by Eden Winters
Cruz presented the guard and Vivienne, then waved a hand at the other woman. “Allow me to introduce another of my team. Elsa works closely with Viv.”
Bo responded with a wide smile. Yeah, he’d be asking Viv for blackmail material on Cruz too. No, wait a minute. The good guy image Bo projected meant all necessary dirty work fell to Lucky. When you excelled at something… “Vivienne, it’s very nice to meet you. I’ve seen your handiwork. Great job on Lucky.”
Vivienne dipped her chin in acknowledgement.
“Viv is an expert in disguises,” Cruz said. “Elsa has a similar specialty.”
Johnson sat up straighter in her chair. “What’s that?”
Elsa spoke softly, a hint of an accent in her words. “Technology and special effects.” She gave an evil grin. “I have gifts for you, Mr. Harrison. They could save your life.”
CHAPTER 22
Lucky entered the SNB conference room and settled in at the back—his favorite spot. The Viv-issued padded body armor wasn’t as bulky as what he normally wore, and didn’t show as long as he kept his jacket on.
He couldn’t wait to try all the new toys he’d gotten from Elsa. Christmas came early. Recording devices that didn’t show on most marketed scanners. Ditto the new easily hidden body cams. A graphite device used to thwart body imaging. According to Elsa, he could pass through airport security scans and be invisible to their scanners. Not just hide a gun, but hide him if necessary.
Cool. If he ever had the need. Still, lovely, lovely toys. Maybe he should’ve tested the body cam and mics today. But no, let Keith earn his keep from his makeshift command central on the seventh floor. Then again, Lucky still wore the crucifix with built-in mic.
O’Donoghue sat in a chair near the windows, staring at his phone and texting. Planning his next unsuccessful attempt to control the SNB? Texting Landry?
Or maybe, like Bo, he hunted pookies or pokies or whatever on his phone every chance he got. Or played Candy Crush. Whatever he was up to couldn’t be more important than this meeting.
Two members of Atlanta PD stood by the windows a few feet away from O’Dork-a-hue.
A lot of people dragged their asses in on a Saturday. Many were late. Gave Lucky time to be smug. At least the breakroom coffee pot yielded up enough go juice to keep them upright. Hopefully. No decaf though.
Bo came in a few moments later, a cup in each hand. “I used Walter’s Keurig, so it might not be up to your standards, but I thought you could use this.” He placed a cup in front of Lucky and sank into the next chair. A hay-like scent wafted from Bo’s cup.
In the past they might have hidden Bo bringing Lucky coffee, but if Bo lost his position as Walter’s replacement, in part due to his and Lucky’s relationship, why not tweak a few noses?
Lucky leaned against the high chair back and sipped his coffee. Nice not to have to worry about winding up in the floor like with the chair in his cube.
Ah, how he’d love to introduce O’Donoghue to the Hell Bitch.
A few men Lucky barely recognized entered, apparently with enough clout for O’Donoghue to finally abandon his phone. Who the hell could he be texting anyway? Lucky’s research showed the man had zero social life.
“What is this about?” O’Donoghue asked. Yeah, he definitely liked control. Not being included in planning this meeting probably drove him crazy. Domineering asshole.
Walter strolled through the door at a leisurely pace and closed the heavy wooden panel behind him. Like anyone else might be milling about on a weekend to overhear their conversation, except for maybe a few diehard exercise freaks at the far end of the corridor at the gym, or a member of housekeeping. A few cars had littered the parking garage when Lucky arrived, Johnson’s Jeep among them. She parked their current vehicle in the impound lot, where cars awaited auction.
Walter claimed his spot at the head of the table, taking his time to settle into his chair. Take that, O’Donoghue! He’s still the boss. “I believe everyone here knows everyone else, so we’ll dispense with the niceties.”
O’Donoghue glanced at his phone again. Oh, how Lucky would love to see what messages he got. Keith might know. Maybe about a truck pulled over and cargo seized? Bet the man didn’t know the truck hauled sorghum, not oxycodone.
The door opened and Cruz sauntered into the room. “I’m late.” No apologies, and no glare from Walter. Nothing shook a suspect up quite like a grand entrance from an unknown element.
