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Chapter Two

Fitz

It was a fucking hundred and ten degrees outside, and I was sitting in a pickup truck with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning off. I’d been around the world, and I’d never experienced the feeling of my guts baking like a goddamn Thanksgiving turkey. What had I been thinking when I agreed to this quasi-torture?

“There’s no humidity, so it’s not as bad as summer on the East Coast.” Monty had a smirk on his handsome face. It was good to learn he had a sense of humor. Sparky, his husband and business partner, was still unknown to me, and I’d been there for two weeks.

“You’ve never been to West Texas in the summer, have you? Heat and humidity are killer, but right now, I feel like I’m in a goddamn oven with all your dry heat.”

Ryan “Monty” Montgomery, one of my bosses and babysitters, laughed loudly. “Yeah, I hear ya.”

“Who are we looking for, anyway?” I reached for a large water bottle I’d received on my first day. It had the Sparks Bail Bonds logo on it. At the time I thought it was too big to haul around, but now I was grateful to have it.

We were sitting at the entrance to a cul-de-sac where six small houses were located, three on one side, three on the other. Nobody could come or go without us seeing them.

Monty stared at me. “Did you not read the file?”

The paperwork was on the console between us. I’d read it, but there were a lot of acronyms I didn’t understand, and I was too embarrassed to ask. I’d been in the military, the US Marshals Service, and for a short time, I’d worked as private security. I’d never seen anything like what was on those papers.

“I looked at it, but I didn’t understand a lot of what was in the papers. It’s not military code or ten codes used in law enforcement.”

Monty chuckled. “Yeah—Sparky wasn’t in the military. Show me what you don’t understand. It’s a homegrown code, and I guess I should get one of the guys to make a reference list.”

I pointed to the sheet he’d put in front of me. “For starters, why are we sitting outside this shitty little cul-de-sac in metal-melting heat?” I’d taken the bail recovery agent training and the test, though I was still waiting for my credentials.

I was already familiar with the laws regarding the capture of bail jumpers from when I’d worked with recovery agents as a Deputy US Marshal. How the Sparks’ recovery agents ran their operation was what I was learning, and I was guessing Monty had drawn the short straw to be the one to show me the ropes.

Monty flipped open the file, and I pointed to the first line of the description. “What’s this?”

“LKR means last known residence. The guy we’re following is named Russell Wycoff. He gave the address to that little bungalow on his bail application.” He pointed to the second house on the left side of the street.

Ryan Montgomery was a good-looking man. A damn good-looking man who was married to my other boss. I didn’t let my eyes linger on those big muscles or that roguish grin. I wasn’t trying to get my ass handed to me by Sparky.

“What did this asshole do? Why are we watching that house?” I needed more details so I could make sense of why we were here.

“DUI. Ped. H&R. 2XAR. LTS.” Seriously? What the fuck was all of that?

I cocked an eyebrow at Monty, and he laughed. “Yeah, I get it. It’s confusing as hell. So, the guy was driving under the influence and hit a pedestrian. It was his second time with an alcohol-related offense, and he left the scene of the accident. We put up his bond—I have no earthly idea why—and he’s got a court hearing in the morning. We’re here to make sure he doesn’t skip town.”

I stared at Monty as I sweated out every ounce of water I’d drank that day. “Do they do that a lot?”

He smirked. “He’s looking at a lot of jail time, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries. When they think there’s a chance to get out of town without getting caught, most of them will make a break for it. We’re here to be sure he doesn’t.”

Before I could think about Monty’s comment or formulate a response, his phone rang. Monty picked it up from the console and smiled. “Yeah, Jesse?”

I couldn’t hear what the man was saying, but Monty’s smile didn’t fade. “Babe, I’m in North Las Vegas watching Russell Wycoff’s place. I’m with Fitz, and we’ll be here until Keats and Digs relieve us. Is Hardy home?”

Monty chuckled. “Okay. We’ll be back soon. Love you.” He ended the call, and I was in awe. It was normal for them—calling your significant other to see how their day was going. Monty looked genuinely happy to hear from Sparky. No embarrassment at all.

Where did someone find a guy like that, because my luck was for shit. I just had to know one thing. “Can I ask you a question?”

Monty turned in my direction with a grin. “Sure.”

“How the hell did you know Sparky was the one ?”

