Page 1 of Inferno

Prologue

INFERNO

May 23, 2006…

Do you have any idea how fast you were going?

The officer’s words play in my mind as I lean back against the concrete wall of the holding cell. I guess I shouldn’t have responded with ‘Obviously not fast enough’ if I wanted to make it home tonight. Clearly, that’s out of the question.

“What’d you get popped for?”

I lift my eyes from the floor to the man standing in front of me. His hair is greasy, and the obnoxious smell of booze wafting off of him leaves no doubt as to why he’s here.

“Speeding,” I reply.

He throws his head back and howls with laughter. “Damn, son. You must’ve been goin’ at the speed of light to get thrown in the clinker for it.”

I grunt in response. I’m not in the mood to talk, and I’m certainly not here to make friends. Instead of engaging, I stand and walk to the bench on the opposite side of the cell.

“Asshole,” he mutters as he plops down where I was sitting.

Tell me something I don’t know.

Throughout the night, different people are brought in and out as they’re arrested or released on bail, but I remain. It’s a testament to how much shit I’ve caused the people in my life that I have no one to come and get me outta this mess.

“Haskins!”

I have no idea what time it is when my name is shouted, but I jump to my feet and make my way to the cell door.

“Yo,” I say to the guard.

He opens the door and nods toward the exit. “You’re free to go.”

I grin like a fool. “Thanks.”

Stopping at the front desk, I collect my belongings. I shove my wallet in my back pocket and the key to my Harley in the pocket of my leather jacket.

“You can get your bike outta impound at this address,” the very unfriendly woman says as she slides a piece of paper with the details written on it through the little hole in the window.

“That asshole impounded it?” I snap.

“That asshole is the reason you’re getting released.”

I whirl around at the voice and groan when I see the arresting officer from last night. “Right. Sorry.”

“Look, I like motorcycles too, and there’s nothing better than riding, but ya gotta slow down or someone’s gonna get hurt,” he says. “Now get outta here before I change my mind.”

Not wanting to risk another arrest, I keep my mouth shut as I snatch up the paper with the address on it and rush out the front door. The impound lot is two blocks away, and it takes me no time at all to get there.

“That’ll be one twenty-five,” the man at the little shack says when I tell him who I am and why I’m there.

“One twen—” I press my lips together to stop my retort. Making a scene here will result in the same outcome as one at the police station. “Do you take cards, or is it cash only?”

“We just started taking cards,” he replies.

As soon as I’m settled up and have my Harley back in my possession, I fire up the engine and head toward home. After being cooped up all night, I decide to take the long way even though it means riding through areas that require me to keep my speed in check.

I hate driving in school zones, but if it keeps me on my bike longer, I’ll take it.

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