Angel: An SOBs Novel

by Irish Winters

  “Not by email, but he could’ve called him. Two good old boys, you know. I can’t track that.”

  Chance shook his head. “No. Sullivan’s not one of the good old boys, and I can’t see him undermining the SOBs by not following the protocol he himself established. That would unravel the teams from the inside out. Something else is going on here.”

  “I’ll keep digging. You want to hear about Hex yet?”

  “Yeah, the mob’s number one assassin, straight out of Sicily. Go ahead.”

  “Right, and a Class A weapons dealer on her day job. She just arrived in Portland.”

  Chance blew out a puff of frustration. That was all he needed, one more player in this convoluted game of one-upmanship between Tennyson and York. This had all the makings of a major drug war brewing. “What the hell is going on in Oregon?” he bit out.

  “Trouble, huh. Listen, I’m tied up here so Kruze is going on ahead of you to keep track of Hex. He’ll spend the night here resting, then meet you at the usual tomorrow, once you off York.” The usual being the Mount Hood Lounge off River Street, a local dive on the Portland waterfront. “You think you’ll be there?”

  “Not unless this storm lets up.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Kruze’s booming baritone joined the fray. “That could be next week the way the front’s stalled over Canada.”

  “Hey, Kruze. I’m pressed for time or I’d talk more, but I’ll be there if I can. Once you spot Miss Vicky, don’t lose her, okay?”

  “You know I won’t. Fly safe, Big Brother.”

  “One more thing.” Chance cut in while the cutting was good. “I need to know who helped Suede file her petition for emancipation. I want the names of her lawyer if she had one, the judge who decided in her favor, and the nine commissioners who currently regulate the Port of Portland.”

  “That’s four things,” Kruze, always one to point out another’s errors, grumbled, “maybe twelve.”

  “And you,” Chance shut him down. “Find out who the hell Julio Juarez is before I get to town.”

  “Julio? JJ? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “You know him?” Unbelievable.

  “Sure, if it’s the same guy I went through BUD/S with, that’s Boomer. He rang out the fifth day.”

  What a small damn world. “Did you two stay close? Can you get in touch with him?”

  “Not really. He took some job back east, but why? What’s he been up to?”

  “Don’t know, but he’s supposed to meet Lionel York in Oregon on Tuesday, and we know for certain York’s after control of Portland docks. I need to know if JJ’s part of the cartel out of South America that York’s distributing for or if he’s an enforcer on someone else’s team. Could be either. York’s into some heavy shit.”

  “Can’t be the same guy,” Kruze replied. “The Julio I remember was a straight up hero back then. He wouldn’t have gone rogue.”

  “Then find out if he’s the same hero he used to be. Get back to me as quick as you can.”

  “You bet. I’ll reach out to him now.”

  “What else?” Chance asked his brothers. He still wanted to know why Tennyson felt comfortable asking Sullivan for an assist in making York disappear. Did the guy have balls or what?

  “Well, since I didn’t feel comfortable hacking Sullivan’s files…” Pagan let the insinuation that he might’ve done something illegal trail away.

  “Don’t tell me. You hacked York’s.” This ought to be good. “What’d you find?”

  “That York’s got a contract on Governor Tennyson.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “That’s not the only hit he’s paid for, but yeah. The man’s proud of himself. He keeps good records.”

  “Which might explain Julio Juarez. He could be the hit man. Kruze?” Chance snapped. “You make that call yet?”

  “I’m getting a disconnect. Let me try a few of my buddies. Someone’s bound to know where he is. I’m telling you, Chance, JJ’s one of the good guys.”

  “Not until we know for sure.”

  “York say what airlines Julio’s flying?” Pagan asked.

  “Give me a break. ’Course not,” Chance answered. Grumbling ensued from inside the trailer rig. He leaned in to hear better as the grumbling escalated to what sounded like a brawl inside York’s home away from home.

  “There’s something else,” Pagan murmured. “York’s not the only one keeping bad company. You ever hear of the Rio Brothers? The twins? Juan and Jorge?”

