Page 2 of Blade’s Edge (L.A.S.T. Defense #1)

Present Day

Jasper

Cracking open my second beer of the afternoon, I sink into my recliner.On TV, the Austin Ropers take the field to a roar of applause. They’re in Denver this week, and snow flurries almost obscure the yard lines. It’s gonna be a messy game.

My right leg aches—the bone-deep pain that keeps me up almost every night—and I drape an ice pack over my thigh.

Fuckin’ A, that burns like a sombitch.

I should be used to it by now. Eight weeks bouncing between the hospital and rehab, multiple surgeries, months of physical therapy, and a lifetime of chronic pain to look forward to. The PT released me with a good luck handshake and a warning not to “overdo it.”

My retirement party—if you can call the commander handing me a gold watch and saying, “See you around, Jas,” a party—left me without a job or a reason to get up in the morning.

The monotony is gonna do me in—especially now, as the days march toward winter. At least in summer, the blessed relief of baseball kept me busy. I spent a chunk of change on season tickets to the Austin Stars where I could sit out in the sun and forget I’m damaged goods.

The explosion that ended my career left me with an artificial hip, three pins in my femur, a rotator cuff that’s seen better days, a handful of scars decorating my right cheek, and only partial sight out of that same eye.

The Ropers gain thirty yards, and another swig of beer goes down easy. Too easy. I should switch to water. But…why? It only took me ten days to dump the pain pills. Seen too many guys get addicted to that shit and lose everything. But the alcohol? That’s manageable. At least for now.

Deep down, I know I have a problem. I’m going dry in the new year.

The phone rings, rattling on the side table. I set the bottle down and swipe across the screen. “Yeah?”

“Is this the super?” the quiet male voice asks. Tim. He knows damn well who he’s talking to, but he starts every call the same way.

“Yep. What broke this time, Tim?”

“The heater. It’s making this terrible noise and it stinks. Like something died in here.”

I stifle my groan as I push to my feet, limp into the kitchen, and toss the ice pack in the freezer. “I’ll be up in five minutes. Turn it off, okay?”

“Yes, sir.” The kid hangs up before I can tell him not to call me “sir.”

When the building owner, Rick, found out I’d been forced to retire from the Rangers, he took pity on me and offered me this job.

Handle routine maintenance for the small, thirty-unit apartment complex, collect checks for him, and he knocks my rent down to five hundred a month.

Not a bad gig. Normally, a two-bedroom place like mine in downtown Austin would be four or five times that.

The building’s in decent condition, but it’s old, so something goes ass up at least three or four times a week.

Before I grab my toolbox, I make a pitstop in the bathroom for some mouthwash. Rick probably won’t care that I started drinking a little after 3:00 p.m. Tim either. But there’s no need to flaunt it.

Pride won’t let me take the elevator, so I climb two flights of stairs to the top floor and knock on the door of Unit 503.

The kid—hell, he’s got to be twenty-five, hardly a kid anymore—answers and hunches his shoulders. “Sorry for the bother, Mr. Blade.”

“This is my job. Unless you’ve been pouring concrete into the heating unit, we’re solid.” I try for a smile, but Tim doesn’t seem convinced because he darts out of my way like a scared jackrabbit.

He ain’t wrong about the stench. The whole apartment smells like the Louisiana Bayou in July, and it’s colder than all get out in here. “Just how long has this been goin’ on?”

“Um, three days?”

“Fuckin’ A. Next time don’t wait so damn long.

You’re lucky you’re healthy. If your mama had been visitin’, she could have come down with pneumonia.

Plus, smells to me like the whole unit’s toxic.

” When I crouch down in front of the main vent, a gust of moldy air hits me square in the face, and I can’t stifle my grunt.

The beer isn’t doing me any favors. I land on my ass with a string of obscenities rarely heard from anyone but construction workers and long-haul truckers.

“Mr. Blade! You okay?” Tim approaches cautiously, but I wave him back.

“Fine,” I grit out. “But this whole unit’s FUBAR. We might have a couple extras in the basement. Got any old towels lying around?”

He nods, his blond hair so long, it brushes his shoulders with the motion, and by the time he returns with an armful, I’ve managed to loosen the brackets holding the unit in place.

Tim spreads towels over the floor, catching the brackish water dripping from the heater. Fuck. I have to call Rick. This apartment ain’t safe until we get a mold inspection done.

I wipe my hands on my jeans. Big mistake. They’re toxic now too.

“Listen, Tim. I’m gonna take care of this, but do you have anywhere you can go for a couple of nights?”

“Go?” He gapes at me for a full thirty seconds before snapping his jaw shut. The shell-shocked glaze to his eyes fades, and he shakes his head. “Uh…most of my friends are back in Dallas. But…”

Shit. The poor kid’s starting to spiral. I barely remember being that naive. That unwilling to believe the world is as fucked up as it really is. Defeat has him taking a step back with a heavy sigh.

“We need to get a mold specialist in here in case whatever up and died in this piece of shit has spread. Stay in a hotel for a couple of nights. The owner will comp your rent while the apartment’s being inspected and we make sure it’s still safe.

It’ll be enough for one of those extended stay places with a little kitchen, at least. Pack a bag and get the heck out of here.

I’ll call you when I know how long we’ll need. ”

Thankfully, the kid doesn’t argue. Just heads for his bedroom, and I hear the distinct sound of a suitcase being unzipped.

Rick runs a good complex, despite the age of the building.

Clean, solid, up to code. He doesn’t skimp on his residents’ safety.

But damn. If Tim hadn’t called when he did. ..this could have been a lot worse.

Two hours later, Tim’s got a hotel room a couple of miles away, and the apartment windows are wide open while the mold inspector does his thing.

