Reunion: Diversion Six Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  REUNION

  Eden Winters

  Warning

  This book contains adult language and themes, including graphic descriptions of sexual acts which some may find offensive. It is intended for mature readers only, of legal age to possess such material in their area.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Reunion © 2017 by Eden Winters

  Cover Art by L.C. Chase

  Edited by Jerry L. Wheeler

  Layout and design by P.D. Singer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission of the author, except as brief quotations as in the case of reviews.

  Published 2017, Rocky Ridge Books

  Books in the Diversion series:

  Diversion

  Collusion

  Corruption

  Manipulation

  Redemption

  Many thanks to T.D. O’Malley, Z. Allora, P.D. Singer, and Doug Starr, for priceless critique, handholding, and the precious gift of their friendship, Nurse Sarah for answering thousands of questions and pointing me towards research material, David O’Sullivan for sharing his law enforcement knowledge, L.C. Chase for an amazing cover, my family for unwavering support, and my editor, Jerry L. Wheeler.

  Also, many thanks to readers who’ve followed Bo and Lucky from the very beginning of their tale, and wanted more.

  Chapter One

  Another stinking alley. One of many in the bad part of Atlanta, reeking of trash and piss. Either rats or big-assed palmetto bugs scuttled along the ground. Lucky’s shiver wasn’t all due to a nippy spring evening.

  Light mist chilled his face. He stuck close to the shadows, inching away from safety and closer to who the fuck knew. The nasty fug crept into his mouth and took up residence on his tongue. His throbbing ankle worked overtime to convince him he’d gotten too old for this shit.

  Damned gimpy-assed leg. Lucky’s heart pounded, and sucking air like a vacuum didn’t fill his lungs with enough oxygen.

  After this case, he’d have to put in more time running, to hell with the bitching ankle. And working out. And doing whatever else came to mind so a mere two-mile run didn’t leave him huffing and puffing.

  The alleyway ended. He flattened his back against the wall, whipped his head far enough to the left to peer around the corner, and pulled back. Yup. The white panel van. Though the van hid the perps from view, the bumps and bangs gave their whereabouts away.

  Six-feet-plus of pissed off fellow agent faced him in all her muscled glory, pressed against the far wall and scarcely breathing hard. Showoff. One look at Loretta Johnson and the perps might shit their pants.

  They might laugh at him—for a minute. Small dogs bit hard.

  Gun held close to his face, Lucky made a crisscross sign to his partner with his free hand. Johnson nodded. Nice having her play for the good guys. If not for the matching SNB logo on their shirts, he’d be scared of her too.

  In a few seconds, some two-bit drug dealers were going to get hit with a whole lot of what they had coming. “If they make me late getting home…” Johnson muttered.

  Oh no. Don’t ever keep Mama Bear out too late to feed her kid.

  Lucky unlocked his knees and bounced out a count. On three, he darted to the left and around the back of the van. Johnson took the front. The van’s headlights projected her shadow to giant proportions on the wall behind her.

  “Southeastern Narcotics Bureau. Hands on your head!” she barked.

  One of the suspects smiled the slick, oily smile of a slime ball. He turned to Johnson with his hands out to his sides. “What have we here?”

  His buddy, in the middle of picking up a big blue tote, did as told. Smart man. Making Slime Ball Dumbass the boss, and the flunky with his hands on his head, too much gut, and not enough hair, Idiot Number One.

  Idiot Number Two jumped out of the van. From this angle, the asshole couldn’t see the red dot on his back. Yup. As much as Lucky hated teamwork, having a weapon trained on an enemy’s back worked for him.

  And they hadn’t yet spotted Lucky, adding “Stupid” to their job titles.

  Dumbass took a step forward. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?”

  Johnson’s evil grin didn’t faze the guy, but it scared the shit out of Lucky.

  Lucky’s musclebound protégé had once knocked his sorry ass to the ground. This guy, who’d probably never lifted anything heavier than a case of beer, wouldn’t be a problem.

  The shit-for-brains took another step. “No, I don’t believe you’ll shoot.”

  Johnson kept an eye on Dumbass, leaving Lucky free to watch Idiot One and Idiot Two. The first, not given to fighting, now lay stretched out on the ground. “Stop, Ramon. He means business,” the guy shouted. Repeated arrests left a man well trained, and twenty bucks said his record beat Lucky’s. And how nice of him to provide a name.

  “Shut the fuck up!” Dumbass shot back.

  “Smile, you’re on my body cam…” Hell, the sound of Johnson’s booming voice alone ought to put the fear of God into all three targets.

  Idiot Number Two reached into the van and pulled out a gun.

  Go on, you sonofabitch. Aim at her. Give us a reason to take you down. Body cams came in handy for proving the need for use of force.

  And still Dumbass approached, sporting his red back dot. The dot, shuffling from the alleyway, and heavy breathing announced the arrival of the cavalry—slow asses.

  Okay, Lucky and Johnson secured the scene, with a man on a balcony above and another in plain sight across the street. The boss could ream Lucky out later for not waiting until backup arrived to approach their marks.

