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    Touch and GO
    Touch and GO
    Touch and GO
    Ebook178 pages2 hours

    Touch and GO

    By Chris Quinton

    ()

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    About this ebook

    I'm Jason Michaels, an undercover cop injured in a shootout that took down a couple of crime bosses. Now I'm squirreled away in a safe house, with an FBI bodyguard to keep me alive for the upcoming trials. 

    Drawback #1: Bad apples in the Boston Police Department and the FBI are gunning for me. 

    Drawback #2: Ever tried using a wheelchair when an arm and a leg are out of commission?

    Drawback #3 to infinity: My FBI watchdog is Philip Harland. We made each other's lives hell all through our highschool years, and the hatred is real. 

    Nothing's changed. Except that Harland, the arrogant asshole, is now too damn attractive for comfort. But I'm out of choices. I have to trust him.

     

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherChris Quinton
    Release dateOct 16, 2023
    ISBN9798223072300
    Touch and GO
    Author

    Chris Quinton

    Chris Quinton  Chris started creating stories not long after she mastered joined-up writing, somewhat to the bemusement of her parents and her English teachers. But she received plenty of encouragement. Her dad gave her an already old Everest typewriter when she was ten, and it was probably the best gift she'd ever received – until the inventions of the home-computer and the worldwide web. Chris's reading and writing interests range from historical, mystery, and paranormal, to science-fiction and fantasy, writing mostly in the male/male genre. She also writes the occasional male/female novel in the name of Chris Power. She refuses to be pigeon-holed and intends to uphold the long and honourable tradition of the Eccentric Brit to the best of her ability. In her spare time [hah!] she reads, or listens to audio books while quilting or knitting. Over the years she has been a stable lad [briefly] in a local racing stable and stud, a part-time and unpaid amateur archaeologist, a civilian clerk at her local police station and a 15th century re-enactor. She lives in a small and ancient city not far from Stonehenge in the south-west of the United Kingdom, and shares her usually chaotic home with an extended family, three dogs, a Frilled Dragon [lizard], sundry goldfish and tropicals

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      Book preview

      Touch and GO - Chris Quinton

      Chapter One

      The night-guard opened the gates and the three vehicles pulled into the yard of the boarded-up factory. I slumped in the back of the leading SUV, and kept my expression schooled to bored and half-asleep. I couldn’t prevent the sweat that beaded my upper lip, of course, but hopefully no one would make anything of it.

      The SWAT teams would have been in place for hours, long before the drugs and cash were due to be exchanged at the ungodly hour of two-thirty in the morning. Adrenaline pumped through me, ratcheted up my heartbeat, sharpened my senses, until I was ready to jump out of my skin if someone sneezed unexpectedly.

      Calm down, Michaels. Steady breaths, now...

      In unspoken synchronicity, the four of us checked our handguns. Mine was a Glock 21, with a magazine of thirteen .45 caliber bullets. Plenty of stopping power, and I’d almost certainly need it tonight.

      Get your ass in gear, Frankie, Mo Kennedy said as he reached across me and opened the door. Don’t got all fucking day.

      Day? I snorted in fake outrage. This is the middle of the fucking night, jerkwad. I should be home getting my beauty sleep, not riding herd on the deal. Duane owes me one. I rubbed my belly, and frowned. The bastard had better not’ve given any of us his bug.

      Duane had succumbed to a judicial amount of laxative in his evening coffee, and the resulting bowel activity had opened the way for me to take his place. I’m Jason Michaels, a detective with the Boston Police Department, currently running my first undercover mission as Frank Ritter, paid muscle in John Beaufort’s crime empire.

      My opposite number, Earl Jenkins, was embedded with Boris Komarov’s operation. The deal we were about to disrupt would have been the start of a criminal cooperation that The Powers That Be had decided simply couldn’t be allowed to happen.

      Only a few security lights glowed above the vast expanse of cracked tarmac. Empty loading bays and haphazard dumpsters overflowing with discarded building rubble offered some cover if, or rather when, the night developed into a shootout. I eyed a patch of deep shadow between a dumpster and a short flight of concrete steps up onto the platform of the nearest loading bay. I’d hunker down there the first chance I got.

      I climbed out, viscerally aware of the three large men who followed on my heels, and the vehicle peeled away to park up across the yard, facing the entrance. Four more heavies left the third SUV, and it drove off to join the first. We all took up our positions in the shadows of the stacked pallets along the northern edge of the yard. The second vehicle remained front and center. Its occupants stayed put. Apart from the driver, they were invisible behind the dark glass.

