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Hank’s latest offense was burglary, but it wasn’t his first time. Though he did his time behind bars, he’s still on parole and required to update his contact information anytime he relocates. He’s supposed to attend anger management meetings once a week and stay away from drugs and alcohol. The idiot would’ve gotten away with the latter if he hadn’t ghosted his parole officer and missed his last court date. Now the bond company wants his ass back in jail so they don’t get stuck with Hank’s debt.
And that’s when they hire me.
Fugitive recovery agent, at your service.
Not a bad job for a guy who likes to travel and find any excuse to knock idiots off their feet. I played football in college, so I’ve had my ass kicked plenty of times, but these self-sabotaging morons think they’re tough enough to fight or outrun me.
I wear a tactical belt and bulletproof vest for protection when I’m working. My shotgun remains tucked under my seat, filled with less-lethal ammunition. It’s mostly a scare tactic, and I’ve never had to pull the trigger while on a job, but I’ve threatened plenty of assholes with it who’ve tried to get away. My Taser is kept in a holster opposite from my gun, which I’ve used plenty. After demanding they stop running and get down on the ground, and them repeatedly not listening, I taze them if I’m within reach. For precaution, I carry an extra set of handcuffs and pepper spray too. Chasing them when they’re drunk off their asses is entertaining and happens often, so I wear lightweight boots.
Most of my targets are men, but every once in a while, I have a female fugitive. They’re not as easy to figure out, but women never are anyway. They hide out with friends or family and are usually quicker at getting away. Using physical force on a lady isn’t something I like to do, though I find that ironic, considering how often I’ve been kicked in the junk. After dropping to my knees more times than I want to admit, I’ve learned how to maneuver my body to avoid it. Regardless, there’s always that one little firecracker who’s quicker than me and manages to connect.
Just thinking about it makes me cringe.
Men don’t go that route. No, they go for the jaw, face, or gut. But at six feet four and two hundred and thirty pounds, most guys are lucky to throw one punch before I take them down.
Different tactics are also used to find women. Thanks to today’s technology and the urge to post everything on social media, it’s easy to stalk them online. Popular dating apps have also successfully helped me find these criminals. After I send a sexy little message with some harmless flirting, it tends to lead to a motel room hookup. Once they arrive, I flash a crooked smirk, spin my shiny handcuffs around my finger, and then right when they think I’m about to tear off their clothes, I arrest them. Nine times out of ten, they think it’s foreplay—some of them even believe we’re role-playing or that I’m into rough sex—until I explain who I am, who I work for, and that I’m taking them to jail.
That’s when I get cussed out, and their knee aims for my most prized possession.
After I wrangle them into the back seat of my truck and buckle them in, the pleading and bribery usually start. I’ve been offered the world’s best blowjob over a dozen times, twice my salary, and even anal sex.
Once I turn down their not-so-tempting offers, I get the pleasure of hearing how the bail bond company made a mistake as they proclaim their innocence, but they eventually give up and tell me off. I listen for as long as I can before tuning them out and telling them to zip their mouth, or I’ll zip it for them.
Hank finally pulls into a driveway and stumbles out of the car before making his way to the door. He barges in without knocking first, which tells me he knows whoever lives here. Legally, I can enter anyone’s house without a warrant as long as I can guarantee the person I’m tracking is inside. When a defendant signs the bail bond contract, they waive their constitutional rights and agree to be arrested by a bail bond agent. Forced entry isn’t something I prefer to do, but after three days of this shit, I decide this is it.
I put on my vest, double-check my gun is loaded before holstering it, and then turn off my truck. Walking toward the house, I crouch and peek inside the front window. Squinting, I see him sitting on a sofa with a lady, smoking from a glass pipe.
Dumbass motherfucker.
He’ll bolt the moment I knock, so I covertly go to the front door and secure my gun in front of me. From what I could see, he didn’t have any weapons, but that doesn’t mean something’s not hiding in his pants or shoes. Taking a large step back, I inhale a sharp breath before kicking in the door with my boot. It flies open, and I rush forward, pointing the revolver at Hank as soon as I see him.