  Johnson put extra snarl into her words. “Your buddy there has three seconds to drop the gun, or I’ll drop you both.” Dumbass hadn’t yet realized the danger. The woman standing before him didn’t need a gun to put him down.

  And call her a helpless female at your own risk. Right before your ass hit the ground.

  The asshole walked up and snatched the gun from her hand. She let him.

  He scowled. “Hey, no bullets.”

  Johnson smiled and folded her arms across her body-armor-covered chest. “You’re right. I won’t shoot you. But my partner might.” She nodded toward Lucky.

  The guy spun, his face a perfect visual of Oh shit! “Get him!”

  Idiot Two raised his gun while Idiot One cowered on the pavement, and Dumbass made the biggest target he possibly could.

  Three shots. Three men lying twitching on the ground. Not as permanent as a gun, but a Taser had its place in the great scheme of things.

  And didn’t require nearly as much red tape.

  ***

  Whether the case en
ded successful or a total fuckup, Lucky still hated all the damned paperwork. But typing up reports gave him a good excuse to stay in his cube, or rather, his side of the cube. He flicked a glance to the unlived-in looking desk across the way. A closed laptop, a pen holder with four matching, department-issued black ink pens, and a Christmas cactus trailing shoots down the side of a filing cabinet. No human.

  Lucky’s desk stayed piled high with papers, files, and mostly-empty Starbucks cups. Five cups meant Friday. His current brew sat closest to his laptop. Several times in the past, he’d grabbed the wrong one. Brrr… Week old coffee.

  He leaned back in the chair he alone in the department managed to tame, one hand on the desk to steady himself lest the Hell Bitch throw him. She’d tried before. Lordy, she’d tried. Succeeded a time or two. But if a chair threw him without video evidence on social media, it never really happened in his book.

  He shifted his gaze back to the clean side of the cube. Where was Bo anyway? He’d better not have snuck back to spring a surprise. Only twenty minutes left to be home free, if no one called Lucky into the boss’s office to ambush him with cake and off-key singing. Officially, he’d grow a year older tomorrow, but the department never seemed to care. They’d celebrate whenever they felt like.

  So far this year, no one had embarrassed him with cake and ice cream, expecting him to play along and act cheerful. People going all out on birthdays. Why? He’d counted the days until he’d turned sixteen and got his driver’s license. Then he marked the calendar pages until eighteen, when he was deemed legally, if somewhat inaccurately, an adult.

  Then he couldn’t wait until twenty-one to go clubbing and survive getting carded. Then he’d counted days until he’d done his time and become a free man.

  Now, years rolled around faster and faster. He’d never expected to reach thirty-eight. Yeah, birthdays. Screw ‘em.

  “Look, I need a favor.” A Loretta Johnson-shaped shadow fell on Lucky’s desk. No one else dared come here but Walter and Bo, and Walter didn’t scare easily no matter how hard Lucky tried. Bo simply rolled his eyes and growled.

  Loretta? She ignored Lucky’s bluster. Lucky whooshed out a breath and gave his latest trainee his best evil eye. “What do you want?”

  She either didn’t know or didn’t care what kind of violence awaited when Lucky wanted privacy, one of many reasons he’d set up shop in an out of the way cubicle rather than share space with a bunch of perfectly trained lapdogs.

  “I’m supposed to see a contact tonight and need backup.” She used the one argument guaranteed to sway Lucky every time: “Walter said you were the best man for the job.”

  “And he’s right. Where and when?”

  The corner of her mouth twitched, but she didn’t smile or gloat. “Tonight, nine o’clock at The Raging Stallion.”

  Lucky’s frown shifted to a scowl. “A gay bar?” Besides being the best man for the job, he’d probably be the only one in the department besides Bo who’d make it five feet past the front door without someone figuring out they didn’t belong.

  Johnson folded her arms over her chest. “You got a problem?”

  Of course not, and he’d been out to Johnson for a while, but still, a gay bar? He’d not gone to The Stallion in years. “Nope, no problem.” No problem but going to one of the South’s hottest pickup joints without his off-the-clock partner.

  He’d probably get hit on, since his lack of socially redeeming qualities didn’t show until he started talking. Not like he wanted the attention. A man hotter than any club boy waited at home… or rather, lurked somewhere. Bo’s first undercover assignment since he’d gotten out of rehab hadn’t left him much time to call home.

  Lucky ought to be with Bo, should anything go wrong. Asshole Keith better not let anything happen to him, or he’d answer to Lucky’s fist.

  “I’m waiting,” Johnson said, bringing Lucky back to the here and now. She stood at the entrance to his cube, tapping her foot.

  “Oh, all right.” He powered down his laptop, stuck it into his case, and stopped himself. Taking work home from the office? Oh, the horrors. The bag fit perfectly beneath his desk, where no one ever cared to look, not even housekeeping. They’d learned to stay away from his desk a long time ago.

  He followed Johnson to the parking garage, stopping by her Jeep to see her safely inside. She smiled. “Better watch it or the rumor might get ‘round that you’re one of them there Southern gentlemen.” She cawed at her joke and wiped a tear from her eye. “Meet me at my place in an hour.” She looked him from head to feet. “And put on something club-worthy, okay?”

