Monday Evening, Mid-May
Jeter Wolfe tapped a cigarette out of the package and lit it from the embers of the previous one. He dropped the dying butt out the car window where it joined a growing pile. The tip grew bright red with each breath. He twisted in the seat, trying to get comfortable. Even with the seat completely back, his knees touched the steering wheel and his head rubbed the roof. At six-foot-five and more than two-hundred-fifty pounds, he was cramped in most vehicles. The next car he stole needed to be bigger—much bigger.
He scratched his beard. He’d let it grow the entire two years he was imprisoned. The dark beard and long hair reinforced the nickname his biker buddies had given him—Wolfman.
A few more visits and he’d know her routine—whom she lives with, where she goes, whom she meets, the vehicles she drives, and the routes she takes. He had to know when she was home alone. He would need enough uninterrupted time.
Her house was on the corner of a crescent. He parked down the street with a clear view of the front of the house and yard. If someone was looking, and curious, they would see him and might wonder why he was parked there. He’d have to park in different places at different times of the day. Changing vehicles after each visit would be a good idea.
Most cops, lawyers, judges, and politicians kept their names and addresses out of the phone book. But two years ago, his former club, the Gypsy Jokers, had collected the addresses for all the cops, politicians, media, judges, and lawyers who were trying to shut the Jokers down. They’d used a few of the addresses harassing cops, a journalist, and a judge. This address was seared into his brain. He knew one day he would come here.
He checked the duffel bag on the passenger seat. The contents were from army surplus. Everything he needed—one-stop shopping. Binoculars, hunting knife, duct tape, rope, triangular bandages, several pairs of gloves and a pistol. Earlier, he thought about stashing this stuff. No sense having it in the car in case he was stopped by the cops. Then he realized if he was stopped by the cops, having his duffel bag of goodies would be the least of his problems. The gun under his seat would take care of the cops. He smiled at that thought.
A new BMW drove past him and continued straight into her driveway. He tossed the cigarette butt out the window and grabbed the binoculars. The driver’s door opened and Jenni Blighe’s shapely legs swung out—all nylon up to mid-thigh. Her navy skirt slid farther up as she slipped out. Wolfe held his breath, then the air escaped in a blast. He’d spent over a year in jail waiting to see her again. She was a lot hotter in person than his fantasies. Funny how a memory fades. She walked around the back of the car and herded her kids up the sidewalk and into the house. His eyes were glued to her ass—the ass he’d watched in court for weeks. It seemed like so long ago.
He’d sat in the prisoner’s docket for close to a month while she presented the crown’s case against him. She’d started out dressed conservatively, dark above-the-knee skirt, colored blouse and jacket with comfortable shoes. Halfway through the trial it changed. She wore fashionable skirts, showing more leg, white blouses, shoes with heels, and often took the jacket off, especially as the afternoon grew warmer. Later he found out Blighe and her husband had divorced. Maybe that accounted for the change of clothing.
He scanned the street, memorizing the location of each house. He worked out escape routes by car and on foot. At some point he’d need to go to the back of the house to figure out his escape options there.
After about five minutes the front door opened and she came outside with her two kids. No longer fixated on her ass, his eyes roamed over her body. She wore shorts and a tight T-shirt. When the sun beamed at just the right angle, he clearly saw the outline of her breasts. It was like she was doing it for him, and he soaked up every moment.
The kids raced ahead of her to a park at the end of the street where he lost sight of them. Wolfe was tempted to walk past the park. Seeing her up close would be a thrill, and also stupid. Bad enough he was in a residential area and sitting in this car, occasionally using binoculars—let alone taking his unforgettable bulk out into the open. He’d waited two years. He could be patient and wait for the right opportunity. Half an hour later they came back into view. Again, the kids raced ahead of her and into the house. She was in no hurry, walking slowly, like she was a model at a fashion show, her wondrous curves on display and her blond hair shimmering.
His heart raced and pressure intensified in his groin. Soon. It would have to be soon.
He’d waited long enough.
Crisis Point (The First novel in the Brad Coulter Series)
Outlwaw MC (The Second novel in the Brad Coulter Series)
Available on Amazon.ca
Wolfman is Back (The Third in the Brad Coulter Series)