Hopefully, that’s just the first of many crimes we charge him with. This fucker deserves never to see the light of day again.
He doesn’t flinch at the accusation. “You gonna let me put my junk back in my pants?”
“Not a fucking chance. Best I’ll do is untuck your shirt to cover you up so you don’t flash everyone when I perp walk you out of the bar. And that’s only for the benefit of the innocent people out there who don’t deserve to have their night ruined.”
When we walk out of the bathroom, I catch sight of McBride’s fucking cowboy hat, towering above the crowd.
He’s the first to spot me, heading over with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Hoo boy, whatcha got there, rook?”
I don’t answer his question because it isn’t one. And I’m not a fucking rookie.
Since Agent McBride arrived with the rest of the unit, he’s outfitted with comms, and he alerts the team. “Stand down. Suspect in cuffs. Scene secure.” He joins me, gripping Riddick by the opposite elbow, and we lead him out unceremoniously.
When we enter the main part of the bar, a half dozen agents swarm the room. Not with weapons drawn, but simply making their presence known. I glance at the booth where Ginny Lawrence was seated moments ago. Luckily, she’s still there.
Her head whips around, likely noticing the increasing FBI presence.
“Agent McBride, take this POS outside and read him his rights.” When he nods in agreement, I hand Riddick over to him. “There’s someone I need to talk to before she leaves.”
Feet in motion, I scan for Andrews. We lock eyes briefly, and I wave him toward our secondary target.
The grieving girlfriend notices my rapid approach. Her eyes widen, and her jaw drops. After quickly grabbing her purse, she scoots toward the edge of the half-moon-shaped booth. Suppose she’s gonna try to make a quick escape.
Not today.
Arriving right in the nick of time, I slide onto the edge of the seat to block her exit. Our thighs brush, and she reacts instantly, jerking in the other direction. Stupid plan, since it’s a big ass booth she’d have to get around to flee. Even without the agents hovering, she has no chance of escaping.
Casually, I address her. “Mind if I join you? I’m a big fan of the Bucs.”
Fact. Baker Mayfield was sent to save us.
Well, for the first half of most seasons, at least. We’re still working on finishing strong. But I digress.
Ginny’s only response is to continue frantically rounding the booth. Figured she’d give up by the halfway point to save herself from the sticky plastic seat I hear attacking the back of her legs with each scoot.
Guilty people can’t help but run.
Actually, that’s not quite true.Stupidguilty people always run. The intelligent ones think they can talk their way out of it.
Andrews joins us at the table, blocking the other side. He grins at her cordially, resembling a friend who arrived for drinks. “Hi, Ginny. I wasn’t expecting to see you until we resumed our questioning tomorrow. Glad to see you’re feeling better.”
Panic-stricken, she bounces her gaze between Andrews and me. “Listen, I just needed a drink. That ain’t a crime, is it?”
Aiming to appear nonthreatening, my partner nonchalantly unfolds his hands on the table, showing her his empty palms. “Not a crime at all. It’s a little odd that you had to travel across the state to find a drink. And your company is questionable.”
Perplexed, Ginny looks at me.
I roll my eyes. “He meant the felon I just arrested.”
“Is that what I meant?” Andrews quips, smirking at me with far too much delight for the occasion.
I mentally flip him off.
He swipes the plastic menu from atop the napkin dispenser and feigns perusing it, squinting eyes and all. “What’s good here, Ms. Lawrence?”
Her forehead wrinkles as her worry increases, but confusion seems to overpower all other thoughts. “For real?”
Her brain is in tumbleweed territory.