Monty took a deep breath before he answered me. “I was in love with that man for years, but I didn’t think he knew it. When we finally figured our shit out, we just got married and started our life. It’s strange that it took so long for it to happen.”

Damn! It sounded so easy, but I knew that wasn’t always the case. I had experience with how easy it wasn’t . “Good for you.” I was sure my face was green with jealousy.

Suddenly, we were jolted by a car banging into the back of Monty’s truck. I turned to look out the rear window as Monty looked in the rearview. We both saw the driver-side airbag deployed in the small Ford sedan now kissing Monty’s bumper.

Monty hopped out and walked back to the driver’s side before he rushed back to the truck. “Come help me get her out of the car. She’s old, and I think the airbag knocked her out.”

I scrambled out of the truck and followed Monty back to the car. The window was down, not surprisingly, so I popped the lock and climbed into the passenger’s seat to stabilize her neck.

“Call 9-1-1.” Monty retrieved his phone from the clip on his belt and quickly called for an ambulance.

A car screeched out of the cul-de-sac and honked, likely in complaint because the driver couldn’t see around the two vehicles to know if there was traffic coming. Monty glanced their way. “Motherfucking son of a bitch.”

The woman whose head I was holding opened her eyes and smiled. “You’re handsome. I’m Gilda. What’s your name?”

Monty was stomping toward his truck before he banged on the back door as he continued his tirade. He whipped his phone out and called someone.

Meanwhile, I still had my hands on the old lady’s neck. “Excuse me. Can you unhand me?” She stared as if I was offending her.

“Ma’am, you’ve had an accident. The airbag deployed, and you could have a neck injury. I’m immobilizing your neck until the ambulance arrives.”

The old woman jerked away from me. “Unless you plan to ask me for a date, I’d say get your hands off me. I’m fine, young man. You’re trespassing.”

Trespassing? Obviously, she’d hit her head.

“Ma’am, what’s your name?” I was staring into her eyes, surprised they weren’t blown from the head wound I was sure she’d suffered.

The driver’s door was pulled open, and the woman, Gilda, whipped her head around. Monty stood next to her, a thunderous expression clouding his face. “You’re Gilda Wycoff. Get your old ass out of there.”

I was shocked, but I scrambled out of the car and stepped around the front to support Monty—or figure out what the fuck had happened. “What’s going on?” I kept my voice low, hoping the old woman didn’t hear me.

She stepped out of the car and cackled. “Day late and a dollar short, hot stuff.”

Glancing at Monty, I saw pure rage. “You did this on purpose, Miss Gilda. You created the distraction that allowed your grandson to take off, but I can promise you, he’ll be caught before the morning, and guess what? If he’s not, we own that shithole you live in, Grandma .”

“Grandma? She’s his—” I was stunned.

“Yes, Agent Morgan, this is Gilda Wycoff, Russell’s grandmother. She came into our office and signed the bond, using her home as collateral, and she just helped him get away. What she doesn’t know or refuses to understand is that if he doesn’t show up at court in the morning, she’ll lose her house.” He turned to the little old woman with the smirk on her wrinkled face. “I have absolutely no compunction about being here personally to throw your shit out at the curb.”

The woman sucked in air. “You’d throw an old defenseless woman out on the street? Would your mother approve of that, Monty Montgomery?”

Monty’s nostrils flared. “Mrs. Wycoff, your grandson is going to jail for a long time. Hell, you’ll probably be dead before he gets out. He ran over a young man on a crosswalk because he was under the influence of alcohol and over twice the limit. Don’t you think the deceased young man deserves justice? Did he deserve to die because your grandson decided to go out and get rip-roaring drunk before he got behind the wheel of an SUV?”

Once again, the old woman laughed. An ambulance pulled up behind her old Ford, with a cop car trailing. Without a word to me, Monty turned his attention to the old woman, who stumbled and began to fall. Monty caught her before she hit the asphalt.

An EMT rushed over with a gurney, and Monty lifted the old woman onto it. “She was hit by the airbag and briefly lost consciousness, I think. She’s been babbling nonsense since she woke up, which makes me wonder if she is suffering a concussion or maybe she has dementia. She rammed my truck as we were parked here. I wonder if she was trying to do harm to herself. Maybe the doctors need to put her under a seventy-two-hour hold and run some tests? Her grandson is going to jail, so who will take care of her?”

