Dangerous Stakes

by G. K. Parks

  “Get this open,” I said.

  They grabbed the battering ram out of the squad car and swung. The door popped, and I went in, gun held at my side. The officers followed at the rear, spreading out as we entered.

  Only one set of headlights illuminated the interior of the dark warehouse. An engine revved, and I focused on the lights. It was the stolen silver sports car. Kincaid stood in front of the vehicle, a gun aimed at the driver.

  “Axel Kincaid, drop your weapon,” I barked.

  His chest heaved, but he didn’t even look in my direction. His focus remained on the man inside the car. In the dark, I couldn’t see the driver, but I assumed it must be Harrington. The two men were playing a deadly game of chicken.

  “I can’t do that, Detective.”

  The officers came up on either side of the car. One aimed at the driver, the other at Kincaid. “Sir, turn off the engine.”

  “Talk to me, Axel. What’s going on? Obviously, Harrington’s done something to you. Let us take him in. We’ll get it sorted.”

  Kincaid’s aim didn’t waver. “Are you going to shoot me?”

  “Don’t make me do it.”

  “Go away, Detective.”

  My eyes darted from the car to the man in front of it. “You know I can’t do that.”

  The officers tried again to get the driver to turn off the engine, but he wasn’t listening. The one on the left approached the car. “Sir, turn off the engine and step out of the vehicle. I won’t ask you again.”

  Sirens sounded from behind the shutter, and without warning, the door raised. The driver floored it, knocking the officer back with the sudden rush forward. Axel fired just as I threw myself against him, knocking him out of the car’s path. Kicking Axel’s gun away, I raced out the door just as both patrol units entered.

  “Arrest him,” I shouted, jumping onto my parked bike and gunning the engine.

  I wove in and out of lanes, hoping to keep up with the sports car’s engine. The driver took a sharp turn, and I darted after him, my back tire skidding and bumping along before gripping the asphalt. I shifted my body weight as I came out of the turn and sped up. We were in an alleyway that let out on another cross street. The silver car darted across traffic, entering a second alleyway. I continued pursuit.

  Who the hell was this guy? He turned left, and I momentarily lost sight of him. I turned again, seeing him approaching an empty patch of road. He turned down another alleyway, and I went after him.

  I never expected him to stop short. There was no time to brake. The front of my bike rammed into the corner panel. For a second, I was airborne, launching over the handlebars and crashing down on the hood and sliding. I rolled on the ground a few times until friction stopped my momentum. Dazed, I didn’t have time to react before the tire iron slammed down on my helmet, cracking the face shield and sending me into oblivion.

  Twenty-five

  When I came to, I was staring up at a metal ceiling. The room was dim, or maybe it was my eyes. I blinked a few times, hoping to clear away the fog, but it didn’t help. Slowly, I sat up and removed the helmet from my head. Apparently, helmets save lives. I dropped it to the ground and studied my surroundings.

  LED stick lights dotted the walls. One on each side. I turned around to look behind me and saw two more. Where the hell was I? Shifting onto my hands and knees, I managed to stand, despite the sharp pain in my left side.

  I reached for my gun, but it was gone. I unzipped my jacket, finding a fresh bloodstain on my shirt. Ignoring it, I reached into the inner pocket for my phone. The screen was shattered. My handcuffs remained clipped at the small of my back, but they were useless.

  Peeling my shirt away from my skin, I found my badge. The sharp metal edge was embedded in my side. Wincing, I pulled it out. A whimper escaped, and I blew out a lengthy breath, followed by a few extra puffs. I was lucky. Aside from the damage the handlebars inflicted, I was mostly unscathed. Now to get out of here.

  Based on the dimensions, I had to be inside a freight container. I rammed my shoulder into the doors a few times, but they wouldn’t budge. The sound echoed around me and magnified the dizzying headache. I needed something to pry them open.

  A tarp and several wooden crates filled the rear of the container. Beneath the tarp, I found the stolen yellow sports car. The VIN had been etched off, and the security system removed. But it hadn’t been washed. Dried, brownish-red flecks covered the side. Juan Rodriguez’s blood. It made me queasy.

