Judge reached inside his center console and popped his thin sugar cane stick back in his mouth. He was trying to quit smoking and found chewing the natural cane sugar stalk distracting and the sweetness nestled between the fibers enticing. He got his bottle of water and took a few gulps, squinting up at the warm Orlando sky. He put on his dark shades, cursing the humidity. He hated traveling to Florida for a bounty. But he was an independent, licensed bail agent, unlike a lot of other runners who were unlicensed; he was able to enter into Florida and arrest. He pulled back the side panel and spoke through the screen. “There’s water in the cooler, Tony.”
“Fuck off, Judge.”
Judge huffed a laugh. “Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention? Blah, blah, blah.”
“Fuck off,” Tony snapped.
“If I wasn’t pleased at how fast I caught you, I’d put my fist in your fucking throat, but the mark wouldn’t fade quickly enough for me to turn you in unharmed,” Judge growled.
“You’re a sadistic bastard, Judge. You know that?”
“So I’ve heard.”
Judge’s traveling companions were rarely jovial, considering where they were going. He still had to ask if they wanted medical attention. He had a basic medical kit but the law required him to make sure his prisoner could medically survive the trip. He had to get Tony back to Summerville, SC. It was a six-hour trip. Thank goodness he’d rested up yesterday, and wouldn’t need to stop overnight. Still, he wouldn’t be getting back to the Dorchester County jail until at least eight o’clock tonight.
“Alright Tony. You know the rules. This ain’t your first rodeo, man. I’ll stop in two hours in Jacksonville. You can use the bathroom, eat… or not. I don’t really care, and then it’s nonstop back to Duke’s.”
“Duke can kiss my—”
Judge slammed the side panel back and locked it, not interested in the rest of Tony’s rant. Judge was Duke’s Bail Bonds number one go-to hunter. The big bail bondsman had several other fugitive recovery agents under his employ, but Judge was by far the fastest and the best. He’d done fifteen years in the Army, five of those as a Ranger. Tracking was in his blood. It was all he knew. He sent a text to Duke that he had his jumper and was heading back.
While he waited for Bookem to finish his business, he opened a bottle of water, and setting a bowl down, filled it for him. Judge’s four-door RAM only had two front seats; the back seats had been removed to give Bookem a comfortable living space since they were on the road ninety percent of their lives. Bookem only rode in the back if they were going to apprehend and Judge needed him to jump out quickly. “Ready to go, boy?”
Bookem drank down the last of the water thirstily before hopping up into the backseat and making himself comfortable on the massive cushion.
Chapter Eight
Everyone had gotten out of their tactical gear, cleaned up and was waiting on God, Day and Syn to finish whatever plan they were coming up with. Michaels wanted to go somewhere and hide. This was all his fault. The bust would be done and successful if it weren’t for him. Everyone would be out celebrating or home celebrating the way men loved to. He felt Ruxs slap him on his back on his way back to his chair with a steaming cup of coffee.
“We can see you beating yourself to death, man. Let it rest. We’ve all had fuckups, Michaels,” Green said, quietly.
“Yeah, man. We’re in this together. We’ll get that bastard,” Powers said. He was their schematics specialist. Not a technical term, but he was responsible for all layouts of buildings and homes they entered. Sitting there at his computer, he had to be assessing if he’d missed some kind of underground tunnel or escape route that wasn’t visible on his blueprints.
Michaels recognized the stress and disappointment the men were trying so desperately to hide. He nodded his head instead of voicing how he really felt.
“No freaking way! Are you insane?” Day yelled, making all the men turn in their direction. His Lieutenants and Sergeant had been having a stern, hushed conversation, but it had just gone from stern to serious.
“I need that asshole in custody within the week, Day. How are you going to guarantee me that, huh? If he’s not, then the Chief and the media will have a field day, that we let a murderer back on the streets,” God argued, running his hand through his wavy brown hair in frustration.
“I just don’t trust that guy, babe. He’s flighty, unpredictable, not to mention reckless. Not the cool reckless like we are, the kind of reckless that gets people killed. He’d just as soon shoot our guy in the back rather than bring him to us,” Day rebutted.