Hit & Run (A Blood Sport Agency #1)

Chapter 1

Parker

“You’re watching that video again, aren’t you?”

Abruptly, my body stops on the chaotically busy sidewalk as I hold my hand to my heart, absolutely offended. Audibly, I gasp. Eyes widen dramatically in shock. “And so what if I am?” Judgement fills the silence that follows. It’s telling and cuts me and my sensitive heart so deeply.

Elbows and shoulders bump and brush on either side of my body.

Angry eyes glance back, glaring as they, the angry commuters, continue their journey to wherever they are going on foot.

Throwing my hands up and thrusting my head forward, I mouth, “What?” How dare they be inconvenienced by my barely five-foot frame standing in a public space.

“It’s becoming an addiction.” The accusing female voice in my ear brings me back. And once again, I am appalled by such a statement being made toward me. Of all people. Shaking my head, I am flabbergasted in response. “And I will not let you shame me for it. Have you seen this one?”

“Yes, you’ve sent it to me over thirteen times.”

Looking back down at my phone held tightly in my hand, the video continues to play on repeat. It is a hyperfixation that I have and it comes with zero shame on my part, if it bothers you then who is the strange one now?

Anyhow, back to the video filled with adorableness.

“How seven possums get together and decide that today is the day they will conquer the world by jumping on a trampoline will always blow my mind.” Another passerby scoffs with their judging eyes.

I roll mine in return. Some people don’t know what fun is.

“And look at their cute little tails flapping in the air with each bounce. They look horrified yet intrigued. Then there are those sweet majestically bright beady eyes and ‘I am going to bite your soul out of your chest’ teeth. I just want to cuddle them after. How do you think one acquires a possum?” Scratching my head, I am genuinely curious.

My apartment would surely make a happy home for any wild creature.

Another hard elbow gets me in the ribs. Purposefully. The extra dig is a dead giveaway and it’s rude. “Excuse me. That is assault!” I shout matter-of-factly at the older man in his sharply tailored black pinstripe suit and freshly polished dress shoes which click against the cement.

The annoying voice in my ear completely ignores my question about acquiring a possum and pipes up in her ‘okay but this time you are wrong’ voice.

“It’s Friday evening in Manhattan. You are standing in the middle of the sidewalk causing a traffic jam of humans while watching your possum video.

You cannot yell at them. They just want to go home, Parker. ”

Ignoring her obvious logic, and channeling my stubbornness, I remain frozen in place. I have the right to stand here if I want, regardless of the time of day. Then the same voice pipes up again, distracting me. Wise woman. “Have you seen the one with the bears?” Well fucking played.

Bouncing on the balls of my feet in my filthy white high-top Converse, a squeal even joins the party. “Is that even a real question, of course I have. What do you think started this mess? The bears. Then it was the rabbits and raccoons. And now it’s the cute baby possums.”

More onlookers glance begrudgingly in my direction after the yelp of excitement, but I channel my inner rabid animal and hiss back, only alarming them further.

“She just turned left onto Park Avenue. If she makes it to Grand Central before you’re able to snatch her, we are toast.” The eyes in the sky casually remind me why I am in the middle of Manhattan during rush hour, because no normal person would willingly choose to be caught up in it.

“Ten-four, Captain Tac. But we are never toast. Once my eyes are set on something, you know we never fail. Ever. But I appreciate you doubting me. It only makes this game that much more fun.” A few other business professionals pass judgement on me as I speak, which is completely fair.

I look like I’m talking to myself, but really I have a nude color earpiece in.

Trade secrets being revealed here, folks. Take note.

Slipping my phone into the back pocket of my torn jeans, I gather my thick, long black hair into my hands and hook my vibrant orange scrunchie with my fingers, twisting it around my locks and securing it into a hair whipping high pony. It’s time to play.

“Park, you are at least a minute behind her.” Tac is an anxious fellow.

And he hates when I let our targets take a larger lead.

At thirty seconds his leg twitches. At one minute, sweaty palms join the party, with a finger tap along the side of his desk.

At a minute thirty, you feel his head shaking through the earpiece.

