Special Assignment

No amount of booze could wipe a conscience clean. Not that Mike Lawson hadn't given it one hell of a shot tonight. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, stumbling in the direction of the fleabag motel next door to the Beer-ly Alive Tavern. Gravel crunched and scuffed under his boots, the sound brittle as breaking glass in the cool April night. Not that he could feel the temperature. His nose and lips were numb as a plastic mask. He groped in his pocket and pulled out a room key on one of those old-fashioned plastic paddles. No key cards at this place. At least he had brains enough to check into a room before bellying up to attempt to suck the worm out of a bottle of mescal. He sure as hell didn't need to risk driving back to the ranch.As a cop, Mike had seen what happened when booze and cars mixed. He didn't need to add vehicular manslaughter to his list of sins. That list was long enough already. "God, I was hoping you'd climb behind the wheel, Lawson." A voice ground out from the shadows. The light from a nearby post gleamed off a shaved scalp. "I'd love to watch the boys slap the cuffs on you and jam an intoximeter tube down your throat." Even in his inebriated state, Mike recognized the voice. His ears started to pound. "Aren't you in prison yet, Fisher?, He tried to hold his head steady and squinted into the shadows. Three men stood next to his pickup truck. Fisher, Stevens and Rodriguez. The Curly, Larry and Moe of the Denver PD. If Mike had been sober, he'd have noticed them the moment he stepped into the parking lot. "You think you're such a goddamn hero, don't you?, Stevens swaggered forward. He balled his hands into fists. The tendons in his wiry arms stood out with iron-pumping definition. "You didn't even wait for us to go to trial before trying to sell your rat-bastard lies to Mr. Movie Star." The pounding in Mike's ears grew louder, making his molars ache. "Mr. Dead Movie Star," added the Moe of the group, Rodriguez. "Too bad for you." Mike inhaled cool, dry air. He hadn't approached Nick Warner. It had been Warner who'd come up with the idea of putting Mike's story on the silver screen. Mike had told Warner's people to forget it every single one of the half-dozen times they'd called. Unfortunately, Hollywood megastars weren't used to hearing the wordno.And when the film festival rolled around, Warner had shown up in Denver, as if challenging Mike to say no to that famous face in person. Nick Warner had been shot to death before Mike had gotten the chance. Mike turned away from the cops theDenver Posthad dubbed "the Dirty Three" and kept his feet moving toward his motel room. He didn't want to have this conversation. Hollywood and thePostmight think he was a hero for cleaning up corruption in the Denver PD, but he sure as hell didn't. He was more inclined to agree with his old man's assessment. Traitor. Not that he'd had much of a choice. Not if he wanted to uphold the law. Not if he wanted to do the right thing. Either way, he had spent the night striving to forget everything that had happened in the past few months--hell, everything that had happened in the past twenty years. And the last thing he wanted was to ruin a good drunk by strolling down memory lane with the dirty three. "Trying to run away? Can't face us without Internal Affairs by your side?, Rodriguez taunted. He nodded to the others. On cue, Fisher stepped into his path, his line-backer shoulders blocking sight of the motel. Stevens and Rodriguez positioned themselves on either side. Run away? If only he could. "Going to bed. Been a long day." "Not as long as it's going to get," Fisher said. Mike tipped his head back to meet Fisher's eyes. The parking lot seemed to sway under his feet. "How much did you get for selling your story?, Rodriguez again. "Who says I sold it?" "The kind of mPeterson, Ann Voss is the author of 'Special Assignment ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373692484 and ISBN 037369248X.