"Never underestimate your enemies- sometimes they might win"
~ Nicholas Langkey
~**~~**~
Jack rounded the corner and quite literally bumped into the old Sheriff.
Upon the collision, the two bounced back, similar to a bullet ricocheting into another.
Stan, the Sheriff, whose name Jack had finally learned, had been venturing down the passage with his head buried in a worn crossword puzzle.
Jack was willing to bet that the frayed puzzle rivaled Stan in age. Even now, after the bump, his thickly mustached upper lip hadn't strayed more than three inches from the paper.
To make the situation more comical, Stan wore two pairs of glasses; perhaps to amplify his vision or more likely, an accidental manifestation of his fleeting youth.
Either way, both pairs were now perched precariously on the tip of his crooked nose.
After the glasses threatened to become acquainted with the floor, the Sheriff raised his head and looked Jack head on.
"Oh, Mr. Rhodes! You're still here. It is quite late. Haven't you had enough fun for tonight? My men are tired and would like to go home to their wives."
Ignoring the 'Mr' the Sheriff insisted on placing before his name, Jack furrowed his brow. "Sheriff, one of your citizens was almost killed tonight. I think you should be more worried about a murderer running around on the streets than getting home."
The Sheriff sighed and cocked his head at Jack. "Mr. Rhodes. This town is a dot on a map, or it was. Before the rhodium discovery, it had a population of a thousand. Now, that number has almost tripled in the past six months. I ain't got the men or resources to deal with them. Or the skills!"
The Sheriff rubbed his maw halfheartedly and continued, "We do the best that we can with what we got. And it ain't much. And now you fancy folk come on in here, demanding the world and we can't give it. We just can't!"
Jack knew he wasn't being fair to the man; Jack had come to Rinshawn with guns blazing and expected everything to fall into place.
He had craved action and adventure but instead received a dispiriting lack of turmoil.
Fresh out of the gate, the Sheriff had told Jack to go home; that his skills weren't needed. No one said 'no' to Jack Rhodes.
It just didn't happen.
The culture shock of Rinshawn combined with the lack of sleep had thrown him off his game.
If he had been a lesser man, he might have traipsed home with his tail between his legs.
But Jack was not a lesser man.
He contemplated his choices: he could alienate the local police by scolding their lack of professionalism, or he could temper his pride and compromise.
Deciding the latter, Jack abated his irritation and nodded "I understand where you're coming from, Sheriff. And I apologize that I came across demanding. We've both had a long night and nerves certainly have played a role in it. I suggest we start again in the morning. For the time being, I need Ms. Praxton put into protective custody. Can you do that?"
After the Sheriff had signaled positively, Jack asked one more question, "Where can I set up a temporary office for the night?"
Tension released, the Sheriff's own furrowed brows smoothed.
He motioned with his pen to an office at the end of the hall. "Best room in the house." With that said, he returned his gaze to his crossword and continued on his way.
Lugging a file box with him, Jack entered the room and flicked the switch.
The dingy light cascaded from the overhead lamp, the faded glow emphasizing dust particles floating aimlessly in the air.
The room didn't look like it was large enough to accommodate his frame, never mind a functional workspace.
In the center, there was a rickety old tabletop balancing on one leg, just as the titan, Atlas, has painstakingly balanced the world on his shoulders.
Throwing one more glance around the room, Jack decided to let the formidable doctor wait it out in the storage room—maybe a few hours of solitude would have her rethinking her life choices.
After sliding out a chair from the table and grimacing at the screeching sound it produced, he placed down the file box.
Inside was all the information he had on Silvia Praxton.
And it wasn't a lot.
He had gained more information from his bothersome prisoner than the actual woman herself.
The crime scene also was a bust, only yielding the two bullets and that curious piece of metal.
It was not substantial or case-cracking evidence.
But, some cases had been solved with far less by far more amateur detectives—Jack could work with this.
Upon remembering the bag in his breast pocket, he reached to retrieve it.
His heart skipped a beat.
Then stopped completely.
It wasn't there.
He had specifically remembered placing the evidence there.
And now it wasn't.
Jack wracked his brain, trying to figure out what had happened.
Had he misplaced it?
