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Though Caleb had moved to South Dakota sight unseen, he was the only one who didn’t work at the garage alongside the others. He helped out on weekends, enjoying the camaraderie as well as the opportunity to work with his hands, but he had always felt the tug of a higher purpose spurring him onward. If he no longer patched people up in the Army, then he’d save them on the force. This was all well and good and had the air of heroism, which had undoubtedly gotten him the badge in the first damn place, but saving anyone was tangential to his true motivation for trading one uniform for another. As he rolled past Burnout, locked up tight for the night as his brothers were at home with their families, Caleb swept the mounted searchlight over the gravel lot that lay beyond the padlocked gate. Satisfied that it was secure, he continued on toward the honky-tonk just a few blocks down.
Maria’s had been Maria’s longer than Caleb himself had been a resident of Rapid City. Rumor had it that the bar’s namesake had blown into town as a tough-talking, twenty-something, and had gotten hired at a roughneck bar called The Waterin’ Hole, and promptly told the owner that one day she’d own the place.
Maria’d had a rocky start in life as little more than a club whore for a one-percenter gang. She’d escaped that life, though, found herself a job, and true to her sharply-edged word, one day the sign for the Hole had indeed come down and Maria’s name had gone up in its place. She and her husband, Thomas, ran the place themselves. Maria’s bar catered to a roughneck crowd, her kind of people—bikers, cowboys (in denim work shirts, not rhinestones) and more than a few ex-military. As much as they were Maria’s kind of people, she and Thomas found it difficult to keep the peace on some nights. Maria kept a shotgun behind the bar, but when that wasn’t enough, she had a few ex-Army Rangers at her back most Friday and Saturday nights. On weekdays, Caleb started and ended his patrol with a drive-by that took him past the garage and the bar.
He rolled past now, keeping a keen eye on the people coming out. None of the women seemed particularly drunk or reluctant to go with whomever they’d picked up. Caleb circled the block and parked across the street, making his presence clearly visible underneath the street light. It was a bit early, the parking lot only held a few stragglers. He’d wait here for half an hour and then return at closing time. He had only stayed 20 minutes, though, before his radio squawked out a call—the call, as luck would have it. As he reached for his radio, fingers tingling, he heard Otto’s voice alerting dispatch he was en route. Otto gave his 20 as almost six blocks closer to the scene than Caleb, but the address wasn’t far, and it wasn’t just a call—it was the call. Caleb gripped the button on the hand-held mike so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
“Dispatch, this is 3080. En route. ETA less than five,” he said then he slapped the mike back into the cradle and pulled off the curb.
“Negative, 3080,” the male dispatcher replied. “5210 already en route.”
Caleb switched off the radio and pretended not to have heard. He gunned the cruiser’s engine and ran the stale yellow traffic light at the end of the street. As he sailed through the first intersection, he switched on the lights and siren. In truth, he was probably less than three minutes away, as the roads were dry and rush hour traffic had subsided. He nudged the wheel and took the corner hard. The tires held, though, and the car rocketed down the main drag.
The address wasn’t in a swanky community. It was a neighborhood of run-down little one-story ranches just beyond the steel mill. Not perfect, but it’d do. Caleb hadn’t had a call in a few weeks and he was edgy from the lack of endorphins and adrenaline that now coursed through his system. Two turns later, he spotted Otto’s cruiser parked in a gravel drive, blocking both parked civilian cars. Caleb yanked the wheel, skidded to a stop, and threw the gear shift into park. He launched himself out of the vehicle, slamming the door behind him. Instinctively, he ran his palm over his chest and down to the Glock at his hip. Vest on, gun ready. He didn’t unsnap the holster, though, to make for a quicker draw. Caleb wouldn’t let it come down to a gunfight if he could avoid it.
Where was the fun in that?
Chapter 3
“Hey,” said the skip, this time kicking the seat.
“Oh, you can talk now,” said Izzy, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “Good. Thought I’d given you a stroke.”
