mentally slapped myself. He was, after all, a man, wasn’t he?
Jake was staring back at me, the impatience leaving his face as something else replaced it, something smoldering hot and, up until now, unrealized between the two of us, unfinished business that had been on the back burner for years. Yep, Jake was a man all right, the kind of man that makes you tingle all over and slowly come to a steady, about-to-boil-over-if-you-touch-me simmer that I found frankly maddening.
“Go get the truck,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.”
I rolled away from him, coming up into a low crouch that startled Mama Pig and her babies. In the darkness I heard Jake chuckle as he moved off toward the road. I forced myself to focus on the job at hand. Joey Smack’s farmhouse sat on a slight rise, hundreds of yards from the road, protected by a wrought-iron electrified fence, which we’d disabled.
In the middle of the huge expanse of pasture he called a lawn sat a huge Christmas panorama. Joey Smack was famous for this. On one side of the field, the Baby Jesus had just been born, surrounded by his entourage, every piece hand-painted and lit up to be visible from the road. On the right, Frosty the Snowman looked on a fake pond filled with magnetic figures that swirled and skated to cheery Christmas music. But it was in the center of the field, most prominently displayed, that Joey Smack had finally outdone himself.
An electronic Santa sat in an illuminated sleigh, hooked up to nine sizable and well-lit reindeer. As you watched, Santa waved and slowly doffed his hat. Every piece of the display used the appropriately colored lights. It was wired into a panel that insured a visual feast for the hundreds of cars that drove by each evening in a long slow snake that snarled traffic for hours every night from mid-November until January. The entire showcase probably compromised the electrical power banks that fed the eastern seaboard, but this didn’t worry old Joey Smack.
No, the affable host, dressed as Santa, would wander to the roadside every night, all smiles and good cheer. He’d hand each innocent child a sucker and ask earnestly, “What do you want for Christmas?” Joey seemed to believe he really was Santa Claus and the new sleigh just added fuel to his delusional fire. It was a custom-made, larger-than-life sleigh and Joey was often spotted from the road, maniacally polishing its brass frame, or sitting up on the bench, shoving the wire-mesh Santa to one side as he cracked the whip over poor Rudolph’s head.
The word on the street was that Joey slipped his regulars rocks of crack when they pulled up in front of the estate for the grand nighttime viewing, but again, there was no proof of this. The other myth about Joey Smack was easier to verify. If he knew of an Italian-American family in Glenn Ford who was in need or without at Christmastime, Joey took care of them, with presents and food and an envelope stuffed with cash to tide them over “until there’s better times.”
Was it any wonder Joey Smack never had to worry about prosecution? Who would testify against a saint like that? Further, who in their right mind would attempt to repo Santa’s sled from Santa Claus? We were risking the wrath of hundreds of children, dozens of Joey’s minions, and probably risking our own lives as well, and for what, a few lousy hundred dollars? What was the big deal about eating and paying the rent? Was that really so important? Was this really a viable career choice?
I crept slowly toward the darkened display, looking for the panel to disconnect the wires before Jake arrived with the truck. Repo is all about speed. We had to load old Santa, his vehicle and the nine tiny reindeer before someone woke up and realized what was going on. No amount of Yankee ingenuity or artistic license would make Joey Smack decide to let Santa go without a fight. Stealth was our middle name, repossession was our game.
I was half swaggering now, buying into my own propaganda. Jake and I were pros. This was a cakewalk for us. After all, he was a former Delta Force Army Ranger, while I was a veritable killing machine, a former cop with every bit of specialized training I could absorb. What could be easier than a simple repossession? In fact, maybe that was the real problem; I just wasn’t challenged by my newfound profession.
When Jake came chugging up the driveway, I was ready for him.
“They’re unhooked. Let’s do Santa and the sleigh first and then stuff the reindeer around them.”
He nodded and we flew into action, moving as quickly and quietly as possible. We were easily a hundred yards from the house, but every move sounded like a shotgun and the diesel’s engine seem to roar louder and louder as we scrambled to load old Saint Nick.
The true shotgun blast was almost a relief.
It thundered into the still night air, turning baseless apprehension into fully grounded reality. We were busted. Rudolph stood alone on the snowy ground where he waited to join his imprisoned but unsecured buddies on the flatbed of the truck. As far as I was concerned, he could stay there, too. The Lifetime Novelty Company would just have to make do with the haul we had on the back of the truck. I was not battling shotgun fire to reclaim one red-nosed reindeer. Not me.
“Drive!” I yelled, diving for the passenger-side door.
The gun roared again.
“Jake, damn it! Let’s go!”
I could hear voices now, men calling out as they ran toward the pasture.
I screamed his name one more time, but knew even before I looked, that Jake had been hit.
I flew out of the truck, ducked low behind the flatbed and yelled, “Repossession! Hold your fire!”
This was met with another blast from the shotgun, this time over my head. They didn’t care who I was. They were protecting their property and would say that when the police came to investigate our murders. Shit!
“Stella!” Jake’s voice, weak, came from the rear of the flatbed. I found him, struggling to stand, and went to him. I grabbed his arm, slipped my hand around his waist and felt sticky liquid coat my fingers. My heart clutched in my throat and for a heartbeat I found I couldn’t move.
“Okay, babe, hold on,” I whispered.
A blast of gunfire blew out the windshield and back window of the truck. With strength I didn’t know I had, I pulled Jake forward, throwing him onto the floorboard of the truck as I dived over him to slide behind the wheel.
I heard Jake moan as I pulled my Glock out of its holster and slammed the truck into gear. We were moving.
Jake squirmed, trying to pull his door shut as he, too, reached for his weapon.
“I got it!” I said. “Just lie still. You’re bleeding!”
I was driving hell for leather toward the front gate. Behind us, Joey Smack’s security guards fired again. As I watched in the rearview mirror, a set of headlights swung out from behind the farmhouse and began following us. I glanced at Jake, saw the color drain from his face and knew we were in trouble.
My chest tightened with feelings I didn’t want to acknowledge, not to myself and certainly not to Jake. I was scared, but not about Joey Smack or his men. I was scared because it was Jake lying there, bleeding, and because I knew with a deep certainty that he mattered to me, really mattered.
“This is so not good,” I muttered.
“What?”
I didn’t answer him immediately. It wouldn’t do for Jake to see me scared, or worse, concerned. Any sign of emotion from me would be a dead giveaway. Around Jake