Another EMT approached with a duffel, and she looked at me, but I had nothing to say except maybe Monty was being heavy-handed with the grandmother, but what did I know? I breathed a sigh of relief when the other EMT pulled his partner forward and the two of them began checking the woman’s vitals.

Monty stepped away from the gurney and glanced at me, winking as a patrol car pulled in front of the truck. Obviously, I didn’t want to piss the guy off, lest I find myself in a seventy-two-hour hold.

The local cops questioned us, finally demanding we go to the substation in North Las Vegas the next morning to give an official statement. We agreed, setting the time at eleven, which would be enough time for us to know if Russell Wycoff showed up to be formally charged.

My question? What kind of man would use his grandmother to distract us while he took off to avoid appearing in court? That wasn’t the kind of man I’d been raised to be—nor, did I think, had Monty.

After Monty and I left the scene, we went back to the office on South Rainbow. He drove around the strip mall and stopped behind the back door of number one, Sparks Bail Bonds.

We hopped out and I followed Monty to the back door. He pressed a button beside the door before he punched in a code and the door buzzed.

“What’s the button for?” I followed him inside.

“To be sure they don’t shoot us. We’ve had assholes break in before, so it’s better to be sure the guys know someone’s coming in and aren’t surprised.”

My eyebrows lifted. “Is that an issue I need to worry about?”

Monty chuckled. “Not really, but we don’t get too comfortable around here because there are always threats. It’s the business we’re in.”

I did a double take. “Seriously?” I survived the Navy and the Marshals Service with minimal injuries. I didn’t want to die picking up people dumb enough to break the law and try to leave town because they don’t want to pay for their crimes.

The big guy broke out in hysterical laughter as Sparky’s son rushed over to us. “Monty, we had a call from Clark County lockup. Everyone else is out on other jobs, so can you go to the jail to bail this guy out.”

Monty turned to Hardy. “Who is it?”

“A guy named TJ Middleton called Denise early this morning. He gave her Sawyer Abbott’s name to guarantee the bond. Middleton was arrested for assault on The Old Strip last night.”

“Shit. Sawyer Abbott is a Steel Cowboy. They own a few businesses in Pahrump, three of which are brothels, though I believe one burned down. This guy who works for Sawyer was picked up for assault? Is he in the club?” Monty frowned.

Hardy shrugged. “No idea. They didn’t tell Denise anything else.”

I had no idea who TJ Middleton was, and I’d heard there were brothels in Nevada, though not in Clark County. Then it struck me—Dallas St. Michael has mentioned a biker who had sacrificed himself and ended up being beaten to hell by the Corsican Cartel when I was in Vegas with the guys from GEA-A to look for Giuseppe and Teresa Torrente.

The Pahrump Steel Cowboys had been instrumental in distracting the cartel members while the Torrentes were being rescued and even assisted in the recovery of fifty kilos of uncut heroin and the arrest of key members of the cartel and most of the Mojave Scorpions.

The guys at Sparks Bail Bonds had come in with warrants to arrest several of the Scorpions at their clubhouse, and when Dallas showed up with a box truck filled with drugs that the Scorpions had stolen from the cartel, all hell had broken loose.

I’d been at Lake Mead with Zayn Reddy, Smokey Colson, and Dallas to assist with the recovery, and I’d had the opportunity to meet a few of the Steel Cowboys during the planning, but I didn’t get to meet their president. Sawyer Abbott had been key in helping rescue Chef Rafael Torrente’s parents.

The Cowboy’s president had been beaten within an inch of his life to distract the Mojave Scorpions and those motherfuckers from the Corsican Cartel. I hadn’t been there, but I remembered Dallas describing what had happened. It all sounded gruesome.

“I’ll go bail out TJ Middleton.” I was the new guy, and I knew I had to pay my dues.

Sparky stared at me. “You don’t have your license yet, so I’ll send Digs with you. Thanks for taking this on, Fitz. I don’t really want the kid in jail over the weekend.”

I nodded and went outside to my rental to wait for Jordan Digs. I hadn’t worked with him yet, but we’d already met and I’d seen him around the office. I was anxious to get to know all of the crew better. Digs seemed quiet and observant, which suited my personality just fine.