Author's Note - This story is meant to closely shadow One For The Money by Janet Evanovich, but is told from Ranger's point of view. Despite the fact that I am borrowing JE's characters and plot, I own nothing. I just think that Ranger needs to be fleshed out a bit... and I'm just the girl to deal with Ranger's flesh.

*** This story is not beta-ed, and is supposed to stay very close to cannon. If you notice any errors, be they grammar, spelling, or JE details that I have messed up, please let me know. They may have been on purpose, but more than likely, I just messed up. ***

Last but not least, I love, LOVE, love feedback and reviews. Please tell me what you think!

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Chapter 1

When people say you can never go home again, most of the time they means that things change and you can never get back to where you used to be. Those people must not be from New Jersey. In this hellhole, nothing ever really changes.

Around here, you can go home again, alright.

But why would you want to?

***

I eased my Mercedes slowly down Stark Street, watching the dregs of society scamper like a swarm of cockroaches at my approach. It didn't matter that no one could see me through the deep tinted windows; the residents of this street still looked away. No one here wanted to take a chance that they might accidently catch my eye. Everyone here knew that I was Ranger, and no one wanted to attract my attention.

I was born Ricardo Carlos Manoso, one of six children from a poor family in Newark. My parents were Cuban refugees who escaped from Castro just to spend the rest of their lives in perpetual pursuit of the American dream. Working multiple jobs just to make ends meet hadn't left them a lot of time to supervise their errant son, and I had been running the streets before I even started middle school. A stint in Juvie when I was fourteen taught me survival skills and years in the Army honed me into a lethal weapon. These last few years added even more credibility and mystique to my reputation. These days no one remembered little Rickie Manoso, not even my family. Now I was just Ranger.

I had earned my street name in the Army. After enlisting as a common grunt, Uncle Sam had quickly decided that I would be more useful to him in a role that capitalized on my street smarts and survival skills. I started training as a Special Operations soldier in the airborne infantry. The 61 days of hell known as 'Ranger School' completely changed my life. In no time, I was one of the youngest men ever to lead a squadron of Rangers. I was also one of the most decorated.

But despite my successes, I knew in my heart that I was never meant to be career military. Once my six year stint was up, I didn't reenlist. At least not as regular Army or reserves. I wasn't opposed to serving my country; as a matter of fact I considered it an honor. But from now on, it was going to be on my terms.

For the last three years, I had been adjusting to civilian life and establishing myself as a business man – in my own business. I made some good friends and created a lot of powerful relationships during my time in the Rangers. When I left the Army, I started calling in favors and quickly found financial backing for a new type of Security Company. Instead of focusing solely on residential or corporate security, my company was made to have its foundation in community security. Our methods may not have always followed the exact letter of the law, but I never strayed from the compass in my head. Legally gray, morally right. That was my way of life and the philosophy of my company, Rangeman LLC.

As part of that business, I personally hired, trained, and oversaw more than fifty employees in three different cities. The original office was located in Miami and branches had quickly popped up in Atlanta and Boston. Through these offices, Rangeman offered a multitude of services including body guarding, residential and commercial security, security consulting, urban renewal assistance, and bond enforcement. We also assisted the government in a variety of capacities that require a security clearance just to mention.

This, in a roundabout way, was the reason I was driving down this God forsaken street during one of the hottest Augusts that New Jersey had ever seen. The government was more than happy with the job that my company had done for them in the last couple of years, and wanted to expand our contract. The good news was that these assignments were incredibly lucrative. The bad news was that I was going to be spending a lot more time in Washington DC and New York City dealing with federal red tape. It quickly became obvious that Miami might not be the most logical place for Rangeman's headquarters.

I had argued against Newark because there was too much of my past there that could eventually be used against me, but my partners had really been set on a New Jersey location. I finally agreed to a trial period in Trenton. I figured that I would come here for a year, establish some street credibility and scout the area. If the location proved to be profitable and worked with the government responsibilities, we would open the 4th Rangeman branch here. If not, we would spend the next year doing the same sort of test of Wilmington, Delaware.

Delaware's laws weren't quite as friendly to this sort of business, but everything else about Delaware appealed to me. Especially the fact that it wasn't fucking New Jersey.

Even as the twilight descended around me, I could see the shimmering waves of heat rising from the cracked sidewalks. Sweat dripped down the barely covered chests of the prostitutes on the corners, leaving large wet stains on the spandex and lycra that made up their uniforms. Drug dealers had forgone their normal baggy sweatshirts and the pockets of their saggy jeans were bulging with the products they tried to push.

Stark Street never shut down, not even when the mercury pushed past the 100 degree mark and the air was saturated with humidity. This was Trenton, New Jersey's version of Hollywood Boulevard- except without the Walk of Fame. But what Stark Street lacked in celebrity, it more than made up for in availability of drugs, hired thugs, and prostitution. It was also the favorite haunt of Enrique DeJesus, the asshole I was currently hunting.

I didn't actually know DeJesus personally, this was business. It seemed Enrique had a bad habit of getting high and roughing up his girlfriend, who just happened to be one of the prostitutes working this street. It seemed that the last time this happened, he went a bit too far and left his bitch with permanent brain damage. Then, to make matters worse, he jumped bond and failed to appear for his court date.

