Page 39 of Fight for You

I draw to a stop and eye him. He’s my height, with hard green eyes and blond hair. Even dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, he's got cop written all over him. The bulge under his shirt is obvious—his gun.

I consider telling him that he's got the wrong motherfucker but decide against it. After the shit I did, I honestly didn't expect to make it out of Los Angeles without being scooped up. Somehow, I made it all the way to Syria and back.

If he's here to arrest me now, I guess that's his prerogative.

"That's me," I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest.

"You found Calvin Titus."

I don't answer him.

"You also found Whitey Banks, Rocky Jackson, and Hector Alvarez."

"Who the fuck are you?" I ask, not sure I like that he knows so much of my business. I haven't exactly been discreet about carrying gang members and bikers in off the streets, but I've tried to keep my name out of it as much as possible, giving only my last name and nothing else. Figured it was easier that way.

"Jason Ames," he says.

"The name means exactly dick to me," I tell him. "Who do you work for?"

"The DEA."

"You're a Fed?"

He nods.

Well, fuck my life.

"What do you want?" I ask, a hell of a lot more wary than I was five seconds ago. If he's a Fed, I'm guessing he's probably not here for a friendly chat. Either he knows what I did before I left Los Angeles…or they've had enough of me stepping on their toes here.

"To talk."

"About what?"

"You."

"That's real helpful," I mutter, annoyed by his one-word responses. Hell, I'm annoyed by life in general these days. Everything pisses me off. "You plan to string together some actual sentences tonight or is that not on the agenda?"

He eyes me for another minute, his face set in hard lines. He's a stoic son of a bitch, but I've gotten good at reading people. It's all about the eyes. His are full of frustration and genuine curiosity. He doesn't know what to make of me, and I don't think he likes that much.

I find that oddly comforting.

"Why'd you bring in Titus?" he finally asks.

"Why not?" I respond, shrugging.

He cocks his head to the side and arches a brow, silently demanding an explanation. I'm not sure I have one for him, though. I've spent my entire life dealing with motherfuckers like Titus. I know him because I was him for half my fucking life.

My crew wasn't one-percenters, but I did what the fuck I had to do to protect January. My hands aren't clean. And I dealt with the motherfuckers often enough.

Since I can't go back to Los Angeles, I might as well put my knowledge to use. I've got shit else to do in this city. Why not help deal with their gang problem? It's not like the cops are making much headway with it, despite all their claims to the contrary.

"You know you've got close to 200 gangs, cartels, and MCs in this city?" I ask Ames instead of telling him all of that. I'm not in a sharing mood.

He jerks his chin in a nod.

"A kid died in a shootout at a mall not even a year ago. Everyone was all riled up about it, so you amped up patrols, took down a few bad guys, tore down the project, and patted yourselves on the backs," I say, shoving my hands into my pockets and moving closer to the building as the rain picks up. "Now you think because fewer people are dying, you're doing a good job, but you're wrong."

"How so?" he asks, ignoring the rain like every other motherfucker in this city seems to do.