  Aw, shit. Not the boys from Colombia.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of them.” Chance held his breath, hoping that Tennyson wasn’t that stupid, that he hadn’t enlisted foreign thugs to end York. The Rio Brothers were nothing but stone-cold killers.

  “I did not!” Baritone squealed from inside.

  “Shhh,” Chance told Pagan. “Something’s up. Hang on.”

  “You did!” York roared.

  The door to the rig burst open as a thin, olive-skinned male ran into the weather. He wore two jackets, the top one pink with a fur hood and cuffs. No boots. Gray socks on his feet. He pivoted, his palms raised and forward. “I didn’t tell her nothin’, I promise.”

  “The Rio Brothers will be in Portland on Tuesday, too,” Pagan whispered.

  “You want to bet this is all about Tennyson taking over York’s Colombian drug business? That he’s setting York up for a hard fall?” Chance asked, keeping his eyes and his weapon on the shivering man who had to be Baritone. “That’s why he cozied up with York to take Suede off his hands. He didn’t care about her. Check all incoming flights. Put tails on all these guys as soon as they hit US airspace.”

  “Yes, you did, Philip!” York snarled from the rig. “You told her how much the ring cost. That was why she was leaving me! To sell it! To run home to Daddy.”

  “No, boss, no, I swear, I—”

  One shot boomed from the rig. Philip, aka Baritone, dropped in the snow amidst a misty red shower. The door slammed and York stepped into the open, a black pistol in his hand.

  “Chance!” Pagan roared. “Chance! Are you—?”

  “Calm down,” Chance whispered as York stalked to the man he’d just killed and fired again. Point blank. In the back of the head. It would’ve been so easy. Chance had the shot of a lifetime. A single round at this range, and, poof! Suede’s problem would be solved, but not Sullivan’s.

  If Pagan was right, Tennyson was behind not only York’s Old Man Mountain campout and possibly Suede’s attempted murder, but Sullivan’s order to eliminate York as well. If Tennyson couched it right, and if the press played along, American hearts would be moved to vote for the ‘poor Governor who’d lost his only child to drugs and hard living’. The fact that she’d acted out and he’d responded by publically disowning her could certainly be window-dressed during his bid for the White House as a beleaguered father doing the best he could for an out-of-control adult child.

  Not that America hadn’t seen its share of crooked governors from Arkansas to New York and all the way to the Golden State, but damn. This took balls. Great big, hairy balls.

  And this guy wants to be President? Jesus Christ, he’s dirty enough. He just might win.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Pagan demanded.

  Chance hunkered his shoulder into the side of the rig, for the first time praying for more wind and snow. The most he could do was send his brother a double click over his mic to signify he was still alive. The second York turned to go back into the rig, Chance would be out in the open, still winter camouflaged in shadow and snow, but visible if a smart man knew where and how to look.

  Of course, York wasn’t trained and he wasn’t expecting company. He turned and the gun lifted in his hand, his dark eyes intent on the rig. The man looked more wolf-like than human. He swiped the long blond hair dangling into his eyes out of his way, his lips twisted in a grimace and his eyes sharp. Sinister. “Pablo!” he called to the last man in the trailer
rig. “We need to talk.”

  “Y-y-yes, boss?” came a quavering reply from within.

  “Get out here! Now!”

  “C-coming.” Squeak. Click. Alto must’ve opened the door, the fool. He’d have been smarter if he’d locked himself inside and York out. “Y-yes?

  York waved his pistol for Alto to come closer. A beefy man in a plaid hunting vest, the kind with plenty of pockets, stepped into the weather. All Chance could see was the guy’s back and his trembling, raised hands, but he scanned those pockets, wondering which held Suede’s three-carat diamond. She would be getting it back.

  York pointed the gun and Chance hunkered with his back flat against the rig as he watched. He was officially in York’s backstop. If that bullet went wide or through Alto…

  Yeah, not thinking about that either.

  Pagan’s voice broke through the tension. “I’ll bet Tennyson’s just using his friendship with Sullivan. He’s probing. He must suspect Sullivan has something to do with the SOBs. That’s why he asked for help rescuing Suede.”

