With Reckless Abandon: An Angel Vierra Investigation

By Sam Fluharty

Angel Vierra is a homicide cop who never gives up on a case until the cuffs are on or the perp is dead. He tracked the Bible in Blood serial killer and arrested her after she shot him. He also solved the Winter Kill case that ended in a shootout with the psycho killer. When two elected county sheriffs are murdered, he is sent to the water-winter wonderland of northern Michigan. Vierra quickly discovers that his killer is Manny Modelo, the regional sales manager for the Sina Loa drug cartel. His partner Adrienne Kincaid is a War-on-Terror vet who ably assists in the investigation. However, Modelo has Kincaid in his sights and is set on eliminating her.

Jack Thorn, the Toronto Blue Jay's ace left handed pitcher, is the wild card. Thorn has his own reasons to eliminate Modelo and his own special ops talents. Thorn also has some powerful friends on his side, including a svelte and savvy NYPD detective.

The question becomes: who will find the killer first?


Critical praise for Sam Fluhartys first novel, Rite of Revenge:

. . . Fluharty, a former Vietnam pilot, puts his flight experience to good use in this novel, and also showcases an authority on police techniques and procedure. he story is briskly paced, and the narrative remains central without disappearing behind extraneous information. An uneven romantic thriller that will appeal to genre fans (Kirkus Reviews of New York).

Sam Fluharty flew a gunship in Vietnam and earned the Distinguished Flying Cross for Valor and the Purple Heart. He earned a law degree, and life got boring. Angel Vierra is Harry Bosch, Lucas Davenport and Billy Gravesand of course, Sam Fluharty. Try to keep up with him!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543426465

Sam Fluharty

Sam Fluharty flew a gunship in Vietnam and earned the DFC for Valor and the Purple Heart. He has made and squandered several fortunes in four diverse careers. Sam says, Ive always had a paperback in my jeans, flight suit, briefcase or on my Kindle, and a novel like Rite of Revenge in the back of my brain planning its escape. Mason Foxx is Archie Goodwin, Travis McGee, Lucas Davenport and of course, Sam Fluharty. Youll be pulling for him.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

J ack Thorn knew that he had done it as soon as he heard the crack of the bat. He did not need to turn toward center field to see Rico Flores glide back and reel it in for the final out. He could not hear the ball as it hit Flores’ glove because the Cherry Festival crowd of 5,300 was going bonkers and J.D. Hardy, his catcher, was yelling in his ear.

A no hitter! His first and his ticket.

Jack had been throwing a baseball his whole life, now for the Traverse City White Caps, the Double-A farm club of the Toronto Blue Jays.

Jack closed his eyes, viewing the album of his firsts: Missy Lynn Blake; Gunnery Sergeant Kenyatta M. Johnson, the first KIA in his command in Iraq; Lance Corporal Jason K. Dunn, the first KIA in his command in Afghanistan; and, Kristen Cardinal.

The good news, he thought as his team mates hoisted him onto their strong shoulders, was that Johnson and Dunn were the only Marines that he had lost. The bad-news was that there were nineteen of his marines who had been wounded in action. Jack did not picture them voluntarily. He couldn’t bring himself to do so. But they flash-banged into his consciousness as unexpectedly as the infernal IEDs that had eviscerated their bodies into shards of carnage, that incredibly still breathed. In the War on Terror, Thorn’s two platoons were the norm. The ratio of wounded-in-action to killed-in-action was about ten to one. This fact did not comfort him. Jack himself had been hit by shrapnel and had been awarded a Purple Heart, though he had not been seriously injured in his twenty-six months of combat. His body was intact and was at its peak.

As he was carried to the dugout, he stared up at the night sky with the lights of the ball park white bright against a cloudy dark heaven. He wondered if his brain was in as good a shape as his new body. Four years in the Corps had given Jack an unexpected lease on the career that he had fantasized about since he was six years old in coal country Kentucky.

