Page 95 of High Velocity

His reaction is instant and his outburst is bittersweet.

“That pompous ass fired you?”

It doesn’t surprise me he’d jump to that conclusion. My boss was all but ready to hand me my walking papers when I first informed him I’d withheld important information about my father. He didn’t, and instead suspended me pending further investigation. That was over two months ago.

“No, he didn’t. I quit,” I clarify.

“Is it because of your injury?”

He motions at my arm, which I no longer wear in a sling, but is still pretty useless as arms go.

Yeah, I can see the minute progress, but as I told my physical therapist, at this rate I’ll be of retirement age before I get any half-decent function back. Hell, I haven’t even mastered the fine motor skills required to pick up a marble with my fingers. A six-month-old baby can do better than me.

“Actually, the decision to leave had already been made before I got shot. Everything that happened after just made that decision easier.”

“Wow.” Shane runs a hand through his unruly hair. “Well, that sucks for me. It means I have to break in a new partner,” he busts my chops.

“You’ll live.”

“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?” he teases, before jumping on a different subject. “By the way, did Bellinger tell you we handed off the case to the federal prosecutor? My prediction is that Laine will plead out. He’s already confessed and given us the full story.”

It’s a miracle the man survived in the first place, but he somehow managed to come out of it with his faculties mostly intact. Physically, he wasn’t so lucky and has to contend with a host of problems, not the least of which is the loss of his sight, but I’m hard-pressed to conjure up any sympathy for him.

“Yeah, he did mention that.”

I was glad to hear it, because it means I won’t be called to testify, which I would rather avoid. I want to move forward and not be pulled back to what I’d rather leave in the past.

According to Bellinger, Laine explained his connection with Ben Vallard—the two had been friends since childhood—and confirmed how my father became involved in their scheme. Dad had already implied it had something to do with my brother’s hospital bills. Those bills were paid off in three lump sums. The first one was four months after David died. Each of the payment dates was within days of the first three bank robberies. Circumstantial, and it might not have been enough to convict him in a court of law, but it was clear to everyone my father was guilty.

Still, there was some validation in having Mitchel Laine confirm the course of events, and perhaps a hint of a redeeming factor in knowing my father tried to distance himself after David’s bills were paid off. For what it’s worth.

“So what are you gonna do now?” Wilcox probes. “What could possibly follow an exciting career as a federal agent?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really miss getting called out of bed in the middle of the night, or living off fast food and staying in dingy motel rooms. I’m growing partial to eight hours of sleep, and it turns out I enjoy a future with a little predictability.”

Shane grins as he checks over his shoulder where he’s clearly spotted Jackson waiting in the truck.

“I’m guessing he’s part of that more predictable future?”

“Yes. But also my new job with the High Mountain Trackers.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You? You’re joining the team? I didn’t even know you could ride.”

“I can, but I doubt I’ll be riding out much. My job is going to be coordinating the searches, liaising with law enforcement, and managing electronic surveillance and communications.”

Jackson looks to be asleep when I return to the truck after finally saying goodbye to Shane, with promises to stay in touch. His seat is tilted back and his hat is covering his face. When I lean over and reach for his hat, my hand is snatched midair.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles, pulling me halfway across the console and onto his lap.

But when he shoves his hat back, I notice humor sparkling in his eyes.

“I deserve at least a kiss for chauffeuring you around and waiting patiently while you take care of shit.”

I press a kiss to his jaw.

“You deserve a lot more, but not in the FBI parking lot with twenty cameras aimed at us from different angles.”

“Spoilsport.”

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