Still in no immediate rush, arms reach sky high, fingers press together as I stretch before the hunt continues. A slight smirk at the corner of my lip appears. I thrive under pressure. I crave a challenge and I love the adrenaline that comes with it.

“Parker!” His tone is sharp. He’s about to hit the minute thirty shakes and a heart attack could be imminent; I decide to start moving. Being short has its perks, I can weave in and around the crowd effortlessly, nothing gets in my way.

“Tac, have you found out what brought our friend down to the end of town?” I ask, while ducking under and through a group of people.

I can hear his fingers tapping against his keyboard. Then, his tongue clicks. “Uh yes. She was meeting with another potential buyer for the Patek Philippe diamond and rose gold watch that got her into this mess.”

“Who’s the potential buyer?”

“Domanic Whitney. Unless he secretly collects women’s luxury watches, it’s looking like a gift for his wife or mistress.”

We know a thing or two about Mr. Whitney.

Said mistress is his kids’ twenty-year-old nanny.

If it’s for her, and she wears it around his wife?

Hello to another classic New York City upper-class messy divorce.

Because the wife isn’t na?ve, she is well educated, with a degree from NYU, and knows the nanny could not afford a million-dollar vintage diamond piece on her own.

But their marital dramas aren’t my problem or business. Capturing our watch thief is.

“Wait. Don’t turn on Park Avenue. Keep going down to Lexington,” Tac advises just before I make my sharp turn on the sidewalk.

I stop, looking both ways. Traffic is stopped on either side but the red evil hand demands I don’t cross.

But I laugh at the suggestion and haul ass and continue my descent.

Making it halfway across, I realize the angry red hand was right.

Cars have begun to move toward me. Blaring horns of anger and distress honk while loud voices shout from within the vehicles.

“Move” and “Get out of the fucking way” among them.

Perspiration beads from my hairline and eyebrows.

If a drop of the sweaty wetness drips into my eye, I am done for.

Blinded and out for the count. This cannot be happening, not now.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, I’m unable to tell if it’s because of the heatwave or pressure to keep moving.

Holding my hands up as a sign of peace, I continue hustling across the black pavement while offering my sincerest apologies, with a smile.

“I mean no harm. Just crossing the road. So sorry. I’ll get out of your way now.

” Looking at my angry new friends, pouting my lip and batting my lashes because, how could they be upset at little old me?

But it doesn’t work. The honks, and casual middle fingers which have also joined in, continue.

The five seconds I take to finish getting across feel like minutes, but as soon as I reach the sidewalk all is well once again in the world.

And it’s almost like all that fuss was for nothing.

“If you aren’t causing traffic jams on sidewalks, you are doing it on the roads.” Ophelia, my assistant, huffs in frustration at me. She’s a spicy one and I love her dearly.

“It’s fine. No one died, and it made everyone’s day just a little bit more exciting.” Again, I can feel her eyes roll through the earpiece, causing me to smirk. “Okay, Tac. Hit me. Just about to turn on to Lex. How far ahead is she now?” I question, returning to work mode.

“Maybe twenty seconds. Her pacing has slowed and she is about to cross at Forty First.”

“Understood.”

Ophelia pipes up again. “And this time, don’t forget to pull your badge out from under your shirt. We don’t need another incident.” And she says we like it happened to all of us when I was the only one surrounded by SWAT.

“It was one time. One time I forgot to pull my badge out before a capture. And one time SWAT came, spotlights on and guns blazing because the nosy neighbors in Hell’s Kitchen thought there was a kidnapping and hostage situation happening.

If any one of them would have just asked, I would have told them I was not a criminal.

” Tac chuckles at the memory. He watched it all from his drone.

The entire time I heard him clapping and cheering like it was a movie, not my life.

It was a fucking shit show, but lesson learnt.

“It was only last week, Parker,” Ophelia scolds.

