Stiles Sheriff Novels & Stories

Mark watched as Michael Ferguson drove towards him. Luckily, there was only one road away from the Halloway farm, so guessing this asshole’s choice of direction hadn’t been a big challenge. No, the challenge was yet to come. Mark’s large body tensed up as he prepared to make contact with a man that, until now, he’d only encountered on paper; God knows, that man had been bad enough. Ferguson was the Sheriff of Foxburg Falls, Oregon, a former Marine, a high school football hero. He was also a sick, twisted fuck who raped and beat up women in his hometown, and then used his badge to intimidate them into silence.

If this was going to be the way things ended, he would meet it swinging, not in tears. The man across from him was the center of this new resolve. His name was Edward Stiles, but in certain circles he was called other names. He was Clarkson's principal security, an ex-soldier with a face that was at the same time unremarkable and impossible to erase, a double paradox of plain features and strong, piercing eyes that took everything in. He was a man who existed in the interstices between the books, and his loyalty to Clarkson was absolute, repaid for a debt ancient and otherwise.

Every rustle of leaves, every distant sound, sent my pulse spiking, my stomach twisting with the fear that my kids were out there, suffering, because I hadn’t stopped him. Officer Stiles, Tom’s police contact, approached, his boots crunching on the gravel, his eyes soft but steady, his heart guarded with the calm professionalism that only fueled my rage. “Lucas, you’re tearing yourself apart,” he said, his voice low, his hands raised in a placating gesture, his pulse infuriatingly even. “We’re combing every inch—let us do our job.” My eyes blazed, my throat burning as fury erupted like a volcano, my heart pounding with a primal need to lash out.

Richard My friend, Will Stanton, the police commissioner, has called by in person to deliver his news. None of us are happy about it. Will stands, arms folded, sucking at his teeth. "Richard, you know I'll do whatever I can, but I have budgets to keep to. If Klempner's out of the country now, there's a good argument to say that the danger to Charlotte and Georgie, and whoever else, has moved on. I'm going to have a tough case to answer, keeping a police guard here for much longer."

“Let him come in.” The sheriff walked in, in uniform, with a hat and an envelope in his grasp. He was medium built in his thirties, blond with brown eyes. “I’m Sheriff Carter Wade.” He offered a handshake. “Califf Stone.” My mate gripped his hand. “You have a pretty strong grip there, Mister Stone,” the sheriff said confidently. His heartbeat, on the other hand, beat so fast. “I do extensive workouts. This is my wife, Shadow, and my associates, Lyon and Zack, and you’ve met Duke.”

I said, throwing my head down like the weight of my worries was too much to bear. Stiles knelt in front of me, his gaze soft yet firm. “Hey, look at me,” he said gently, and I raised my head to meet his eyes. “I’m with you every step of the way. Have you forgotten who your fiancé is? Stiles Wesley, set to inherit W&S Enterprise. I know a thing or two about business too, and I'll help you out.” he promised, just like he always does.

The man shouted on approaching the bishop. Bishop Daimon recognised him to be the town's sheriff, Mr. Bruce Springsteen. He looks like a teenager in his earlier nineteen but he's a grown up man with short auburn hair, short goatee beard dressed in brown turned in white shirt which had an authoritative badge on it left chest, brown trouser and black boots. "Am I so glad to see you healthy Bishop!?" He tipped his head slightly downward at the bishop in admiration. The bishop tipped his head also in reverence, looked around with serious observation before asking "What in the piousness happened here?" His face lied.

He said. "I am friends with the sheriff, just let him know that I am here to meet him," I said. "Sorry sir but I still cannot let you inside. Many people have come claiming to be friends with him but it turns out that they were lying, so it will be best if you remain outside," He replied. "If you won't listen to him you should at least listen to me," Stiles said moving to my side. "And who are you?" The officer asked. "My name is Stiles and I am the sheriff's son," Stiles answered.

Others gathered as well. “Did you find anything about him?” Braylon asked while rubbing his forehead. Alex hummed, placing the laptop in front of Braylon. “His name is Stiles Vill from the south side of the city. His age is 41 and he is involved in various crimes in various places like shoplifting, violating traffic rules, theft and kidnapping, and charge rape. But he had no history of murder. I wonder how he became a friend of Mrs Anderson. Without purpose, he wouldn't have done it. And also he had a tattoo on his neck.” Alex explained.

Stiles had pulled every last string he could to get in touch with Landhor, who had kept him fed and even got him a job at the special forces. Stiles had done many things for Landhor and knew that Landhor had gotten him to where he was now so that he had someone to do the dirty work for him. He knew as well that he was more than worthy of a fate worse than death for all he had done for Landhor and had prepared himself for this. What a shame it was that he would never see Cassie again. Stiles mumbled the name to himself once more and leaped off the top floor. The next second, the special forces office blared with a deafening alarm.