Vengeful Bounty
Vengeful Bounty
By Jillian Kidd
Copyright 2011 by Jillian Kidd
Cover Copyright 2011 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Copyright for song “Just Friends” by Alisha Johnson.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Vengeful Bounty
By Jillian Kidd
For Alisha, my long-time friend and cheerleader, who believed in Mina back when she was only an idea.
Contents
“You trust my driving, right?” Colt asked.
His eyes darted to my hand that I kept floating above the door bar in case I needed to grab hold. The digital speedometer topped 80 mph.
“Sure, I do,” I said. “I just don't trust everyone else on the road. Speed limit's 60.”
“Hah! That's for tourists.”
Colt loved his cars. But his 2008 Dodge Charger was his baby. I wish I could tell you how much he spent on revamping the 45-year-old vehicle to have hover capabilities, and how much he spent daily on speakers and paint jobs and transparent technology and whatever else he's done to it, but I probably couldn't do the math. Math never was my strong point.
Bounty hunting was.
Although Colt did his share of going after the “Bad Fish,” it wasn't a full-time career for him like it was for me; it was more of his hobbyâan extremely dangerous, adrenaline-pumping hobby that just happened to be my full-time job
and
the love of my life (love of my life except for maybe homemade chocolate lava cake, which, I have to say to you lonely, single men that might be wondering, is most definitely the way to a woman's heart).
A Scorpions' song came on the classic oldies station and Colt cranked up the volume until I felt the bass and drums vibrate ass-kicking energy through my body, readying me for action. As soon as the lyrics crashed in, Colt sang with them at perfect, ridiculously loud pitch. I couldn't help it; I cracked up with delight and relaxed.
His hair changed about every time I saw him. Tonight it was purple and flying everywhere like some midnight elf's mane from some classic fantasy novel. His eyes were a similar shade of violet; he enjoyed switching out different colored contacts almost as much as he changed his hair. He tapped the steering wheel and belted out all the rockin' wails while I grabbed the door handle a little tighter and the evening Dallas lights whizzed by out the window. Colt tends to drive faster depending on the speed of the song. I swear the man is hard-wired to music.
An old 2022 Buick with wheels held us up and we slowed from 80 mph to about 40. As if the tires weren't a dead giveaway, the wheelchair symbol on the license plate made Colt groan.
“All right, wrinkles, if you aren't going to drive, then get off the highway!” he said. “The law really should outlaw wheels.”
“Come on, now. Granddad still drives wheels,” I said. “It makes the older generation feel safe.”
“It's not safe. They get flats. They're totally grounded. Stupid wheels.”
He opened his mouth and matched the song's wild wailing vocals as he flipped the Charger's up signal switch and checked the mirror on the dash that would reveal any hover vehicles that might be above us in a blind spot. Clear and good to go.
With his heel he pressed the elevation pedal that stuck out from under his seat like a metal tongue and up we went, over the slow car, and down in front of it, hovering the five legal inches above the road.
“Few miles and we'll be there,” Colt said, taking the exit to the right.
I nodded, getting focused on the task at hand mentally and emotionally.
Tonight's Bad Fish was Nando Gutierrez. He headed the Texas branch of a national organization called “The Flowers of Eden.” Nando was what we bounty hunters liked to call an “Octopus,” meaning the type of criminal who has a lot of hands that kidnap for him. This Octopus's prey happened to be young beautiful women, whom he hooked and kept on a steady stream of drugs, and then sold to the richest pervert bidder.
But like most criminals, Nando had gotten careless. He liked to frequent the dance clubs in the Metroplex, and he'd put enough of his trust in people he thought he could buy off to keep his whereabouts a secret. Luckily for us, one of the people he'd paid was Colt's long-time friend Aaron.
Aaron worked at The Den of Iniquity, or as the club-frequents called it: “Sin Den.” He got an extra $5,000 ahead of time in his bi-weekly paycheck if he would keep mum about Nando's occasional visit. And if the money wasn't enough of a motivator, the threat to kill him should have been.
But fearing death wasn't in Aaron's nature (one couldn't be afraid of anything and still remain friends with my brother), and besides that, he had plans to quit his job tomorrow and disappear. How timely! Apparently he was tired of Dallas and wanted to move north.
