Chapter 7
Parker
“Someone hold me, I hurt,” I whimper pathetically as I collapse into my computer chair.
My head is heavy hitting the headrest, eyes still dazed.
It took me over an hour to walk back to my parked car, that was only blocks away.
Tac was the only one who wanted to play my fun game of ‘Where’s my car parked?
’ Which was fine, because he actually knew where it was, thanks to his GPS tracker on it. The man is a fucking wizard.
“I have zero interest in holding you,” Connor casually mentions, with O piping in next.
“I have an entire pharmacy of acetaminophen being dashed to you. If you think this is bad, wait until you wake up tomorrow.”
Raising my hand up ever so slightly, I flip them off, returning the positivity they have kindly sent my way.
I appreciate Connor’s honesty, and Ophelia’s DingDongDash order is on the way, but I am feeling absolutely miserable.
And you know the old saying, misery loves company and not once have any of them tried to cheer me up with a cute possum video.
I’m wildly disappointed on top of the throbbing pain currently dominating my life.
“We can see you,” O reminds me.
My brows raise as I roll my eyes. “Good.”
I actually completely forgot about the six computer monitors surrounding me, which are equipped with built-in cameras and mics. I’ve turned my living room into an office space with its own en suite kitchen. It’s genius, really.
O’s voice fills the void once more. “Blood Sport will not be happy if they catch wind of this. Drawing unnecessary attention to yourself, again. What if this turned into another SWAT situation, Parker? What then? You continue to put yourself and, by extension, us, at risk of some serious consequences. What if Bensen spotted you from the commotion?”
Normally, I tolerate her scolding. Typically, she isn’t wrong. But my techniques always work, as unconventional as they may seem, from time to time. Although, tonight was not my fucking fault.
“You’re right. Today I stood in that crosswalk, arms wide, screaming, “Hit me bitch, hit me.” Because I was bored. Because I wanted Bensen to spot the tail and escape for good.” Blowing out an exhausted sigh, I continue. “Tac, are you handling CCTV?”
Before I even ask, I can hear the tapping of his keyboard. “Already on it.”
“O, I love you. But this is nothing like the SWAT incident. At all. And Bensen got away, for now. She isn’t lost forever. Our sparrows will let us know when she’s on the move again. We got this. We will be fine.”
“Oh fuck, Parker, you bounced so high and so far.”
“Taco! Are you rewatching it?” I’m mortified and slightly embarrassed as he streams it for us, in slow motion, only making it worse.
My body flails like a rag doll through the air.
I look like the ball in a pinball machine with each hit and bounce.
My face winces at the final collision with the trunk before meeting the pavement.
The team, in unison, winces with me. “Oomph.”
The throbbing in my buttocks returns and my ribs ache more intensely while we watch my body rolling for what felt like miles.
“Make it stop,” I pout as my face now hides behind my hands, eyes glancing through my spread fingers.
I’m unable to stop watching. “You are an evil man,” I declare.
Tac laughs in response before the screen flips to black.
“I’ve removed the hit, and looped in some old stuff to make up for the time gap. Whoever decides to watch this camera’s historical footage will have no idea what’s occurred here tonight, including Blood Sport. Everyone’s secrets remain safe for another day.”
“Thank you, sweet Taco.”
“What about the guy who hit you?” The mood killer returns.
Slowly lowering my hands from my face, I look directly into the camera in front of me to talk to O. “What about him? My badge was hidden under my shirt the entire time. To him, I am just an average pedestrian he nearly killed tonight without a care. I’m not worried. And apparently neither was he.”
She mutters something inaudible back. Ophelia is more high-strung than me. My casual response likely has her blood boiling, but it’s fine. It’s why we work and why she’s not only my assistant, but also my best friend. Opposites attract.
“Your mountain of acetaminophens is here.”
My head cocks sideways, followed by a knock on the door. “You are a lifesaver, O.” I appreciate her and the guys more than they will ever know.
Instead of acknowledging my praise, O changes the subject and talks to the team.
“Let’s leave the boss to rest. The sparrows will alert us whenever Bensen moves.
Until then, let’s get some rest ourselves, yeah?
” A click follows. It’s Connor. He always bounces without saying goodbye.
O follows suit and I take my earpiece out, knowing Tac will disconnect too.
Blowing out a sigh, my head leans farther back and my eyes stare up at the ceiling, knowing I must will myself to rise, but I don’t have it in me yet.
Reaching for the thin lanyard around my neck, I tangle and weave my fingers around the delicate cold chain before slowly lifting it off my chest. As I do, the large gold-plated stereotypical star badge escapes its cozy home, wedged warmly in my bosom, classically pushed together and raised just beneath my chin.
Thanks to this super push-up bra I’m wearing.
As I finally free the hardware, my eyes glance down, and I mindlessly watch it twirl while catching sporadic glimpses of the bold engraving: B.S.
And delicately etched below is Agency. To some, typically those who have given up on having joy in their lives, B.S.
