An excerpt from Mark R. Hunter’s The Notorious Ian Grant which is available on Amazon.com – Donna Cavanagh
“Senator.” Fran took a deep breath, then changed her stance in a way that made her look that much more threatening. “Get in your car. And be on your way. Now.”
“Oh, I will. I will!” Pierce jerked open the car door, flopped into his seat, then reached forward to point past his driver, straight forward. “Daniel: Drive on.”
Daniel, his eyes a little wide, grasped the steering wheel.
Fran stepped toward the driver’s door. “Daniel, if you move one inch further forward I’ll arrest you for resisting law enforcement.”
“And I’ll have you fired for false arrest! Daniel, don’t listen to this woman with delusions of grandeur. You work for me.”
Daniel gave his boss a hopeless look, then turned back—to find himself staring straight at a futuristic black and yellow weapon that looked right out of Star Trek. “Oh boy.”
“Put the car in reverse, Daniel.”
“Whoa,” Beth whispered. Ian hadn’t even seen the weapon come out. He moved forward, unsure what to do, with the hope this wouldn’t somehow turn into the kind of situation that used to get him on the cover of scandal sheets.
Pierce jumped out of the car again. “Don’t taze him!” He ran toward Fran, arms outstretched.
With one smooth motion, Fran turned and pulled the trigger. Two tiny darts, trailing wires, buried themselves in the Senator’s spotless navy suit jacket. With no sound but air wheezing from his lungs, Senator Pierce went down.
“Hey!” Now Daniel jumped out. He reached into his own jacket, exactly as Ian had been taught to do in every B movie where he’d played a hood or undercover cop.
“No way.” Ian vaulted across the ditch and slammed into the driver, who had at least fifty pounds and three inches on him. The impact threw them both into the side of the Tahoe, and when they dropped down onto the ground only Ian climbed to his feet again.
“You knocked him out.” Beth approached the group, camera still held to her eye.
“Did I? Usually they get up and hit me back.” He kneeled down to check Daniel’s pulse. Still alive. “You know, I don’t enjoy this stuff anymore.” Ian turned to see if Fran needed any help.
Fran stood there, one hand holding the Taser while the other pulled a cell phone from her jacket pocket. She looked as confused and horrified as he felt—what just happened? Pierce stirred but stayed on the ground, groaning, while the crotch of his expensive suit turned a suspicious darker color.
“I have to be honest with you,” Ian told the cop. “First, that was a huge turn-on. Second … I always thought the Midwest was boring.”
Detective Fran Mendoza-Vargas maintained her best sitting at attention pose, helped by a uniform she’d gotten out of the habit of wearing since her promotion. She took a breath that didn’t calm her at all, looked away from the unoccupied metal desk, swept her gaze over walls of photos and certificates, then shot a glance at the man who sat next to her.
Ian Grant grinned. “Do you have an office?”
“I’ll let you know in ten minutes.”
“Relax. Just put in your report: ‘Saw politician. Juiced him up’. We’ve all wanted to.”
“I don’t think you understand.” He probably didn’t. With his shaggy dark brown hair and dimples covered by a three day beard growth, Ian Grant looked like a magazine model who didn’t have a thought in the world. “This is my job on the line.”
Now sympathy showed in his blue eyes. “Yeah, I’ve been there. But don’t worry—I’ve got your back.”
She looked at his jeans that looked brand new, black Reeboks, and gray t-shirt that sported a map of Illinois and the words “Where in the Effingham Are We?” “You haven’t met Loo.”
The door behind them opened. Fran shot to her feet, while beside her Ian stood at a more leisurely pace. He stood a little straighter when Fran’s uniform-clad lieutenant came into view.
“Mr. Grant? I’m Lieutenant Carlisle, but please call me Loo.” Ian’s hand disappeared into Loo’s giant brown fist.
“Ah—happy to meet you.” Fran suppressed a smile at the startled tone in Ian’s voice.
“Please, sit down.” They did so, and Loo’s chair groaned as he sank his all-muscle bulk into it. He had half a foot on Ian, who himself stood a few inches over six feet, and his face was so dark his teeth and eyes seemed to gleam. “Of course, you know why you’re here —“
Before Fran could speak, Ian held a hand up. “This is a travesty of justice, sir, and whatever that guy told you—well, he’s a politician, of course, so …”
Loo folded his hands on the desk. His voice resembled some Biblical prophet. “So … how would you describe the situation?”
Fran gave Ian credit for only a moment’s hesitation. “Officer Vargas was the picture of patience and officialdom. But that asshat Senator verbally abused her from the moment they pulled up, tossing curses and racial slurs at her while his driver threw out Bronx cheers and made pistol motions with his hands. Then they both leaped out at the same time, swearing they would kill Officer Vargas, and me, and that poor helpless little girl—and the horse, and what kind of awful person would harm a horse? Then, as they brandished tire irons, Officer Vargas somehow managed to taze one and took down the other down with a well-placed blow to the back of his head, and how cool is that?”
Ian sat back and crossed his arms. “I’m thinking medal ceremony.”
Fran rolled her eyes.
Loo tapped his fingers on the desk for a moment, which made every item on it shake. “I’ve already seen Beth Hamlin’s video.”
“Oh.” Ian blinked. “She took video? Why, that little mud-covered minx. Those modern cameras are amazing, aren’t they?”
“They are—in fact, that one is your sister’s camera. You should have considered the possibility, Mr. Grant: Weren’t you once captured by cell phone as you danced on a police car?”
“Point. And in my defense it was New Year’s Eve, and everyone else was dancing. Except for the officer. Who I recently apologized to.”
“You do realize I’ll need a written statement from you that involves … the truth?”