The Bounty and the Fed - Book One of the "Fixer" Stories

By Kris Douglas

Ryan is an unassuming "accountant" in the Midwest with an interesting side job. He has a penchant for fixing problems in - creative - (bloody when necessary) ways; Mike is a federal agent chasing a ghost assassin with likely the highest kill rate on record. Never the same MO, unlikely "incidents" leading to untimely deaths, and business cards promising solutions for a mere $1200. Spreadsheets and murder; video games and assassination. This game of cat and mouse has Mike chasing phantoms. No one believed his old partner, but new evidence may help him catch a killer. Tracking "Bounty" will alter the course of both of their lives, leading each down a collision course that could destroy them both, or lead to an unlikely pairing of fixer and federal agent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716143113

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The Bounty and the Fed - Book One of the "Fixer" Stories

The Bounty and the Fed

Book 1 of The Fixer stories

Kris Douglas

Copyright © 2019 by Kris Douglas

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2019

ISBN 978-1-71614-311-3

Chapter One

Mrs. Gordon, I don’t know how many more times I can tell you; cats are not dependents. You can’t claim them on your taxes.

But they depend on me, the woman defended.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

It was Friday afternoon and he could taste freedom.

Mrs. Elizabeth Gordon was his last client of the day.

Unfortunately, she never scheduled a time in the mornings, so he was always stuck with her looming between him and happy hour.

She leaned forward and patted his hand. You’re such a good boy Ryan. Always helping me with all of this stuff.

He smiled. Yes. Well, I’ll tell you what. You leave me with all of this, he gestured to the piles of paper on his desk, and I’ll have the paperwork finished by Monday. You can stop by, say, nine?

She tittered. You don’t look like you’ll be awake then.

He forced a smile. I promise I will be.

She scrunched her face into a smile. I’ll stop by at four, with a batch of my cookies. How does that sound?

He plastered a practiced smile on his face. Wonderful. Thank you. But you remember you still have to pay me in money, right?

She waved him off like he was telling her a hilarious joke. Oh, Ryan, your mother would be so proud of how you’re helping me.

He stretched that practiced smile over his face again. Of course.

She was talking about Rebecca Graves, his foster mother.

Rebecca and Douglas Graves had taken him in after his biological father had died suddenly. The Graves’ lived across town, in the nice part of town, but they were willing to take in a 14 year old that had been living in a trailer with his paranoid, ex-military father.

Rebecca had been diagnosed and died of lung cancer in his freshman year of college; likely a consequence of the heavy smoking habits of her parents.

Although he’d only really known her for three years, Rebecca had been the only real mother he’d ever known, and he would always be grateful for her kindness.

He cleared his throat. Well, Mrs. Gordon, shall I walk you to your car?

She tittered again as she stood. Oh, I’ll be fine. You go and have your fun. She waved her hand as she walked towards the door. I know you want to go meet some pretty girls at a club. Or something.

Despite her words, he stood and glided over to her, gently taking her elbow and guiding her through his office.

The building wasn’t impressive, but it was on the ground floor, so none of his clients had to worry about stairs. That was a bonus considering most of his clients were over the age of sixty. It wasn’t always easy being a freelance accountant, but tax season usually brought in enough technology-illiterate clients so he could sustain himself through the lean eight months that made up the rest of the calendar year.

He also travelled for larger accounting corporations to be a sort of fact checker when they were busy, and the IRS had been known to call him in when they were overbooked with audits.

He also had the occasional side-job.

Plus a stipend from the veterans’ association, or something like that, connected to his father’s life insurance.

In all, it made for a fairly comfortable life where he was his own boss.

He led Mrs. Gordon to the curb where her grandson was waiting, the engine of his Mustang Shelby growling softly.

The window buzzed down and Cole Gordy Gordon leaned forward. Still helping little old ladies, Ward?

Ryan smiled. Somebody has to.

You still driving that piece—of rust you call a car?

Gordy was referring to his old ’87 Chevy Cavalier that was a remnant of his life with Crazy Kev Ward; his biological father. The car still worked and had never been in an accident, plus he never had to drive faster than 60 nor did he travel more than 40 miles at a time.

Ryan shrugged a shoulder as he opened Mrs. Gordon’s door.

My buddy John can probably get you a good deal. Gordy’s good-natured smile turned vicious when Mrs. Gordon had to turn to set her behind on the seat.

Naturally, Gordy was still trying to impress his grandmother. That look suggested that Ryan should stay far away from Gordy’s buddy John. If he did, Ryan could probably look forward to antics out of the good ole days of middle and high school; buying a lemon or stolen car or having the car blow up or shut down could all be possible. 

I think I’ll keep a hold on ‘Ole Reliable’ for now, he gave a nice smile.

Suit yourself.

Ryan closed the car door and waved as the car peeled out.

Mrs. Gordon’s voice, scolding her grandson for the reckless driving, managed to get above the roar of the engine.

He turned back towards his office, a smile of relief on his face as the tension left his shoulders and neck.

If there had been one person in the town that he would kill if he could get away with it, it would be Gordy. But his father had always said that small towns were filled with busy-bodies that were everywhere and knew everything. That translated to never doing anything you wouldn’t want the whole town to know.

So, he always went to the larger cities when he wanted to misbehave.

He neatly stacked Mrs. Gordon’s papers on top of his five other folders and put the whole lot into his briefcase. He had a small spring in his step as he walked to the front of his office and left, locking the door behind him.

The last car in the lot was good old Ole Reliable. The car had originally been a powder blue, maybe, but had been repainted so many times—thanks to dings, dents, and habitual eggings by Gordy and his friends—that it was now a golden shade with highlights of red rust.

Ryan unlocked the door and tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat.

The interior was done in a navy blue, with the only accent being the steering wheel, mats, and gear shifter in black. He strapped on his sun-bleached seatbelt, turned the engine over, and began his quiet pleas of Come on, come on, you can do it. You can start. Please, baby?

The squeal of the starter finally turned into the coughing sounds of the engine sputtering to life.

He smiled and gave it a little gas, easing out of the parking