Bad Boy's Last Race (11 page)

I’ll tear him apart. I have to. He’ll loathe the day he thought he could fuck with Sophie and me.

Sophie untangles her fingers from the collar of my shirt and leans away. “I’m really sorry, Jagger. I didn’t mean to bring this all down on you. I—I thought I was safe, but he—”

“It’s too late for sorry,” I tell her. Not to be harsh, but because it’s the truth. Tyler’s already got my trail now, and nothing can undo that. All I can do is move forward and try to stop whatever he’s going to try next.

She works her jaw. “You shouldn’t be here. He—he knows where I live. The more he sees us together . . . the worse it’ll be.”

“What the fuck?” I say. “Why don’t you get a fucking restraining order? Lock him up so he’ll stop stalking you?”

“He’ll weasel out of it. Use his law enforcement connections to make it all go away.” She sighs, looking resigned. “He always does.”

Man, fuck this. I want to find his smug little ass and beat it to a pulp. But if he’s here in Ridgecrest, nosing around in Sophie’s life—

I stand up straight. The Muscleworks garage. “I need to go.” I reach out and squeeze her arm, quick, but I don’t have time for more. I want to be there for her. But first, I have to make sure . . .

“Be careful,” Sophie says. “I’m sorry, Jagger.”

But I’m already sprinting out the door.

* * *

A
s soon as
I round the corner toward Drazic Muscleworks, I see the swarm of vans. Unmarked, but their purpose is abundantly clear. I can tell that from all the jacketed junior officers hauling boxes of paperwork, tools, and spare auto parts out of the garage and loading them into the vans. Guys with walkie talkies gesture wildly, directing the traffic, while others snap evidence photographs or jot down inventory.

Fuck.
I park at the far end of the lot and bash my forehead against the steering wheel. And it’s all my goddamned fault. I led that dickweasel straight to the shop.

I climb out of the Firebird. I made this mess—albeit with Sophie’s help—and I’ve got to clean it up. Drazic and Elena huddle in one corner, under guard by some douchebag with a cheap sidearm. Elena’s sobbing, her face bright red and streaked with tears, while Drazic stands stoically watching over the raid. The veins in his clenched forearms throb with rage.

And then there’s the fucking man of the hour. Agent Tyler Brennan. He’s standing in the middle of the lot, looking into the garage, hands planted on his hips and his legs spread wide. Like his dick’s too fucking big to keeps his goddamned legs closed. Asshole. He turns toward me and spits a wad of chewing tobacco to the side before sidling up to me.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the wannabe mastermind.” He nods. “Told you we weren’t done yet, boy.”

T
he DEA team
starts by yanking every last box of scraps, oil-stained rags, carburetors, mufflers, brake pads, old tax receipts, unpaid bills, and more out of the shop. They’re sorting through every last bit of it and photographing it, like somehow my old chewing gum wrappers and Elena’s sketches for new build ideas are going to somehow reveal some criminal conspiracy. I’m ninety-nine percent sure there isn’t shit for them to find, but it’s that last bit of uncertainty that’s gnawing at me while I watch. Like that feeling you left the oven on, but a billion times stronger. Did I really ship out those heisted parts? Am I sure one didn’t get mixed in with the legit, certified stuff?

Then there’s Drazic, who looks about ready to leap out of his skin. He’s got a contingent of armed guards around him now because he keeps getting agitated and swearing at Tyler. “I paid for everything in that shop with my blood, sweat, and tears,” he snarls, even as Elena and I try to hold him back. “You can’t fucking take it from me. Elena, find me a fucking lawyer.”

“Lawyer? You think you can afford someone who didn’t come off the back of a phone book?” Tyler snorts. “Go on, be my guest. But if you flip your shit one more time, old man, I’m gonna have to ship you down to central booking.”

“Under what charge?” Drazic says.

“Obstructing justice.” Tyler puffs out his cheeks with a tobacco wad. “And make no mistake, that’s what’s happening here today. Justice is being served.”

I try to fight the urge to roll my eyes. All he’s doing is jacking off to his inflated ego for everyone to see.

Drazic growls and props himself against the brick wall of the nearby warehouse, then shoots me a deathly glare. Like this is all on me. Well, in a way, it is, but I really don’t need him fucking rubbing it in right now.

Tyler pops open one of the cartons waiting to be photographed and pokes around, then starts clucking his tongue. “My, my. This is some high-end shit right here. German engines, Japanese spark plugs? You boys sure you can afford this?” He looks me over. “You can’t even afford an overshirt, after all.”

Fuck him. I happen to like wearing undershirts.

“I sure hope you have the receipts for all this shit. Proof of purchase. It would be awfully awkward if it turns out to be stolen, huh?”

I step forward, though one of Tyler’s flunkies tries to wrestle me back. “I’ll fucking show you the receipts, you piece of shit.”