All of his older male relatives had worked in the mines, and therefore were heavy burly men with hands as big as his Roger Clemens’ autographed glove. Jack had been the high school star at quarterback and pitcher. His genes and culture -—not to mention his mother’s and both his grandmothers’ cooking–had produced a very big young man. At seventeen Jack was 6’3" in his bare feet and weighed a hulking 232. He maintained that bulk through college on a full ride to the University of Michigan, thanks to a baseball and a Navy ROTC scholarship. Then in Marine boot camp followed by Force Recon training he slimmed to 214. The grueling heat of Iraq, burdened with 85 pounds of equipment he became a sinewy 195.

And, for the first time in his life, his fastball topped 90 mph.

His entire body was more limber with the decrease in weight, and actually-stronger than he had ever been, allowing him to whip his pitching arm faster with more power.

Jack had always had almost perfect control. He could not recall ever throwing a wild pitch in an actual game. His coach in Ann Arbor had called him JUGS, after the most popular pitching machine. Jack was always on the mound for batting practice. In the game tonight, he had walked only two batters in nine innings: one had been intentional to their .352 hitter with two outs in the eighth inning, insuring his perfect game.

The boisterous locker room calmed to silence when the team manager called them to order.

Gentlemen, good news and bad-news. We won the game tonight, but we’re losing Jack at the end of the week. Just got the word from Toronto. The GM streamed the last three innings on Wi-Fi.

The news rocked the locker room. Jack Thorn had achieved not just his life’s dream, but the fantasy of every man in the room: The Show.

Cheers and jeers. J.D. hollered, Hey Jack, let’s party hardy!

The manager left and the team hit the showers to prepare for hitting the bars. The population of the small city doubled during its annual Cherry Festival. Everybody was in a very festive mood, including a fresh mob of groupies.

Flores came to Thorn’s locker and offered the game ball. Jack took it and said sincerely, Thanks, Rico, and thanks for making the catch.

No problem, man. I catch them all.

Jack slipped it into the side pocket of his blazer.

When Jack returned from Iraq he had seven months left in his four-year commitment. He was assigned to Twenty-Nine Palms, California as the leader of a recon platoon doing desert training. He loved the desert and the fact that he could play the game again. In his two combat tours, it was hard to even get somebody to play catch with. At Twenty-Nine, they had a team.

At first, he did not comprehend what his new lean physique had done for his pitching. But his catcher and the batters he fanned certainly did. So, too, did a hard-working scout for the Blue Jays. But, if this physical legacy from the War on Terror pleased him, then another souvenir of Iraq and Afghanistan troubled him.

As an officer, Thorn was disqualified from serving as a sniper. Still, he had been trained on the Barrett M1O7 sniper rifle. Through the scope, the shooter focused on a single target, usually only as large as a man’s head and torso, thus, blocking out the rest of the world. Safe in the U.S., Jack found that he could only concentrate on one goal at a time. He was aware of his total environment, but he could not cope with everything at once.

He first noticed it on the mound. If he was behind the batter, say a 3 and 2 count, his field of vision would diminish to only the pocket of the catcher’s mitt. His world would open-up again when the ball thumped into its target. Thorn considered this ability to focus as another positive addition to his game.

However, he soon realized that any type of stress would trigger a similar reaction off the field. Jack’s hyper-vigilance that had served him so well in the fury and chaos of battle had come home with him. When he mustered out of the Corps, he did not disclose these symptoms to the docs, even though they pressed every discharged marine to register any possible PTSD or TBI conditions. Jack accepted what he called his tunnel vision as he had his new pitching prowess.

When Jack reported to the White Caps, he shared a motel room with Kyle Mason, a handsome outfielder from San Diego. Mason convinced him to bar-hop one night. They ended up at a luxury golf and ski resort, where they heard a talented singer in the piano bar. Jack sat at the tiny round table focusing only her gorgeous face as she sang. Kyle had hooked up with a cougar leaving Jack in his fantasy fixation. Thorn vowed to himself that as soon as he achieved his goal of breaking out of the minors, he would return for her.

