Hank’s tires squeal, spitting up gravel as he slams to a stop in Lucky’s parking lot, spraying dark, muddy water into the asphalt’s cracks. Before him, five cop cars have their sirens throwing red and blue light off the building, making this March morning seem like it was the 4th of July with all the lights and sounds exploding in the dark. He shifts his car into park, then reaches into his pocket, produces the business card, holds it up to the light, and rubs it between his fingers.

“The Charmers.”

He can almost feel the luck.

Hank then looks forward, eyeing down the bar, and scowls. Another dump. In front of him, cops are moving people out of the bar and into the cop cars, like it’s some kind of fascist assembly line. And based on the blood dripping from one biker-looking guy’s face, clearly, some shit happened, and he’s left smelling the stench. Hank purses his lips and then turns his attention to one cop taking the head of a biker and watches him rather forcefully tuck it into the back of a cruiser. He smiles, lights a cigarette and breathes smoke out his nostrils, like he was a dragon waiting to burn.

“Good,” says Hank, only to himself.

He eyes up another cruiser. It looks like a relic from a cheap ’70s cops and robbers movie, with a square roof and an engine and rear jutting out. Hank shakes his head and mutters, “fucking amateurs.” He hates it when he has to see the local boys. They and their equipment are always so… out of touch, but their ego wouldn’t find a hat that’ll fit them. Hank looks down, scratches his head and steps forward—it was time for him to make his move.

Hank exits his cruiser and slams his door intentionally loud, sending an echo bouncing off the brick facade of Lucky’s like a gunshot. Cops turn and focus on Hank, who smiles dangerously at the gesture. He wants the attention. All of it. He then stalks towards the entrance, his trench coat flapping behind him in the cool breeze. One cop, clipboard clutched in sweaty hands, notices Hank and freezes. His hand darts to his holster, eyes widening.

“Sir, this is a crime scene! Authorized personnel only!” says the cop.

But Hank doesn’t slow down. He just flips open his coat, and the glint of his badge catches a stray siren’s flash, making it pop in the dark. The badge is silent yet screams U.S. Fucking Marshal, and the clipboard cop immediately shuts the fuck up knowing he’s outgunned. He stammers an apology and shrinks back into the night like the roach he is. Hank smiles. His badge has special powers, and this might be his favorite one.

He continues towards the entrance, slowly and deliberately scanning the horizon, but then his gaze snags on something familiar—the van. The same damn van from that same damn gas station. A low growl rumbles in his chest and his lips curl into a self-satisfying smile. “It’s too damn easy,” Hank mutters.

One of the local boys notices him and approaches. “You looking for that van?”

Hank nods, without making eye contact.

“Got the owner in the back,” the young cop offers, gesturing to a nearby cruiser. Hank’s head turns and his eyes narrow as he recognizes the face behind the tinted window. “He’s a leprechaun-looking bastard too,” the cop offers with dumb enthusiasm.

Hank sucks in the air so hard his lips squeak and walks past the cop as if he didn’t see him. Instead, he pulls out a still from the CCTV camera and compares the two men. It’s a match. A bingo.

He saunters over to the cruiser, his boots thudding on the concrete. With each step, the picture in his head becomes clearer. That’s the man from the crime scene, alright. That’s his man, indeed. “Looks like your luck ran out, you four-leaf fucker,” he mutters to himself.

The cop looks at him.

“What was that?”

Hank now looks at the cop for the first time.

“Get out of here,” he says, his voice rising.

Hank is now standing right outside the cruiser, hands in pockets, his face somewhere between a smile and a scowl. He can feel his skin tingling with excitement, and in this moment, he looks particularly young for a particularly old man, the excitement of it all winding back the years. He yanks the cruiser door open, and Gentry’s eyes widen, seeing the sweet taste of freedom. He tenses up before scooting towards the door.

“Don’t even think about it,” Hank growls, his hand hovering near his holster. “You were an unsurprisingly easy man to find.”

Gentry blinks as confusion flickers across his face. He then turns up to see Hank’s cold, dead eyes, and a toothless smile, holding The Charmers card in his hand. He sits back and pats his hands on his thighs, sneaking one final look at the business card. “Didn’t know you were looking for me, lad. Good thing you got my card; whatcha want, an autograph, maybe?”

A surprised laugh escapes Hank’s lips.

“You’re a comedian, huh.”

Gentry shakes his head.

“No, a musician—can’t you tell?”

Hank snorts. He tosses a new cigarette into his mouth, fumbling for his lighter. “This is gonna be a fun one,” he says to himself.

Gentry swallows hard. “That’s kinda the point, ain’t it? Me being in a band? I’m supposed to be fun. At least helping people have fun, that is. But it’s hard to back here!” He sasses back.