      Sixteen months of undercover work while the two crime bosses negotiated with each other long-distance, and they would soon be together in the same place. Maybe. If Komarov or Beaufort hadn’t changed their minds at the last minute and sent their 2iCs instead. In which case, when the cops issued their challenge, instead of diving behind the pallets, I’d pray that I wouldn’t get caught in the inevitable crossfire, make a break for it, and remain undercover with the Beaufort gang. For added insurance, I wore a Kevlar vest under my over-large sweater and hoodie. The night was cold enough that my bulked-up shape shouldn’t arouse suspicions.

      This get-together was the crime-lords’ equivalent of an international presidential meeting. If they formed the planned alliance, the two men would have a monopoly on the drugs, prostitution and money-laundering deals in the northeastern states. As soon as rumors of it had reached the Boston Police, a couple of us had been tasked to infiltrate the gangs. With any luck, Jenkins would be with Komarov’s escort.

      Three more vehicles swept into the yard. Two peeled off to park up at the south side, and eight men emerged. The third, a sleek Chrysler, stopped not far from the central SUV. The pause stretched, then Beaufort got out. He was a big man in his fifties, a quarterback gone to seed. Then the unmistakable Russian bear bulk of Boris Komarov left the Chrysler and joined him. Surrounded by their equally large bodyguards, the two men shook hands. I let out a sigh of relief.

      Mo shot me a glare, and I shrugged. Thought for a moment Boris had stood up the Boss-man.

      Nah, he’s smarter than that.

      Yeah. I edged away and leaned against the wall of pallets, ostensibly relaxed. Don’t see why they couldn’t have done the big handshake somewhere warm, though. What’s wrong with one of their fancy casinos, for fuck’s sake?

      Neutral ground, dumbass.

      Then the immortal words rang out: Armed Police! Freeze! and all hell broke loose.

      Things got a little blurred after that. I ran, shouting, my gun out. The bastard wasn’t escaping on my watch. Then—

      I roused slowly from a muddled fog to a haze. Sounds still seemed muffled, distant, and I couldn’t immediately work out where I was. Apart from in bed. But not my bed, I knew that much. Something was clamped over my nose and mouth, pushing cool air into me. I attempted to open my eyes, but failed. Fabric, a sheet? covered most of me, I realized, only for it to be lifted away. Fingers touched my right hand, the contact light and fleeting. I tried to move it, and that failed, too. My arms seemed to weigh a ton. So did the rest of me, if it came to that. Pain was somewhere in the mix, but too distant to register properly.

      Wha...? I croaked.

      Someone whispered, Shit. Moments later a warm flood of oblivion swept me away.

      The next time I became aware, it took me a while to work out that the series of slow-motion images playing behind my eyelids were memories rather than a dream. 

      Beaufort had dived back into his SUV, and the driver had floored it, heading for the gate near my position. I was off to the side and I knew I should let them go, should fade into the background and make my own escape to remain undercover, but I didn’t.

      Instinct and gut-churning memories of things I’d seen done to people at Beaufort’s command spurred me into the vehicle’s path, my gun aimed and already firing.

      My first four bullets starred the windshield, the next ones punched through the glass, but the heavy car didn’t swerve. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel, his body holding the SUV on its course. It bore down on me at a snail’s pace.

      Slow though it seemed in my memory-dream, I could only move at glacial speed. I’d known I wasn’t going to make it, even as I leaped for shelter, firing shot after shot into the darkness behind the shattered windshield. Right then, I hadn’t cared. Stopping Beaufort’s escape took all my focus.

      The force of the impacts hadn’t really registered. A sickening crunch resonated from my leg into my gut, a brief sensation of twisting flight, and a split second later my shoulder and ribs joined in the fun as I landed on the concrete steps. That was it, until I opened my eyes to see a white ceiling above me.

      Now I craned my neck to confirm I still had a left leg, peering past the oxygen mask that covered my nose and mouth. The sight of the bright blue fiberglass cast that stretched from mid-thigh to half way across my foot reassured me. What felt like an icepack sat on my left shoulder, and that arm was in a sling. Off to the side of the bed, a white-clad nurse checked readouts on complicated-looking gadgetry, to the accompaniment of steady bleeps. Most of that gadgetry looked to be attached to me by a collection of sensors, wires, and tubes.

      Hi? I said. Or tried to. It came out as a barely audible rasp.

      The nurse turned, an easy smile on her ebony features. She was gorgeous. Drugged to the eyeballs I might be, but I could always appreciate beauty when I saw it Hi, yourself. Hold on, you’ll need some lubricating.

      I snickered, or tried to. S’wha th’all say.

      Her chuckle was a gentle benison. Oh-ho. You’re going to be a problem, aren’t you?

      Before I could answer, she carefully removed my oxygen mask, and slipped an ice chip between my dry lips. While it melted on my tongue like chill nectar, she raised the head of the bed a little more, and straightened the sheet that covered me from chest to feet.