Now it was time.

He checked himself in the mirror in the almost empty locker room content with the image. He wore starched khakis, his navy blazer and his favorite white tee, which read: Marines can’t even spell Paris on top of the globe and anchor emblem, with Parris Island S. C. beneath it.

The shirt was an XL that fit as tight as spandex over Jack’s six pack abs and perfect pecs. He was shod in his old friends, a pair of almost white Nikes sans socks. He looked like a hunk model for GQ. In the past four-months he had allowed his brown sun-bleached hair to grow over his ears, yielding a shaggy casual look above his thick neck.

As he was leaving the locker room, the manager called out to him. Jack, there is a gorgeous TV reporter here. Says she wants to interview you.

Jack walked briskly to the manager’s office seeing that indeed the reporter was gorgeous. Her camera man asked for an autograph. Her name was Shawna Gillette. Jack gave forth with jock-speak, crediting his team mates for the victory. He wanted to get back to the singer smoky Kristen Cardinal. After three minutes, Shawna’s attention span for baseball expired. They shook hands.

Kristen wore the same red gown, but looked thinner than he remembered. Jack bribed his way to a table near the raised stage to listen while she belted out Oh, thunder only happens when it’s rainin,’ and quipped, I don’t sing as well as Stevie, but I’m hotter!

Jack had given the waiter a small envelope with a poem by Henry Carlyle, The Cardinal. It painted a lovely picture of the red bird in flight ending with the lines: In the bar’s dark I think of him. There are no cardinals here. Only a woman in a red dress.

Jack Thorn, the big jock, was an incurable English major. He not only read poetry, he often wrote lines that he kept to himself.

He watched as she read his cream-colored card. He saw the recognition in her pale blue eyes. The waiter pointed to Jack. Kristen stared, and then said into her mike, Let’s take five.

As she stood, Thorn could see that the gown hung on a body that he did not remember. She walked to his table unsteadily in her spike heels. Jack rose to meet her and she nearly collapsed into his arms, trembling.

You found my poem! It’s a sign. I knew you would come, she whispered as she clung to his broad shoulders.

They were drawing stares from the SRO crowd. Jack confirmed what he had seen. She was not the vibrant woman from just three months ago. He guided her to a seat as a waiter brought a tray with a glass of sparkling water and a single Kool Menthol. He placed the glass before her and took out a Bic, waiting for her to put the cigarette into her mouth. She did this with another noticeable tremble, and then drew in deeply.

She closed her eyes and exhaled, giving Jack her lovely profile. The smoke seemed to calm her. She looked at him and said,

I don’t know your name, but I have prayed that you would come back for me.

Jack Thorn, he drawled, then asked with genuine concern, transparent on his rugged handsome face, Kristen, are you all right?

She coughed on a puff and gagged or giggled, he couldn’t tell which. No, Jack. I’m really fucked up. But now you’re here.

He did not think about his own mental condition as he looked down a fast shrinking tunnel that ended at her gorgeous face.

I am here for you, he said, hearing his deep voice echo back from the tunnel. She sipped the water regaining some of her strength. The nicotine gave her face a blush of color as she stared into his slate blue eyes.

I need–I totally need your help.

Jack heard his echo declare with Semper Fi confidence, Whatever you need, Kristen. Whatever you need.

He watched as her eyes glistened. She closed them and whispered, Oh, thank you Lord! Thank you, thank you, Lord!

She reached across the petite table and grasped his huge rough hand with her small soft ones. Jack felt the urgent strength of her sweaty grip. He repeated, Whatever you need Kristen, I am here for you.

She opened her eyes as she released his hand. Her voice returned to its normal tone. I’ve got one more set. Like twenty minutes. Do you have a gun or anything?