Hank grins. He likes a bit of defiance in his suspects. It gives him the perfect excuse to use his badge’s other special power—leverage. He sticks his hand over the door and bends forward, his body creating a 45-degree angle, and sticks his face a few inches from Gentry’s nose.

“You got a smart mouth, you know that?” Hank drawls like a cat toying with a mouse.

“Suppose that’s for you to decide,” Gentry retorts.

Hank chuckles, low and taps his fingers against the car door. Then all at once, he grabs Gentry by the collar and yanks him forward just close enough to “accidentally” jab Gentry with his elbow.

“Cut the crap and quit fuckin’ with me,” Hank booms.

“Ahh!” Gentry recoils and grinds his teeth.

“Do you think I want to drive across state lines, holding a piss in just to talk to a pathetic fuck like you?”

Gentry’s eyes widen as his dark reality sets in.

“Uhh…”

“Don’t answer that!” Hank barks, then pulls out a fresh cigarette, lighting it with a slow, deliberate inhale. He blows out a plume of smoke, the rings mimicking the worry blooming in Gentry’s eyes before pulling it out of his mouth and sticking it in Gentry’s lips.

“Listen up,” Hank says, his voice low and dangerous. “This is my last case before I ride off into the sunset to meet the great cop in the sky, and there ain’t no way some horn-playing fuck like you is gonna mess that up for me. Do you understand me?”

Gentry’s eyes are wider than ever before, and he starts breathing heavily. He moves away from the door and scoots into the cruiser, inching away from Hank. Hank then grabs his shirt and pulls him forward.

“Now don’t be getting any smoke in Uncle Sam’s car,” says Hank as he ashes his cigarette on Gentry’s feet directly above the mat.

“Now I’m gonna ask again, do. You. Understand. Me?”

Gentry swallows hard and nods his head.

“Good.”

Hank takes a step back, dusts his jacket off as his glare slowly morphs into a smile as if he were an old friend.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

Hank pulls another drag from his cigarette and looks off towards the moon, slightly turning his back as if to test Gentry to see if he’ll make a break. He starts talking, back still turned.

“I got you on camera at the gas station trashing the damn place. And to be honest, that don’t bother me. It deserved a good trashing; it’s run by a loser anyway. But what I care about is the kid. Saw a man grab him, shove him in your van and the kid was fighting it, trying to pull away. That’s kidnapping in my book.” Says Hank as he turns back to Gentry, and squints his eyes and nods, noticing Gentry didn’t move. He then continues.

“And I ain’t leaving here until you tell me where they went.” He doesn’t break eye contact.

Gentry’s face had gone the color of curdled milk. His eyes dart around the parking lot, searching for a mental escape that wasn’t there. Finally, he met Hank’s gaze, as his flicker of defiance faded into dread. “Uhh… I…” Gentry stammers, his voice barely a whisper.

“Come on,” Hank prods, his tone deceptively mild. “We can use big boy words here.”

“What are you talking about?” says Gentry, his head mining the Road Code for its thoughts on snitches.

Hank rips the cigarette from his mouth, darts it towards the ground then steps forward. He stands so close to Gentry he can see the pores in his nose, as he reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a black and white photo of Jasper picking up Omar and shoving him into the van. He pushes it into Gentry’s face, his knuckle connecting with his head. “This is what I’m talking about!” Hank barks. He pulls the photo back and watches Gentry’s chest rise up and down.

“Memory jogged yet?”

Gentry grimaces and looks around the parking lot, hoping to see anything but Hank. But his view was blocked so he closes his eyes and grits his teeth. Hank taps his foot.

“Know anything about where they were headed?” asks Hank. His eyes are so focused he looks like he can see right through Gentry.

“Come on now, open your eyes or I’ll have to show you the photo again!”

Gentry’s eyes suddenly open and flick from the photo, to his feet and back towards Hank. After a moment, all he can muster is, “Uhhh… Uhhhh…” as his eyes drift towards the road. Hank smiles.

“What? You can’t find your memory? Don’t worry, I got ways to help you remember.”

Gentry’s Adam’s apple bobs convulsively in his throat. He starts shivering and his lips have taken on a slight quiver. His whole body goes rigid, waiting for the hit he knows is coming. Hank then leans down, sticks his head into the cruiser and says, “What are you doing?” this time soft. He then takes a step back and sighs.

“I’m gonna lay it on you straight. Those two guys you took, in my book, that man kidnapped that young fella. And you taking them in your car makes you an accessory to kidnapping. Right now, you’re looking at a long, lengthy time in a concrete cage with a roommate you ain’t gonna like. And I’ll tell you what—you can’t play music there no matter how damn charming you are. So, here’s the deal: you’re either gonna tell me where the Hell those two are, and I’ll do what I can to help you out. Or what’s left of your luck is gonna run out. That I promise. I’m the best friend you never knew you had.” Hank says this time, with an honest grin.