Tyler laughs, cold and shallow. “Ahh, there’s that temper. I knew it was in there somewhere.” He spits a wad of chewing tobacco right at my feet. “All you trailer trash boys are the same, no matter how hard you try to pretend.”

I suck down a breath and force my fists to unclench. Getting pissed off will only make this worse. Let Tyler be the one to lose his temper. The flunkies release me, and I smooth my hands on my shirt. “The receipts for that particular box,” I say through gritted teeth, “are in the cardboard box marked ‘Inventory – Imports.’ Pretty sure it’s in that van right there.” I motion toward the third van, quickly filling up with our life’s work.”

Tyler rubs his jaw and looks at the van. “Uh-huh.”

He goes on like this for another hour, giving us shit for everything from our circuit trophies (“Hah—as if you’re anything more special than a piece of dog shit on my shoe”) to the car pinups in the garage. Then it’s time for questioning.

Of course, I get assigned to Tyler for that.

He leads me through the garage into Drazic’s office. I barely recognize the space without the reams of banker’s boxes stacked everywhere. I did notice, at least, that the door that led up to my apartment was still locked. Best not to draw attention to that, though I have no doubt Tyler will find it eventually.

Tyler shoves me down into the desk chair, then hoists himself onto the top of the desk, legs spread obnoxiously wide once more. “Aren’t going to make me cuff you, are you?” he asks, a dangerous grin on his face. “Because I sure can.”

I curl my upper lip at him. “No need, officer. I’m perfectly fucking behaved.”

“You sure about that?” Tyler rolls his sleeves up, then pulls a pouch of chewing tobacco from his plaid shirt’s breast pocket. He makes a big show of pinching off a bit and stuffing it into his cheek. “No cameras here, either. I’m the director of this particular movie. It’s all up to me how this plays out.”

I’d believed Sophie before, when she’d said he was the god of his little domain. But now, sitting across from him, I truly feel it. He could tell any fucking story he wanted to tell when he walked out of those office doors, and nothing I could say to the contrary would change it. He was trusted. I wasn’t. And without proof, I would never, ever be able to stop him.

“Actually,” I say, “I think you’d better take me down to booking.”

I smile sweetly as I can. It’s not that I want to go to jail, especially without a single fucking charge. I just want a camera on me. I want some evidence to back me up.

Tyler’s smile falters and he narrows his eyes at me. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“No? You don’t want recorded footage to back up your claims against me?” I ask. “Golly gee, it only sounds like that would be helpful to you.”

“I don’t need proof to back me up—”

A knock on the office door interrupts me.

Tyler holds my gaze for a minute longer, sneering, then slides off the desk to answer. It’s one of his junior agents, fresh-faced and suited, clutching a notepad like it’s his lord and savior. Tyler swears under his breath and looks him over. “What is it, Rashid?”

Rashid glances toward me, nervous, then looks back to Tyler. “I—I was following agency protocol.” Rashid scratches his chin with his pencil’s eraser. “Two agents and voice recorder per interview?”

Tyler angles his body to try to block me from seeing and hearing their conversation, with makes me grin. “This is my operation, and we run it how I say—”

“I—I’m sorry, sir. I’m not trying to contradict you.” Rashid’s voice warbles. “I just—it’s what the chief told me, he said especially in your raids, that we had to take extra care, after what happened with—”

“Enough!” Tyler backs up and motions Rashid into the office. “Yeah, you got me there. I was testing you.” He makes a finger gun at Rashid. “Come on in. We were just getting started with Jagger here.”

“Jagger.” Rashid suppresses a grin. Like my name’s so goddamned funny to him. But I can’t be too pissed at Rashid. He probably just saved my ass from a false confession. And if I read his conversation with Tyler right, it wouldn’t be Tyler’s first. Yeah, I’ll take any number of snide remarks from Rashid if he keeps me safe from Tyler’s meddling.

Rashid sits in the far corner of the office, turning on a voice recorder, while Tyler resumes his spot in front of me at the desk. “Now that that’s handled . . .” Tyler chews his tobacco for a minute, watching me. “How about you tell me how long you’ve been involved in the illegal drug trade.”

My jaw inches open as I stare at him. The nerve. The fucking nerve. I return his glare and force my hands into my lap so I don’t reach out and choke his smug face. “Never.”

“Uh-huh.” Tyler chews a bit longer, his smile growing the longer he watches me.

I tilt my head toward Rashid. “You gonna write that down? I’ve never been involved in the use, sale or distribution of illegal drugs. Is that fucking clear enough for you?”

“We’ll write it down when you start telling us the truth,” Tyler replies. Rashid hesitates, but then nods in solidarity.

I snort. “I’m not lying. And you know it. That’s what this is about, you think we’re involved in the drug trade? You’re fucking delusional. This is an auto body shop. We build suped-up cars for rich folks to show off and park in their Malibu garages.”