Agency stands for Bullshit. Despite my current circumstances, I could easily fall into that category, but I don’t allow my mind to go there.
Bounty hunting courses through my veins.
And I am proud to be the one to carry my family’s legacy, even if it is in a slightly unconventional way.
Because to me, B.S. stands for Blood Sport.
And it’s perhaps a confidential, with minimal corruption, government agency that caters to the rich and powerful. Gasp! The scandal.
And to clarify, because wearing a badge for a top-secret agency would be wildly moronic, rest assured, there is always a method to my madness.
Should local law enforcement, such as SWAT, who I may have recently met, stop us mid-hunt, we have our hardware in order to provide clarification.
Our fallback is a registered, legitimate bounty office called B.S.
Bounty, located just outside of the city.
If looked into, they would have no suspicion of it being a shell company.
All the paperwork is there, and our registration and training records, real or not, are filed alongside doctored warrants for current hunts, if needed.
All bases covered. Everything has a reason.
But that is the boring shit, paperwork. I get my kicks from the hunt.
Okay, wait, this all has to be sounding insane right now.
Let me start from the beginning. The Blood Sport Agency is a top-secret government organization that is at the disposal of the very wealthy.
You have the office staff who are located somewhere off the grid in who knows where.
Then there are the agency bounty hunters, like me.
My team, who assist me, are all freelancers that I employ.
They have the certain required clearances to get agency information, such as when new bounties come in. Every country has a similar setup.
I’ll pause here for a moment.
Please let out another gasp of horror.
The scandal. The corruption, or is it?
Let it sink in.
But are you really shocked? I suspect not. If anything, you’re only further intrigued, because right now you’re asking, but, Parker, how do bounties come in?
Patience and I will tell you, but first let me unbutton and unzip these jeans. Fuck, that feels good.
So, if you are anybody of great relevance, wealth, and power, you know how to get in touch.
All you need is a cell phone and the number to text.
I’ve heard, typically, the designated number is passed down from generation to generation.
Rarely are new numbers generated unless new money is in play or a member of high society moves from one country to another.
Then their files are moved to the corresponding agency.
Again, more paperwork. Shit I find uninteresting and boring.
Now, let’s get to the good part, how it all works.
Step one, some rich fucker submits a bounty request. It’s all done via the designated number to text, and typically includes a picture of the person, along with the cash prize associated upon successful capture.
Once the agency researches and validates the request, the wealthy individual will receive confirmation of the accepted bounty along with a link to wire the money to.
No money wired, no bounty issued. It’s that easy.
Cash is king.
The agency takes a percentage off the top, leaving what’s left for the reward.
Then, at that point, all the registered hunters with Blood Sport are emailed an encrypted file.
Typically included within the file is some background information, but it’s quite vague and rarely useful: a name, a photo, the reward, and a unique four-digit code.
From there, for me, because I cannot speak to how others operate, almost immediately Ophelia vets the details and gets Tac digging even further into the background of the target.
Time is money and information is power. If we decide to go on the hunt, we are up against the clock and possibly dozens of other hunters.
Typically, within an hour of receiving the encrypted file, I am summoned, and all the pertinent information is presented to me.
I’ve been in this business for years and have grown up immersed in the lifestyle.
To weigh the pros and cons, risk to reward, is second nature.
All team members get to provide their input.
It’s why I have them, because I am not the smartest in the room, I am just an expert in my particular field.
And together we are a force. But I am the ultimate decision maker once I hear all the information, because I am the boss bitch. Even if I hate when they call me that.
To put it into perspective, let’s take Bensen, for example.
She stole from the wrong person and now she is on our radar with a large cash money reward hanging over her head.
And I intend to be the one to snag it. Once I do, it will initiate the captured notification to be sent, thus declaring this hunt concluded.
Other hunters could be on her, out of sight. We don’t know.
This business can be brutal. Some shady bastards will attempt to sabotage you, but most of us play nice with one another. You never know when you will need to call on a ‘friend’ for help. It’s about playing a smart game as well. You may call it playing politics.
Shit, talking about the hunt gets me so horny.
Once I capture her, well, you’ll see. Oh boy, then that’s when things get really exciting because the auction is next, which you won’t even believe is real life.
But I promise you it is. This happens nightly, all over the world, whilst your head is resting upon a pillow and your mind is in the land of dreams.
Your next question is, Parker, how did you get involved? You’re so young and youthful. Surely, Blood Sport Agency is for old-timers only?
And that, my friends, is a story for another day.
So is the reason behind the four-digit code. Wait until we get to the auction with Bensen. More will be revealed then, I promise.
“Boss, who are you talking to?” the familiar voice casually questions through the computer speakers.
Startled, with wide eyes, I drop my badge back down onto my chest and sit up straight, completely forgetting how fucking sore I am, and instantly regret it.
“Taco! I thought you logged off.”
“You thought wrong. And, boss, I think you may be concussed.”