  At least I found the cars. I opened the door and slipped inside, searching for anything that could be used to get out of the cargo container. I even checked the tiny trunk, finding half a dozen kilos of cocaine. My thoughts returned to Becca.

  Focus, Liv. Shutting the trunk, I tried to break into the wooden crates, but they were nailed shut. Turning around, I placed my hands on the car and kicked backward into one of the crates. My foot broke through the wood. Carefully, I peeled back some of the broken boards. Small plastic bags containing computer parts poured out.

  I checked the labels on the other crates. They were all stamped with the name of a tech manufacturer. It had nothing to do with the cars or the drugs. Obviously, someone wanted to use the freight containers to move less legitimate goods. They were set to be delivered to a European port.

  Even though I always wanted to go to Europe, I had no intention of traveling like this. Returning to the doors, I tried shouldering them open a few more times. Then I tried screaming. That didn’t last too long. The echoing of my own voice made me cringe.

  When I got desperate again, I banged against the door a few more times. “Let me out.”

  Voices sounded from the other side, and for a moment, I quieted. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I pounded more vehemently against the doors.

  Someone banged back, startling me. “Shut up in there.” It was Emilio.

  “Let me go.” I took a few steps back and grabbed the bike helmet. Gripping it tightly in my hand, I banged against the metal container again. If he wanted me to shut up, he’d have to make me.

  As predicted, he unlocked the door. I pressed my back against the wall, my fingers curled around the lower part of the helmet. The moment he stepped inside, I swung. The hard plastic helmet connected with his temple, and he stumbled. I kicked into the back of his knee, dropping him onto all fours. I struck again, this time to his upper back. When he went flat on the floor, I pounced. Kneeling on his back, I cuffed him.

  He wasn’t armed, except for a large Maglite. I took the flashlight, knowing it was more powerful than most police batons. My knees pressed into his flesh as I pinned him against the floor. I peered out the crack in the container doors. No one was outside.

  “Who’s here?” I kept one eye out the door and the other on my captive. I patted him down and removed his cell phone. I couldn’t get a signal inside the cargo container. “Answer me.”

  “Just me and Iain.”

  “Where’s the third guy? I know there’s three of you. Where is he?”

  “He’s not here.” Emilio turned his face to the side and tried to get a better look at me.

  “Tell me who he is. Where is he?”

  Emilio might not be the brightest crayon in the box, but he shut up the moment I asked the question. He tried to buck me off, so I slammed the metal end of the flashlight down beside his face to indicate I meant business.

  “The police are on their way. You better hope they get here before Axel does.”

  “Axel’s not coming here.”

  “Didn’t Iain tell you what happened?” From the silence, I knew the answer was no. “It seems your partner is keeping things from you. Tell me what’s going on. Right now. We can protect you. I can protect you.” He hesitated, so I pushed harder. “You know me, Emilio. I’m the same Liv you drank with and danced with. I don’t want to see anything happen to you. Let me help you.” I eased off his back, keeping one hand on the flashlight in case he tried something.

  Emilio sat up and
leaned against the wall of the container. “No one was supposed to get hurt. He wasn’t supposed to shoot Juan.”

  I had so many questions and not much time. “Who?”

  Emilio fidgeted, and I glanced outside the container.

  “Why steal the cars?” I asked.

  “A bigger payday. And a big fuck you to Hart.” Emilio snorted and tried to stand. I pushed against his shoulder, shoving him back to the ground.

  “How’s Kincaid involved?”

  “He’s not.”

  “Bullshit. Cars are his thing.”

  Emilio glared daggers at me. “Axel won the McLaren in a bet. He didn’t take ownership yet, but Stevens gave him the pink slip.”

  That must have been what Axel removed from the trailer office. He didn’t want the thefts to link back to him. He must have figured we could connect him to the lot since we had Struthers, so he went to remove the evidence. “Why would Axel steal a car he already owned? Did Stevens refuse to pay up?”