One of the men Lucky hadn’t officially met let out a choked gasp. Cruz grinned and wriggled his fingers. Must be a story there.
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Agent Cruz Torres, with the International Drug Trafficking Task Force.”
Torres? Lucky bet not.
Cruz didn’t normally offer a last name, though he’d been born into the Mangiardi family, and used Sauceda on occasion when posing as Nestor’s successor. Lucky never bothered digging for an actual name, only to have Cruz use a new one the next week. For all Lucky knew, “Cruz” wasn’t even his first name. All records were sealed or obliterated, hiding him from Lucky’s prying eyes.
He’d scrounge the information one day. Or die trying.
Or not care.
Cruz’s voice held no accent at all as he spoke. “My team has been tracking a series of shipments crossing into the United States from Mexico, traveling across the south and destined for New York.”
New York. O’Donoghue’s old stomping grounds. No telling what kind of contacts he had up there.
At a wave of Walter’s hand, Bo dimmed the lights and turned on the projector. “Now,” Cruz said, pointing out spots on the projected map with a laser pointer Cat Lucky would lose his mind over, “we’ve staged our own shipments. Even while trying to, our drivers can’t manage to have their cargo searched.”
O’Donoghue’s face turned white, as did a few others.
“If the trucks are stopped by highway patrol, the officers are ordered to let them go. We recently sent a truckload of oxycodone across the border, through two SNB jurisdictions, headed straight up the east coast.” Cruz grinned, and not the flirty grin he usually wore. No, bobcats must grin like that before they chased down a rabbit. “Or rather, it was thought to be oxycodone.”
Did O’Donoghue just swallow a bug?
“Money changed hands to get these shipments through. Money we’re tracking. Now, we received an anonymous tip that Owen Landry, a former DEA agent assigned to the SNB for training, is behind this operation. Mr. Harrison there”—he nodded to Lucky— “interrupted another of Landry’s schemes, and has since been targeted.”
O’Donoghue and the other men relaxed somewhat, but still eyed Cruz like rabbits frozen in a bobcat’s sights. Yeah, there’d be a happy, well-fed feline soon.
Cruz’s lip twitched and he dropped a bomb. “Landry has been spotted in the Atlanta area.”
No one around the table showed the least bit of surprise.
“He has agreed to turn himself in tomorrow morning to Atlanta PD.” Cruz nodded at Walter, and a man sitting near Lucky. Had Landry really made a move? First Lucky heard of it. “Mr. Diaz, Mr. Smith. We have reason to believe that some individuals within your organizations are involved. We’ve opened an investigation.”
Oops, there went O’Donoghue, choking on another fly. Insects of Atlanta! Beware!
Had Lucky made the right decision in turning down the job offer from Victor? How he’d love to be neck deep in any case involving O’Donoghue’s takedown. Fully involved, not merely assisting like he’d been so far.
But no. Home. Family. Not being gone months out of the year. Away from Bo. Away from the kids. He shifted his gaze around the room.
Wait a minute. The man he’d recognized before. He’d questioned Bo and Lucky when they thought Bo had turned traitor. And Lucky had studied Southwestern personnel in preparation for the meeting Cruz organized in Texas. Director Diaz from the Southwestern Narcotics Bureau. Interesting. He sat with the manager Lucky had met in Cruz’s hotel room, who
stared at Cruz with all the horror of a kid watching a late-night teen slasher flick.
Occasionally he glanced at Lucky, a crease forming between his brows. Vivienne’s disguise had worked, then. Garrison. The man’s name was Garrison. He’d look awful in prison orange. Not Lucky’s problem.
Cruz passed around information packets, containing an equal measure of truth and fiction. Definitely setting the stage to force a few hands.
The meeting broke down into a question and answer session, O’Donoghue and Director Diaz from Southwestern strangely quiet, and constantly texting.
Cruz paced back and forth behind Walter’s chair. “Mr. Smith has further evidence in his custody. Evidence that points directly to agents in your organizations.”
The meeting adjourned at four PM, and the assembled surged toward the elevators. Informational meeting only. No strategizing. Of course, plans were put into place earlier that Diaz, Garrison, and O’Donoghue didn’t need to know about.
