Legend (Arizona Vengeance 3)

“Son of a bitch,” Erik mutters as he shakes his head. I go to toss the ball to him but he shakes his head, walking over to me. “What in the fuck are you going to do?”

I shrug sort of helplessly as Bishop gathers in as well. “Pepper didn’t want to press charges. Thought it might inflame Lida. I just want her to leave us alone. It’s clear she’s not right in the head and I hope to God the court sees it that way when the case gets heard.”

“When is that?” Erik asks.

“Week after next,” I tell him.

He nods and opens his mouth to ask something but all three of us whip around when we hear tires screeching. Down the street, one block away, is a gray truck turning the corner so fast that smoke burns from the tires. The truck slides, fishtails and then compensates. I hear the engine gun and the truck jumps forward.

It comes straight down the street toward us and we watch with interest then horror as it veers left, hops the curb and bounces over concrete speed bumps, right into the player’s’ parking lot.

“Fuck,” Bishop yells as we watch the truck in both apprehension and fascination. “That’s Tacker.”

The windows are tinted but yes, I recognize his big beast of a Ford F-450. He punches the gas, the engine revs, and the truck shoots forward again. It veers back and forth in a crazy pattern before setting a course straight for the cement barriers that section off a loading dock to the arena.

For a moment, I think he’s just playing around and is going to do some fancy move to slide his truck into a parking space in front of the barriers but instead the engine screams louder as he gives it gas.

“N-o-o-o-o,” I yell helplessly at the truck and all three of us watch as the front end plows into the immovable concrete. The truck is massive but stops dead in it’s tracks, the front grill and hood crumpling in. I can’t see in past the tinted windows and I hope to fuck the airbags deployed.

The three of us go sprinting toward the wreckage and two workers from the loading dock come running.

Erik rounds the back of the truck first and jerks the driver’s door open. Tacker is leaning back against the seat, his face a mass of scrapes and burns from the airbag which did indeed deploy.

My eyes immediately scan his body and it doesn’t look like the dashboard encroached on his body. I was afraid we’d be staring at two crushed legs, which would be a career-ending injury.

Tacker is out of it and as the three of us push inward to check him, I can smell the alcohol coming off him. His head rolls back and forth against the headrest and he’s blabbering some nonsensical stuff.

Bishop releases the seat belt and puts his hand against Tacker’s face. “Tacker…are you okay?”

Tacker’s eyes open and he stares blearily at Bishop. “I’ll never be okay,” he says in a slurred voice that’s difficult to understand.

One of the dockworkers comes up. “Want us to call an ambulance?”

Bishop gives me a worried look. Ambulance means police and Tacker was driving drunk.

“Fuck,” Bishop mutters as he scrubs his hand through his hair in indecision.

All of a sudden, Tacker roars, “Goddamn it. Fucking goddamn it all.”

His eyes are wide open and he’s glancing around, coming to an awareness of what happened. I don’t think, however, his cursing has to do with his current circumstances. He looks almost disappointed that things aren’t worse.

Tacker lurches from the truck and Bishop and Erik try to assist him down but they’re not quick enough. Tacker is drunk and he misses the chrome step rail, crashing down to the pavement where he lands on his knees.

“Fuck,” Bishop mutters again.

Tacker tries to stand, and Erik helps him up, locking an arm around Tacker’s waist. A little rivulet of blood starts running down Tacker’s temple and I note that there’s glass in his hair.

“Let’s get him inside,” Bishop says as he looks around with worry. He doesn’t address the dockworker’s offer to call 9-1-1 but instead says, “You guys can go back to work.”

While he’s not affirmatively telling them to leave the police out of it, the message is clear that he wants them to.

Tacker starts muttering to himself. Silly drunk talk that I can’t understand and he lets me and Erik half carry, half drag his heavy ass into the players’ entrance.

Once inside, he goes dead weight on us as if his legs can’t support him up any further and we’re forced to lower him to the floor. His back rests up against the cinder block wall and his legs splay out in front of him.

He starts to lean to the side and Erik squats to prop him back up.