Decision (Diversion Book 8)

by Eden Winters

  “Don’t I always?” Not really. At one time he hadn’t cared if he saw another day. Times had changed since Bo came into his life and made him want to be a better man.

  “This time, I’ll be watching too. I volunteered to be your handler.” O’Donoghue stalked off before Lucky could form an answer.

  Oh, fuck. If the drug dealers didn’t get him, his own “team” might.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Lucky, you don’t have to do this.” Bo placed his hands on the back of Lucky’s chair from hell, capturing Lucky between his arms.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “There’s plenty others capable of this operation. You’re a trainer now, not assigned to undercover ops.”

  Lucky turned his head enough to kiss the inside of Bo’s wrist. “These assholes are going down. I wanna be the one to take them there.” For Yolanda. For Alejandro.

  Bo planted a kiss on Lucky’s forehead. “I know. I didn’t think I’d talk you out of it. But that’s one of the things I love about you. You’re stubborn, but occasionally you’re stubborn about things that really matter. I hear O’Donoghue volunteered to be your handler.”

  “Yeah.” Good thing or bad, Lucky saw no way to get out of the situation without passing the case to someone else. The only ones he trusted in the role were Bo and Walter. Bo’s involvement might be seen as a conflict of interest, due to his and Lucky’s relationship, and Walter needed to stay the hell off the streets.

  “Well, I think they’re waiting for us in the conference room. But before we go…” Bo wrapped a firm hand around the back of Lucky’s neck, pulled him into another kiss, and sauntered away, smoothing his hands down his suit jacket.

  The tease.

  In one simple gesture he conveyed Walter’s famous words, “Do what you do.”

  One more chance to make up for past ills.

  If he tried hard enough, maybe he’d someday feel worthy of the life he now lived.

  ***

  Another day, another assignment. Lucky stood, arms out to his side, sweating lightly under his bulletproof jacket and allowing Keith’s team to wire him for sound and run through checks.

  Although technically a newbie with the Atlanta division of the SNB, Salters, the red-haired annoyance, had a few years in with the Richmond, Virginia office, and now entered the field with Lucky for the first time in Atlanta on an important, and complicated, case.

  How long since Lucky’d stood in his newbie shoes? Seemed like forever. He’d rather have Loretta Johnson on the inside with him, but Salters needed to get his feet wet sometime, and Johnson and Bo knowing the building’s layout meant they were needed on the outside.

  As much as he’d like to deny the facts, Salters had managed one hell of a good record in Virginia, and even Walter declared him up to this task.

  Besides, no matter how hard he’d tried, he’d not found a single negative on Salters’ record with the bureau.

  “Now remember,” O’Donoghue said, standing close under the guise of checking Lucky’s microphone, “if things start going to shit, use your code words and get the hell out of there.” Jeez, the guy sounded almost like he cared. “I’d rather these assholes get away tonight than lose an agent.”

  “Not my first rodeo.” Lucky fought back the rising tension and faked calm.

  O’Donoghue met his eyes and held his gaze for one long moment. “No, I guess not. Don’t get cocky. You know as well as I do you can’t let your guard down for a minute. And keep an eye on your partner. He’s ready for the field. He had a good teacher.” In this instance, Lucky didn’t think O’Donoghue meant himself and classroom training.

  Yes, Lucky did know. “Will you quit fussing over me and let me go do what I do?” As an afterthought, he added, “Mom.”

  O’Donoghue rolled his eyes. “If a smart mouth was all it took to do this job, the suspects better give up now.”

  As Lucky turned toward the elevator to the parking garage, O’Donoghue called out, “Harrison?”

  “Yeah?” Dear Lord, what did the man want now?

  “It’s an honor to work an assignment with you.”

  What the fuck?

  Lucky used the drive over—in his favorite chicken-shit green, department-issued Malibu—to run the facts over with his partner. Salters. Partner. Hah. “How’d you get saddled with this assignment?”

  “Begged, pleaded, and offered up my firstborn, sir.” Lucky caught the man’s wide grin out of the corner of his eye.

