First Surrender (Chance Encounters #3)

Chapter One

Jackson

T he soft lull of a romantic tune slips through the windows surrounding the courtyard I’m hiding in. The newlyweds are making the rounds to greet each guest while I avoid socializing by checking my email. I have too much on my mind to make small talk.

Kidnapping, assaults, bombs, and drugs. Our home is suffering.

I’ve been the Sheriff of Rollins County for a year now and the workload has fallen heavy on my shoulders. I’m outnumbered and overworked. Overwhelmed.

We’re low-staffed and low on funds with an uptick in dangerous crime in the area.

Dangerous crimes are not normal for a place as rural as Rollins County. I grew up here, went to school here, and formerly worked the roads here as a State Trooper. This is a quiet county with more mountain roads than highways. More mom-and-pop shops than nationwide chains. Many of the families in this community span generations.

I know the local business owners and am familiar with the county board members and other representatives. Where some places might’ve seen me as too young to hold the position, the people here know I’m more than qualified. The years of law enforcement experience I have far outweighed any of the other potential candidates. Egomaniacs more interested in the status and power the title of Sheriff came with instead of helping the people here.

Securing the office was a lot of work but relatively easy. I vetted the deputies and ensured that Sheriff Donahue was the only dirty cop and made the moves to get the Department back up and running the right way.

Unfortunately, more missing person cases have come to light since my time in office began. Rollins doesn’t have enough of a population to be able to overlook disappearances. We’re up to a dozen unsolved. All ages, genders, races. There isn’t a pattern and it’s keeping me up at night.

I want people in the county to be safe. I want kids to be able to walk to school without fear of being plucked off the street and into the back of a van. I want criminals behind bars.

Between that and the bombing this past fall, I’ve barely slept. I made it my job to fix things and I am not making progress.

“Hey, do you want a piece of cake?” Whitney asks from the doorway. Over her shoulder people are dancing in the library’s interior under rows of string lights. The music is louder and more upbeat than before.

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

She nods and turns to leave, and I can’t contain my sigh of relief. Whitney is a casual acquaintance but nothing more. A few nights spent together throughout the past few years is as far as it’s gone. Every once in a while she gives off the impression that she would like me to give her more. A sly comment here or there, and more than obvious flirting that I let fly over my head under the guise of not noticing. It’s not going to happen with her.

She’s a nice girl, a pretty woman, but I’m not interested in wedding bells. Hell, I’m starting to wonder if I’m interested in anything other than this damn job.

The music’s volume increases and even though my back is turned, I know that someone’s invaded my hideaway once again.

“You know you can’t leave until my sister sees you having fun, right?” I don’t need to see him to recognize Nathan’s voice. He and the groom are pretty much the only two people I would consider friends.

Callie is one less person on my missing person board because of him. Nathan is Army, ex-Special Forces, and I knew after he recovered her not to ask many questions. It was a safe enough assumption to tag it as a murder-suicide. Luckily, as a trooper, I was discouraged from looking into the case anyway. The state didn’t want that type of “backwoods” crime to be their problem.

It motivated me to take the leap and run for Sheriff. I wanted to know more about the trafficking scheme that the late Sheriff Donahue was involved in and just how corrupt he was. I wanted to make sure that the person who proceeded with the position wouldn’t be worse for the community here.

“I’m still trying to solve Callie’s case you know,” I state, ignoring his comment about the wedding. The people responsible for plucking Callie off the side of the road that day are dead but the person who was pulling their strings is still out there. They’re most likely responsible for my other missing people and my sleepless nights.

“I know, man.”

After he took some time off, he got into Army Criminal Investigations. We’ve talked shop on more than one occasion.

“I think I have a lead, but I’m not sure where it will take me. I can’t stomach that it’s taken me this long. The bombing at the 5k has been at the top of my plate.”

“It’s strange what’s happened within a year of Callie’s abduction. Any chance that it’s all connected? Kidnappings, bombings?” He asks, voicing the thoughts that I’ve already had. We’re more alike than either of us would ever admit out loud.

“Yeah, and now I’m looking into a drug dealer. The web of activity has to stem from one point. Everything happening is too prominent to be a coincidence. I just can’t figure out which scenario would be better. Random violent crimes or a criminal mastermind.” We stand in thoughtful silence until another person joins us.

“You lame asses going to stand out here all night?” Jesse, the groom, asks.

“Probably,” Nathan responds, earning a punch to the arm from Jesse.

“Congratulations,” I tell him, lamely. He did get married after all.

“Malec, smile, it’s a wedding. You’re supposed to be having fun,” Jesse berates me. I don’t feel like smiling. I never do.

“He’s stressed about work, come on.” Nathan ushers the half-intoxicated groom back into the party, letting me have some peace. That’s the norm, Jesse tries to bring me out of my shell and Nathan understands my aversion to fun. They’re good guys.

I wander back to my table where Whitney is finishing her fourth glass of champagne. Her platinum blonde hair swishes just above her shoulders as she turns to look at me. Paired with her pink dress, she resembles a shiny Barbie doll.

Her looks have never bothered me but lately, I’ve felt more than an aversion toward her. If I had more of a social life then I’d stop inviting her to things, but selfishly, I can’t be bothered to make new acquaintances. People exhaust me.

“I need to get going. Do you want to stay? Or do you want me to take you home?” I ask hoping she’ll cut me some slack and say she wants to stay to dance with any other man at this wedding.

“You can take me home.” She gathers her things while I groan internally. If I were a bigger jackass, I’d call her an Uber, but I’m not. Rideshares aren’t very prevalent in this area anyway.

I’ll make sure she’s home and then never call her again. I wouldn’t have this time but I didn’t feel like coming to a wedding without a plus one. It’d been six months since I had last seen her, even longer since I’d slept with her.