“You’re lucky. The only bad spots are around the window. You’ll get by with a Level II cleaning. Takes about four hours.” He taps his phone screen a couple times. “I can fit you in tomorrow at noon. That work?”

“Yep. I’m in Unit 301. Stop there first and I’ll let you in.”

It takes me another few hours to make sure we have a replacement heating unit ready to go, file my incident report, and finish the paperwork Rick needs to reimburse Tim for his hotel room. By 10:00 p.m., all I want is the rest of that beer and my bed.

But the Shiner is warm and flat. The pain has gone from a dull ache to electro-shock therapy.

I give up on any hope of sleep. Settling back into my recliner with a fresh, cold bottle, I take a swig.

If I’m lucky, unmitigated exhaustion will eventually carry me away. If not…it’s gonna be a long assnight.

Emi

I pace, willing the phone to ring with every fiber of my being. The carpet is still damp from cleaning, boxes are piled on the credenza and the only thing on my desk besides my laptop is the photo of me and my grandmother from my college graduation.

It’s only been two days since I moved my things from a cubicle in the station’s noisy bullpen.

I taped a piece of paper over Danny Riscaldo’s nameplate this morning.

Calling Miss Up-And-Coming Austin “a pretty little thing” on air—to her face—was the final straw for the station.

They fired him last week. Half the women working here had a party the day he left.

This wasn’t the way I wanted the cushy corner office with its big windows and room for a couch, but I sure as hell ain’t gonna turn it down.

Three brisk raps on the door stop me in my tracks. Nelson, my news director, pokes his head in a second later. “Got a minute?”

Sweeping a lock of hair behind my ear, I frown and sink down into my chair.

“Not much more than one or two. I have the Eugene Fowler interview on Monday. He’s the owner of Consolidated Investment Group.

They’ve built huge hotel and convention complexes all over the place in the past ten years.

Chicago, Detroit, Atlanta, Dallas, and now, Austin. The Empress Hotel.”

“So, he’s a developer. He probably goes where the money is.

Austin’s growing. Big time. What’s the story here?

” Nelson asks. “Please tell me you’re not doing a softball piece on the Empress.

It’s a waste of your time and talent, Emi.

This office—the prime spot at six o’clock—viewers trust you to bring them the big news. ”

I shoot Nelson a sideways glance. “Do you think I’d lock myself in any office—even this one—for a week straight working on something that wasn’t hard-hitting news?

Fowler and CIG are dirty, Nelson. My sources are close to giving me evidence of bribes—lots of them—Fowler’s paid.

More than two million over the past ten years.

He takes run-down properties with high value to the community, has them condemned, and buys them for pennies on the dollar.

But there’s more. His mega-hotel in Chicago has been rumored to be a meeting place for the Rossi Crime Family. ”

Nelson whistles and shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Shit, Emi. You’d better have evidence to back that up.

If you even mention the mob, you’re asking for trouble—and a visit from the FBI.

Plus, Fowler will come after you—the whole station—with lawsuits faster than a jackrabbit on a caffeine bender. ”

My heart rate ticks up. I think my mouth even waters a little. That’s exactly what I hope will happen. FBI involvement will practically guarantee the story goes national. “I’ve been doing this job a long time, Nelson, and I’m damn good at it. I know how to dot my i’s and cross my t’s .”

He tosses his hands up in mock surrender. “I know that. But I wouldn’t be doin’ my job if I didn’t ask. This is big. So much bigger than the drive-by shootings outside the Shop-N-Go you covered last month. How many nights do you think this’ll run?”

“Three. At least. Maybe more. I sent you the rundown an hour ago. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights are a given. Thursday hinges on what happens after the interview.”

Visions of a two-week series float through my head. All the big networks clamoring for an exclusive.

“Emi?” Nelson waves his hand in front of my face. “Did you hear me?”

“God, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. What’d I miss?” Sending him my best “forgive me” smile, I dig my fingers into my thigh under the desk to pull a fraction of my focus back to our conversation.

“I’ll give you the three nights. After you run down your evidence with me. Does 4:00 p.m. work?”

I don’t have much choice but to agree. Nelson’s a good guy.

A little too cautious, but then again, he’s the one the execs will come down on first if Channel 5 gets sued.

Still, once in a while, he tries to flex his “I’m the boss” muscles a little too much for my tastes.

I’m almost ten years older than he is, and I’ve been working in TV news since he was knee-high to a grasshopper.

“So, what else did you need?” I ask. “You didn’t come in here for my rundown.

If I only have another two hours to get my presentation together before the pitch meeting, I gotta get going on it.

” I run a hand through my long brown hair, fingers tangling in the strands halfway down.

Too many hours at my desk twirling a lock around my thumb over and over again.

Nelson shakes his head slightly, a sure sign I’m not going to like this. “Noelle Johnson came down with the flu. She’s supposed to be covering the Rangers’ Boots and Bling Charity Ball tomorrow night.”

“No.” Before he can protest, I narrow my eyes at him and double down. “Absolutely not, Nelson. I haven’t taken on a lifestyle piece in ten years. Get Christy to handle it.”

“Christy is handling it. But it’s her first time on a gig like this alone.

There’s gonna be some important people there, and I need someone to back her up so she doesn’t get in over her head.

You’re always saying your mentor taught you everything you know.

Return the favor. Help Christy through this. ”

“I don’t have time?—”

“It’s three hours out of your Saturday night. You’re the only other reporter with any lifestyle experience not currently scheduled to go on air Saturday. Please? You gotta eat anyway, and this is a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner. Go and make sure Christy asks the right questions.”

Nelson slips back out the door before I can refuse, calling over his shoulder, “I sent the details to your inbox. You’re the best, Emi! I owe you one!”

Yes, he does. And if I have to cash in that chit to get the Fowler story on the air, I’ll do it.