  More softly, Salters said, “I’ve seen a lot of shit in my time with the bureau, but treating people as less than human? These guys have an ass-whipping coming.”

  Lucky stopped at a red light and gave his latest protegé a sidelong glance. “And you think you’re the man who can pull that off?”

  “No, sir. I think you can. If I learn all I can from you, then one day someone might have that kind of trust in me.”

  What the ever-loving fuck? The guy sounded smarter than Lucky gave him credit for. Now to see how much he studied up. “Who are we meeting?”

  “A guy named Pablo. Medium build, early twenties, five-six or so, noticeable scar on his right cheek and a cross tattooed on his upper left biceps.”

  Lucky nodded. So far so good. “What’s his involvement?”

  “He supplied the labor. He’s supposed to bring the raw material supplier with him to this meeting. If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, there has to be a special place in Hell for the mutherfuckers.”

  “Any qualms about sending them there, if you have to?” Lucky’d known good agents who fucked up and couldn’t pull a trigger fast enough when needed.

  A muscle clenched in Jimmy’s jaw. “As you say, it’s not my first rodeo.”

  Nope, not based on Jimmy’s record. He far outstripped any of Lucky’s other trainees.

  The light turned green. Lucky waited for oncoming traffic and made a left turn. “I checked out local gang and cartel activity, but no known presence appeared tied to this venture. An unknown. Maybe a startup. The less experienced the better.”

  “I still can’t believe some of the people tied up in this.” Salters popped a piece of gum into his mouth and set about slowly chewing.

  “You’ll get used to it. I’ve brought down soccer parents turned drug dealers, a doctor who wouldn’t have drawn anyone’s suspicions, and an otherwise mild-mannered secretary winged me a couple years back.” None of them would have pinged anyone’s radar as criminals.

  “I read about that.”

  Unsurprising, since Salters seemed almost obsessed with Lucky and his career when they’d first met. Nurse Jimmy, Lucky’s stalker at the Virginia hospital where Lucky donated part of his liver to dear old Daddy Lucklighter. He wouldn’t mention his own brother’s basement packaging operation and subsequent death when he’d tried to play with the big boys and lost.

  Sometimes cases hit too close to home.

  Besides, with live mics, Lucky had learned to watch his mouth.

  He pulled the car up to the abandoned-looking building he’d reconned with Bo and Johnson, and where they’d staged their raid. In exchange for a plea deal, the guards cooperated, luring the bosses into a false sense of security.

  Still, they took one hell of a risk.

  Faint light shone inside the front door; emergency exits signs if he remembered correctly. “Everybody in place?”

  Across from the warehouse, Keith and his team set up shop, monitoring Lucky and Jimmy’s movements from a panel van.

  “Affirmative,” O’Donoghue replied.

  Lucky banged his hand on the dashboard. The glove box fell open. He took out his latest Glock and checked his weapon. Jimmy did the same without prompting. They both holstered their guns at the small of their backs. Lucky had also gotten himself an ankle holster after his last takedown. The damned thing proved useful.

  No money was expected from this initial deal, merely a discussion of terms—if the rogue pharmacist hadn’t screwed them over.

  If he had,
may God have mercy on him because Lucky sure the hell wouldn’t. In his mind he pictured Yolanda, pregnant and scared, and little Alejandro cradled in Bo’s arms.

  He’d never write a book or a hit song, but he sure as hell would dedicate what he did do to them.

  And Bo. And Ty. All the kids caught up in this nightmare.

  “Clear,” O’Donoghue said. “One car parked out back with illegal plates. Another that definitely doesn’t belong in this neighborhood parked down the street. We’re running the tags.”

  Hopefully, whoever Lucky planned to meet was novice enough to have driven their own car. Sometimes powerful people thought themselves above the law and made stupid mistakes.

  Okay, no obvious threats in sight.

  “Let’s move,” Lucky said. He and Salters got out of the car.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Lucky took a deep breath, heart pounding, but not in fear. Anticipation. Fight or flight, tilted heavily to fight. Long weeks of work, now yielding results. The case files now included something of a family tree, displaying names rapidly weaving a web of connection between all the suspects.

