Okay, so I've had this in the works for a while. The name comes from Psalm 1:6, which I wil quote at the end of this author's note. The characters of Stan Gordon and Ryan belong to Ponchygirl. I'm just using them with her permission. "CHiPs" also does not belong to me. The glory goes to God! I hope you enjoy this story! :D I can't promise that I'll have the next chapter out soon, but I can promise that I will try. :)
"For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous: but the way of the ungodly shall perish." (Psalm 1:6)
Two men stood in a dimly-lit alleyway. The taller of the two spoke lowly. "So, do you un'erstand, Slick? I don't want no mess ups, you hear?" His gravelly voice held a dangerous tone in it.
The shorter, Slick, nodded profusely. If there had been enough light, his partner might have seen the mischievous glint in his eyes or the smirk his lips formed. "Yeah, D. I hear you. He'll never know what hit him." He paused, turning to his companion. "What if he doesn't believe me? And what do I do with his partner?"
"Make him b'lieve you, Slick. If he doesn't, he'll rat you out to th' police. Try an'thing you need to to get him to trust you. As for his friend . . . Well, if he gives you any trouble, make it look like an accident."
Slick was quick with his answer. "Accident. Right!" He nodded happily.
D. put a hand on Slick's shoulder. "And remember, you're the boy's father!"
~-._.-*-._.-~
CHP Officer Jon Baker sat on his motorcycle, just enjoying the beautiful day. He was waiting for his partner, Frank Poncherello, to mount up and join him. He mused that, truly, it was a lovely day God had given them. A gentle breeze played with his blonde hair, but was not strong enough to make the man's attention focus solely on it. The sun on his back was making him feel a bit drowsy, which was never a good idea for a motorcycle policeman. His eyes, cerulean-blue in color, snapped to the right when he heard a sound. Just like that, all drowsiness had fled and had been replaced by an alertness that startled him. Why was he so on edge all of a sudden? He felt deep down in his stomach that something strange was going to happen that day. He shook his head as though he were trying to dispel the ominous thought.
A cheery voice snapped him out of it by saying, "Hi, partner!" The voice belonged to none other than his best friend.
"Hi, Ponch!" Jon returned the greeting. His partner's smile was infectious. Ponch could make practically anyone grin when he flashed his pearly whites. "It's 'bout time you showed up," Jon joked. It was true that most of the officers milling about after briefing had already gotten on their vehicles and left. One of the only others left was Barry Baricza, one of the men to ride in a cruiser and not a motorcycles.
Ponch smirked. "Well, Getraer wanted to ask me something about yesterday's run, but I had to wait for him to finish talking to Bear first." At five foot nine, Frank Poncherello cut quite the handsome figure. His olive skin and black hair clearly pointed to the fact that he was of Puerto Rican descent. He was built, but not overly so. His cheerfulness was usually contagious. He could also be quite funny at times. His accent could be thick or slight, depending on his mood. He had a bad habit of speaking without thinking sometimes, but made friends easily. He was fiercely loyal, too.
"Should I be worried about Getraer's question?" Jon laughed.
Ponch grinned, his bright white teeth making a startling contrast to his darker skin. "Nah. He wanted to make sure that you were all right after the spill you took on your bike. I told him you were fine." His brows furrowed after a moment. Cautiously, he asked, "You are all right . . . right, Jon?"
Jon had a deeply-rooted fear of hospitals. It wasn't so much being in a hospital as being a patient in a hospital. As a result, he would usually downplay any injuries he had. He knew Ponch was aware of this (In fact, he would do the same thing, but for a different reason.) and would worry for him if the Puerto Rican deemed it necessary. Jon waved his hand to dismiss his friend's worry. "Sure I'm all right. I'm just a bit sore . . . and maybe a bit bruised up." Glancing at his friend, he said, "I promise, Ponch. I'm fine."
Ponch seemed to visibly relax. "Oh, good! I'd hate for something to happen to you, Baker!"
The two each donned a pair of gloves, Jon's yellow and Ponch's black, and their helmets. With that, they set off to do their patrol.
~-._.-*-._.-~
Barry Baricza pulled his cruiser into the gas station. He had very little gas in his car's tank. As he got out to fill it up, he looked around. There was one more vehicle getting gas. It was a green Volkswagen Beetle owned by a little, old lady. Baricza smiled. She reminded him of his aunt. He soon had filled up his cruiser and was off. Almost immediately after driving back into the highway, he noticed something odd. A 1967 Mustang GT weaved back and forth through the lanes. Its bright crimson paint job easily stood out against the more common blues, grays, and browns of the other cars.
Bear turned on the siren and sped toward the car, calling the chase in. When he had pulled over the Mustang, he got out of his cruiser and walked over to its doors. He knocked and motioned for the driver to open his window.
The man complied. "Yes, sir?"
Bear said, "You were going ten miles an hour over the speed limit. May I see your driver's license and registration?" When those objects were handed to him, he looked them over. He wrote out a ticket. "Mr. Gordon, here's your ticket." He watched as Mr. Gordon regarded him with an sharp intensity in his cerulean-blue eyes. It was then that Bear noticed something familiar about those eyes. Someone he knew had eyes just that shade. Bear snapped out of it. I'm going to think of who it is later and wonder how I could not remember that earlier, he thought. He took the time to look over the man.
Mr. Gordon was a tall man, if the way he was curled up in the seat was any indication. His startling blue eyes were sharp and looked like they could both pierce through and look warmly at a person. The lack of laugh lines around his eyes proved that he was probably more serious than anything else. His blonde hair fell into his face and onto his collar, clearly stating that he needed a haircut. His blonde stubble gave him a rough look, like a homeless man or a man who cared nothing for his appearance. The most noticeable thing about him, with the exception of his eyes, was the build of the man. He looked to be stronger than the average Joe. His muscles were not bulky, but lean. He was lean and wiry, looking as though he could was a coil. If it were to be pushed down, it would spring to action.
Bear knew not to push him. In fact, he made to stand up, but stopped when he felt a hand on his arm.
"Um, I was wondering something. You're a CHP, aren't you?" He did not even wait for Bear to answer, which the officer should have found suspicious. "I have a relative in the CHP. Do you know a Jonathan?"
Bear stopped for a minute and pondered the question. "Well, there's a Jonathan Kingsley, but it couldn't be him because he's black. The only other person there is named something like that is Jon Baker. He has a motorcycle instead of a car."
Mr. Gordon nodded sagely. "That might be the one I'm looking for. I can't remember his last name, so I'm not quite sure. We haven't seen each other in a while." He took his arm off Bear. "Well, thank you. I'll be off now!" He drove off at a leisurely pace.
Baricza got in his car and thought nothing of it until lunch.