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“Goddamn it,” Trip grumbled under his breath. He glanced back at the cop. “Need to reach back into the vehicle to grab some of that.”
“Then do it. Just don’t be dumb about it, like you were heading up that mountain by yourself.”
Trip pinned his lips together to keep his trap shut. Once he gathered what he needed, he slammed the door shut and headed toward the cruiser.
The cop’s palm went up immediately. “Don’t. Just take a couple steps forward and face the truck. Put the paperwork in one hand, put both palms on the fender and spread your feet.”
“Just doin’ my job,” Trip called out, trying not to let his blood surge.
“Just doing mine,” he got back.
“Don’t need to harass hard workin’ folk.”
“That what you are?” Trip heard as the cop approached.
“You don’t know me.”
“Know about you. Know what you’re wearing. Know why you’re here today. Just keeping you from making a bigger mistake than the ones you made in your past.”
They’d run him.
Fuck.
“What bigger mistake?” Trip asked.
“Ending up dead.”
Trip continued to stare at the rusty fender of the wrecker when he asked, “Why do you care if I end up dead?”
“It’s a lot of fucking paperwork. And you getting taken out by one or more of the Shirley Clan will attract the FBI.”
Trip’s simmering blood suddenly went cold.
“Yeah, didn’t think you’d want the FBI to come into town. We don’t want those pricks here, either.” The cop stepped behind him and pulled the paperwork out of Trip’s fingers. “Keep your hands there while I pat you down. Got any weapons on you? Anything that might stick me? Like a needle or a knife?”
“Fuck no.” Though, if the pig searched the truck’s cab, he’d not only find the Ruger, he’d find a buck knife in the glove box.
Then Trip would find himself wearing bracelets again. And he hated wearing jewelry.
Best to cooperate.
The cop kicked Trip’s feet out wider and ran his hands over him from his head—pulling his hat off first and tossing it onto the wrecker’s bed—all the way to his boots. Making sure to check his waistline, his inside-out cut and his ankles thoroughly.
He picked up Trip’s hat next and inspected it. “Got a cuff key hidden anywhere?”
“Am I being cuffed?”
“Not at this time.”
“Then I guess it doesn’t matter.”
Trip heard nothing but his heart in his ears for a few beats before the pig said, “You can relax as long as you promise to cooperate.”
“You’d trust a promise from me?” Trip asked, turning around.
Even wearing dark sunglasses, this cop looked eerily similar to the one this morning, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t. Their voices were a touch different, too. But they were definitely related in some way.
“You mentioned the Shirley Clan,” Trip said as he read the cop’s name tag. “There a Bryson Clan, too?”
“We’re working on it,” the cop muttered, shook his head and then inspected the blown out back window. He moved to the back of the truck, fingering a few of the bullet holes in the bed that held the wrecker’s sling. He glanced down at the paperwork in his hand. “Your insurance company isn’t going to be happy.”
“You gonna write a report?”
A dark eyebrow lifted above the sunglasses. “You want one?”
Trip pursed his lips. “Nope. I’ll pay out of pocket.”
“Expensive lesson.” He inspected a few more holes then turned to Trip as he pointed to a hand-painted red and white octagon sign at the entrance to the dirt road. “See that no trespassing sign there?”
“You mean the one that says violators will be shot on sight?”
“Yep, that’s the one.”
“Guess I shoulda took it more seriously.”
“You think? If we can’t avoid going up there, we take CERT—our county emergency response team—with us, which is our equivalent of SWAT. But we prefer not to go up there at all. They prefer it, too.”
“They always like that?”
The cop nodded. “Unless your last name is Shirley, you don’t go up that mountain.”
“They all inbred?”
“Since their last names are all Shirley, I’ll give you one guess.”
“How’d you know I was here?”
“You dropped off the repo paperwork at the station. My brother, who happens to be the chief, radioed me to make sure we didn’t have to deal with a murder. You were already hauling ass down the mountain when I arrived. Couldn’t miss the scream of that old truck’s engine. Or the shots ringing through the woods.”
“So, you woulda stopped me?”
“Yep. Better way to deal with that clan.”
“Need to repo one of their cars so I can get paid.”
Bryson chuckled. “Think you’re the first to try to repo one of their cars?”
“Did anyone die tryin’?”
That chuckle died. “Nope and we’d like to keep it that way. Best way to do it is to have someone stake out Walmart. They come into town once a week, but not on the same day or time. They mix it up, so they don’t establish a pattern. Eventually they’ll come down and you can snag the vehicle right from the parking lot. And if they’re not driving that one, they might be driving another one they fucked a sales lot out of the money.”
