Possessed by the Bounty Hunter (Hunter’s Guild: Elite Bounty Services)
Chapter 1
1
RUTGER
I t’s either my lucky day or the beginning of a shit show…
I don my white Stetson, slipping around to the trunk of my 1970 Dodge Challenger Black Ghost. A cursory glance confirms I’m ready—badge on my belt, handcuffs, a Taser. I feel my Glock holstered on my shoulder. No backup means no margin for error. After putting on my Kevlar vest and slamming the trunk closed, it’s go-time.
The skip and his girlfriend stand in front of a dilapidated turquoise-and-white double-wide in a trailer park on the outskirts of Ophir City, California, about thirty minutes from my home in Hollister. Gold County encompasses both towns and Rough & Ready Country, the greater historical region.
The fine late February afternoon glows with sunshine and welcome warmth. A little snow clings to the ground, but the ice has melted.
Despite residing here for nearly a year, this destitute trailer park is a new sight for me. It crawls with sketchy individuals—tweakers, drug dealers, prostitutes, and dirty-faced kids who should be in school. But I’ve got tunnel vision…
All I care about is Daniel Lewis Holmes. Two hundred-fifty pounds with buzzed brown hair, dog-shit-colored eyes, and a dumbass cobra tattoo running from his left shoulder down past his elbow.
He skipped out on bail for two counts of first-degree burglary, illegal possession of a firearm, and armed battery. All told, there’s a ten-thousand-dollar bounty on the line. I approach all six feet five inches of him from behind as he bends to get into his girlfriend’s rundown white Honda Civic.
Catching him off-balance means a clean grab. At least, that’s the plan. He’s got a good two inches and at least fifty pounds on me. Slapping a handcuff over his right wrist, I pull his arm tightly behind his back for leverage. “Fugitive Recovery Agent! Daniel?—”
The moment the metal hits Holmes’s wrist, he thrashes like a catfish on a noodler’s hand. Leaning forward into the car, he struggles to gain leverage, kicking frantically in every direction his black combat boots will go.
His girlfriend backs out of the driver’s seat and into the driveway, her face white as frost. Her pink-dyed hair flips back and forth as her head bobbles between us. Some Bonnie and Clyde this pair is.
“Holmes, don’t make this any harder than?—”
“Get off me! Get off me!” The man screams, inch-worming into the car. My stomach sinks, realizing he’s going for the driver’s seat. Big boy wants to do this the hard way…
Using a restraining hold, I dig into the pressure points in his shoulder joint and neck.
Fighting, kicking, and screaming, he gains purchase in the car, reaching the horn. Its blare shatters the uneasy silence of the tense neighborhood.
Just what I don’t want: unnecessary attention.
Flailing and panicking, Holmes gets lucky, throwing me off-balance and landing a boot in my face. I stumble backward, dazed. The situation is clearly snowballing, so I light him up with my Taser.
Family members pile out of the broken-down trailer, watching Holmes’s telltale twitches and muscle spasms. The train of people looks like the classic clown car gag. They keep coming and coming. I know this crowd well, having staked out the address on and off all week.
So much for catching Holmes off guard and handcuffing him before a family reunion. Instead, I find myself in a stand-off with Holmes’s girlfriend and mom and five men of varying sizes and ages—all cracking knuckles and necks as they approach. Great.
Adrenaline spikes as I size up his two linebacker-sized brothers leading the pack. Behind them, a couple of skinnier, younger guys lurk. I nearly sink the other handcuff around Holmes’s left wrist, and the asshole tries to bite me. My attention ping-pongs between the guy I’m wrestling with and the family closing in like hyenas.
Is it too late to call for backup? Famous last thoughts…
Holmes slithers into the driver’s seat, and the emergency brake crank screeches its release. I jump free of the vehicle at the last second, watching the Civic catapult backward down the graded driveway. Son of a bitch! He nearly ran me over.
With the car out of the picture, the Holmes crew descends. Daniel’s mother, a semi-toothless, sixty-something brunette, lunges. High as a kite, she pummels my arms, shoulders, and face with her fists, taking breaks to scratch and bite at me. Like mother like son.
She won’t relent, but my arm’s long enough to keep her mostly at a safe distance. Despite the diminutive size, she’s as much a handful as a bobcat in a chicken coop… until she sees my badge and goes stiff.
I use the momentary hesitation to get back to my main priority: one hundred thousand greenbacks. Racing down the driveway after the car, I jumble through the equivalent of a low-speed chase. The white Civic’s rear end smashes into a large Ponderosa pine.
Looking over my shoulder at the Holmes clan, they stand motionless, their mouths agape.
Reaching my target, I yell, “Daniel Lewis Holmes, Fugitive Recovery Agent! Get your hands up where I can see them.” I pull Holmes from the car and to the ground with one efficient move, taking advantage of his momentary daze to put a knee in his back.
Handcuffing his hands behind him, I work rapidly, aware of the gathering crowd. Fortunately, my badge clarifies things for the Holmes family and the shady citizens of this rural scrap of the Sierra Nevada.
Once they recognize I’m on the right side of the law—not some sucker come to beat up their baby boy—things go smoother. All the physicality evaporates from Mama Holmes. Instead, she spits in my direction, declaring me a “motherfucker.”
Fair enough. I’ve been known to hook up with my fair share of MILFs…
Thankfully, Holmes’s assembled male relatives prove even less ornery. A couple give me the finger and talk shit under their breaths. But the piss and vinegar’s left the party.
A sense of uneasy relief fills me as I lead Holmes on the walk of shame to my vehicle. Right about now, I could use a company car like most fugitive recovery agents. The last thing I want is this bum’s ass on my brand-new leather upholstery.
But this is no regular gig for me, and my contractor lives in Washington. So, half-assed and haphazard sum up the day.
Driving towards the Ophir City Jail, I look in the rear-view mirror, noticing an angry red spot swelling beneath my left eye. Blood drips from my smashed nose, and a fat lip completes the look.
I tell myself the damage came from scuffling with Daniel Holmes. Better than the alternative—that Mama Holmes beat my ass. I’ve never made a faster ten grand. Certainly worth a little facial rearranging.
And lesson learned. Call for backup before tackling a guy the size of a professional wrestler. Especially when he lives in a trailer that pours family members like a termite nest sprayed with Raid.