“Oh, believe me, I know exactly how it works.” Tyler twirls a pen in his fingers. “You grew up out here in the middle of the fucking desert and mountains, where there’s fuck all to do. How else are you supposed to keep yourself entertained while your mama’s off blowing her landlord to pay the rent? Probably started with some weed, maybe from the older boys in your trailer park. Then you move on to meth, because who gives a fuck about their teeth out here. Next thing you know, the drugs are the only bright spot in your entire miserable life.”

“You’re not even close,” I say, but he keeps running his goddamned mouth.

“You get to know your dealer. Think he’s your buddy. But he ain’t. You’re in his debt, and in a real bad way. So you start working for him, trying to dig yourself out of the hole. You get a little older and wiser, and you get to know the business. Make connections with the distributors. Become a dealer yourself. And your star is on the rise.”

I shake my head. He’s got it all wrong about me. But Rashid is watching us intently, clutching that fucking voice recorder that’s my only saving grace right now.

“You find other people like you—awful pieces of shit who have just enough ambition to get their asses into all kinds of trouble. And they run with other pieces of shit, too. Motorcycle clubs, car crews—all that hobbyist bullshit. It provides the perfect fucking cover for what’s really going on. A wide distribution network and too much money than your worthless asses can manage.

“And that’s how I find your ass. That’s where I’ll catch you. Either with your hands in the cocaine cookie jar, or with your sloppy excuse for money laundering. Don’t worry.” Tyler bares his teeth at me. “It’ll only be a matter of time.”

“That makes for a really great story,” I tell him. “Too bad there isn’t a lick of truth in it.”

“Oh, I think you’ll be surprised just how true it really is.” He glances back toward Rashid. “Don’t you think? These white trash hot shots think they know everything. But we always figure them out.”

Rashid offers me a nervous nod, trying to look tough. But he looks just as scared as I feel.

“Sorry.” I shake my head. “You think you know us ‘white trash.’ But you’ve got it all wrong.” I spread my hands at my sides. “I’m clean. The shop’s clean. Every one of us—totally clean.”

Tyler slaps both his hands on the desk and lunges toward me. I jump back into my chair, startled. Fuck. He starts laughing. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting under my skin. Don’t want him to know I’m rattled. But I suppose it’s too late for that.

“Don’t worry,” Tyler says. “We’ll find it soon enough. I know we will.” He hops off the desk. “We just have to keep digging.”

One way or another, I suspect he’s telling the truth.

* * *

O
nce the agents
finally pack up and haul off with four vans’ worth of property from Drazic Muscleworks, it’s almost midnight. I’m exhausted, angry, and completely unspooled. Nash, Cyrus, and Lennox are the last to get out of questioning, and Lennox in particular looks shaken by whatever sort of wringer the agents put him through. But I know we’ve all got our story straight, because there’s no story
not
to get straight.

We don’t deal. Don’t distribute. Tyler’s got nothing on us, and if he doesn’t believe it now, he will soon enough.

My only fear is what he
will
uncover, and whether he’s clever enough to know it when he sees it. I’m hoping not, but I know how much rent money a fistful of hope will pay.

“Drazic crew. Over here.”

Drazic summons us to the garage. It looks so lifeless with all the milk crates of supplies and shelves full of oil and spare parts gone. We sit on overturned benches, emptied-out storage cabinets, and any other surface the agents didn’t haul off. Elena, still red-faced, curls up in Lennox’s arms and watches us through a sheet of her dark hair.

“Needless to say, we’re under a bit of a spotlight right now.” Drazic surveys us—his troops. He knows we’d do anything for him, but none of us were quite ready to deal with
that
. “Doesn’t matter how or why. What we need to worry about is what we’ll do next.”

I grimace and stare at my sneakers. It does matter. And more and more, I’m sure it’s all my fault.

“I need everyone to keep their noses clean, all right? Keep under your fucking fingernails clean. I don’t want there to be even the
remotest
chance that these fucking feds can find a single hair out of place.”

Nash groans. “Oh, come on, D. They aren’t gonna find anything. We know the shop’s clean. But we can’t survive if we don’t keep business running.” He tilts his head toward me. “Jagger’s got the Invitational coming up, and we can’t pay our bills unless we pull another take—”

Drazic cuts him off with a severe look, then Cyrus shoves him, hard. “Shut up, man,” Cyrus says. “We can’t be takin’
anything
. And you can’t talk like that. We’re damn lucky they didn’t bug the place on their way out. I was watching for it.”

“They could bug us?” Elena cries.

“Damned right they could. Or get wiretap warrants for our phones. So watch what the hell you say, what you think—everything.” Cyrus scowls.

“How the hell did this happen?” Nash asks. “It doesn’t make any fucking sense. The DEA? What the hell’s going on, D?”

A cold sweat wreathes my forehead, but Drazic just narrows his eyes without looking at any one of us in particular. “We’ll discuss the specifics later. Just—be careful. Every one of you is at risk. And every last one of you could fuck this up for us all.”