  What? His normal jeans and an only-slightly-wrinkled button down weren’t good enough? He’d at least worn an official SNB shirt last night for the bust—mostly because he hadn’t gotten around to doing laundry. Still grumbling, he stumbled over to his restored Camaro and joined the masses leaving Atlanta during rush hour.

  Finally he arrived at his and Bo’s front yard, straw spread over the lawn to keep seed in place until grass started growing. No matter how hard they worked, the Harrison-Schollenberger residence made a poor cousin next to the better kept neighborhood houses.

  Paint peeled from the shutters, and weeds came up through cracks in the driveway. Fix one thing and two more broke. Their smart investment turned into a never-ending work in progress.

  He eased into the driveway and tried the clicker to raise the garage door. Nada. Crap. When he’d paid to have the thing fixed, it should’ve stayed fixed.

  Fluttering curtains in the front window of the house next door gave away the neighbor’s nosiness. Lucky sauntered up three steps to the front door. Screw ‘em if they wanted a show.

  Cat Lucky stared back from the living room window, likely planning evil for the neighbor’s dog.

  Lucky unlocked and pushed the front door. The door pushed back. He tried again. The door slammed before he could wriggle through.

  “Damn it, Moose! Let me in!” Once more he pushed… and crashed to the floor. He sealed his lips into a tight line a split second before the world’s biggest puppy swiped its tongue across his face. Yuck! Dog drool!

  He jumped up and entered the code before the alarm went off.

  A bucket of dog food kept Moose happy in the backyard while Lucky showered and shimmied into a pair of jeans. Hey, they weren’t nearly so tight the last time he’d tried them on. Not “I can hit high notes” tight, but body-hugging to the point of revealing his assets.

  Next came a T-shirt snug enough to show off all the time put in working on his upper body. Shit-kicker boots completed the outfit, along with a light jacket. The nights still managed to be a bit cool this early in the year, giving him a perfect place to hide his gun.

  He squirmed a bit in his car to get comfy with the seam of his Levi’s cramping his junk, and readjusted himself several times on his way to Johnson’s apartment.

  She wriggled her way out of the building to a chorus of catcalls from a group of twenty-something guys milling around the doorway. Wearing a skin-tight dress wouldn’t slow her down much if she decided to make one of them an example for respecting women.

  One particularly stupid bastard grabbed his crotch. “Oh, baby. Come see what I got for you.”

  Quicker than Lucky could open his door to come to her defense, Johnson had the jerkoff dangling by his shirt collar. She slowly lowered him back down. “Learn how to talk to a lady and maybe you won’t always have to use your right hand for company.”

  The guy brushed himself off and slunk away, the hoots and hollers from his friends a warning to all.

  She finished her strut to the car in peace, the now much wiser punks leaving at high speed.

  “You were too easy on him.” Lucky would’ve pounded some heads.

  Johnson buckled herself into the passenger seat. “If he tries his bullshit again, I’ll dislocate his shoulder. Let’s get going.”

  He hadn’t gone hunting at The Stallion since setting up house with Bo, long enough for the overa
ggressive horn dogs he’d taken swings at to forget him in a fog of alcohol and other rejections.

  “So, what’s the deal?” No cases involving The Stallion had come across his desk, but Johnson acted more as Lucky’s assistant now than a trainee. Walter could have given her something.

  “If anyone asks,” Johnson said, “we’re coworkers, and I’m taking you out for your birthday.”

  Lucky cut his eyes in her direction. “And?” Surely Walter and the work crew wouldn’t go this far to embarrass him with cake and singing.

  “And, I’m treating you to a private dance from my contact. You go into the back with him, he dances, you tip him, and he’ll give you a list of names. Easy enough, right?”

  Lucky had his share of private dances back in the day, and none compared to music played from his ancient stereo and Bo shaking his moneymaker for an audience of one.

  But having another man half-naked and rubbing against him? On company time? Well, he’d keep telling himself it was all part of the job. He didn’t have to touch except to tip the guy.

  At the club, Johnson slid him a few bills. “For the tip. Let’s go have some fun.” He caught her at the door. “My treat,” she said, yanking Lucky closer and flashing the bouncer a toothy grin. “It’s my friend’s birthday!”

  If the bouncer stared any harder, Lucky might have to charge the guy fifty bucks, then arrest himself for prostitution.

  The musclebound guard brushed Lucky’s ass when he passed. “Happy Birthday!”

  Asshole. Lucky glared, the bouncer laughed.

  Hand between Lucky’s shoulder blades, Johnson steered him inside the converted cotton mill and toward the bar. “Two Coors Lights, please.”

  The place hadn’t changed much. Same blend of stale booze and a hundred competing colognes. Same dirty floor he’d never walk barefoot across. Same low light so you couldn’t see what your dance partner looked like until you woke up the next morning and tried chew your arm off and escape.

  Johnson handed him a glass. “Act like you’re here for a good time.”

  Lucky took a sip and sputtered. She’d certainly learned well about ordering drinks to blend in, like she’d been taught while training in undercover ops, but… “Light beer?”