Busted

The crate of dynamite is exactly where I left it. Good. One thing in my life going according to plan.

Loading it into the Jeep takes a minute. Luck’s still on my side—the Jeep even has road flares. The owner must be a safety nerd. Probably took one of those training classes the local Po-Po offer. Wanted a discount on his insurance. Didn’t he know all he had to do was call that little green lizard? Some people just like to do things the hard way.

I don’t.

I hate doing things the hard way. This job isn’t fun. If I’d had time to prepare, all the setup work would’ve been done in advance. I wouldn’t be duct-taping a road flare to the dash of a stolen vehicle. There’s a right way to do things, a wrong way, and then there are the things you do in a pinch because you’re out of options.

I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve, but first… I need to get out of here.

Ever have that moment where you stop and think, Is this my life? Is this who I am? Is this what I’m supposed to be doing on this planet?

Then you snap out of it.

Yeah. This is who I am. This is what I’m supposed to be doing.

Why?

Because Ted Polmey will snap my neck if I don’t.

I start the engine and back the Jeep out of the barn. The farm isn’t in regular use. Nobody lives here, but the house and yard are lit up—timers, probably.

I pull up beside the farmhouse and park.

One last thing before Mercantile Falls.

I need to call the radio station.

Not from the phone Ted’s people use. Kristy Lee doesn’t need that number. Boundaries.

I’ve got another burner for her.

Just… being responsible and stuff.

“WRCK, The ROCK! Home of 101.7’s most fabulous DJ, Kristy Lee. How can I help you tonight?”

“Do people still request songs on the radio?”

“Creepy guys like you do. You know, it’s the twenty-first century. You can download whatever song you want now.”

Yeah, Kristy Lee doesn’t like me.

“Sure, but if I don’t call, how’s the station gonna stay in business? You’d lose your job. Hate to see anything happen to 101.7’s most fabulous DJ.”

“Okay, I’m not getting into this. And for the record, I don’t want you thinking about me. Don’t call me. Don’t worry about me. I am not your concern. And you can name any song you want—I’m not playing it on air.”

Bingo. Hit a nerve.

I smile.

“How about a hundred dollars?”

Her laugh shoots through the line. “Are you trying to bribe me? Or are you just lonely? No lady in your life?”

“Two hundred.”

She laughs again, steadier this time.

“You’re such a creep. I told you no.”

“Look, you can yell at me all you want. Call me every name in the book. But you and I both know you don’t make much at this job. I’m offering you five hundred dollars to play one song for me in an hour. Can you do that?”

Silence.

For a second, I think she’s going to hang up.

“How am I going to get the money?”

There it is.

“You know the Backside Lounge?”

“The strip club in Paradise?”

“Yep. Open twenty-four/seven. Even on holidays. Excellent waffle-and-pancake buffet. Crispy bacon.”

“I know where it is.”

“I’ll be there at seven a.m. That gives you time to get dolled up after your shift.”

“Seven-thirty,” she says. “Cash. And if you say ‘dolled up’ again, it becomes six hundred.”

I smile.

“Deal.”

“I just have one question.”

“Go ahead.”

“What song do you want me to play?”

I sit parked in the Dollar General lot, Jeep idling, top off. I thought of removing the doors but didn’t have the time.

Downtown Mercantile Falls stretches a mile in either direction before ending in a town square—a circle of government buildings and courthouses. I can’t touch the courthouse. Too much heat would come from that. The empty buildings on Ted’s list? Those are fair game.

Every building on the list is supposed to be empty. Commercial properties. No apartments. No night crews.

I made a pass before parking. No cars. No lights. Nobody moving behind the windows.

Ted knows my rule.

Things are one thing. People are another.

My job is to make sure no one wants any part of downtown. If you own it, you should sell it. That’s the Ted Polmey way.

The night is quiet. Too quiet. Paradise would have a wino singing off his last swallow of Mad Dog.

Waiting’s never been good for me. Gives my brain time to wander. Tonight it wanders back to my childhood. Not the good stuff. The ugly parts. The kind of memories that don’t go away, no matter how far you drive or how loud you turn the music.

And here I am.

Stolen Jeep. Fifty-two sticks of dynamite. About to declare war on a small town.

And Mom said I’d never amount to anything.

The radio crackles.

Kristy Lee comes back on the air.

“All right, all you Rock fans out there, this next one goes out to the biggest pain in my night I’ve had the misfortune of talking to. I’ve got five hundred reasons to play it, and none of them are because I like him. Try not to hurt yourself, sweetheart.”

