Page 72 of Shadow's Surrender
Chapter Seventeen
Shadow locked thedoor to the small warehouse he rented and slowly walked toward his motorcycle as he scanned the parking lot. Since the day before, he realized someone was following him. He hadn’t actually seen anyone, but he sensed it: eyes watching him, scoping him out, perhaps even measuring him as a target. But now, as his gaze focused on the oak and pine trees surrounding the building and asphalt lot, he saw nothing.
Another person would chide himself for being paranoid, but Shadow had more than a decade’s worth of experience living as a one-percenter. Being an Insurgent, he’d learned to notice minutiae details—to be hyperaware of his surroundings at all times—and his gut had picked up on something that had triggered alarms in his head. He knew better than to ignore them.
Without breaking his stride, Shadow put on his sunglasses, swung his leg over the bike, and turned on the engine. Not wanting to tip anyone off that he was on to them, he used his peripheral vision to check out any movement. Nothing. He gripped the handle bars, shifted, then took off, quickly blending into traffic on Main Street.
Instead of taking his usual route home, Shadow weaved in and out of traffic, purposely staying on crowded streets, and then he caught a glimpse of a small black car with tinted windows—maybe a Corolla—darting between cars behind him. Three automobiles separated him from his pursuer.Gotcha, asshole.Shadow turned down a narrow side street and pulled into an alley behind Shave Time—a barbershop that sold electric and stick razors. He parked his bike, and instead of going into the shop, he crossed the small lot and hid in the adjacent doorway of a used book store and waited.
Less than a minute passed when Shadow spotted the black car pass by the alley several times before it turned in slowly and cruised past the barbershop’s back lot. The Toyota Corolla pulled into the vacuum repair’s lot, which was four shops down, then a man wearing a pair of tan Dockers and a brown Polo shirt slid out. The guy looked to be in his mid-thirties and was of medium height, shaved head, and burly shoulders. He tugged at the waistband of his pants then quickly strode toward the barbershop.
Reaching under his cut, Shadow pulled his gun from his back holster and slipped it into his waistband as he quietly stepped out from the doorway and waited for his prey. The man walked by without even a sidelong glance, his whole focus appeared to be on Shadow’s bike and the barbershop, where he seemed to think the biker was inside.
As silent and agile as a cougar, Shadow fell in behind him, and the stalker hadn’t noticed until the biker’s arm wrapped around the man’s neck from his rear, and a startled cry rang out. Shadow kicked the back of the guy’s knees, knocking him off his feet and onto the hot, hard concrete. He slammed a boot on the back of the stalker’s neck, then crouched down low and pushed the gun into his back.
“Why the fuck are you following me?” he growled.
The man groaned.
“You got less than a second to take, then I’m putting a bullet in you.” Shadow dug the gun further into the man’s lower back.
“I’m a private investigator,” the man said, his voice strained.
“So-the-fuck-what,” Shadow gritted out.
“I was hired to get information on you—that’s all.” Another groan escaped through his swelling lips.
Shadow patted him down in the back then yanked him around and checked to see if he was carrying a weapon. Nothing. He pulled the guy up by the front of his shirt and dragged him into a narrow passageway between the two stores, and then slammed him against the wall.
“Who hired you, and you don’t wanna give me that privacy bullshit because I’m ready to end your life here and now.”
Beads of perspiration trickled down the man’s face, mixing in with dirt, gravel, and blood.
“Please … I just stake out people for my clients. I usually do affairs for divorces and stuff.”
“Stop stalling, fucker! Who the hell hired you?” Shadow pulled him forward then slammed him back against the wall so his headthumpeddully against the bricks. “Last chance.”
“Pamela and George Mansfield. I met with Mrs. Mansfield because her husband was too busy, but they wanted to know about you.”
“Like what?” His grip tightened on the man’s shirt.
“Who you are, where you come from, if you’re married, how many women you have … just the usual stuff. They said they were looking out for their daughter.”
Yeah … I bet they are. Fuckin’ sonsofbitches.“You started yesterday, right?”
“Yes. I really didn’t want to do it, especially after I found out you were a member of the Insurgents, but the money was real good. I got a wife, two kids, and another one on the way.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your life.”
“It’s nothing personal—just business.”
“I know.” Shadow rifled through the man’s pockets with his free hand and pulled out a wallet. He flipped it open and saw a picture of two small girls in frilly dresses, beaming and sitting on either side of a woman with long brown hair. The other side of the wallet carried a badge that readPrivate Investigatoron the top andCharlie Bowenunder it. He held it in front of Bowen’s face. “These badges are illegal,” he said. “Did you get this shit online?”
“Yeah … it helps with my ordinary cases.”
“I bet it does.” Shadow shoved it back in Charlie’s pocket. “What shit did you dig up on me?”
“Not too much. I just started yesterday. I got your real name—Steve Basson—and that you’ve been in the Insurgents for a while—it’s damn near impossible to get any intel on your club.”