The bail bondsman who had sprung DeJesus was currently on the hook for a cool half million dollars, and therefore very motivated to have his sorry ass dragged back to jail. As a bounty hunter, I would make ten percent of that bond if I was the one who brought him in, and as far as I was concerned, that $50,000 was as good as mine. Enrique was going down, and it was happening tonight.

I was supposed to have three weeks left in Trenton, but DeJesus was the only outstanding skip I had at this point and it felt like the right time to get out. I had already made plans to fly back to Miami tomorrow evening, and I couldn't wait. Tomorrow would be my 30th birthday, and leaving Jersey was the best present I could think of.

As I continued down Stark St, I passed Benito Ramirez coming out of his gym escorted by his entourage of thugs. Ramirez was a Mike Tyson wannabe, complete with the little girl voice that came from his heavy weight body. He was constantly surrounded by maggots who were hoping to ride his coat tails to fame and fortune. The only problem with that theory was that Benito was a lazy fuck who didn't train as hard as he should.

He got through most of his fights by talent and intimidation, not to mention the fact that his manager was hand picking opponents. But when he wanted to, Ramirez could turn it on. He was mean as hell and wasn't afraid to hurt people. Actually, the more he hurt his opponents, the happier he was. He had already been fined by the World Boxing Council for cheap shots to the head, and he hadn't even achieved national ranking.

Notably missing from Ramirez's little troop was Ziggy Kulesza. Ziggy had been nothing more than an errand boy and extra muscle, but it was odd to see Ramirez on the street without his normal shadow. The big man was going to have to find a new groupie, though. A couple weeks ago, Kulesza's head had been ventilated by a bullet, courtesy of Joe Morelli, one of Trenton's finest.

I wondered a bit about Morelli as I continued to scout my way down Stark Street. I had met Joe at least a dozen times in the last year. He was a vice detective and he tended to have his finger in the pot whenever anything big was brewing in Trenton. He had good instincts and his moral code didn't seem that different from my own. I didn't know what the deal was with him and Kulesza, but I'd bet my life's savings that it wasn't cold-blooded murder. Morelli was too smart for that. If he'd wanted Ziggy to disappear, no one would have found the body.

Yet it appeared that murder was the theory everyone else was sticking to. Morelli had been arrested and charged, then released on a measly $100,000 bond. Seemed kinda low for Murder -1, but Morelli was a local boy, born and raised in Trenton. I guess the judge didn't think he was much of a flight risk. Unfortunately, that all changed a couple days ago when he didn't show up for a preliminary hearing. No one had seen the good detective in over a week and the streets were buzzing. Word was that if he did surface, there was going to be a price on his head bigger than the amount of the jumped bail.

If it were anyone else, I might have believed they were lying on a tropical beach right now, but Morelli didn't seem that type. He was too much of a cop. My guess was that he was out there right now either trying to find evidence of his innocence or destroy evidence of his guilt. Either way, chances were he was still in Trenton.

I could've been hunting for him right now, instead of DeJesus, but when Connie from the Bail Bond office tried to give me the case, I refused. It wasn't that I didn't think I could bring him in, I just didn't want to. I respected Morelli, and if he decided flee to that tropical beach, I wasn't about to stop him. Plus, bringing in Morelli was going to be difficult. He wasn't going to roll over without a fight, and no one would come out of that unscathed.

Since I'd turned down the case, I'm sure Connie passed it over to Morty Beyers. Beyers had been a Trenton cop himself until a few years ago. Word was he played fast and loose with the rules and had a weakness for prostitutes, especially the inexperienced ones, boy and girls alike. He was a weaselly shit and that made him a very effective bounty hunter. He thought like a cop, but didn't waste his time worrying about the law. He did whatever he needed to do to bring in a skip and earn cash to buy his cocaine. He was constantly struggling to make enough scratch to keep his nose happy.

I'd heard he was rushed to the hospital last night with a busted appendix. Sounded like it was pretty bad, but my guess was he would be up and around in a couple of days. A habit like his wasn't going to be satisfied with the pain meds the hospital hands out. He was probably jonesing for a fix already. Idiot.

I was brought out of my oh-so-kind thoughts for my fellow bounty hunter when I caught site of a scrawny ass peeking out over the waistband of a saggy pair of jeans. DeJesus was standing under one of the only working streetlights in the area with his hand stuffed down the shirt of the hooker working that corner. His other hand held a small plastic baggy and it was obvious that he was offering to share his stash in payment for services rendered. Just as I drove by, I saw her nod in agreement and the two of them ducked into the doorway of the condemned building they were standing in front of. It seemed that DeJesus had already found a replacement for his girlfriend who was still in the hospital learning how to do difficult things like feed herself or wipe her own ass.

Enrique had never turned around the whole time he was negotiating with his little party, so he had no idea I was even there. I'd give them a few minutes to snort up and get busy while I waited for backup. Then I'd teach him the importance of being more aware of his surroundings.

It looked like tomorrow I'd be out of this shit hole with fifty large sitting in my pocket. Happy Birthday to me.