For the past four years of his life, Jack had toted at least three weapons–a Biretta nine- millimeter automatic pistol, a petite Walther PPK, and an M4 assault rifle, not to mention several hand grenades and a K-bar survival knife. But tonight, he was unarmed. He raised both his big hands, hoping for a positive response, Will these do?

He watched as her lips crumple in disappointment.

I hope so, she said as her eyes grimaced shut.

As Kristen Cardinal began her last set, Jack Thorn attempted to make sense of what he had just experienced. Combat and the pressure on the mound had tempered his nerve. It was clear that the formerly vivacious and voluptuous woman was in extreme stress. He concluded that she was sincere in her fear.

Jack listened as she strummed a twelve-string guitar and sang an Eagles’ oldie, Tequila Sunrise, a mournful ballad about a whore. He noted that she seemed to gain the voice and power that he remembered from the first night that he had fallen for her. The crowd heard it too and responded with genuine applause. She stood and bowed, giving them a well-practiced peek at her cleavage. She spoke her canned exit lines with a measure of the confident style that she had exhibited months ago. She smiled at a few calls of Bravo!!! and Encore! She took another bow, and then came to him.

Urgently, she asked Where are you parked?

Out front, he replied.

Her eyes darted around with apprehension and she pleaded, Hurry. I saw him on his phone. He’s calling Manny.

Thorn did not ask who he or Manny was, or what it meant that whoever he was had been on his phone. She was digging her cardinal red fingernails through his linen sleeve. He swept her along out of the night club and into the main lobby with its three-story windows that allowed breathtaking views of white caps on the bay and the lush expanse of the golf course. Just as they reached the door, a chubby fellow with a shaved head called out, Kristen, he can’t give you what you need! You’ll be back.

She shrilled, Fuck you, Kelly!

Jack glared at him. Out the door, he picked her up. He could move faster that way. Hustling now, concentrating with heightened clarity on the narrow path of egress, Jack wished that he had his M4 or at least the Biretta. The large parking lot was full. He had parked his red Mustang on the outer ring. Jack noted that she was not heavy, and that she had a slightly rancid scent.

As he double-timed down the lane toward his car, he had a view of the entrance to the lot. Jack saw a black Escalade careening in off the highway. It turned toward them. Kristen screamed hysterically in his ear when she saw it.

The SUV screeched to a stop about twenty yards to their front. A very big man calmly dismounted calling her name. Jack put her gently down. He had seen the bulge of a shoulder holster under the nylon warm-up jacket that the man wore. Jack stared through the sniper scope at the man’s impassive face.

The enemy drawled with a sneer, Playin’ with fire there, pretty boy. Best go home and jack-off, ’cause I’m takin’ that bitch back to where she belongs.

Several people who were getting into their cars, looked away. Jack saw the enemy’s hand reaching up. He pushed Kristen to her left and commanded, Run!

He was pleased that evidently her adrenaline had overtaken her lethargy. She ran.

The enemy turned to watch her as his hand curled around the butt of his pistol.

Jack pulled out his own weapon. He wound up and threw his 97-mph fastball as the muzzle of a Glock fixed on him. Jack saw panic in the man’s eyes. They both were fortunate that it caught him on the chin rather than on the temple. The enemy screamed as his jawbone splintered. He went down hard, cracking his skull on the asphalt.

Kristen had also gone down, tripping on her gown. Jack scooped her up effortlessly and slid her into the bucket seat.

By the time Jack made his way to the driver’s side, she had fired up a joint. She sucked on it desperately. She did not seem to notice him. He buckled up, cranked the engine and heard the hideous beep-beep-beep of her seat belt alarm. She was leaning back, eyes scrunched shut, oblivious. Jack reached across and got it secured. She looked over at him and asked in a soprano chirp, What did you hit Billy with?

A baseball.

Kristen opened her big pale blue eyes, What?

She took another long toke, puckering her cheeks, and then held it in for a very long time. Sighing her pleasure, she looked at him. I knew you would come. I knew you could save me.

