Chapter Nine
“Now why should I waste my time listening to you two assholes? I don’t owe you nothin’.” Donnelly spouted, holding his misaligned finger tight to his chest. His accent grated more than ever.
“Look now, I just want to save you some trouble,” I coaxed, “hear me out.”
Almost twelve years ago, back as a rookie cop, I’d been one of the first through the door in a raid to bring down Donnelly’s original chop-shop in a location less than two miles from where we stood. That day, two cops were injured when one of his so-called mechanics pulled a gun. Two good men. One of whom, my first sergeant, would never walk without a limp again.
Donnelly himself had offered no resistance and as I’d clamped the cuffs on him and given him the obligatory Miranda warning, he’d tried to bargain his