“Where's Aaron going again?” I asked.
“Canada.”
“He need any help changing his identity?”
“Nope. Got it covered.”
The song gave way to a commercial:
“Be the first in line to order your new incinerator. Available at all House Aid stores
now
for only $399.99. This new model from Hoover is guaranteed to be safe for children and has updated organic-safety sensors that prevent accidental burns.”
I crossed my arms and took a deep breath. I glanced at Colt, whose brow was now furrowed in thought. The collar of his red plastic flex-wear jacket was flipped up, but I could still tell from the little twitches of his mouth that he was chewing on the inside of his cheek, just like he did when he was a little boy and deep in thought.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked. “Does he know what could happen?”
Colt gave me a look. “He knows.”
“And you're sure we can trust him?”
“Yep.”
“He's really moving to Canada?”
“Mina! Trust me. You've got to trust people.”
“I do, I just don't trust people I don't know. And sometimes I don't trust people I do know.”
Colt reached over and turned the radio station away from the commercials and onto a Technopop station. Not my favorite kind of music. Everybody listened to it because that was the thing to do. And I wasn't about to be like everybody. Especially when the majority of the lyrics of that type of music were mindless, and the singers' voices could be as bad as a bleating goat but you'd never know because they were covered up by all the electronic distortion. Give me the late, great Metallica any day. I don't care if it
is
old fogey music.
A song I didn't know with a synthesized merry-go-round-like tune and dripping water sound effects played. All I could make of the echoing male singer's voice was:
“Goin' round, goin' round, goin' round. Girl, you got me goin' round.”
Wow. Really poetic. Ahem.
“Oh,” Colt said. He pulled out a flat black holodisk from his glove compartment. “Here, look at this. Nando's pic and stats.”
“I've seen him already.”
“Okay, well, have you seen Roberto yet?”
“Umm, hmm, let me think.”
Actually, I hadn't ever paid much attention to Roberto Franco's images. Roberto went wherever Nando went. He was sort of a right-hand tentacle to the big, bad Octopus. His job at the club was to page Nando's mini-plane to come and fetch him from the roof if Nando was in danger.
My
job was to seduce Roberto and get him out of the way so the plane would
not
be paged and Colt and I could nab the bounty.
I pressed a little green button on the side of the holodisk. Appearing above the flat surface in the air was a translucent hologram of a twinkling star.
“Is he already programmed in here?” I asked.
“Doi! I wouldn't have given it to you if he wasn't.”
“Hey, don't doi me. It's happened before.”
“Because of glitches,” he said with a chuckle.
“Mm-hmm.”
Then he started perfectly singing that God-awful merry-go-round song, dancing robotically to each pulse as if he'd written the tune.
Ignoring him, I said, “Roberto Franco,” and the hologram star began to twirl.
The star disappeared, and jumping out of the disk in its stead was the translucent image of a man, perhaps a few years older than I, making him around 30. He looked Italian, dark hair and eyes, and a smile that could melt most women. I say most because I've seen that bullshit smile a million times before and I knew what it was about. I did so enjoy wiping it off the faces of these so-called “men.” Stillâ¦
“He's kind of hot,” I said, unable to suppress a smile. “I guess if I have to drag anybody off into the shadows, he's not bad. Not at all like Billsworth Farmington. Ugh, I don't think I'll ever be able to get the memory of that blubbo's tongue out of my mouth.”
“Hah! Hey, go for it! Have some fun!” Then, he had to say, “You know, Sis, you should start dating again.”
Just absolutely
had
to go there, didn't he? And we were having such a nice evening.
This time, it was my turn to shoot my brother a look.
“What,” I said, “so I can be a little girl-treat like you?”
“Hey! No need to insult! I date a lot and have fun. That doesn't make me a whore. You know, some people would say you're a prude. You
never
get out anymore.”
“Whatever.” I was getting angry. Anger was good for tonight. I let it settle into my blood and pump through my limbs. “I like my independence.”
“Mina. I'm not trying to start anything, but I just thinkâ¦that youâ¦maybe need to get over Damon.”