      Half a dozen chips later, I got my voice back, and had managed to focus on her name badge. Nichelle Kebede.

      What’s the damage, Nurse Nichelle?

      The doctor will be here shortly, she replied. He’ll bring you up to date.

      How long have I been here?

      Four days. Can you tell me your name?

      Four— Well, damn.

      What’s your name, honey?

      That depends, I said, and tried my usual knock-’em-dead smile. The nurse raised unimpressed eyebrows. Uh, Jason Michaels. Detective, Boston PD. And I know the President’s name. If I’ve been out of it for four days, the date should be... April 8th or 9th?

      It’s the morning of the 9th.

      Okay. Tiredness swept over me in a smothering wave. Nurse, I need to speak to—to—m’cap’n...

      Soon, honey. Rest n... Her voice faded and I drifted into darkness again.

      The next time I woke up, the pain was a little more present, but so was I. Nurse Nichelle stood on one side of my bed, a gray-haired, harried-looking man in a white coat on the other. This time I didn’t have to squint to read his badge.

      Dr Levison—no first name for him—offered a brief smile. Good afternoon, he said.

      Hi, what’s the damage, Doc? I tried to push myself higher on the pillows. It hurt, so I stopped.

      Smart, Nurse Nichelle muttered under her breath. She reached for the button and the bed moved, raising my shoulders a little more.

      Compound fractures of your left fibula and tibia, concussion, a simple dislocation of your left shoulder, multiple bruises and abrasions. You were hit by a car and slammed into concrete steps.

      Yeah, I remember most of it. What’s the good news, Doc?

      I’ll channel my inner House and tell you to be thankful you’re alive and still have both legs. Time will tell how much functionality you’ll have in that limb, but so far your prospects are good. The bad news is, you won’t be leaving here anytime soon. As for the rest, well, I’ll let your captain give you that. He’s waiting outside. He took the clipboard from the end of the bed and smiled again. Okay, let’s see how you’re doing.

      The next half-hour was not comfortable, despite the care and expertise of Levinson and the nurse. I sweated through it without reaching for the button that controlled the pain relief pump, not wanting to be fuzzy-headed when Captain Braxton showed up. I had a lot of questions to ask, and needed to have my wits online. Four days. A lot can happen in four days.

      Had other cops been injured, or God forbid, killed? Was Jenkins okay? Had Beaufort and Komarov gotten away? How many arrests? Were there new leads?

      How long will I be in here, Doc?

      Unknown at present. He frowned, obviously displeased about something. Captain Braxton will be in to talk to you shortly, but not for long.

      Something about his body language struck me as ominous. The impression increased when Braxton came in five minutes later. Not only was his expression grim enough to scare off a junkyard dog, but the brief glimpse I had of two uniformed and Kevlared backs outside in the corridor just before the door closed underscored the impression. I had armed guards, for God’s sake. Shit. Had the op gone south that badly?

      Sir? What happened? We didn’t get them? 

      Oh, we got them just fine, Braxton said. Those who were at the warehouse, anyway. We might have cut off the heads, but both gangs had guys waiting in the wings to take over. Komarov is locked up safe and sound. Beaufort is alive, badly wounded, but likely to make it to trial. Which means we have to keep you and Jenkins alive as well. He paused, fixed me with a tungsten-edged glare. He’s tucked away in a safe house with only minor scrapes and bruises, but they already made an attempt on you.

      I—what? 

      Someone sneaked in here and injected morphine into your IV. The sensors went haywire, and if the nurse hadn’t seen the cleaning orderly coming out of your room and known he had no business being there, we’d have lost you. Thanks to her and naloxone, they were able to get you back. He’s in custody, terrified out of his mind, but he isn’t talking.

      Damn, I muttered, my gut knotting up with an adrenaline rush that had nowhere to go. An overwhelming vulnerability swamped me and the gadgetry picked up on it. Nurse Nichelle appeared, her glare rivaling Braxton’s.

      Visiting time is over, Captain, she said, an implacability in her voice that even a ranking cop didn’t ignore.

      Indeed, it is, the doc said, using his own rank to underscore it.

      Fine, Braxton responded with brusque impatience. I’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll have you squirreled away in a safe house as soon as possible, Michaels.

      Nurse Nichelle, I decided fuzzily, had probably been recruited from the Dora Milaje. I must have said it aloud, because she smiled and murmured, Wakanda forever, as she lowered the bed until I was horizontal again. I fell asleep in seconds.

      The next time I blinked my eyes open and managed to focus, it wasn’t the stunning Nurse Nichelle looming over me, but the averagely good-looking FBI Agent Chad Fuller. He

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