—to clear out the terrible chemicals burning in my nose—I exit the hospital room and step out into the corridor. Miles leans against the wall, Rhett nowhere in sight, and I walk up to him. The place has thinned out, and I glance at my watch. 8:05 p.m. We should be leaving.

  “Pierce,” Miles says as he pushes away from the wall. He gets close and lowers his voice. “Look over there.”

  I follow his gaze to the far end of the hall. The only people walking around now are nurses, technicians, and the occasional doctor. But one guy stands out like a sore thumb. He’s dressed in a thick, puffy jacket—perfect for concealing all sorts of objects—and he glances over at Shelby’s door like he’s waiting for us to leave.

  “How long has he been there?” I whisper. I take Miles by the shoulder and lead him away like we’re set to leave.

  “He’s been there since we arrived,” Miles replies.

  I never saw him. I can thank my terrible vision for that fact. I’m glad Miles is here to make up for my weakness, but a piece of me curses my diminished perceptions. I glance over my shoulder and spot the man ambling toward Shelby’s door, his hand tucked inside his jacket.

  “We’re gonna turn around and question this guy,” I say to Miles. “Got that?”

  “Sure.”

  We both stop and turn. The jacketed man doesn’t like that. He freezes in place, and when Miles and I head straight for him, he takes a step back. I pick up my pace—he’s only thirty or so feet away—but that agitates the man more than I thought it would. He turns on his heel and hustles away. When a nurse walks in front of his path, he throws her to the side and starts running.

  I dash forward, Miles by my side, and I sidestep the poor woman on the ground, gathering her fallen paperwork.

  “Hey!” a nurse at the nursing station shouts. “No running!”

  I ignore the scolding and continue. Our suspicious man dives around a corner, and Miles sprints to catch up, passing me in the process. Despite the fact there are fewer people than before, the halls are filled with empty stretchers, chairs, nurses doing their work, and medical equipment.

  Miles navigates through the hall like he’s running an obstacle course.

  I slam my shin on the corner of a metal chair and curse aloud.

  When I round the corner, I see Miles frantically glancing down a four-way intersection of hallways. I jog over and grab his shoulder.

  “Where’d he go?” Miles asks.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say with a huffed breath. “He’s going to try to leave. Take the elevator. I’ll take the stairs.”

  Miles nods and hops off, rushing toward his destination without glancing back. After a moment of reflection, I roll my eyes. What was I thinking? I should have taken the elevator. I take a deep breath and head for the stairwell.

  The cold shaft of switchback stairs is dim and uninviting. I leap down several steps at a time, passing a handful of people in the process, but my shin throbs with a dull ache by the time I reach the bottom. I take a moment to rub my leg before exiting the stairwell and glancing around.

  My unfamiliarity with the hospital hinders me. I search for the exits, but I don’t see any.

  “Sir?” a nurse says as she walks up to me. “Visiting hours are over.”

  “Have you seen a man wearing a large jacket?” I ask.

  “Lots of people are wearing jackets.”

  I give her a sideways glower. She returns my look with a sneer.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she says.

  Miles jogs down the hall toward me. When he gets close, I take him by the arm. The nurse ushers us to the front of the building. Miles gives me a questioning glance, and I shake my head. “I didn’t see him,” I mutter.

  “Neither did I,” Miles replies.

  “I told you Shelby might not live through his stay here.”

  “What’re we going to do about it?”

  I grit my teeth. I want to say call the police, but the fact that a questionable character was already here tells me that Shelby might be right. The police may be in on this operation. The police know where Shelby is. How did that goon? Was he told?

  “I can talk to Rhett,” Miles says, “and tell him about the incident.”

  I offer a dismissive wave of my hand as we step outside into the fluorescent lighting of the parking lot. “Sure. And I’ll tell Shelby to sleep with one eye open.”

  MILES PARKS our clunker in our driveway. The glow of the moon illuminates our otherwise dark neighborhood, and I step from the vehicle with a new appreciation for the surroundings. The dead grass, thin shrubs, and chain-link fences have an odd twilight charm when half-lit and half-buried in shadow. Then again, I’ve always preferred the night.

  “What did Shelby want to talk to you about?” Miles asks as he steps out of the car and shuts his door.

  “He wants me to continue his case.”

  “The one with the kidnappers?”

  “Yeah.”

  Miles waits as I walk around
the back of the car before he asks, in a low voice, “What did you say?”

