Free Kick (The Jenkins Cycle Book 1) by John L. Monk Page B

Tennessee license three years ago. I carefully read the Memphis address.
    One day, if I ever woke up in the body of a miraculously rescued suicide, maybe I’d come live in Memphis.
    “Thanks Ted,” I said, not even looking at him. I mean, what kind of guy sells a nice lady’s personal information like that?
    Dismissively, I sort of flicked the other thousand over to him. I doubt he even noticed we were no longer best friends. He just snatched it up, stuffed it into his pocket, and left.
    As I got up to leave, I couldn’t help but congratulate myself on my high degree of tolerance to personal hypocrisy. It’s that balance of character and moral flexibility which tamps down any debilitating attacks of self-loathing.

    ***
    The next day, I had a Belgian waffle for my complimentary breakfast, with two small cups of orange juice and three raspberry tarts. I left everything I owned in my room with a note to the maid to do whatever she wanted with it and keep the remaining $1,500 for herself. Then I checked out.
    I pulled out of the Hampton Inn parking lot wearing Mike’s stinky biker costume and toting both pistols, thoroughly enjoying my last ride on Mike’s awesome Harley.
    The Memphis police headquarters was a huge, eleven story office building. I don’t know what I expected—certainly nothing over two stories. But Memphis is a big city, and based on some of the people I’d seen at various gas stations and convenience stores, it enjoyed a thriving little criminal scene.
    There were plenty of empty spots at the $8 an hour Central Parking lot across the street, but Mike Nichols doesn’t pay to park. To the right of the police station was a smaller, exclusive lot with a mix of police and civilian cars and no enclosing fence. A big sign read, “County Employees Parking,” and the ramp into the lot had a striped wooden arm blocking anyone who didn’t have a pass from entering.
    Mike Nichols didn’t care about no orange-and-white obstructions—nobody controlled a Howler. If you tried, you died. If you played with the tigers, you got scratched. If you howled with the wolves, you pooped in the bushes. Flouting the so-called “law,” I accelerated through the barrier, snapping the wood with a loud crack.
    I parked the motorcycle next to a new police cruiser and looked around. Amazingly, nobody saw what I’d done. For a police station, you would have thought there’d be more police.
    With Stump’s gun in my left hand and the Sig in my right, I fired all of my guns at once into the cop cars around me and didn’t stop shooting until both magazines were empty. Born to be wild I am, but I’m also safety conscious, so I made sure to aim for the doors and tires to keep the bullets from traveling farther.
    It took the police about five minutes to show up. You’d think with the police headquarters right there they could have gotten someone over sooner. And the two cops that finally arrived looked like the only action they saw came from either side of the HQ metal detector. They still had guns, thank goodness. I threw mine down, then turned around and raised my hands in the air.
    “Get on the ground!” screamed the white guy with the cop mustache.
    “Spread your legs!” yelled the cute black lady cop in a surprisingly sultry voice.
    I did as I was told, but I did try to point out that my motorcycle had a big pile of drugs in the saddlebags. They told me to shut up.
    “Hey, I’m trying to admit to a crime here, are you kidding me?”
    I mean… wow.
    “What drugs?” Mustache said.
    Sultry got in my face.
    “What are you doing shooting at cars for, jackass?”
    They cuffed me and hauled me off the ground.
    “You’ll never take me alive!” I yelled.
    As they dragged me into police headquarters, I shouted in my best De Niro, “You ain’t nothin but a gun and a badge! You ain’t nothin but a gun and a badge!”
    Five minutes later found me in a small, ten by ten holding cell with a bench bolted to the floor. They