Regan Black - Braving The Heat

They often did.

His walks and drive-bys were random. Sometimes they paid off and he caught a picture of a drug deal that he forwarded to the police, or he caught wind of a name while he wandered past on foot. For all the good it did. The police would pick up one dealer and another stepped up, keeping business rolling. Once in a while he timed his visits or ended his classes so he could walk other staffers to their cars, as he should’ve done every day for his fiancée. Sometimes he just circled the block, letting the deep purr of a big engine serve as a warning to the petty criminals skulking in the shadows.

So far, the man he wanted to confront, the man who had killed his fiancée, had yet to make himself a target. Stephen didn’t have anything better to do with his life than wait him out.

Tonight, he circled the block like a shark, generally being a nuisance and interfering with the fast deals that happened at the corner. The thugs tasked with backing up the dealer showed their guns on his third pass. The familiar dance put a kick in Stephen’s pulse. He was aware they knew who he was and where to find him when he wasn’t trying to interrupt their business. Just one reason he kept upgrading the security at the garage. He used to lie awake at night, praying someone with ties to Annabeth’s murder would come by and get caught on his cameras.

Spoiling for a fight, he parked the Mustang under the floodlights and security cameras in the community center parking lot and went for a quick stroll. At this hour the facility, church and other buildings on this side of the street were deserted and locked up tight.

He walked around to the front of the building and sat on the steps. Although the building owners tried to keep security cameras operational, anything aimed in the general direction of the dealer on the corner was repeatedly disabled. Stephen had decided he had to stand in whenever possible.

Annabeth’s blood had long since been washed away from the area, but the fresh paint they’d used on the railings was peeling again after three years of weather. He knew where they stored the paint and he had a key to the center. He’d almost decided to take care of it now under the glare of the streetlights when a rusty station wagon from the nineties pulled up to the corner. It made Kenzie’s sedan look good by comparison.

Stephen raised his phone and hit the record button, making sure the video light caught the driver’s attention. The car sputtered and rolled away, deal incomplete. From across the street, the thugs shouted a warning at him.

Stephen lowered the phone and gave them a wave without leaving his post. He scared off another two cars before the enforcers stalked across the street with orders to make him leave.

Finally.

He waited for them, his weight balanced and his knees loose. They could just shoot him. Luckily for him, they knew as well as he did that two innocent people dead on these steps might inspire someone to actually come through this neighborhood and clean it up for good.

“Get the hell outta here,” the first kid said. He couldn’t be more than twenty, probably younger. His T-shirt, emblazoned with a classic arcade game character wielding an AK-47, was partially tucked into dark jeans. Stephen noted the bulging biceps and the brands seared in faint patterns on the kid’s dark skin.

At Gun-shirt’s nod a second man walked to the base of the stairs to face Stephen. Bald, his pale head lit by streetlights, he wore a white undershirt and faded jeans that rode low on his hips, revealing the band of his boxers. Stephen assumed the open jacket must be hot in this weather. An unfortunate circumstance for Baldy, since the jacket did nothing to conceal the gun shoved into his belt.

“You need to leave,” Baldy said. He drew the gun and took aim at Stephen’s midsection. “Go willingly, or go permanently, your choice.”

Stephen raised his hands. “Willingly,” he replied, starting down the steps.

At the sidewalk, Gun-shirt grabbed Stephen’s arm and drove a fist into his gut. Although Stephen was braced for it, the blow took a toll, stealing his breath. He gasped, doubling over, hands on his knees. When Gun-shirt leaned close to make more threats, Stephen punched him in the throat. The thug staggered back into the street, bouncing off the hood of a slowly passing car before he caught his balance.

The bald man swore and aimed his gun once more, but Stephen was quicker. He kicked out, connecting with the guy’s knee. Baldy crumpled into a whimpering heap.

Across the street, the furious dealer called for reinforcements. Stephen shouted out a crude suggestion before he ran for the parking lot. He knew none of these criminals wanted to get caught chasing an innocent civilian by those cameras.

Safely in the Mustang, Stephen drove off. He was several blocks away before the pain started seeping through the adrenaline rush. He kept to the rest of his planned circuit, cruising through much nicer streets filled with people out for the evening at restaurants and posh bars. Hopefully, the sign in the rear window would attract some positive inquiries.

The sooner they moved this car the better. He had other builds in mind and more plans to keep himself busy through the summer.

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