Chaser

Chapter 2

2

“You lost your damn mind, girl?” Fiddler growled. “Those animals’ll eat you alive and ask for seconds. Besides, Conor would have my a*s if I let you go into that bar alone.”

Conor Doyle was my boyfriend and a fellow bounty hunter who had worked with Fiddler back in the day. Until we started dating a year ago, Conor was also my boss. When our relationship caused friction among the other team members, I started my own fugitive apprehension crew with Conor’s help.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Fiddler, this is my crew, not Conor’s.” I balked. “I sign your paychecks. I call the shots.”

“With all due respect, Jinx,” Rodeo said, “a honey pot doesn’t sound like a smart strategy for this situation. Too many ways it can go sideways. I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

I wiped the sweat from my face. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“I say we go in with guns drawn and drag his sorry a*s out of that s**t hole they call a bar.” Fiddler chucked Rodeo on the shoulder. “Give ’em a little shock and awe, right, soldier boy?”

“Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “One of us might even get out alive to collect the bounty.”

“GPS says One-Eyed Jack’s is over there.” Rodeo pointed at a shopping center to our left, and I slipped into the turn lane. “A more prudent approach would be to wait and grab him as he’s leaving. Maybe he’ll be too soused to put up much resistance by then.”

I shook my head. “That could take hours. Phoenix Comicon starts tomorrow. I’m not cosplaying as Wonder Woman with bags under my eyes. Nobody wants to see that.”

I turned in to the shopping center lot and parked on the other side of Colton’s Trans Am, out of sight of the bar’s front door. The AC was only now blowing cold. I leaned in and savored the cool air on my face.

“We’re going with the honey trap. So you got a choice. Either be my backup and get paid, or you can catch an Uber home and I’ll keep the whole bounty for myself.”

“I got your six, Jinx,” Rodeo said after a tense moment of silence. “Honey trap it is.”

Fiddler’s phone rang. He answered it in hushed, angry tones. I couldn’t make out the words but figured it was one of his ex-wives calling to b***h about something.

When he hung up, I asked, “Which one of the former Mrs. Fiddlers was that? Molly, Daisy, or Daphne?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, Daisy.”

“Child support again?” Rodeo asked with a smirk.

“Something like that.”

“So you in or out, Fiddler?” I turned in my seat to look at him directly. I’d been getting tired of his nonsense lately. Half the time he didn’t answer his phone when I called. And when he did show up, he smelled like the crowd at a Phish concert.

“Aw, what the hell! I’m in,” he grumbled. “But don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

“Duly noted.” I pulled off my ballistic vest and handed it to Rodeo.

“I got a bad feeling about this, Jinx,” Rodeo said.

“Zip it, Han Solo. We each do our jobs, no one gets hurt.” I handed him my Ruger .40 caliber, my Taser, and my tactical belt. “Toss me my purse.”

He pulled my black cloth purse from the glove box and offered it to me. “But if what Fiddler says about this place is true—”

“Relax, I still have the .357 revolver in my ankle holster if things go sideways. Hand me the cuffs from my tactical belt.” He did, and I slipped them into my back pocket.

“Now for a little macho-man kryptonite.” With the makeup kit from my purse, I added some smoky eye shadow and thickened my lashes and eyeliner to make my eyes pop. I finished off the look with some slutty red lipstick. Normally, I was more sporty gal than girly girl, keeping the makeup to a minimum. But I could still crank up the femme when the job called for it. “How do I look?” I asked.

Rodeo studied my outfit and makeup, turning my face one way then another. He removed the band from my ponytail and let my black hair fall loose on my shoulders.

“Makeup’s good—hot but not too over-the-top trailer trash. The oversized Diamondbacks jersey is okay, barely. But the dad jeans and biker boots don’t exactly scream ‘sexy,’ especially for pulling a honey trap. A lacy blouse, Daisy Dukes, and strappy sandals would be better.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have any of those with me, do I, Mr. Project Runway?”

He tilted his head, squinted, then tied a knot in the bottom of my jersey, exposing my midriff. “Gonna have to show some skin, girl.” He flicked open a jackknife and pointed it at my chest.

My eyes widened. “What the hell?”

“Chill, girl.” He pulled at the front of my collar with his free hand, cut a six-inch vertical slit in the top of the jersey, then folded under the newly made corners. “Just exposing a little cleavage. If you’re gonna go fishing, you gotta use the right bait.”

“Dude, I borrowed this jersey from my brother. Cost him a hundred bucks. He’s going to kill me.”

“Yeah, but now you look less like a construction worker.” He popped his Stetson onto my head. “And more like a hot piece of ass.”

I smirked, unsure how to take his comment. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Enough with the fashion show,” Fiddler grumbled. “We gonna do this or not? I got s**t to do.”

“Fine. I’ll go in and draw Freddie out. Rodeo, I want you in front to help me muscle him into the Gray Ghost. Fiddler, guard the rear door in case Freddie makes me and bolts out the back.”

I turned off the ignition, and we climbed out. The heat hit me like a blast from a hot oven. I hoped my face didn’t melt before I got inside.

“All right, everybody in position. Let’s take this guy down and call it a day.”

Fiddler moseyed past the Subway shop at the end of the strip mall on his way around to the back of the bar. Rodeo took a position near a support column, shotgun at his side, where he watched me hustle toward the entrance.

A mountain of a bouncer sat on a stool beside the door, staring at his cellphone. As I approached, he stood and looked up. “ID?”

I handed him my driver’s license. The bouncer glanced at it, then looked me up and down.

A tremor of nervousness rippled through me, accompanied by a memory of me with my best friend, Becca Alvarez, on our way to see the movie Anywhere but Here at the dollar theater. I was eleven and still new to going out dressed as a girl. Despite Becca’s reassurances that I looked very feminine, I was terrified someone would figure out I was transgender.

I had handed our tickets to the woman in the theater lobby. She looked down at me and stopped in the middle of tearing the tickets, no doubt deciding whether I was a boy or a girl.

I stood there feeling like a deer in the headlights until Becca nudged me and whispered, “Smile.”

I did. The ticket taker reciprocated. “Enjoy the movie, girls.”

I brought my mind back to the present and forced a smile. The bouncer handed me my driver’s license without a word and returned to his phone.

I breathed a sigh of relief and opened the heavy front door. As my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I realized Fiddler wasn’t kidding about the clientele.

A dozen or so men looking like escapees from a supermax prison sat at mismatched tables, their eyes following me to the bar. Some chatted up young women with a definite pay-for-play vibe. A couple of bikers in leather vests and bandanas crowded around a pool table along the far wall. The place reeked of stale beer and dollar store perfume, with a metallic undertone I suspected was blood.

On a flat screen mounted above the bar, the Arizona Diamondbacks were losing to the Phillies, while Keith Urban belted out a tune on the sound system.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been in a place like this. Certainly not the last considering my line of work. I should’ve been terrified. Not the kind of joint a trans woman should linger in if she valued her life. But I was on the job, and my pulse raced with the thrill of the hunt.