When Tony Met Adam (Short Story) (9 page)

He was in such bad shape, he’d forgotten to pull his ski mask down over his face. He was wearing it on top of his head, which didn’t do much to conceal his identity.

Clear thinking wasn’t part of the heroin withdrawal process, so Jules tried to eliminate any confusion on his end.

“I’m putting this on the ground”—Jules did just that—“and here’s my watch and my ring, too.” The ring—nothing fancy, just a simple silver band—was going to do the trick. The kid’s hands were shaking too much to be able to pick it up without his looking down, and when he did … “I’m going to back away—”

“I said shut the fuck up, faggot!”

Well, all-righty then. Jules could just imagine the conversation shared over a needle.
Hey, if you ever need some fast cash, go on over to West Hollywood and rob a homo. They’re all rich, and if you do it right, you can probably make ’em cry, which is good for a laugh.…

“So this is a hate crime?” Jules asked in an attempt to distract because he just couldn’t bring himself to cry. But it was too late. The time for conversation was definitely over.

The kid realized that his mask was up.

Jules wasn’t sure what changed, but he got a heavy whiff of
I can’t go back to prison
, which wasn’t a good emotion to combine with
I need a fix. Now
.

He couldn’t wait for the kid to fumble with the ring.

Instead, Jules rushed him, taking care to knock his gun hand up and to the left, away from the open bay door, which proved to be unnecessary as the weapon went flying, unfired.

It skittered on the concrete as Jules sent the kid in the opposite direction.

He used the basic principles of Newton’s second law to
launch himself after that weapon, scooping it off the floor and holding it in a stance that was far less theatrical than the kid’s had been, but also far more effective.

The kid rolled onto his ass, his face scraped and bleeding, and he looked at Jules with a mixture of disbelief and horror. “Who the fuck
are
you?”

“You didn’t think a fag would fight back, huh?” Jules asked. Holding the gun steady with one hand, he took his cell phone from his pocket with his other and speed-dialed the LAPD number he’d programmed in—standard procedure for an out-of-town visit—on his flight from D.C. “Yeah,” he said into the phone as the line was picked up. “This is Agent Jules Cassidy, with the FBI.”

“Ah, shit,” the kid said, too stupid to realize his mistake hadn’t been that he’d mugged the wrong man, but rather that he’d left his home this morning intending to commit felony armed robbery instead of checking himself into a rehab program.

“I need immediate police assistance in the underground garage for the Stonewall Hotel in West Hollywood,” Jules told the police dispatcher. He looked at the kid. “You, sweetiecakes, have the right to remain silent.…”

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Suzanne Brockmann is the award-winning author of fifty books, and is widely recognized as one of the leading voices in romantic suspense. Her work has earned her repeated appearances on the
New York Times
bestseller list, as well as numerous awards, including Romance Writers of America’s #1 Favorite Book of the Year and two RITA Awards.

Brockmann divides her time between Siesta Key, Florida, New York City, and Boston, Massachusetts. Visit her website at
www.SuzanneBrockmann.com
and find her on Facebook by searching for Suz Brockmann’s Troubleshooters World.