  A sick smile grew on Emilio’s face. “You have no clue what’s going on.”

  “Stop protecting Axel.”

  “I’m not.” Emilio turned his head and spit. “We’re not friends. We’re nothing. Iain made me realize the truth. He’s my friend, not Axel or Fox or any of those pretentious pricks.”

  “What about Juan? Was he your friend?”

  Emilio didn’t answer.

  “Your friend’s dead. You killed him. His blood is on that car.” I pointed at the Ferrari.

  Emilio swallowed. “I didn’t know they were going to shoot him. Honest. I drove the SUV. I made the devices, but no one was supposed to get hurt.”

  “Who shot him?”

  A sheen of sweat developed on Emilio’s upper lip, and for a moment, I thought he might be sick. When he spoke again, he sounded panicked. His breath came in gasps. “Juan knew it was us. We just met him at Rhinestones a few weeks earlier, but he helped us devise the plan. But when it came to carrying it out, he chickened out. Said he thought it was just a joke. A way to blow off steam. He didn’t want to help us. He didn’t want the money. I don’t know what happened.” Emilio gasped a few more times, his face turning crimson. He was having a panic attack.

  “Breathe. You’re all right.”

  “He’ll kill me for talking to you,” Emilio squeaked.

  I heard a noise beyond the container. “Stay here. And stay quiet.” I slipped between the crack in the doors. No one was around. I shut the container and secured the lock. Stacks of shipping containers stood on either side, nearly walling us in.

  I ducked into a dark corner between two tall rows of containers stacked five high and checked for a signal. Bingo. Using Emilio’s burner, I dialed Fennel.

  “Liv, where are you?”

  “The docks. Listen to me. Emilio’s here. I have him handcuffed inside a locked container. Harrington’s here, or he was. We have to find him. They’ve planned this out. I found the Ferrari and six kilos of coke. It’s set to ship to Europe. They must have buyers lined up. I think they ripped off Hart, and if the DEA’s right, the cartels too.”

  “We’re already on our way. Get somewhere safe. I’m two minutes out.”

  Tucking the phone into my pocket, I edged along the containers. I needed to get out of here. I turned the corner and came face to face with the killer.

  Twenty-six

  He hoped to avoid this moment, but she left him no choice. She should have been dead twice over. But her luck had finally run out. The device Emilio built should have made her car inert. She should have died in the accident. And if Iain had the balls, he would have finished her off instead of bringing her here and dumping her inside the shipping container. But they weren’t trained like he was. They didn’t understand the risk she posed. He’d take care of it. Like the saying went, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself, but maybe he’d have a little fun first.

  She narrowed her eyes, searching her memory. She didn’t recognize him, not at first. He’d spent so long living in anonymity and blending in that no one noticed him. In his line of work, it had been a necessity. But he hated it. It would be different this time. He’d start over. He’d be the one with staff and guards. People would take notice. They would respect him. And they would fear him.

  “Recognize me?” he asked.

  “You were at Spark.”

  “Bravo.”

  She thought for a moment. “You’re Hart’s bodyguard.”

  “Head of security,” he corrected, unable to help himself.

  “Former, I imagine.” Her eyes darted to the container. “You planned to rip him off, but why steal the other car?”

  “I like fast things.” He reached out and grabbed the end of the flashlight before it connected with his skull and yanked it from her hand. She had spunk. He liked it when they fought back. “Plus, I knew you were investigating Axel, so it made for a nice misdirect.” He jerked his chin at her. “Get on your knees.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He grinned. “If you wish.”

  * * *

  I could practically see the headlines now, Cop Killed with Her Own Gun. Of course, the story would be even bigger since I was Vince DeMarco’s kid. Slowly, I lowered to the ground. My left knee, then my right. Searching my memory for a name, I came up with one. “Mick.”

  His eyes flicked to my face. His aim wavered ever so slightly.