Gentry stops shaking and turns to Hank slowly, his eyes slowly dancing. Then all at once, he bursts out laughing, “Kidnapping? That’s his s…”

“Shut up,” Hank erupts. He pulls his hand back, fist clenched, letting Gentry see it coming.

“When I want your opinion on the case, I’ll ask for it, but all I want now is for you to tell me where the fuck they are headed! Comprende??”

Gentry blinks, the cold reality finally setting in. He looks at Hank but sees Omar and Jasper, then all at once he leaps back into his seat.

“OUT WITH IT!” Hank bellows, his voice whipping off the walls. Gentry sits up straight.

“Eh….sir…sir… Officer. I… I don’t think it’s kidnap…”

Hank reaches in the car and slaps Gentry, and leans in, his eyes full of fire, his nostrils wide open.

“You’re going to tell me how to do my job?! Now listen, you red-headed-fuck, this is your last chance you’ll ever get. WHICH. WAY. DID. THEY. GO.”

Gentry looks at Hank then straight into the back of the driver’s seat ahead of him. After a moment, a strangled confession rips from Gentry’s lips. “West. They were headed West! I don’t know where; I just gave them a ride.”

Hank reaches into his pocket and slowly starts putting on a leather glove. “West is a pretty big place.”

“California. They were headed to California. They were just here; not even ten minutes ago. Can’t be too far ahead,” blurts Gentry.

Hank’s head suddenly snaps towards the freeway entrance, less than a mile ahead. His eyes narrow, calculating distance, time, how far two men could get. He turns back to Gentry, studying his face, looking for the lie. But all he sees is terror and sincerity mixed in a wrinkle.

“California,” Hank repeats, almost to himself. He takes a step back, squeezes his fist, then shakes his head.

“Fuck,” he grumbles under his breath. He takes another step towards his cruiser, then stops, turns and looks back at Gentry, who’s sitting there frozen, hands still cuffed, not daring to move or breathe too loud.

Hank stands there for a moment, weighing something. Then, nice and slow, he walks back to Gentry.

“Okay,” Hank says, his voice different now—quieter, almost businesslike.

He sticks his hand in his pocket. Gentry hears something rattle—keys, maybe a weapon, he can’t tell. His eyes dart to the cops scattered around the parking lot, all busy with other arrests, with nobody paying attention. He exhales, seeing no escape, no witnesses, and no way out of whatever’s coming next.

Suddenly he feels pressure on his wrist. Cold metal. He closes his eyes, bracing for—

Ping.

All at once, his hands are free.

Gentry blinks. Opens his eyes. Takes his right hand and starts massaging his left wrist, the skin red where the cuffs had been. He looks up to see Hank standing there, hands back in his pockets, face unreadable.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Hank says.

Gentry is breathing through his mouth in slow then rushed breaths.

“Now get the fuck out of here,” says Hank.

Gentry turns, his eyes wide at Hank.

“What… What?” says Gentry.

Hank starts walking towards his car.

“I’m… I’m good to go?”

Hank stops, his head at an angle as he looks over his shoulder and back towards Gentry.

“What… you want me to change my mind?”

“No…. no…” says Gentry.

“Then get out of here and don’t ever say I never did you a favor.”

Gentry’s hand rubs his face where he had been hit, and massages the side of his face. In front of him was the world’s biggest asshole, who was rapidly losing that reputation.

“Oh… and one more thing,” Hank says, this time, looking towards the freeway. “If you ever tell anyone about our conversation, you and I are gonna have another talk and it won’t be friendly. Understand?”

Gentry rubs the back of his head.

“Understood.”

Hank then yells to a patchwork of policemen standing near the bar.

“He’s good to go,” he says, pointing to Gentry.

One of the cops drops his clipboard.

“But he was in a brawl,” says the cop, waddling towards Gentry, his hand hovering above his gun.

“I said he’s good to go,” says Hank in between clenched teeth as he flashes his badge once more, stopping the waddling cop in his tracks.

Gentry then sits on the ground, palms down, his legs stretched in front of him, and watches Hank strut over to his cruiser, each pace quicker, his eyes fixed on the highway, ignoring the commotion around him. Gentry sat there, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Even assholes had principles, apparently. The Road Code just taught him something he didn’t know what to do with.

As Hank reaches out to grab the cruiser’s door handle, something catches his eye. Another damn can of Coke, crushed with the tab ripped off.

“Hmm.”

Hank feels as if he’s starting to recognize a pattern. He shakes his head and enters his cruiser, knowing good and damn well the chase was on.

Please like, comment, share and tell me what you think! This is a random chapter from my book – just looking for feedback on my revisions