We’re a mile down the road when she starts stroking my arm. The same song and dance each time. She starts offering small touches then she’ll bat her eyelashes and ask me up to her apartment for a drink. I know the routine.

Sometimes I would let her think it worked, sometimes I wouldn’t. She’s never caught onto the fact that I don’t drink, ever.

“Do you want to come up for a bit? I have a new bottle of wine that I’ve been wanting to open.” She purrs from beside me. Her voice rumbles from her chest like she’s channeling Marilyn Monroe. It’s too easy.

It does nothing for me. My blood hasn’t pumped in that way for some time now. Maybe I’m getting old. If 32 is the start of erectile dysfunction then I have a long sad life ahead of me.

“Not tonight.” I ignore her sad eyes and the pout of her mouth, hitting the unlock button on my door so she gets the message. Thankfully, she does, climbing out onto the sidewalk. I should walk her to her door, but I won’t. She’ll get the wrong idea and I don’t have the energy to care about being a gentleman.

“Call me?” She asks as she closes my door.

“Sure.” I put it in drive and hit the gas before checking that she made it inside.

I think the next time that I arrest a drunk and disorderly, I’ll let them have a free shot. I deserve a good punch to the face.

* * *

The fluorescent white lights of the courtroom reflect brightly off of the polished oak of the judge’s bench and the wooden bar that separates the lawyers from the rest of the room.

I’ve spent many hours in this courtroom spectating cases being tried, testifying, and assisting with prisoner transport. Today I am one of the onlookers waiting for Declan Randolph to be brought out.

I readjust in my seat uncomfortably, dislodging my gun belt from where it’s digging into my side. We’re short on coverage today so I’m in full uniform in case I have to respond to calls. I prefer the days that I can wear a department polo, not twenty pounds of vest and gear. It seems that we’re short coverage most days though, which leads to more after-hours work for me.

A man is led into the room with wrist cuffs chained to his ankles, his bright orange jumpsuit hanging off of his slender frame. There is excited murmuring among the audience as the deputy helps Declan Randolph to sit but just as the commotion settles, a woman enters the courtroom from behind me. Walking past my row and down the middle aisle, Declan’s supporters go abuzz again, watching her pointedly as she strides confidently to the first row and directly into my line of sight.

Her long dark, almost black, hair sways down the middle of her back to her waist. Wearing a dark green sweater and a black skirt, with heels that are more than a couple of inches high, she flips her hair over one shoulder as she drops her purse and the long coat dangling from her arm onto the seat.

When she flips her hair again to fall down the length of her back, her eyes cut to the group of men on the other side of the aisle and they narrow.

I can only tell because of how long her thick eyelashes are. Her opinion is apparent even from my seat 15 feet back. A few of the young guys that she’s staring at give it right back to her, cocking their heads and puffing their chests.

I’m not sure of the connection but their obvious disdain of the woman in front of me puts me on alert. Not only do they outnumber her, I’m sure a few members of that crowd have warrants. It’s less about their appearance, though they do have a few crude tattoos and more about an attitude that projects unruliness.

Her dark eyes flick back in my direction as she sits but there is nothing but bored dismissal in them. On top of her petite facial features, she wears a hard mask. She hates the world and everyone in it.

It isn’t the first time that I’ve seen her in the courthouse. It’s been about a month, but my memory is sometimes painfully sharp and she’s hard to miss. I don’t forget a face, and I haven’t forgotten hers.

The judge bangs his gavel and begins his spiel to the defendant. The hearing regarding Declan Randolph’s case is beginning.

Mr. Randolph has a long rap sheet for various drug charges including Trafficking, Distribution, and Possession. He’s a career drug dealer currently being charged with Aggravated Murder. That’s a jump up from the other crimes but not unheard of in his line of work.

The victim was his wife, and now it’s the court’s job to find out if he did it on purpose as an act of domestic violence or if he’s another uneducated, loose-cannon drug dealer who didn’t know the heat he was carrying.

Lawson PD caught this case but I’m here anyway because it happened in Rollins County. We merely have a working relationship, not a great one, but it doesn’t matter. Declan’s crimes are a part of a big problem here and that means I have an interest in them stopping.

I want the overdoses to stop and the senseless crime. I need to know where Declan got the drugs that killed his late wife. The person who can supply drugs like that is powerful and doesn’t belong here. Possibly powerful enough to orchestrate an entire epidemic of violent crimes against the innocent people of Rollins.

Unfortunately, Randolph has already been in jail for eight months, his trial date continues to be postponed due to the run-around the Defense keeps pulling to dismiss the evidence and the charges. They haven’t even made it to the pre-trial and the Prosecution’s case is crumbling.

I look toward the bench just as Declan peeks over his shoulder and across the bar to the woman sitting in front of me. She’s eerily still, her head turned just enough to glare in his direction. He winks at her cheekily, cockily, but she doesn’t react. Her posture doesn’t shift and I imagine her glare doesn’t either.

Who is she?

An old girlfriend?

The victim’s family?

I catalog each person around the room, habitually.

The five young guys who are seemingly here to support Declan are mid-twenties, three Caucasians, and two Hispanics. An older man with darkened transition lenses slowly stands from the last row by the window, shuffling over to exit the courtroom early. My auxiliary deputy is peddling lightly from his right foot to his left. He’s old, retired, and only working in the courts part-time for extra money. I don’t mind because I didn’t want to waste one of my full-timers on it.

The Defense Council is speaking in hushed tones while Prosecutor Fulton stands, addressing Judge Reisner directly. He’s tense, whatever is happening is not going in his favor.

As the shoulders of the woman in front of me become even more rigid than before, I’m suddenly curious to find out her involvement.

And these days nothing piques my interest.