Jack had experimented with marijuana once at age 16. He had committed himself to be a professional athlete, so he avoided drugs and druggies. It was not easy at U of M, and even in the Corps.

It turned him off. Why did young women do it? Didn’t they realize what an insult it was to the male ego? They were saying, I need more than your body and tenderness to please me. Jack had actually walked out on attractive would-be lovers when they pulled out a dubie before sex. Moreover, he thought, it sullied them.

The car filled with the cloying fog. Jack smelled a sharper chemical scent. He demanded, Kristen, What are you on?

Huh?

You heard me! he said firmly.

Her face contorted and she took another drag. She then gave him a dreamy look, Don’t worry; I’m good when I’m high. I’m going to so fuck you.

He let it go.

Jack backed into the carport so that the license plate would not be exposed. Although he did not give a moment’s thought to the enemy he had left in the parking lot, Jack did consider the possibility of a threat from his cohorts or even a visit from the police.

A mellow Kristen swooned into his arms as he carried her up to his spartan studio apartment. He laid her on the bed, then immediately went to the closet and unlocked a metal box–his armory. It contained his Biretta 92S and a Walther PPK that his dad had given him when he shipped out to Iraq. He considered the two weapons and withdrew the petite PPK. He checked the action, sliding in an eight-round magazine. Thorn slipped the compact .32 into his left front pocket. He put two extra clips in his right one.

Kristen called to him. Yoo hoo! Remember me?

Jack was focused on preparing for combat. He did not respond. Kristen got up and shimmied out of her strapless gown. She wore no bra or panties. She hummed the old instrumental, The Stripper, dancing suggestively in front of him. Her stick figure body did not resemble the obsessive vision he had created of her. She sashayed to him and embraced him, grinding her bony hips into his. Her greedy toking on the joint and her pasty nakedness deflated him, but he did not have the heart to reject this fragile little bird. She liked female superior. When each had climaxed, she did not move or remove him. She began to snore. Jack gently slid out from under her and tucked her in.

He looked down at her, not seeing the young blond woman whom he had dreamt of for the last few months. Instead, he saw one of his marines bleeding out on a dusty path in Kandahar province. He reached his hand to his left hip where his canteen should have been. He pronounced, mechanically, You’ll be alright. Don’t worry. We’ll get you home.

During the night she writhed and screamed, ripping the covers off her sweating body. Jack could not sleep. He looked at her slimmer body. Unlike his, her new figure had not been good for her. He noticed a scab on her ankle. Carefully, Jack examined it. As he did so, he saw several other punctures on the veins of her feet. Heroin, he thought. He recalled what the chubby shaved head bozo had said, Kristen, he can’t give you what you need!

The slob was right.

At 6:30 Jack called the team physician. After apologizing for the early call, he asked if there was an inpatient drug rehab clinic in town. The doctor, awake now, replied, Of course.

Thorn, sounding harsher than he intended, demanded, Could you admit a patient?

Jack, is it you?

No. Meet me there in an hour. Patient’s name is Kristen Cardinal.

* * *

Kelly watched the ball smash into Billy Carlson’s acne scarred face. He ran to the man and grabbed the Glock 17 from the unconscious man’s hand. He didn’t give a damn if Billy were alive or dead. He rudely grabbed and dragged the dead weight of his colleague into the still idling Escalade. He peeled rubber and sped off into the night. J. Kelly Banks took out his Smartphone and made a call that he dreaded. After one ring a gruff voice said, Kell, tell me you got ’er.

Kelly went into his default mode of blaming someone else. Billy fucked it up. Think he’s dead.

Banks was told in no uncertain terms to get Kristen. For the first time in his recollection, Kelly heard panic in his friend’s voice. Frantic, he speed-dialed a Sat Phone. It took seven rings before a slurred hello. Kelly ordered, Check this plate. NL 7201, late model red Mustang. Tell your people to pull it over.

Kelly did not wait for the sheriff to acknowledge any pleasantries. He sat and tried to think about how to save the business. He slapped Billy who moaned in pain.

