Page 1 of Tangled In Tinsel & Knots
1
CHRIS
Snow falls in fat, lazy flakes, pretty enough to lie about how cold this place really is.
Main Street is dressed up in picture-perfect Christmas bullshit. Twinkling lights strung between lampposts, wreaths on every storefront, families bundled up like they’re extras in a Hallmark movie.
Too clean. Too soft.
This town forgets that monsters don’t always hide under beds.
Sometimes they’re out on bail.
“Remind me why we’re doing this in the middle of Main Street?” I lean back in the passenger seat of our F-250, watching a mom wrangle three kids outside a toy store. The truck is warm, heater blasting, and I’ve got a good view of the bakery across the street. Flour & Fable Bakery, the sign says in swirly letters.
“Because Dirtbag Declan decided to show his face at the bakery,” Kane says from behind the wheel. He taps the steeringwheel with two fingers like he’s keeping time to music only he can hear. “And because you like money.”
“His name is Declan Krail,” Noel says from the back seat. He’s hunched over his tablet, scrolling through the file for what has to be the dozenth time. The guy takes homework to another level. “Two counts of breaking and entering. Attempted theft. Arson. Two cabins burned. One almost killed a family. Battery on the officer who tried to bring him in the first time. Skipped court twice. Bail bondsman is offering a nice chunk of change.”
I pull out my phone, scrolling to the text that came through this morning.
“Fifty grand split three ways.” Kane’s grin is all predator, nothing friendly about it. “That’s new equipment. Maybe finally upgrade the surveillance gear.”
“We don’t need new gear. We need him in cuffs before he burns down half the town.” I crack my knuckles, watching the bakery door. It’s a habit I can’t break, something that happens before every job. The familiar pop-pop-pop of joints settling.
“You think he’s stupid enough to run?” Kane sits up straighter. His whole demeanor shifts, less relaxed, more coiled spring.
“Well, he’s stupid enough to show up in his hometown after skipping bail twice.” I roll down the window a crack. Cold air rushes in, carrying the smell of fresh snow and something sweet, cinnamon rolls maybe, or those fancy pastries rich people pay too much for. “So yeah, I think he’s exactly that stupid.”
Noel is already moving, checking the cuffs on his belt with practiced efficiency. No wasted motion with him. Every action deliberate.
It’s been twenty minutes since we spotted Declan going in, stuffing his face like he’s got nothing better to do than enjoy the holiday season. “We move quietly, no scene. Last thing we need is every phone on Main Street recording us.”
“Too late for that.” Kane nods toward a group of teenagers across the street, phones already out, filming something. Probably each other, but it won’t take much for us to become the main attraction.
“Then we make it fast.”
The bakery door swings open, and out walks Santa Claus. Or rather, Declan Krail in a Santa suit that looks like it survived several wars and lost all of them. The red velvet is shiny where the fabric has worn thin, the white fur trim is yellowing like old teeth, and the belt is creating a gut situation that has to be uncomfortable. He’s got cookie crumbs in his fake beard.
“Ho ho ho!” His voice pitches up to a family with two young kids on the sidewalk, fake-cheerful in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Have you been good this year?”
A little girl, maybe six, nods so hard her whole body moves.
Kane snorts. “Nothing says ‘criminal mastermind’ like clearance-bin Santa.”
“Let’s go.” I’m already opening my door, boots hitting snow-covered pavement. The cold slaps my face. I adjust my coat, which is long enough to hide the equipment on my belt.
We spread out like we’ve done this a hundred times before, because we have. I approach from behind, keeping my steps light despite my size. Noel peels left, hands in his jacket pockets, face blank as stone. Kane moves right, cutting off the street exit with nothing but his presence. The guy is built like he could flip a car, and people instinctively step back when they see him coming.
Declan is still performing, his back to me. “And what do you want for Christmas, sweetheart?”
“A puppy!”
“Well, we’ll see what Santa can?—”
I’m three feet away when he catches my reflection in the bakery window. His whole body locks up, shoulders goingrigid. For a heartbeat, everything freezes—me, him, the family watching with confused smiles.
Then he runs.