Yet.
Diaz and Garrison wouldn’t get far. The moment they were out of reach of O’Donoghue, they had a date with Bo, Johnson, and handcuffs.
By the time Lucky took the elevator to the parking garage, they were already getting into their cars.
The two officers would follow O’Donoghue in an unmarked car, along with Lucky.
Cruz left the parking garage to take up position at the eighteen-wheeler. The tracker on O’Donoghue’s vehicle wouldn’t let him lose a tail. One of Elsa’s trackers. Undetectable.
Lucky wasn’t much for making new friends, but he might have to keep Elsa and Vivienne—and not entirely for the dirt they could supply on Cruz.
Lucky slouched down in one of the seized vehicles waiting for auction, checking his earpiece and the crucifix microphone. “C’mon, mutherfucker, c’mon. I wanna get this over with and go home.”
“You better not be talking to me,” Keith snapped into his ear.
“Nope. I didn’t call your name. You’re Bastard. Not Mutherfucker.” Lucky didn’t add the heat to the words he would have a few years ago.
“Oh, right, Shithead. How could I have forgotten.” Damn, Keith was learning the art of the snappy comeback. Another fifteen years or so of practice might turn him into a somewhat worthy opponent.
O’Donoghue exited the elevator, got into his car, and sat with the engine running, still texting. What was he waiting for? After about five minutes, he turned the car off, crossed the parking lot, and got back on the elevator.
Lucky spoke into his microphone. “Keith, O’Donoghue’s back in the building.”
After a moment Keith’s voice came through Lucky’s earpiece again. “I got him. He’s heading for Walter’s office.”
Ah, the lure of evidence called him back, did it? As if Walter would leave such sitting around. Not after he’d been attacked for the contents of a file.
“I’m going in, taking the south stairs.” Lucky rose in his seat high enough to see the officers in the next car prairie dogging their heads in the window. “Y’all take north.”
He checked his ankle holster and removed the gun strapped to his shoulder. With the elevator so close to Walter’s office, they’d have to take the stairs to avoid being seen. Six flights of stairs. Fucking O’Donoghue.
One flight, two flights. On the fifth-floor landing, Lucky stopped to catch his breath. He’d really let his body go to hell lately. More running, and taking stairs instead of elevators. Later. If he survived this.
“Anything?” he asked his backup.
“Nothing. On the fourth floor.”
Ha! Lucky beat two officers in their twenties. He’d never let them live it down. “Keith?”
“Got him in my sights. He’s in Walter’s office, but Lucky?”
“What?”
“There’s some kind of interference. I’ve got cameras going out all over the place. Started in IT. I’m going to come down…”
“Don’t. Stay where you are. I’ll check it out. We need you watching any remaining cameras.” Back to the wall, Lucky crept down the hallway. He’d have to pass his cube and Walter’s office to get to IT.
Keith’s voice hissed into his ear, “I still got full signal in the conference room, so far.”
O’Donoghue cursed from the direction of Walter’s office. The slam of desk drawers sounded at regular intervals.
Movement. Not from Walter’s office this time, but Lucky’s cube.
Just Lucky’s luck he’d find a member of the cleaning staff pushing a cart and scare them half to death. Maybe he’d remind them to leave his coffee cups on his desk where he’d put them. Then again, a cleaning cart and a hat would help him get past Walter’s office without drawing attention.
Clutching his gun in a two-handed grip, he stepped into his cube.
A blur came out of nowhere. What the fuck? Down he went, gun skittering across the floor. A loafer kicked the gun away. Lucky rolled, clutching his shoulder with his good hand. Mutherfuck, mutherfuck, that fucking hurt! Even through a layer of leather jacket.
“We can do this the hard way, or we can do it my way.”
Lucky’s heart stuttered. He’d let Owen Fucking Landry get the jump on him.
“How fitting that we’ll end our association where it began,” Landry said, in a poor imitation of a late-night B-movie villain. “Did you miss me?”
Landry aimed a .38 straight at Lucky’s head, which might have inspired more fear if Lucky hadn’t witnessed the jerkoff’s poor performance on the firing range. A golf club leaned against the filing cabinet.
