Kissing Asphalt Page 2

  “Don’t be daft, love.” Conor shook his head. “Ya can’t go after this gobshite alone.”

  “I have to do this. For Deez.”

  “Gettin’ yourself killed won’t help anyone, Jinxie. I’m not lettin’ ya do this.”

  “I’ll go with her,” said Murph as he approached.

  I leered at him. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

  “No, love, he’s right. Much as I’d love to come with ya, I’m wrecked at the moment. I’ll wait here for Tommy Boy and word on Deez. You two grab Ransom. But be bloody careful.” He grabbed his injured bicep and winced.

  I glared at Murph, wondering what he was up to. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” said Murph as I started the Lexus. “I’m in charge.”

  I barked a laugh. “You? ’Fraid not, slugger. I’ve got seniority. You don’t.”

  “You’re asleep on your feet. I don’t need you getting me killed, too.”

  “Deez isn’t dead, asshole. And I took you down with one knee. So I can’t be too far gone.” I squealed the tires pulling out of the parking lot and hopped on the I-10 west to Tolleson. “Tell you what, hot shot,” I continued, “I’ll let you choose—front of the house or back?”

  “Front.”

  “Figures,” I chuckled. “Fine. I’ll take the back. Bet you fifty bucks, I bag him and you don’t.”

  “Ha! I’ll gladly take that bet.”

  Ransom’s sister’s house was nothing like the two-story McMansion in Laveen. It was a small, one-story clapboard house that dated back to the 1930s. Ransom’s red pickup was nowhere in sight, but he could’ve hidden it in the one-car garage.

  I parked the Lexus a couple houses past our target. Another adrenaline surge gave me my second wind. I pulled on my wraparound shades and fingerless leather gloves, then drew my Ruger. “Turn on your walkie. We go on my command.”

  “Whatever.” Murph rolled his eyes and hopped out of the truck, grabbing the battering ram from the back.

  I hustled around the house, ducking under the side windows. In the dirt backyard, I found Ransom’s red truck facing the house. Must’ve pulled in from the alley that ran behind the row of houses.

  Before I could get into position, I heard a crash from the other side of the house, followed by Murph barking commands. Damned asshole jumped the gun.

  The back door flew open and a shirtless man with long, dark hair blew past me, hightailing it barefoot toward the truck. Bobby Ransom.

  “Stop! Bail enforcement!” I aimed my Ruger at him as he climbed into the truck.

  I put a round through the passenger side of the windshield, trying to scare him into surrendering. Instead, Ransom floored it in reverse and swerved into the alley. I vaulted into the bed of the pickup as he put it in Drive and roared down the alley.

  I could’ve shot him through the back window, but if I killed him, there’d be no bounty. And unless I could prove it was self-defense, I’d be charged with murder. I had to subdue him without getting myself killed in the process. Not an easy task with a guy like Ransom.

  He swerved like a maniac down the alley, smashing into plastic garbage cans in an attempt to throw me off. I clung to the roof of the cab as cans and trash blew past me.

  The truck lifted onto two wheels when he pulled a sharp right onto the paved street. I nearly slid off but planted my foot on the top of the truck bed.

  Hoping to kill the engine, I fired two rounds into the hood. Twin geysers of blistering antifreeze and steam erupted from the bullet holes, blocking my view of the road, and Ransom’s too, no doubt.

  The world shuddered in a thunderous crunch of metal and brick. The truck was no longer under me. I was airborne. An instant later, I was kissing asphalt.

  My Ruger clattered away from me as I tumbled across the pavement. Adrenaline and fear pulled me to my feet. I drew the Rossi .357 from my ankle holster and aimed it back at my quarry.

  Ransom’s pickup truck had collided with a brick and stucco mailbox. The continuous wail of the truck’s horn accompanied the steam hissing from the radiator. The bittersweet smell of antifreeze filled the air. I recovered my Ruger, holstered the revolver, and limped toward the truck.

  Bobby Ransom sat hunched over the steering wheel, the deflated airbag draped across it like a throw blanket. His nose was bleeding and his face slack. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear him over the blaring horn.

