Read Online Books/Novels:
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
He’s hunting me. And when he catches me, he’s going to break me.
I’ve been running from the law my whole life.
Jasmine Francoise lives to taunt the law. The FBI. Me.
I’ll bring her to justice.
|Books by Author:|
I’ve bought down a lot of criminals in my career. Big ones, small ones, mean ones, nice ones. But never one like Jasmine Francoise.
There are some women who leave a mark on you – Jasmine is one I’d like to leave more than a few marks on. She’s irrepressible, incorrigible, and she’s at the top of my personal list of people who need to be behind bars yesterday.
She’s given me the slip more times than I can count, but she’s connected with a string of crimes which stretch across the country. The only daughter of the French Connection crime family, Jasmine was raised to be a princess. She could have spent her life lying back and taking the proceeds of crime, but she decided to get involved, and this little minx has been more successful than most men bred for their positions.
I keep her picture on my office wall, along with the shots of several other high profile criminals I’m looking for. She’s by far the prettiest. We don’t have a mugshot for her – yet. Right now, all we have is a surveillance photo.
She has pale blonde hair pulled back from her head in a more elegant version of a ponytail. Her features are exquisite, high cheekbones, a soft, near perpetual pout, and a pretty little nose which could have been sculpted by one of the Italian masters themselves. She has modeled before, both in France and in the USA. She’s a real high class broad. And she’s complicit in a series of crimes that are going to see both her and her brother go away for a very long time.
My monitoring software has just alerted me to the fact that young Miss Francoise is out in her Ferrari, regularly exceeding the speed limit. I know this because she has six different cars, every single one of them lojacked. I peel out in my nondescript Fed car to see what she’s up to. It soon turns out, it’s no good. Driving like a damned idiot, to be precise. Whenever that thing pushes the speed limit or shows up somewhere it shouldn’t, I’m alerted. I can’t actually bring her in unless I catch her in the act, but maybe I’ll get lucky today.
We’ve been looking for an excuse to bring her in. If she’s acting up, this could be that chance. Hunting her down through the grid of Manhattan is almost too easy. Even without the lojack, I probably could have found her. Jasmine is flamboyant. I spot the fire-red tail of the car in traffic. She’s not at speed anymore, and as she pulls away from the lights, she slows down. It’s like she senses I’m there. I don’t know how she pulls that trick off.
She likes to show her wealth. Likes to splash cash around. Likes to have an audience. She also likes to drive far too fast for her own good, or anyone else’s, but minor traffic offenses aren’t going to cut it. Either I let her go now, or I take this opportunity to try and shake her up a little. See what comes out of it. I put my lights on and she pulls right over. We’ve done this dance before.
She smiles at me as I get out of the car and swings her long blonde hair over her shoulder, so she can give me the full force of her smile. She’s not surprised to see me. Over the last few months, we’ve developed a relationship of antagonists. I’m old enough to be her father with my forty-eight years to her twenty-two. She thinks she knows it all. She’s cocky and cool as ice. She’s been brought up to believe that nobody can touch her. She’s wrong.
I’m going to do more than touch her. I’m going to bring her and the rest of her family down. I’m going to make her pay for the crimes she’s committed. The French Connection are a menace. Even if they’re not directly responsible for some of the worst kinds of crime, they’re accessories to most of it.
“Sometimes I think about running when you do that,” she purrs at me in pretty accented tones. “Would you chase me, Ricky?”
There’s no going undercover with the French Connection. When our man died two years ago, the cover was blown. They know us almost as well as we know them. Sometimes I think they might even know us better.
“Out of the car please, ma’am. Hands on the hood of mine.”
She does as she’s told, swinging her legging-clad legs out of the vehicle. She’s a short girl, but she’s trying to make up for it with the most ridiculous high heels I’ve ever seen. Must be like trying to drive with a pair of hooves on.
“I missed you, Ricky.” She says the words over her shoulder as I approach from behind to do the pat down. Her smile is a little too bright. And her tone is entirely too familiar. “I know you go through my trash. Shall I throw some dirty panties in there for you to sniff?”