Had he already given them to the forensics team?
No, that didn't make sense.
This town didn't even have a forensics team!
Had it been stolen?!
How would it have been stolen. . .?
His brain stopped ping-ponging when he realized what had happened.
Of course!
That headache of a doctor was in town and she brought her nimble fingers with her.
He should've known better.
Jack swore and took off running towards the storage room.
His feet pounded on the linoleum; the ringing of his footsteps warning any pedestrians to move out of the way as he plowed through.
When he reached the room, he swung open the door without pomp and circumstance to scan the inside.
It was empty; as empty as a church after Christmas.
In the middle of the cramped space, abandoned on the chair, were his handcuffs.
And something else.
He edged closer to decipher it before realizing it was a note.
As he read, Jack released a furious growl.
A thud reverberated around the room as Jack's palm slapped against the drywall in a cacophonous caress.
The paper floated to the floor from his empty hand.
"Maybe you should have frisked me."
~**~~**~
The following morning a black Charger rolled languidly into a parking-lot and stopped next to a red sports car.
Dr. V.C. Coldwater commanded the driver's seat, twirling a familiar piece of metal between her fingers. She eyed the portfolio sprawled on her lap.
Inside was all the information her team had collected on Silvia Praxton in the past week.
When Mateo Emblem's son had come to Kingmaker, she originally refused to take his case. V.C. detested cases that involved three things: wealthy widows, writers, or water.
Given the journalism uproar the death of Mateo Emblem had caused, taking this case so far checked 2 out of the 3 on her 'Never Ever In a Million Years' list.
So she declined it.
But then Slade Emblem had told her where Silvia Praxton lived: a small town 4.5 hours away called Rinshawn.
Directly smack dab in the middle of a certain Commander's jurisdiction.
She couldn't believe her luck.
She would rather cut off her own arm than give up this opportunity to torture Commander Jack Rhodes.
First, let's get one thing straight: V.C. didn't hate Jack.
She didn't think of him as an arch nemesis to defeat and destroy.
She would never tell him this but she actually respected the man's detective skills greatly; he was intelligent, dedicated, and courageous.
But with that said, she'd never want to go out drinking with him.
His ethical code was too harsh; he followed the law to the letter, literally.
He had once made her redo a bailout form because she spelled a word wrong.
She swore he slept with a copy of the 'SEAL Code' under his pillow at night.
Everything was black and white to him, right or wrong.
V.C. preferred things a little bit more. . . gray.
The law was more of a guideline than a strict set of rules.
A suggestion, really.
That difference in opinion and the obstinate determination they both possessed caused the two to fight constantly.
She would irritate him endlessly until he would strike out like a snake and then she'd dance away, avoiding his flashing fangs, quick as a mongoose.
He would threaten to arrest her for obstruction of justice and she would tell him to prove it.
The fire inside both of them clashed and fought in a never-ending battle to be dominant.
A year ago, when she had crossed Commander Rhodes' path, he had told her explicitly that her laissez-faire approach to the law needed to stop.
And no one told V.C. Coldwater what to do.
Ever.
Since that fateful encounter, tormenting Jack Rhodes was one thing that brightened her day.
So whenever she got the chance to agitate the Commander, she took it.
Returning her attention to the present, V.C. eyed her destination, determined.
She flipped the folder closed and tossed it on the passenger's seat.
Twirling the metal fragment one more time, she dropped it into a cup holder.
Slamming the car door behind her, she stepped carefully, wanting to avoid face-planting into the unyielding cement at all costs.
She was all about making lasting impression and while a face full of gravel would be memorable, it wasn't what she was going for.
There was a case to crack and she was going to do it.
The towering building assaulted her eyes with a glaring sheen.
Its sheer glass infrastructure was a danger to low flying birds and the building's Goliath height shadowed the labyrinth of streets below.
Overhanging the main entrance read a polished sign 'Jameson & Kirk Law Firm'.
A bird had taken refuge in the 'O' of Jameson and serenaded all bystanders in its native tongue.
V.C. squared her shoulders and moved forward with a stride only years of determination could produce.
Her leather jacket breezed up behind her as the wind increased, forcing her to quicken her steps into the building.