  Chance caught the tenderness in Pagan’s voice. So now she’s Suede, huh? “You may be right. Listen. Sit tight and—”

  Another gunshot roared through the snow and Alto fell alongside his baritone partner. Chance cringed knowing now how much danger Suede had been in with York. He waited, not daring to breathe until finally, York kicked a boot full of snow onto Alto’s prone body and stomped inside, grumbling with each step. The door slammed shut. The generator came on, which was just plain interesting. Had York baited his men into talking, withholding heat until they’d thought they could speak their minds? The calculating son-of-a-bitch.

  “Talk to me, brother,” Pagan pleaded. “Tell me you’re still—”

  “Alive,” Chance finished for him. “Take it easy. I’ve done this once or twice before, remember?”

  An audible sigh hit his eardrum. “Yeah, but last time” —Pagan cleared his throat— “Damn it. I knew I shouldn’t let you take this job. Did you get him? Did you end York?”

  Yes, last time I got my guys killed when I should’ve been home with Mom. I know. God, I know. But this time’s different.

  Chance shook his head. There comes a time in every black operator’s life when he truly is an island, when he’s all alone on the top of a mountain staring down his rifle sights with a man’s life in his hands. No one can make the ultimate decision to squeeze the trigger to end that life. Chance owed it to himself to not only follow protocol, but to do what was right. Sullivan might make the calls, but it was Chance’s soul on the line.

  Could he have saved Alto and Baritone? Possibly. Should he have at least tried? Absolutely not. This mission had begun to end the threat against Suede and Sullivan, not to protect men who by their own admission were complicit in and seemed amused by Suede’s attempted murder.

  “The way I see it, Pagan, York didn’t push Suede off the cliff because he hated her. He was sending her father a message: ‘Renege on our deal and this happens. It’s just business.’”

  “Yeah, so? Did you kill him, damn it?”

  “No, Baby Brother. I’ve got a better idea.”

  “What?”

  Chance ignored the disbelief in Pagan’s question. The wind had died, but not the snow. It fell steadily. Too quickly, Alto and Baritone’s bodies would be under a drift of the white stuff, so Chance broke cover. He worked fast as he rifled Alto’s pockets until his gloved fingertips hit the stone that belonged to Suede. Lightening Alto’s load by three carats, he tucked the ring inside his jacket pocket.

  “I think Tennyson and York deserve each other,” he said as he eyed the closed door to the rig. “Call Sullivan and tell him I’ll need a lift to Oregon as soon as York’s chopper arrives and he’s out of my way.”

  “You’re shittin’ me?” Pagan’s angst vibrated against Chance’s eardrum like the wings of an angry hornet. “Sullivan’s going to be pissed and what the fuck do you want me to tell Suede? You know she’s sweet on you. You told her you’d be home soon. I didn’t come home just to babysit.”

  “Are you swearing at me?” Chance asked quietly as he crouched out of sight beside the rig again.

  Pause. Silence. Then a perturbed and grumpy, “Maybe.”

  Chance could imagine the cocky chin nod that went with that reply. He might be one tough son-of-a-bitch, but Pagan always was a spoiled brat. “What’s Mom’s rule?”

  “Shit,” Pagan hissed before he recited what the Sinclair boys had heard hundreds, maybe thousands of times, “‘Anyone can swear. Only real men understand the importance of honest discourse and open dialogue in the world today.’ Blah, blah, blah. There. Are you happy now?”

  Chance smirked as Scarlett Sinclair lived again. She had to be rolling over in her grave—laughing. The thought of her smile brightened what had become a dismal day. “Suede isn’t sweet on me, Little Brother. She’s been treated badly by her parents and the guy who asked her to marry him, then I happened along. That’s all. Nothing’s going on between us, so knock it off. As far as what to tell her, I explained before I left that this is what I do. Get her healthy and on her feet, then take her wherever she wants to go.” It’ll break my heart, but it’ll be better this way.

  Pagan scoffed. “Tell me another lie. She’s been watching the front door like a hawk since you left. She’s waiting for you. That girl’s got feelings, Chance. You can’t do this to her.”

  “I can’t do this to her or to you?”

