Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I almost got whiplash from how fast the young Hitler moved.
“Oh.” I nodded. Now, we were getting somewhere. Instagram. I read the username, “Santa Barbara’s Community News.” There was a fire at that residence last night. “Click onto the news article.”
The CI was already pressing a button.
“Not the comments. That’s just gossip. Tell me who died!”
The guy lifted his brows. “Isn’t this something you can look into at the precinct?”
“No.” I gritted the lie. “Now, get the job done!”
Less than a minute later, I lowered my head while passing through the garage. Sparks flew in my direction from the door of a Dodge Ram being dismantled as I strolled out into the sunlight. I was a few blocks from the beach. But not my own backyard. Huntington Beach was the Skinhead capital of Orange County. I had no jurisdiction here.
I got into my Ford Explorer, aiming to put space between these Nazis and me. And I wanted to place an even longer crater between myself and any interaction I had going to find Jamie. So far, neither Leith nor his parents had called.
How long would Clan MacKenzie expect me to be in … was it Paris? No. Venice Beach … Venice, Italy. Oh, yeah. I was getting too old for the banana-in-the-tailpipe game.
Under no circumstances would I plug my credentials into the LAPD database while searching for Jamie. That was why I’d gone to Ledbetter. Someone else might toss their cookies thinking of that age and trafficking in the same equation, but not me. And not Ledbetter.
While we’d seen it all, I’d taken it a step further by erring on the side of whatever would get me closer to the position I was interested in.
At this time in my life, I’d like to retire with three stars on my uniform, indicative of Assistant Chief of Police. Hell, before Leith’s cryptic call, I craved four stars—Nolan McGregor, Los Angeles Chief of Police, had a nice ring. But I’d settle for just the three stars. Gotta make sure Jamie dies—
A call came through just as I navigated the 605 Freeway.
The skinhead?
Paranoia rose up in my throat. Teeth gritted, I answered. “Who is this?” Of course, I knew who. Grrr! The Nazi could’ve recorded this conversation.
“I found plates on your friend.”
I almost blurted out that the man had the wrong number. Nae. I’d handle the situation later.
“How?”
“A facial-recognition tool that scrubs satellites.”
“You know—you know his current whereabouts?”
“Yep. South Los Angeles.”
While the Nazi spat a derogatory about Mexicans, I winced. South Los Angeles placed Jamie MacKenzie closer to his parents. Was the prodigal son coming home? “Make and model?”
“Jeep Gladiator.”
Hmm? The nugget had a real man’s car. I didn’t have time to process this, not on a call I’d rather not be having. “Gimme that license plate.”
Once the call disconnected, I glanced in the rearview mirror and grinned. An idea formed based on what I’d just witnessed at the chop shop. I punched the button on my smartphone. This is too easy. Often, cops transposed the numbers on a license plate. If I caught heat for this call, I’d blame my mistake on old age.
The second the internal dispatch answered, I said, “This is Deputy Chief McGregor. Requesting assistance on a 503. The assailant held the Jeep Gladiator’s owner at gunpoint.” I provided the thief’s likeness—Jamie’s physical features—and the address of a gas station in East Los Angeles that was central to the area.
“Copy that,” the dispatcher replied. “I’ve routed officers. They’ll proceed with caution.”
Which meant they’d also take extreme measures to neutralize all threats if necessary. Some cops got a bad rap. The truth of the matter was everyone wanted to take off the badge and live another day. Speaking of which, I dialed the number for a cop on the beat in the area.
Too bad for Jamie, one of the boys in blue would put him down.
Officer Walsh, to be specific.
17
LOS ANGELES
Jamie
I rubbed my groggy eyes with my forearm, lowered my face to the straw, and took a pull of Sprite and lemonade. With bacon, eggs, and cheese burritos cuddled beautifully in the cardboard boxes in my arms, I strolled down the street. Palm trees swayed from the Santa Ana winds half a block away from where I parked. While I stood in the line that was nearly around the corner for El Chuy—the best Mexican food Los Angeles had to offer—I’d kept a vigil to ensure Jordyn hadn’t awoken yet.
I figured Aleksandr wouldn’t find us here. Looking down at Rebel at my side, I noticed her stiff gait. A bandage wrapped around her abdomen from where an overnight veterinarian had done surgery, without question after seeing the money I’d handed over to save my girl. The bullet had missed all of her vital organs, but you couldn’t keep a good dog down. Not after she smelled El Chuy from three blocks away. “You’re supposed to be doing minimal walking, girl.”