* * *

Thorn wrapped a cranky Kristen in a blanket and hefted her emaciated body down to the Mustang. He found Kristen’s clutch purse on the floor of the passenger seat, condoms, two custom rolled joints, and a pill box with seven suspicious pills. Also, a Michigan Driver’s license: Kristen Marie Christiansen, witn an address in Acme. DOB 4/27/88. No cash, no credit cards, and incredibly, no cell phone.

Doctor Hogan looked grim when he met Jack at the door of Maple Rest. He had the admission paperwork all ready. The clerk asked Jack who would be financially responsible. Thorn signed without hesitation. He looked down at her, seeing only her face as if he were looking through a sniper scope. He heard her whisper, I knew you would come. I prayed for you!

Jack did not hear the young nurse who said, in a monotone, She’s still out. We can draw blood without a fight.

Kristen was taken to her room. Hogan said, We have a drug problem here in paradise. It’s bad-news, Jack.

Thorn recalled that she had said, He’s calling Manny! Jack asked the doctor, Does he have a Kelly and a Billy working for him? I neutralized Billy last night.

Dr. Hogan leaned in, with a serious tone, It’s no joke, Jack. I don’t know any names, but they’ve got a helluva lot of thugs working for them. They also got the sheriff in their pocket. Your little cardinal must be their property.

Jack shrugged dismissively, thanking the doctor sincerely. Before leaving the clinic, Thorn entered the 24-hour telephone number into his phone.

It was 8:30 when Jack pulled out of the long tree lined drive of Maple Rest to head back into the city. He was starving. With Kristen safe and secure, his field of vision had widened to include most of his world, including his stomach. Jack smacked his lips as he thought of a massive breakfast at a Mom-and-Pop diner on Front Street. The thought ended as he focused suddenly on a police cruiser coming toward him. Deputy A. J. Kincaid in the cruiser had a similar reaction to Jack’s red Mustang.

She began to plan her high-speed U-turn as she passed him. She began the maneuver when she confirmed the letters and numbers on Jack’s license tag in her rear-view mirror. The observant deputy skidded onto the gravel shoulder, reducing her speed to 30 mph. After making certain that no oncoming traffic would be affected, she whipped the wheel to her left while pushing her pedal to the metal.

Kincaid grinned with satisfaction as she controlled the fishtailing marked cruiser onto the northbound lane. When she closed on the Mustang, she activated both lights and siren. Thorn saw it coming and hit his right blinker as he slowed down, preparing to pull over. Jack had allowed the fresh morning air to evacuate Kristen’s marijuana stench. He hoped that the ventilation had succeeded.

Thorn killed the engine and placed his big hands at Ten and Two on the steering wheel so-as-to keep them in the officer’s sight. He glanced at his rear-view mirror, noting that the cop was a blond woman. She did not appear to be radioing in her location and situation. He thought, That’s odd.

Jack watched as she dismounted. She adjusted her equipment belt with an eye pleasing jiggle and walked purposefully toward the driver’s side of his red car. He turned toward the road where vehicles in both directions were rubber necking at the traffic stop, or more likely, at the statuesque female deputy.

Adrienne Kincaid knew quite a bit about this driver. Along with her dad, brother and twelve-year-old nephew, she had watched him pitch a no-hitter last night. Now, more interesting, was the BOLO that she had found on her on-board Sheriff’s Department cruiser’s computer. It had given the description of late model Mustang, red in color with a Michigan license tag number. The message commanded, Stop and detain driver. Advise Magnum ASAP. Magnum was the call sign of Barry Fields, the elected county Sheriff. The order did not indicate the reason for the stop and detain.

Deputy Kincaid had been in the department for only a month, but, as an experienced cop, she thought that this order was odd. Before beginning her shift, Kincaid ran the plate number and discovered the name of the owner. Recognizing it immediately, she googled his name on her personal iPhone 6. The most recent hit from the local sports page described Thorn’s college and military careers. It also included a nice head shot of his handsome rugged face.