  “I know who you are. I’m just not used to seeing you in anything other than a suit.” The ink from an elaborate tattoo caught my eye. I recognized the artist’s style. “Kai had the nicest things to say about you. Poor, deluded kid, thought your name was John Smith.” If I didn’t get out of this mess, I probably just signed Mr. Kahale’s death warrant. “Did Axel recommend that shop? I bet he gets a finder’s fee.”

  If looks could kill, I’d already be dead. “What do the police know?” Mick yanked my chin up. “Answer me.”

  From our brief interaction, I knew Mick wanted notoriety. He wanted to be remembered. He wanted to step out of the shadows, but he also wanted to live long enough to enjoy his new fortune.

  “We know everything.”

  “You’re lying.” He pressed the muzzle of my Glock against my forehead.

  “Are you sure about that? Becca told me about you. About the cars. The cocaine. You got pissed at your boss, but stealing from the cartels won’t end well.” I needed to buy time. Fennel would be here. I just needed a few more minutes. “You killed her for no reason. We already had you dead to rights. You didn’t need to add a second homicide to the list.”

  “I had a reason.”

  “It’s because you’re a pathetic, useless fuck.”

  He backhanded me. The force of the blow knocked me to the ground, and he straddled me. I grabbed for the gun with both hands, struggling to keep the barrel from pointing at my face. He was six feet and two hundred pounds of solid muscle. It was no wonder Becca hadn’t been able to put up more of a fight.

  He wrapped his free hand around my throat, squeezing hard. His eyes wild. He was losing control. I kicked him in the nuts. He howled, but his grip only tightened.

  I couldn’t breathe. He jerked the gun out of my hands, and I scratched at his eyes, shoving his face to the side. Lifting my hips, I crossed my ankles at the front of his neck and forced him backward. His hand fell from my throat, and he punched me.

  My vision swam, and my legs dropped. He forced me flat, holding my body down with the weight of his. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the sirens. One more minute. Just one. But they stopped. The sound stopped. I couldn’t hear anything over the blood rushing in my ears. He tugged at my jeans and ripped at my shirt. I batted his hands away, and he lifted the gun.

  “Fine,” he said, as if conceding, “have it your way.”

  I grabbed for the Glock. The gun went off. The metal burned my palms, but I didn’t let go. He squeezed off two more shots. One more frantic than the other. I rolled into him, using my smaller size as an advantage and tucked t
he gun against my chest. I pinned his forearm with my weight. My back to his front. This wasn’t ideal, but I was out of options. He fired again.

  “Liv,” Brad screamed.

  No one moved. Time stood still. I was pinned beneath Mick’s bulk as he struggled to manipulate the gun in our hands. Even now, with the police breathing down his neck, he was still determined to finish what he started.

  Fennel shoved Mick off of me, and two uniforms wrestled the killer into cuffs and frisked him. Slowly, I rolled onto my back, my ears ringing from the gunshots.

  “DeMarco,” the bloodstain on my shirt drew his eyes, “are you hit?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “Could have fooled me.” Fennel helped me sit up and called for a medic to take a look. Several government-issued SUVs pulled to a stop next to the four police vehicles just as Mick was being loaded into the back of a car. “We’ve got a mess to sort through.”

  “It’s not just our mess,” I said.

  Twenty-seven

  Brad dropped into his chair and sighed. “What are you still doing here? The captain told you to take the rest of the day.”

  “You’re my ride. Plus, I know how much you hate paperwork.” The door to interrogation opened, and I watched Iain Harrington get escorted out. The DEA found him when they were searching the cargo containers. Apparently, Iain heard the commotion and sirens and thought it best to hide. Obviously, he wasn’t very good at it.

  Fennel had been in and out of the box all day, asking questions and getting everything in order. With all three men in custody, it wasn’t hard to play them against one another and get them to crack. Mick Rutherford, aka John Smith and Hart’s chief of security, had become disgusted with his job. No one ever tried to make a move against Hart, so Mick was redundant. He was nothing more than a status piece, a trophy wife without the blonde hair and fake tits. Something triggered him, and he decided he wanted out of his life. And he wanted Hart to pay for making him miserable.