  A few connections remained to be made. Why had their warrant requests been rejected, and how close were they getting to the top of this shit pile?

  Approaching the door, he recalled doing the same a few nights ago with Johnson and Bo. He’d rather have them at his back, but Salters wasn’t a total waste.

  Still not good enough for Charlotte, but hey, who was?

  Lucky switched his gun from back holster to jacket holster, even though the weather was much too warm for a jacket. Salters followed his example. Smart man. Both kept their hands ready to grab and aim.

  Slowly, slowly, they advanced. Dim lights grew brighter as they progressed to the warehouse.

  The empty warehouse.

  “Well, damn, they’re not here,” Lucky said, more to O’Donoghue than Salters. They both stood still and quiet, waiting for any sound.

  Red light. Slamming into Salters. Falling to the floor.

  “Oof!” came from Salters a split second before a bullet tore a hole in the sheet rock where his head had just been.

  Lucky rolled off Salters, grabbing his gun and keeping low, belly to the floor.

  Silence. “We’re okay, but someone tried to take us out,” Lucky murmured. Keith might be a sorry sonofabitch, but he knew his shit.

  “Get the hell out,” O’Donoghue growled into his earpiece.

  “Negative. Pinned down.” Lucky slithered forward, peering around stacked boxes. Wood splintered by his hand. “Motherfuck!” Pain lanced through his fingers, shooting fire up his arm. He pulled back, cradling his injured fingers as best he could with his gun hand.

  Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

  “What’s going on, Harrison?” O’Donoghue asked, concern clear even with his hushed tones. No real reason to keep quiet now. Either someone found out who they were, or never planned to deal with Lucky at all.

  The suspect who’d set them up better bend over and kiss his ass goodbye.

  “One shooter near left rear loading door. Another one armed on a catwalk above him.”

  Silence. “We’ve got a lock on the shooter,” O’Donoghue assured him.

  Served the asshole right for standing so close to a window. Lucky waited for instructions. Even he wasn’t stupid enough to go loose cannon at a time like this.

  O’Donoghue spoke again. “If they’re not moving, stay down. Team two moving in.”

  Lucky and Salters weren’t going any damned where, and neither were their assailants. Made no effort to advance. Which meant they were waiting. For what?

  A voice came from another direction, cutting off their exit the way they’d come. “Mr. Harrison, you should have listened when I told you no.” Who the fuck?

  Something thumped against the floor, leaking a plume of smoke. Orange flickered on the other side of the warehouse. Oh, hell. Flushed from the reeds like a couple of ducks.

  As old as this building was, made of aged wood, it stood no chance in hell against fire.

  Either take a chance on running, or wait for their targets to come for their unconscious bodies.

  Lucky grabbed Salters’ arm and hauled ass.

  The smoke obscured the gunmen’s vision. The tat, tat, tat, of gunfire sounded behind him, kicking up dust and splinters. He ran to the far wall, out of sight of the first gunman and directly underneath the second, safely out of range.

  He nodded to Salters and pointed to the right. Working the fingers of his gun hand in a walking motion while still holding his Glock, he cradled his injured hand to his chest. “What the hell do you want?” he called, covering Salters retreating footsteps with his voice.

  “You, to shut up and do as you’re told.”

  “You know my name, so you know enough about me to be aware that I’ve never shut up and done as I was told in my life.”

  Did O’Donoghue just mumble, “That’s for damned sure”? More clearly, he said, “If you’re out of the line of fire, keep him talking.”

  Where the fuck was team two? O’Donoghue better get a move on!

  The brief moment of quiet let Lucky register footsteps overhead, clanking against the metal catwalk, the gunman finding a new position.

  “I sent Agent Salters out. Try not to shoot him,” Lucky murmured into his mic. He crouched low, using his short stature to his advantage. A crack. Sheetrock exploded in a cloud of dust above his head. He held his breath, choking back a cough, and scuttled like a damned palmetto bug across the floor and behind a blue plastic barrel. Please let it be full and dense enough to slow down a bullet. Empty might mean dead.