She also ran his full name, John Henry Thorn through the LIEN machine. She was pleased to see that he had no outstanding warrants and no criminal record. The possibility of meeting him and the fact that Magnum had ordered his detention intrigued her personally and professionally.

Jack saw a tall, full-figured woman walk briskly to his window. She surprised him by greeting him with a sparkling smile. She declared confidently, Jack Thorn, you WILL give me an autograph, or I will bust your jar head ass!

The warm morning breeze was at the deputy’s back and the bright sun was illuminating her face. Jack breathed in a clean female scent and gazed at a strikingly healthy woman. He could not help but think of Kristen’s emaciated chemical stinking body. He liked her attitude and her language. Noting her confident air of command, he guessed that she had been in the military. He replied with an equally confident smile, Yes ma’am. Whatever you demand. Which branch? Where did you serve?

As she looked him over, she thought that he looked better in person than in his photos. She responded, Same two hell holes that you did, Marine. Then she slapped her palm on the inside panel of the door of his car with her right hand. He saw a large U. S. Military Academy ring. Thorn knew immediately what the clattering noise meant. He laughed, One of those Academy types. I was a humble ROTC grad.

They talked briefly about their War on Terror experiences agreeing that too many of their comrades had died or been blown to brain-damaged bits for nothing. With that bond established, Kincaid thought that she could ask, I need a big favor.

Reading her name tag and checking her left hand, Jack tossed back with proper grammar, As I said, Miss Kincaid, whatever you demand.

The attractive deputy explained what she needed in a professional, earnest voice. Jack listened intently to this intense gorgeous woman. He concluded correctly that she was only giving him fragments of the story, but he trusted her. He thought back to the hours of monotonous arduous Marine Corps training. When his buddies complained, Jack would respond, What else have we got to do? He had two days before he had to report to the Blue Jays in Toronto for HR processing. He grinned and declared to this very intriguing young woman, I’m in!

Adrienne June Kincaid had conceived of her plan when she saw the red Mustang coming toward her. When she pulled him over, she violated the department’s standing procedures and did not activate the on-board video camera. She bade Jack to remain in his car. She hustled back to the county cruiser and turn on the dash-cam to capture the first act of her plan.

CHAPTER TWO

S heriff Barry Magnum Fields sat transfixed to the monitor. was watching the video of Kincaid’s arrest of this loser Thorn, who at the moment was cooling his smart-ass heels in an interrogation room. Barry had been elected after his father had died in a heroic shootout. The no-talent son had won the election on name recognition of the martyred father. The senior Fields had been an honest if not brilliant law man who had served his county well for over thirty years. Unlike his father, Barry suffered from delusions and appetites that severely challenged his judgment and stabi lity.

Fields had hired Kincaid not only because she was eminently qualified, but also because he thought she was hot. Kincaid had applied to the department on the orders of Lieutenant Brittany Fuller of the Michigan State Police, who suspected serious problems within Fields’ department. Barry had hit on her at the initial interview. The bitch had rejected his proposition with a professional dismissal.

The Magnum enjoyed sex with his female subordinates more for the power than for the pleasure of it. The snobby bitch was a local girl who had graduated from West Point. She had resigned her captain’s commission in the Military Police after tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Fields had to admit that she was as diligent as she was sexy. His Under Sheriff and the rest of his command staff irritated him by singing her praises. Barry had a shit load of crises on his plate and a cocaine monkey on his back. He should have been happy to have her on his team. However, he had a visceral distrust of her Miss Perfect persona. He wondered about a person of her qualifications willing to take an entry level position. And his ego could never forget her rejection of his inflated macho self-image.

Fields paused the video when Kincaid was in profile as she brought the big arrestee around the back of his Mustang. He snickered, "Look at those breasts! I’ve got to get into those! I’ll bet ‘The Man’ could get me