Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Show us your hands!” the two patrol officers yelled.
The two men stopped but didn’t put their hands up like Bodhi and I did. Instead, both turned to us, the one on the left reaching toward his back.
“Don’t do it, man,” Bodhi warned him. “Whatever that was, it isn’t worth getting shot over.”
With both men facing us, the cops rushed over and put them on the ground, slapping on cuffs. The two men looked up at us—ballsy, but it made sense that they were more concerned with me and Bodhi than the uniformed CPD officers.
“Who’re you guys?” the older of the two officers asked us.
I turned sideways so he could see the star on my belt. “Deputy US Marshal Josiah Redeker, and this is my partner, Deputy US Marshal Bodhi Callahan.”
“Thanks,” Officer Jardin—I could see his nameplate—said. “You guys got whoever these goons were beatin’ up?”
“Yeah, we got it,” I told them.
“We need you to meet us at the First.”
He meant the First District, which was over on South State Street, about two blocks over.
“Will do,” I assured him. “We’re right behind you, or we’ll see you at the hospital depending on how bad the beating was.”
“Roger that.”
Bodhi and I ran back to Terrence Lavon Washington, who was supposed to be serving six months for embezzling funds from the pet store where he used to work. He had provided testimony that helped put his boss, Jonathan Reaser, in prison for importing and exporting endangered animals for people to hunt and eat. I was glad he was in jail for the foreseeable future. Sadly, it was the wire fraud that did it—not him being a disgusting human being who imported tiger cubs for people to kill and stuff—but whatever worked. Washington, who had embezzled money from the sales to pay off his massive gambling debts, had my sympathy. Once his boss moved to Boca, he’d made sure that the business only sold to private collectors who kept the animals on their estates, no eating or hunting involved, and he sent half the money to the World Wildlife Fund. All that—half the money going to charity, making sure none of the animals were being hurt, and helping put his boss in jail, which had entailed him wearing a wire—helped whittle down a three-year embezzlement charge to six months. He’d run away three times, which had gotten us involved, but each time, each set of marshals, including Bodhi and I, had argued that it was a misunderstanding. The last time, he’d been successfully incarcerated, so I was dying to hear how he was out.
He was limping down the alley, toward the street, holding his left arm, when we caught up with him. As soon as I put my hand on his right arm to stop him, he screamed.
“Stop that,” I growled at him.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, smiling, though his lip was split. “Hello there, DUSM Redeker. How are you today?”
I stood there, arms crossed, staring at him. I hated the DUSM acronym. Even though deputy US marshal was long, the shorter version sounded somehow like I worked at the DMV. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than working there, answering dumbass questions all day long.
“This isn’t my fault,” he insisted.
“We need to get you to the hospital,” Bodhi grumbled, taking his good arm, the right one, to lead him to our car. “And if you’re gonna be an asshole and try and run, I’m gonna cuff you. Do I need to do that?”
“No, sir, DUSM Callahan.”
I groaned, and he made the limping worse on purpose as he walked alongside Bodhi. Already I could see my day getting longer and longer.
Pazzi and Yamane met us at the hospital, both ready to write up a report on the situation.
“No,” Bodhi snapped at them, sitting on a rolling stool beside Washington’s bed. We were still in the ER, waiting for our prisoner to be seen. At least we weren’t out in the chairs anymore, a small step in the right direction. “We’ll write it up, but, Pazzi, did you even check to see if your partner could hear you?”
“I don’t—what do you mean?”
“My earpiece is dead.” I passed it to him. “I need you to take it back to the office, turn it in to Tactical Operations, and—”
“No,” Bodhi corrected me. “It goes to the Training Division now.”
“The hell you say.”
“Listen, it used to go to Tactical, but now they only do files, safes, and containers.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”
His shrug told me he didn’t give a crap.
“No way that’s right.”
“Who reads the memos that come through?” he asked snidely.
Shit. He had me there.
“Training is in charge of everything you carry, from your gun and ammunition to all the communication devices.”
“That makes zero sense.”
“Why’re you breaking my balls?”
“It should be Tactical.”
“I’m not arguing, but it’s Training now, not Tactical.”