She had spent the previous night plotting her mission carefully, studying the layout of the building and its occupants.
V.C. had prepared for every challenge she might encounter but, unfortunately, the first challenge of the morning came rather suddenly, and in the unconventional form of a revolving door.
It wasn't the door itself that was the problem, but the constant motion of it.
She shuffled back and forth like a child getting ready to leap into a double dutch jump rope.
3 Ph.D.'s and I can't even win against a door.
Loitering on the edge of the circling monster, she didn't enter until a gentleman in a posh suit took pity on her.
He stuck the tip of his shiny loafers into the beast, halting it for her.
A pink bloom dusting her cheeks and she nodded her thanks embarrassed, quickly scampering through into the lobby.
V.C. threw a glance around, hoping no one bore witness to her pathetic battle with the entryway.
Luckily, the lobby was empty, save for a potted plant in the corner, a lawyer nervously banging a pack of cigarettes against his leg, and three burly security guards standing against steel doors.
She reckoned the three looked like Cerberus, guarding the proverbial gates of Hell — just with a lot less drool and not as cute.
They were currently preoccupied with an in-depth argument, and from the looks of it, fists would soon be flying.
The lawyer looked distracted enough, more worried about his next nicotine fix than her entrance.
And the plant, while it looked suspicious, didn't seem to be a big enough threat to her pride.
"Get yourself together, girl. You're a genius," she muttered to herself.
The fast pep-talk returned her confidence again and she approached the sleek desk in the lobby entrance.
Her shoes tapped a rhythm on the floor and warned all of her presence.
Hidden by piles of files and abandoned coffee cups, a young man with prematurely thinned hair sat dwarfed by his 'over-the-top' desk.
The thought that he was obviously compensating for something flew through V.C's head as she stood in front of him.
The nameplate on the edge of the desk identified him as 'Gerald Witherlook'. V.C thought his name complimented him to a 'T' as he blatantly cast her a rapid irritated glare before looking away.
She met his unfriendliness with a smile of her own.
"Hi! I'm here to see Clark Jameson, please."
Mr. Witherlook didn't even bother to glance up, drawling, "Do you have an appointment?"
"Nope; but I would still like to see him."
The receptionist raised his head and gave her a once over.
After blinking at her, he stated that under no circumstances was anyone without an appointment to get past the double doors of the inner office.
He explicitly declared that Mr. Jameson was a busy man and he didn't have time to deal with walk-ins from off the street.
He hurriedly bid her a 'good day' and asked her to leave before he called the previously mentioned guards.
V.C. arched her brow and battled him in a staring contest.
Such a charmer, I wonder if he's single.
The man wasn't as brave as he pretended to be and broke eye contact almost immediately, clearing his throat of phantom phlegm.
She smiled inwardly at her triumph.
Just like I thought.
"Well in that case. . ." She left her statement open-ended and turned away. She glanced at the exit and then at the doors to the inner office.
She had two options: walk away with her tail between her legs or make a stand.
And V.C. wasn't the type of girl to let some man with a toupee for hair tell her what she could and couldn't do.
With an air of command, she made up her mind and strode towards the double doors, bypassing the arguing guards.
In the background, she could hear 'fake hair Gerald' fuming loudly. "Hey! Hey! You can't go in there. Hey! Security? Security?!" until the steel doors banged shut and trapped the ruckus outside.
The serene tone was a contrast to the noisy foyer and V.C. took another moment to observe her surrounding.
To her left was a conference room, and from the looks of it, there was a meeting going on.
Perfect, just what I want.
She thought about waiting for the meeting to end, but in her experience, people usually were more talkative when they were caught off guard.
Also, V.C. was somewhat of a self-proclaimed drama queen.
With a smile dancing across her lips, she pushed the glass doors open with both hands outstretched.
Might as well make an entrance they won't forget.
~**~~**~
A/N
Next chapter is Tie You Up In My Basement
Blurb:
Jack considered himself a level headed man.
As a SEAL, he had been trained in patience, restraint, and self-control.
He could courageously march into combat, brave bombardment on all fronts, and even make it through a Christmas dinner hosted by his overbearing mother without blowing a fuse.
But this woman single-handedly was enough to make anyone go insane.
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