“I
am
over him.” I put on a more nonchalant air, with some effort, to prove my point. “I told you and everybody else I was.”
“Then why don't you date again?”
I turned off the holodisk and put it back in the glove compartment, latching the box shut with a firm
click
.
“Because. I don't feel like it,” I said. “My career's coming first right now.”
“You women.” Colt grinned from ear to ear. “You always think he's going to come back.”
“Well?” I shrugged. “Eventually, he probably will come back, but that doesn't mean that I'll be here waiting for him with open arms.”
“You are right now with your no dating crap.”
“Changing subjects now!” I raised a finger and pointed it at him. “If we get this guy tonight, I'll only have two more Fish to nab before I get Global Status. I'll be legal to fly around the world and catch the seriously Big Bad Fish and wallow in the cash flow, while you're stuck here, still trying to get your 25 catches.”
“I don't care about that. And probably the only reason you want to go Global is to find Damon.”
“Not true.”
We turned right and began to see the flashing lights of the club district and people wearing the latest in glowing flex-ware fashion walking from one hot spot to the next. I hate plastic clothes. I'll stick to comfortable cloth over chafed underarms any day.
“Listen,” Colt said. “We're almost there. And I'm only going to say one more thing about it, and that is I think Damon ditched you without giving you any details because he didn't want to be with you. It was wrong of him, and I'm sorry. And if he comes back, you shouldn't give him the time of day. Besides, he's like a decade older than you! Forget
marrying
the cocksucker! Give that man a
cane!
”
I let him cackle at his little joke for a minute. Working quite successfully to keep myself the better, more composed person and good example of an older sister, I smiled.
“Okay, and I'll say, only brother of mine, that first of all, age doesn't matter. And second of all, he went after a Big Fish overseas. He didn't just âditch' me. Besides, it wasn't like he left me for another woman. He's on a very important mission.”
“Then why did you tell me that the last time you talked to him, he was withâ”
“I don't know what that was all about! But I told you that I told him he needed to come home before I'd speak to him again. Point made.”
“Has he come home yet?”
“No,” I said. “You know that. I'm changing the subject now.”
He didn't hear me. “Then the guy doesn't care! He didn't even give you the name of the person he's hunting! I think it's a complete crock, if you ask me.”
I tried to think of something to say that wouldn't involve a string of expletives. I knew that it'd been six months since my last conversation with Damon Wolfe. I could still see his video phone transmission as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.
I'd had no clue where he was (not unusual, even if he'd been home), but he'd been staring at me, in that intense, lightning-blue-eyed way he always did, with that long auburn hair braided down his back, and the tattoos of the two wolves, one white and one black, on his forearms. And the long-raven-haired “partner” he'd met that was helping him. He definitely had some explaining to do. But I think I held my ground during the conversation. If he wasn't going to give me details of his little mission, then I wasn't going to hear any of it. He kept too many secrets, and if we were going to move to that next level, he was going to have to learn to open up to me.
“He didn't tell me details because he wanted to keep me safe,” I said, trying to convince myself more than to explain to Colt. “That's what he said.”
“Sis, you're a bounty hunter. Your entire way of life isn't safe.”
He had a point.
We pulled into Sin Den's parking lot. Colt had to park the Charger way at the back, as the festivities of the evening were well underway. I'd never graced The Den of Iniquity with my presence before, though I'd heard about it enough on the radio and from acquaintances. The building didn't look like much to me on the outside, more like a cement mesa with a little glowing doorway at the bottom. But inside, well, we were about to see.
The merry-go-round song stopped, and another more up-beat melody with synthesized drums and a little guitar riff trickled into my ears.
“Hey! It's your friend!” Colt said, delighted as if it were Christmas.
“Oh, is that Jackson?” I asked with a little smile.
Okay, I'm friends with a Technopop star. Sacrilege, I know, especially for a classic oldies rock aficionado like myself. And even worse, I had known Jackson Kincade for a couple of years and still hadn't really listened to one of his songs, much less gone to a concert. Part of me didn't want the friendship to be ruined because I hated the music, so I didn't give myself the chance to listen and loathe. And the other part of me just didn't flat have the time or patience to listen to
any
new music.