I grin.

“Shoot to Thrill” hits.

Angus cracks the opening chords—sharp, electric, cutting through the night—and something in me locks in.

I strike the road flare taped to the dashboard. Sparks spit and hiss, burning into the plastic. A tiny prelude to chaos.

I grab the first stick of dynamite, check the fuse, and light it.

One deep breath.

I toss.

It arcs clean through the air, a perfect shot, landing near the front steps of a green building.

I hit the gas.

The Jeep surges forward as the drums kick in.

Nothing.

Just a dull thunk and a few sparks.

I don’t even register it.

I’m already loading the next one.

The rhythm takes over.

Guitar. Drums. Throw.

Another stick sails into the night, glowing at the fuse.

Gas. Shift. Throw.

I’m keeping time now, the way some people drum their fingers on a dashboard. Only I’ve got dynamite and a stolen Jeep, and the whole town is my stage.

Brian Johnson howls through the speakers. The Jeep rattles with the bass. Wind tears through the open top, carrying the smell of exhaust and flare smoke.

I’m in it now.

I lean into the wheel, grinning, and throw another.

I saw a kid once wearing an AC/DC shirt. Ran up to high-five him.

“Yeah, man, AC/DC rules. Good to see kids getting into the classics.”

Kid shrugs. “I saw it in Iron Man 2. My mom got me the shirt at Target.”

I wanted that high-five back.

I grab another stick.

Another perfect arc.

I frown. Something’s not right.

The music keeps going. The night keeps moving. But I’m not paying attention to either.

I launch another stick high in the air. Somehow I think if I throw it harder it’ll fix my problem.

Nothing.

No boom.

No shockwave.

No buildings coughing their insides into the street.

Just sparks. Small fires licking at bushes and siding like they’re embarrassed to be there.

I would’ve been better off throwing sparklers at them. The kind kids wave around on the Fourth of July.

I ease off the gas—

—and then the night lights up.

Red and blue slash through the darkness, sirens screaming over AC/DC. Patrol cars flood the streets ahead and behind me, boxing me in before I can even think about an exit.

I hit the brakes. Hard.

Even if I cut through yards, I’m not outrunning this. Not in this Jeep. Not tonight.

Besides… what do they really have on me?

Stolen vehicle? That’s a Tuesday.

I squint out at the wall of headlights and badges.

What is today?

“Shut off your engine!” someone shouts.

I reach for the radio first.

AC/DC fades out mid-glory, replaced by silence and the crackle of burning flare.

The engine dies.

So does the moment.

A big man steps forward from the line of officers. Not running. Not rushing. Just walking like the ground belongs to him.

“Get out of the vehicle.”

I raise my hands and climb out slowly.

My only weapon is the flare eating its way through the dashboard. Judging by the way he’s aiming that gun at me, I’m not winning a quick-draw contest.

His buddies fan out around him, weapons up, fingers ready.

Lesson time.

I’m not looking forward to it.

Two more officers move in, reading me my rights like I haven’t heard it a thousand times before. Another reaches into the Jeep, pulls the flare free, and stamps it out on the asphalt.

Smoke curls into the air.

And then I meet the man in charge of the operation.

“My name is Captain Henderson,” he says, calm as a Sunday morning. “I think you and I need to be friends. Want to be my friend?”

I consider it.

“Well, I don’t know, officer. Last time I had a friend who put me in handcuffs, she forgot to mention she was married. You married too?”

I don’t even see it coming.

Not from Henderson. One of his underlings.

The punch caves my stomach in and drives the air out of me in one violent burst. I fold and hit the pavement, trying to remember how breathing works.

Henderson grabs the guy and yanks him back like he’s reining in a dog. Doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t even look annoyed. Just… corrects the problem.

Another officer hauls me upright.

Henderson steps in, brushes imaginary dust off my shoulders.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “My guys get a little touchy when smart-alecks try to blow up their town.”

He studies me.

Steps closer.

Closer still.

Calm. Controlled. Heavy.

“You’re going to tell me what you know about the farm,” he says, low. Close enough that I can feel his breath against my ear. “About a woman named Rachel Lewis. And you’re going to do it honestly. Straightforward. Like a newborn angel.”

My head tilts back so I can look at him.

“Has anyone ever told you—you look like Denzel Washington? Very attractive.”

Something flashes in his eyes. Gone just as fast.

He nods to the officers.

They move me toward the patrol car.

And just like that, the music’s over, the lights are on, and I’m the last guy in the room holding nothing but a handful of bad decisions.

So much for doing things the easy way.