Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

It took Santana a second to recognize Jeremy Strand, Regan’s son, with his tousled, didn’t-botherwith-a-comb hair and wrinkled pants. But there the boy was, standing just yards from him, eyes blazing, bare fists curled, standing on the balls of his feet, looking like he was ready to lunge.

“You think I had something to do with your mom’s disappearance?” Santana asked, stunned by the kid’s nerve.

“I know you’ve been doin’ her!”

“Hey!” Santana took a step toward the kid, pointing a gloved finger at Jeremy’s face. “That’s enough! I wish I did know where your mother was. I do. But I don’t. I had nothing to do with her disappearance.”

“Sure.” Jeremy spat on the ground. He was itching to take a swing.

“I don’t have time for this BS. Take your attitude

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and go home.” He felt the clock ticking, the seconds of Regan’s life sliding away. In a lower voice, he added,

“I know it’s rough, man, but this isn’t helping.”

“Like you would know!” Jeremy’s jaw was set. Hard. He didn’t appear as if he were ready to back down, and now a couple of men who had been heading into the bar had paused near the parking meters, watching from beneath the brims of hats fast collecting snow.

Nate groaned inside.

Just what he needed: a crowd.

Next thing you knew a police cruiser would stop by.

“Just calm down,” he said, opening up his palm in a conciliatory gesture.

“You’re the only lowlife she hangs out with.”

Santana gritted his teeth. The kid was spoiling for a fight and Santana thought it might be a good lesson to take him on. They were about the same height, though Santana probably had thirty pounds on the kid. But sometimes, he knew from his own experience, something physical, including a wrestling match or fistfight, was just what a testosterone-fired teenage boy needed to get his brain back. To think straight.

The guys near the meters weren’t budging. Hoping for some action. The door to the bar opened for a second, the sounds of conversation and music tinkling out, and then Ole Olson, a regular who was as wide as he was tall, walked onto the street. He was zipping up his coat and stopped short just outside the door, fascinated by the hint of a fight. This was no good.

“Listen, Jeremy, you need to go find your sister and wait.”

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Lisa Jackson

“My sister.” Jeremy snorted. “She’s a pain.”

“That might just be a family trait.”

“Hey! Don’t go knocking my family!” Jeremy bristled.

“It’s what your mother would want. For her kids to be together.”

“How would you know what she’d want?”

“I want her back, too,” he gritted. “And I’m trying to figure it out, so don’t get in my way!”

“Don’t take any shit, kid,” Ole, never long on brains, said, still trying to work his zipper. “Go on, what’re ya waitin’ for?” His fat hand yanked on the zipper tab so hard it snapped off. “Oh, hell.”

“Is that what you want? To knock me flat?” Santana asked.

“Yes.” Jeremy was emphatic.