“Tac had the time of his life after that. He spent eighteen hours straight wiping all evidence of the event from the web, cellphones in the area, and CCTV. Money magically erased the memory of many while the police report vanished from all systems. He won the gold medal of the tech games. Plus, shit like that gets his dick hard, doesn’t it, baby? ”

Clearing his throat, he says, “Please leave my dick out of this, but yes, I enjoyed it, even if we had to give up the reward money, because technically the NYPD acquired our target.”

I scoff. “That part hurt. Fucking pricks.” It was a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bounty. The players that play here don’t fuck around. And let’s not bring up the lost bills from my account to pay for the bribes. The entire thing was a fucking nightmare.

“Park. She just crossed Forty Second and is standing in front of a building while looking down at her phone.”

“Do we think she sold the watch to Whitney?” I hope she didn’t. To capture her with it on her person would get my dick hard if I had one.

“No. I watched the entire thing through their internal security system. Whitney looked at the watch. She did her pitch, and he placed it back in the case, advising he would be in touch. The watch is still on her. And likely in that giant fake designer bag she has hanging from her shoulder.”

I slap my knee. “Nice burn, Taco.”

She, our target, has a name. It’s Bensen.

Bensen is a known con artist from the UK and Europe who is looking to expand her horizons by entering the North American market. And to be completely honest, I couldn’t care less about her cons. Life entitles everyone to their chosen hustle, who am I to judge?

“Tac, remind us about our new friend.”

“Bensen started off as an apprentice under this old-timer legend from England called Greg. Forger extraordinaire sold fake paintings and diamonds to the unsuspecting by falsifying the accompanying documentation of authenticity. He could also remove serial numbers of the reported stolen goods and replace them with ones brand-new into circulation. The guy made millions off his craft from auctions to the black market. Greg didn’t disappear from the scene until the auction houses began to get complaints from appraisers years later that the priceless pieces were indeed priceless, worth nothing after spending millions.

That’s when he stuck strictly to black market sales.

And our old friend Greg, may he rest in peace, trained our new friend Bensen, who has a very expensive and stolen family heirloom in her fake designer bag. ”

“Thank you, Taco!”

All bets going into the bounty are that the original serial number engraved on the watch has been altered, just as her mentor taught. And it is likely being accompanied by fake authenticity papers, which she presents to the unsuspecting Manhattan elite, whom she’s been making the rounds to.

Again, I wouldn’t normally care, but apparently she stole it from the wrong old rich guy with stashes of Viagra on hand to keep his young hot wife happy.

Not that the Viagra part matters, because it doesn’t, but it is a fun bit of information.

Anyhow, the young wife noticed her wedding gift was missing one morning.

The good news? Everything was caught on her husband's hidden cameras placed throughout the house, which were meant to keep an eye on his new bride and her wandering eye.

Bensen broke in undetected by the copious amounts of security, minus the hidden cams, got into the safe, and snatched the watch.

All while the happy couple was sleeping.

So, we looked into her. Bensen is a lady of many faces.

Her disguises are truly a work of art, never resembling the same person twice.

From prosthetic facial features to wigs and body-altering suits, she is a true professional in her craft.

As am I in mine. So, naturally, we jumped in on the bounty. I wanted to play too.

“Tac, is she still standing out front?” She better be. I hate waiting. Stakeouts are not my thing; they drive me mental.

“Yes. No, wait. She’s moving. Just pressed a buzzer to be let in.

” Fuck me. Stopping, I lean against the building behind me only a block or two away from her.

The hot evening summer heat continues to beat down on me and I close my eyes, enjoying the moment of solitude before Tac jumps back onto the comms.

“She’s inside.”

“Apartments?”

“No, strictly businesses. Give me a second.” The pause doesn’t last long before he comes back. “Yogi Yoni Steam.”

With my eyes still closed, I shake my head, tired and confused. “What?”

“That’s the buzzer she rang.”

Letting out a sigh, I ask the dreaded question. “And what is Yogi Yoni Steam?”

Ophelia jumps in, laughing. “She’s getting her vagina steamed, babes.” They know I hate waiting, so the fact that I have to wait while this bitch steams her vagina is next level and they love it.

Irritated, I announce, “Fuck it. I’m getting a shawarma.”