  “I said I would.”

  He furrows his brow and crosses his arms over his chest. I stop once I’m next to him—I know he has something to say—and I shake out my bruised leg. The seconds drag. It’s cold out. I glare.

  “Out with it,” I demand.

  Miles stares at the concrete. “This is a dangerous case. I said I didn’t want you to go throwing yourself into gunfights all the time.”

  I don’t respond.

  “You couldn’t be bothered to ask me before you said yes?” he asks, returning his gaze to mine. He looks more hurt than angry. I can’t stand the guilt.

  “I told you I’m capable of taking care of myself,” I say, terse. I take one step toward the house, but Miles grabs my forearm and pulls me back. I whip around, tense and out of patience, half-cocked for a fight.

  “Pierce, listen.” He leans back against the side of the car. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I just want you to think about your own safety, ya know? You’ve been a little off since we moved in together. Since you came back to me after Jeremy.”

  “I told you I’m not gonna talk about it.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Then why bring it up?” I step up even closer to him and glare. “Do you have something else to say? Get it out of your system now, if you do. I don’t want to hear about it later.”

  “I do have something to say.”

  I’m a little taken aback by his confidence, but I let him speak his piece.

  Miles pushes off the car, and we stand inches apart, his conviction as visible as his foggy breath. “I’m going to help you.”

  “Help me?” I repeat, confused for half a moment. “No.”

  “I’m not asking. I made a decision.”

  “This isn’t a game. Those thugs are out for blood.”

  “I’m a grown-ass man,” Miles states, mimicking my own words. “I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

  I shake my head. “You have your classes.”

  “Only four hours a day. I think I can manage.”

  What a smartass. He has an answer like he’s been mulling over this whole thing in his head.

  “And,” he continues, “I think this is a noble cause. One worth the risk.”

  “I agreed to do it because Shelby will sign off on my experience if I do,” I say, clearing this up before it becomes an issue later. “I didn’t do it to help anyone.”

  “But helping people will be incidental.”

  “Sure.”

  “I know you thought about them. And even if you didn’t, I don’t see how this isn’t worth doing.”

  I want to shake Miles and force him to realize I’m not a good guy. I’m not like him. I’m sure, in his mind, I’m a grump with a heart of gold, doing this all for the poor victims of some heinous crime, but that’s not the reality. Why does he try to paint me in colors I just don’t have?

  Miles leans forward and kisses me. It surprises me for a moment, and I attempt to take a step back, but he reaches his hand up and grabs the back of my neck, keeping me close. His actions aren’t filled with urgency or need—his tongue slides along my lip in one slow, soft motion, and his other hand wraps around my waist.

  When he breaks away, he doesn’t go far, speaking to my cheek more than anything else. “You saved me once,” he murmurs. “I wouldn’t even have a life if it weren’t for you. I think it would be fitting if I paid it forward. I got your back, Pierce.”

  “Fine,” I whisper. It only makes sense that we’d do this together.

  Miles presses his mouth against mine again, nibbling on my lip and gripping my jacket to pull my whole body close. His affections cool me down, and I relax against him. It’s odd having someone care about my physical and emotional well-being at all times. I hate thinking I have to take him into consideration or else I’m hurting him—I never had to worry about that before, and the habit doesn’t come naturally.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter once Miles breaks for air.

  He chuckles. “Did you just apologize? That’s not like you.”

  I grit my teeth. “What do you want from me?” I snap. “I realized I made a mistake, okay? You’re the one fuckin’ apologizing all the time. I figured it would be what you want, and—”

  Miles cuts off my tirade with a quick kiss. I know my blood pressure rose a slight degree during my rant, but it goes back down the moment I realize I lost my shit for no damn good reason. Maybe Miles is right. Maybe I am a little off.

  “It’s cold,” Miles says. “Let’s go inside.”

  I nod.

  We step apart, and I already lament our separation. The entire walk into the house, all I can think about is how simultaneously glad I am that Miles will be with me for the investigation and bothered that he might get hurt doing so. It’s a confusing state to be in.

  The darkness of the living room makes it difficult to see, but Miles’s mannerisms identify him as much as his appearance. He rubs at his neck—an unconscious habit that betrays the fact he’s thinking over something. I throw myself down on the couch, never bothering to flip on the lights, and Miles follows suit.