  I yanked him from the cab by his hair and threw him facedown onto the pavement. The truck’s horn went silent, replaced by my fugitive’s groaning. I cuffed him and pressed my pistol to his temple.

  “Listen up, asshole. I shot your brother. I’ll shoot you, too, if you don’t come quietly. Is that understood?”

  “You killed my brother?!” he screamed, his voice filled with a mix of sorrow and anger. “Goddamned bitch!”

  “After he tried to kill me and my buddy, you bet I did.”

  “Why you doing this?” he whined.

  “Listen to you, all sad and contrite like you’re an innocent victim in all this. You murdered three people and skipped your court date, asshole.”

  “My lawyer took care of it.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they all say.” I pulled him to his feet and escorted him back up the street.

  My gloves and jeans were shredded from the asphalt. Blood seeped from abrasions on my elbows and thighs. Every bone in my body ached from the impact, but I didn’t think anything was broken.

  There was no sign of Murph when we reached the Lexus. I put Ransom in the backseat and secured his seatbelt. “Stay there or, so help me, I will reunite you with your brother in the hereafter. Got it?”

  He nodded sullenly.

  “Murph, where the hell are you?” I said into my walkie.

  There was no response. Damn that boy!

  I trudged into the house through the busted front door. “Murph!” I called.

  A distant female voice shouted, “He’s in here.”

  I hustled down a hallway, with my Ruger in one hand, my revolver in the other. Murph was kneeling on the floor in the back bedroom, hands above his head. A rail thin woman with long dark hair stood over him pointing a .44 magnum at his head. The gun looked like it weighed more than she did. A large plastic suitcase lay open on the bed, filled with stacks of bills.

  I aimed my guns at the woman. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Motherfucker was tryin’ to rob me,” said the woman through clenched teeth.

  “Murph!” I said with a sardonic grin. “Were you stealing money from this fine lady?”

  A wet spot in the crotch of his pants expanded. “I’m sorry, okay? I screwed up.”

  “You know, Murph, you’re a real asshole. Maybe I should walk away and let her shoot you.”

  “No, no, please don’t do that, Jinx. I’m sorry for what I said earlier. Deez getting shot wasn’t your fault.”

  He was saying what I wanted to hear. But neither of us believed it.

  “What’s your name?” I asked the woman.

  “Lisa. Lisa Moody.”

  “You Bobby and Jimmy’s sister?”

  “Yeah. What of it?”

  “Nice to meet you, Lisa.” I was punch-drunk from adrenaline. “I’m Jinx Ballou. This here’s Murph. He’s a screw-up and an asshole. Much as I’d love to see his brains splattered across your bedroom wall, I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”

  “Oh yeah?” Her gaze challenged me.

  “For one, dipshit here owes me fifty dollars. We had a little bet going over who’d bag your brother Bobby. He’s sitting right now in our SUV with my handcuffs.”

  “You think I care about your stupid bets?”

  “Suppose not. More importantly, Bobby’s bail bond company hired us to take him back to jail after he missed his court date. The court system takes a dim view of bail jumpers.”

  “Don’t give this piece of shit the right to steal my money.”

  “On that we can agree,” I replied. “However,
if you don’t put down that revolver, I will shoot you. I might even feel bad about it. After all, I did kill your brother Jimmy earlier today. I’d hate to do the same to you over—what’s that—about ten grand?”

  “You killed my brother?” Her voice faltered. She covered her mouth with her free hand, pressing the .44 Magnum into Murph’s perfectly moussed blond hair.

  “Best thing for you is to put down that hand cannon and we’ll leave you to wipe your tears with all this cash.”

  The barrel of the .44 Magnum drooped, and the tension in the room eased measurably.

  “Oh, Jimmy.” Her eyes blazed. Her grip on the revolver tightened. I fired both of my guns at her, but not before she put one through Murph’s skull. They both crumpled like marionettes with cut strings.

