"I swear, I'm going to catch Michael Finch, even though it'll cost my life!" My colleagues can't help laughing out loud when I utter this sentence. Michael Finch is the resident gangster here in town. He has been operative for more than thirty years and, as of 2019, no-one has ever managed to bring him to justice.
"Well, Hazlett, if you want to catch him... oh, well, you can't, because he's too smart even for a brilliant person like you," points out Meagan Bresnahan. Although her smug attitude is turning me off, she's quite right. Finch always has something up in his sleeves. He always gets away with his criminal activities, whether it's drug dealing, hijacking or, even worse, murder.
"Listen, Bresnahan, we can't let him get away again!" I insist. "He killed my father!" This happened back in December: he, a cop like me, was minutes away from catching Finch while he was shipping a huge load of cocaine worth millions dollars to China. I was watching his back, as usual, when that bastard shot him behind his back.
Although justice would say he's guilty for such a horrendous crime, my conscience says otherwise. I let my father die. I didn't fulfil my duty of backing him up unconditionally. In other words, I failed.
"I can't let my father down! Not this time!" I declare, after which Bresnahan blocks my path to the exit door, her arms crossed and a glare plastered on her face. Who the fuck does she think she is to stop me? She didn't let her father die by the hands of a criminal, unlike me.
"So, I guess that I won't get to tell you, 'I told you so,' when he'll kill you." As she hisses, I slap her face. I won't let her drag me down. I won't let her stop me. This is why, as I push her aside and head outdoors, I have one more reason to arrest Michael Finch.
Get that asshole of Meagan Bresnahan sacked the fuck out.
Finch is not here. It looks like he literally disappeared from the surface of Earth. No-one has seen him: neither my other colleague, nor the punks lurking in the streets. And not even the other residents of Hoagland.
Feeling almost resigned and wanting to go back home for the night, I'm about to hop on my service car when a motorbike passes me. As it stops nearby, I notice a blonde-haired woman, probably in her twenties, wearing a black helmet, a white tank top and a pair of blue jeans with combat boots.
She gets off the bike, slowly takes off her helmet and whistles toward my direction. I don't know exactly what she wants from me, but what's sure is that she's hot. Her moves are soft but sassy at the same time, her lips look so kissable, her eyes are so striking.
I'm sure I've seen her somewhere before. Probably on one of my other attempts to hunt Finch down. But who is she?
Before I get to ask it, she approaches my car and greets, "Hello, sir. How can I help you?" Although her purr makes me want to lean close to her, I can't. Or at least until she tells me her name.
As I turn back to cop mode, she raises her guard. Instead of asking straight who she is, I decide to play more subtle. "Have I seen you before?"
She glances at me. "I recognize you," she states, leaving me agape. I thought she didn't, honestly. This is clearly proof that we have crossed paths before.
"Lee Hazlett, right?" I wish I could lie to her and mess with her head, but I prefer telling the truth, so I just nod.
"Nice to finally meet you. Daddy told me a lot of nice things about you," she adds, making me even more confused. Does she belong to that specific world? Is she involved in drug traffic and all that shit? Or is she a prostitute? Or maybe even both?
Get your shit together, damnit!
"So, who are you?" I ask the fateful question, hoping not to ruin everything. I mean, I've never been good at flirting, but right now I'm standing in front of the most beautiful woman I've ever met in my life. I can't mess up, not this time!
"Ashley. Ashley Finch."
My heart sinks as she pronounces that surname. I can't believe I've just fallen for the daughter of that piece of scum.
I wish she weren't related to Michael motherfucking Finch.