  Another stretch of silence ensued. “Fine. I’ll tell her you’ll be home as soon as you can.”

  “Tell her to trust me,” Chance suggested. That much was true. She could trust him, to do what was right. Even if it meant letting her go.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Suede woke in a snarky mood, edgy, but she didn’t know why, other than snarky was her normal. Embers glowed red and orange from the fireplace, but Pagan and Gallo were nowhere in sight. Pushing up from the couch, she stopped at the edge of the cushion with her feet to the floor. It seemed odd she’d be tired after sleeping, but bed. She wanted back under the covers in Chance’s bed and she wanted to be there now. Her head pounded, and he needed to get his butt back here and kiss her forehead while checking for a fever. Then she wanted a stiff drink, a big box of tissues, and a good long cry while she lay there and felt sorry for herself.

  Feverish, crabby, and achy, she’d slept the day away. The romance she’d started reading now lay on the floor beside the couch with a bookmark tucked within the pages of the first chapter. Pagan must’ve eased it out of her hands. That was thoughtful.

  Quiet male voices drifted from the hall to the right of the kitchen. It was dark outside, lending a cave-like feeling to the dimly lit cabin. One of these days she needed to explore the rest of this place. Suede hated not knowing the layout of where she was, but that day would wait.

  “Pagan?” she called. Then she called again, this time without the poor-me tone dripping all over her voice. “Can I help fix dinner?” Or something? Her only other option was to go back to bed, but that meant she was still sick. Which she was, but admitting it reduced her to a weakling, which she wasn’t, and… Oh hell. Where was I going with this?

  Her stomach growled. Oh yes. Dinner. It’s late. I’m hungry. “Pagan?”

  His head popped around the corner. Dressed in workout pants and a white T-shirt, his hair was damp and curlier than before, his forehead glistened with sweat. He must have a weight room on site. That explained the physiques of these guys. “You rang?”

  By then she’d made it all the way to the end of the couch, a whopping six steps. Suede leaned her butt to the armrest before she fell down. “Yes, I’m hungry, and I can help fix some—”

  “Want to chat with your boyfriend?”

  “Chance?”

  Pagan flinched as if he’d just been pinched. He shook his head and tapped his index finger to the wire leading to his ear. “Will you stop bellowing?” he bit out even as he grinned at Suede. “Yeah, I hear you
just fine. She’s not your girlfriend, ah-huh. Whatever you say.” He winked and nodded toward the phone set charging on the end table. “Pick up. He needs to talk to you.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Suede stated clearly as she sank back to the cushions.

  “Yeah, yeah. Just pick up the phone and talk to him so I can sign off.”

  “Chance?” she asked, the receiver at her ear and Pagan gone to who knew where.

  “Hey,” a deep voice rumbled over the line, along with a whining whistle in the background. “Baby Brother been taking good care of you?”

  “Yes. Is that the wind? Are you outside? Did you, you know?”

  “No, I didn’t kill York. He’s still alive, but yeah, I’m in the cabin and the wind’s strong up here. Still snowing, too.”

  “When are you coming down?”

  “Pagan didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” Only the wind whispered in her ear. “Chance? Are you still there?”

  “I’m not coming down tonight, Suede. If I can, I’ll be flying out of here as soon as the weather clears. I’ve got to see this through. York’s got evidence I need. This might be my only chance.”

  She nodded, not sure what to say, but not going to whine to a man who was toughing it out in a ferocious blizzard while she lounged by a fire. “Well, okay.”

  “He might be here awhile. Least until the storm blows over.”

  “It’s been snowing more than a day, Chance,” she reminded him. “Did you take enough food and water with you? Are you okay? How are you keeping warm?” What are you thinking?

  She could’ve sworn he purred. “You’re worried about me?”

  “Yes,” she blurted. Strangely, I am. “You’re up there because of me. Of course I’m worried.” Make that terrified. You’ll freeze to death and then what will I do?

  “I’m up here because this guy’s up to his neck in murder and mayhem, not just because of what he did to you, though that’s enough in my book. Pagan was just telling me that my brother Kruze got in. Hope you can stand another Sinclair hanging around for the night.”