  I sat in an upholstered, wood-frame chair next to the monitor tracking Deez’s heart rate and other vital functions. Deez’s nineteen-year-old son, Tommy Boy, sat on the other side of the bed, face wet with grateful tears as the big guy started asking how he’d ended up in the hospital.

  “Deez,” I said, my voice choked with emotion. “So glad you’re okay. I’ll give you two some privacy while I see what Conor’s up to.”

  “Okay.” His lids drooped and he reached out a hand, which I grasped gently. “See you soon, girl.”

  I rushed out before I started to ugly cry. I’d figured if he pulled through, the guilt would subside. It didn’t. And as much as I hated Murph, his death weighed on me, as well. Emotionally, I felt like I’d gone ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer.

  On the plus side, I was now ten thousand dollars richer, not including my cut of Bobby Ransom’s bounty.

  Conor sat on a concrete bench outside the hospital’s main entrance.

  “Hey!” I plopped down beside him.

  He wrapped his arm around me and kissed me on the lips. “How’s Deez?”

  “Groggy but awake.”

  “Good.” He ran a hand through his hair. “The cops doing anything about you killing Ransom’s sister?”

  I’d filled Conor in after I called 911 at Lisa Moody’s. I didn’t mention the suitcase of money, which was now stashed in the back of my bedroom closet. It was drug money. Blood money. I considered donating it to Planned Parenthood. Well, maybe some of it.

  “Detective Jennings worked me over for a couple hours. Wasn’t happy about me killing two people in separate incidents in a single day,” I said. “Still, he ruled it defense of another. No charges.”

  “Real pisser about Murph.” His face darkened. The trauma of the day visibly weighed on his shoulders.

  “Yeah.” What else could I say?

  “He was a cheeky bastard, but he had potential, ya know? I hate that we gotta replace him.”

  “He’s not the only one you have to replace.” My heart grew heavy.

  Conor raised an eyebrow. “Whaddya mean?”

  “I love you, Conor. Kinda weird to say after only three dates, but it’s how I feel. Being trans, I never thought I’d find someone who cared for me like you do.”

  “Trans or not, you’re a woman in my book, and I love ya, too. But what’s that got to do with replacing ya?”

  “I can date you or I can work with you. Not both. You’re my boss, for crying out loud. Complicates things. Puts people at risk.”

  He held my gaze for a long moment. “Not going back to being a bloody cop, are ya?”

  I scoffed. “Hell no! But maybe you can help me start my own team. I feel I’m ready.”

  He thought about it and smiled. “Maybe you’re right, love. Don’t need the other blokes gettin’ jealous of me shagging ya.”

  I shoved him playfully. “Shut the hell up.”

  We sat for a moment in silence. My love for him terrified me more than going up against psychos like the Ransoms. But what the hell, I was a thrill seeker.

  I stood up. “Let’s go say hi to Deez.”

  Conor looked at the glass-enclosed entrance as if it were the Ninth Circle of Hell. “I really want to. But . . .”

  “Come on, I’ll hold your hand the whole time. Besides, he looks good and he’s up on the fourth floor. It won’t be like going into the ER.”

  “Bloody hell! All right.” He took a few steps. “Maybe I can sweet talk a nurse into giving me more of that feel-no-pain medicine.”

  “Better not be sweet-talking any woman,” I warned, though I knew he’d never cheat on me.

  “Aw, not jealous, are ya, love?” He shot me a mischievous grin, playing along.

  I popped him on the back of his head. “Listen, mister. I already killed two people today. Don’t become my lucky number three.”

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  About the Author

  Dharma Kelleher writes gritty crime thrillers including the Jinx Ballou Bounty Hunter series and the Shea Stevens Outlaw Biker series.

  She is one of the only openly transgender authors in the crime fiction genre. Her action-driven thrillers explore the complexities of social and criminal justice in a world where the legal system favors the privileged.

  Dharma is a member of Sisters in Crime, the International Thriller Writers, and the Alliance of Independent Authors.

  She lives in Arizona with her wife and a black cat named Mouse. Learn more about Dharma and her work at https://dharmakelleher.com.