A golf club? Probably from somebody’s office.
Lucky glared at the man he wished he’d killed way before now. Wasn’t Cruz supposed to be watching for Landry? What about Landry turning himself in tomorrow morning? With Keith listening in, at least someone knew what the hell was going on besides Lucky. Only cameras went down, right? No mics? Keith had better be calling in reinforcements.
“How the fucking hell did you get in here?” A laptop sat open on Lucky’s desk. Landry idly pushed a button.
“I have my ways.” In the old days O’Donoghue’s brown-nosing bootlicker might have sounded smug. Now, his jaw clenched. He picked up Lucky’s Sig from the floor and placed it on the desk—out of Lucky’s reach. “Don’t worry. I have no plans to kill you. Yet. You’re going to help me set the record straight about Jameson O’Donoghue.” He spat the name.
Where was Lucky’s backup? Keith better forget what Lucky said about staying put and get his ass down here.
Oh fuck. As discreetly as possible, Lucky reached up and scratched his ear. No earpiece. He still wore a mic.
If Landry didn’t strip it off him.
No instructions coming. Please let Keith still get a feed.
“Is this where you monologue, confess your evil deeds, then blow my brains out?” Yep, definitely not the way Lucky planned to leave the earth. His left biceps throbbed. That’d leave a bruise. Brought down by a golf club. He’d always known golf was evil.
Too bad Landry hadn’t aimed for Lucky’s torso. Could the asswipe detect the added protection under Lucky’s jacket?
“You screwed me over in so many ways.” Landry’s words came out an acidic hiss. “You know I had it all, right? Do you have any idea how much those suits were gonna pay me? All I had to do was deliver one measly drug. I was this close.” He spaced the fingers on his free hand an inch apart, keeping the gun trained on Lucky with the other. “You had to go and ruin everything, didn’t you?”
What the hell? What about the video he’d sent and setting the record straight in regards to O’Donoghue? An attempt to lull Lucky into a false sense of security? Lucky didn’t do senses of security, false or otherwise. Paranoia had saved his ass too many times.
“Yeah, you lost out on a ridiculous amount of money, but what about your buddies? Rogers is dead. Eustace is chewing through thousands of dollars trying to get his ass out of a sling.” With any luck, Lady Justice would say, “Hell the fuck no.”
“Collateral damage. That wasn’t my doing,” Landry said, keeping the gun trained on Lucky. “Besides, they weren’t following my orders. Not that you’d believe anything I said right now.”
“A man holding a gun on you doesn’t really inspire trust.”
“I need you to listen.” Landry shrugged. “This is the only way I knew to get you to shut up long enough to hear all I have to say.”
Had Landry really orchestrated this whole thing to kill Lucky, or clear his own name? Not that anyone could. The hole Landry dug for himself might require a ladder to climb out of.
Get tired, Landry, have a nice sit down in my chair. Lean back… The Hell Bitch would have him on the floor in a split second.
No such luck.
“Not here.” Landry picked up Lucky’s Sig and motioned Lucky down the hall. “In the conference room. Oh, and don’t hold your breath on your friends arriving. I disabled the elevator and locked down the stairwells.” He waved to the laptop on Lucky’s desk, one marked, “IT Department.” Yeah, Rookie Rogers must’ve taught him a thing or two.
Lockdown? They hadn’t had a lockdown drill in ages, used in the event of an active shooter. Who knew the doors still worked like that? How had Landry gotten a code? Oh, yeah. O’Donoghue.
And Rogers.
Even so, Landry got past all their security. What the hell?
Part of the department’s job was to evaluate security for pharmaceutical companies. Looked like they needed to clean their own house first.
Good thing the conference room showed up in Keith’s cameras. Hopefully. Unless he’d lost this camera too.
Lucky’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Bo or Johnson, more than likely. Lucky and Landry weren’t exactly quiet. O’Donoghue must’ve heard them by now. What was going on in Walter’s office?
Keeping a table between them topped the list of Lucky’s current priorities, and he stayed close to the door while Landry continued on.
“What did Jameson tell you about me and the guys?” Landry leaned casually against the wall by a bank of windows, expression earnest. He placed Lucky’s gun on the table.