  I go to say something, but Miles leans into me and resumes our kissing, silencing all my comments. Again, his actions are slow, and he pushes me against the armrest like he’s asking me to comply through nonverbal means. I’m not normally into this pussyfooting around before having sex, but for some reason I don’t mind it much right now, with Miles.

  I slide fully onto my back, and he throws a leg over, straddling me. He’s hot—temperature-wise, though he’s also easy on the eyes—and I enjoy the way he presses down against me, his heat spreading to my body like wildfire. Soon it turns to grinding, sending urgency through my system. I want him.

  Miles grabs my wrists and pins them above my head, leaning his weight on them like he means it. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, Pierce,” he says, his tone husky. He gets close and licks my ear before whispering, “There’s a lot I’d like to try. A lot I’d like to do to you.”

  Anyone with a half-functioning ear could hear the raw need in his voice. It’s enough to get me in the mood to hear him out. “What’s got you hot and bothered?”

  “What if I—”

  A door opens and closes.

  I forgot his damn siblings were here. I should pay more attention when Miles asks for favors. Looking after his siblings while his mother and her boy toy take a vacation is something I should’ve wholesale rejected.

  Miles sighs and then murmurs into my ear, “We should stop.”

  “Put a bullet through Jayden’s head and let’s keep going,” I reply.

  “Miles?”

  The feminine voice of Miles’s eleven-year-old sister echoes throughout the living room. He jumps off me and stands before the light floods our tiny living room. I roll off the couch, adjusting my pants before standing. I swear kids have a radar for activities they can ruin with their mere presence.

  “What’s up?” Miles asks, his voice faltering.

  Lacy shifts her attention to me and then back to Miles. “Mom said you weren’t supposed to do any of this in front of us.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m done with my homework.”

  “Tonight’s?”

  “All of it.”

  “The whole week’s worth?” Miles balks. “Is that all you’ve been doing the entire evening”

  “Jayden’s hogging the TV, and you weren’t here to do anything about it.”

  Miles gives me an apologetic glance before walking over to his sister. “Right. I’ll talk to Jayden.” He guides her out of the living room, through the tiny kitchen, and into the hallway that connects the two bedrooms and the sole bathroom.

  His mother somehow gets to dictate what I can and cannot do in my own home? What a load of bullshit.

  I go to walk around the coffee table—some cheap thing with sharp corners and a glass
center—and I slam my bruised shin against the edge. Instant rage and pain block my judgment. I kick the thing over and take a minor amount of satisfaction in the smash of glass that follows. Fucking coffee table shouldn’t have messed with me.

  “Pierce?”

  Miles jogs down the hall and stops when he sees the mess. Glass shards are scattered across the hardwood of the living room floor. Jayden and Lacy look on from the hall, confusion written all over their faces.

  “What’s wrong?” Miles asks.

  “I didn’t like our coffee table,” I intone.

  Maybe I’m stressed about this case. I’ll be better when it’s over.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE EARLY morning sunlight glares off the windshields of passing cars and assaults my eyes. Shelby’s office isn’t far, so I don’t suffer long, but every intense shine reminds me why I hate the daytime.

  Miles pulls the clunker into a parking spot and stops the engine. The vehicle coughs and hacks like a stage IV cancer patient. It won’t be long before it dies.

  Shelby’s office is a modern space situated on the second floor of a two-story building. It doesn’t have an interior wall, just floor-to-ceiling windows that look in on the office lobby. I unlock the glass door and enter with Miles close behind. The secretary isn’t in—and I doubt she’ll be in while Shelby is in the hospital—so I head straight back for Shelby’s personal office.

  I unlock his door and step into a cluttered mess of paperwork and food containers. The stale smell makes me think some of those containers still have food in them, but I’m not about to clean the place. Instead I walk over to his file cabinet and kneel down to the bottom drawer.

  “This is how your boss works?” Miles asks, glancing around. He runs a finger over a four-foot-tall stack of boxes. “Some of this stuff has dust on it.”

  “He’s a PI, not a maid. Who gives a shit if there’s dust?”

  “I dunno. Seems unorganized for this line of work.”

  Even the bottom drawer is locked. I flip through my key ring, examining each key Shelby gave me when I started working here, and realize I don’t have one for the drawer. Of course not. He said it was in his desk. I stand and walk over to the solid oak desk parked at the back of the room. The chair sags in the middle of the seat, no doubt from carrying Shelby’s substantial weight for more than a few years. I don’t sit on it. Instead I rummage through the desk in search of a key.