  Damn, but his motherfucking hand hurt! He glanced at the floor. Fucking hell. Blood trail. No hiding. And an open wound around unknown chemicals could prove to be a bad thing.

  A very bad thing. Okay. Overhead, a shooter. By the cargo door, a shooter. So far, the man who’d spoken hadn’t fired at him. Biting back a scream, Lucky managed to shrug out of his T-shirt and wrap his hand.

  Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck! That fucking hurt! He gritted his teeth against the agony. Fire arced from his hand up his arm. He couldn’t stop now to check damage, but judging by past injuries, they’d fucked his hand up.

  Something else they’d pay for.

  Back pressed to the wall, gun in his good hand, he waited.

  With any luck, Salters had found one of the doors or windows in a neglected office to slither out of. Nothing from O’Donoghue, but silence meant he wouldn’t jeopardize Lucky’s location by making any detectable sound, or asking questions requiring answers.

  Lucky slid to the right on his ass, inching across the floor. At least he no longer dripped a blood trail.

  “Agent Harrison, we know you’re here, and we want to make a deal.” The voice came across confident, without a trace of accent, not to Lucky’s ears.

  “What kind of deal?”

  “End your investigation with the suspects you have and live.”

  “What happens if I don’t?” Yeah, he needed to keep the asshole talking, let the fucker advertise his whereabouts.

  “Do you like a good barbeque, Agent Harrison?”

  “I’m Southern, ain’t I?” No use denying his accent or redneck upbringing.

  “How’d you like to find out how a hamburger feels on the grill?”

  Fuck. More smoke. They planned to burn the place to the ground. With him in it. “I don’t see how that’s going to be a problem, and you’d be screwing yourself over to make a deal with me.” He softened his voice and let the pain come out.

  “And why is that?”

  “You saw the blood, right?” Lucky forced a chuckle. “I’m gut shot. I’ll bleed out long before you can do anything. If your hired gun only meant to wing me, I’d withhold his Christmas bonus this year.”

  Silence, both from the man and O’Donoghue.

  Shutting his mouth, Lucky eased more toward the right. The SNB should have a lock on the man by now, so carr
ying on the conversation only made tracking Lucky easier. Please let Bo not have heard his gut-shot comment and worry.

  Did this place even have alarms and a sprinkler system? Not that it’d help much for a chemical fire.

  “Agent Harrison?” The voice came closer. Lucky slid his butt cheeks faster across the floor. Ow! Fuck! He laid his gun down long enough to dig a tree branch-sized splinter out of his ass. Using the hand holding his gun and one ass cheek, he crab-crawled the way Salters had left.

  Whoever was out there and knew who he was had to know he wasn’t unattended.

  Boom! The whole fucking floor shook, debris raining down. Explosives? Really? Destroying evidence, killing an agent. These guys had to be out of their minds.

  “Don’t expect help,” the man said, deep rumble in his laugh. “I brought friends. You should’ve minded your own business. Hector, Vinnie, time to leave.”

  “You get that, O’Donoghue?” Nothing. Fuck. Lucky’s heart dropped to his stomach. Smoke began filling the room. If the heat didn’t get him, the smoke would. Both rose. Lucky crawled on the floor. The lights went out.

  Blindly he groped in the dark, reaching a dead end of boxes and having to turn around. He never would have thought O’Donoghue’s voice would sound like an angel’s. “Harrison. What’s your situation?”

  No need lying. “Pretty damn bad. He said he had friends taking care of my backup.”

  “We didn’t come here to let them get away. Now. How far are you from the main entrance?”

  “Too fucking far. Did Salters make it out?”

  “Salters? No.”

  Fuck! Lucky told him to get out, he shoulda fucking obeyed. But damn. Here he’d expected to die one day from a cartel’s bullet, and instead he’d be French fried redneck.

  Bo. Charlotte. Ty.

  Alejandro. Nope, no dying today. He had a family to take care of and many more years before he’d let his name grace the SNB memorial page.

  Steeling his resolve, he crawled, inch by painful inch.

  A shout came from behind him. Cursing. Quiet.