“You brought yourself into this when you married him, when you stole incriminating files, and you have the power to end this. Him.” He pressed his finger over the image of Dante walking into the restaurant with the killers. “Taking them down might not give you closure, but you could move on. You and Millie. That’s not on the table while Coppola is out there, trying to kill you. I don’t understand why you remain loyal to him, Avery. Help me to understand.”
She wasn’t loyal to Dante. She hated him. Vincent deserved answers, sure. He was just trying to do his job, to save people, to make the world a better place. She applauded that, but in this one instance, he needed to back off. Avery slapped her palm over the photograph, and her rings made loud clacking noises on impact.
“Stop acting like you know me,” she said. It was making it hard to fight back.
“I can make this go away.” His hubris was awe-inspiring and her composure was slipping. “Or I can convince a judge you’re the one to hand us Coppola’s head on a platter.” In other words, the Feds were stirring a bee’s nest and forcing her to stick around for the show. “It’s not you we’re interested in, Avery. It’s your ex. We need the files.”
The files. That the FBI even knew about them, and The Stinger, proved Vincent’s assertion that Dante did have a snitch working on the inside. “You think you’re being smart, but I’m telling you, you’re going to get us killed.”
“If you’re so afraid of Coppola, why’d you marry him?” He said it like she’d had a choice.
“I told you. Dante offered protection.”
“You were using him.”
“Yeah. I used him.” And he’d allowed it, reveled in it, in fact. The man gave her enough rope to hang herself and she’d jumped with enthusiasm. “He used me, too. A lot.”
Vincent flinched. “Give me the files so I can take him down, Avery.”
“There are no files. Never were. Dante spread that rumor, because it gave his people the excuse they needed to kill Ralph Toner’s little girl. Me. His ex-wife. That isn’t an order someone can give unless there’s something heinous to support it, like betraying the syndicate.” That she told him information he hadn’t already had was unfortunate, but he’d made it clear she wasn’t going anywhere while they believed she had these files. Somehow, she needed to convince him of this truth.
“Your ex made up files to excuse ordering your death?” Vincent glared. “What did you do to piss him off?”
She refused to love him.
When she didn’t answer, Vincent nudged the picture of the contract killers walking into the restaurant. “Tell me about The Stinger.”
She snorted. “He’s like those monster stories people tell children to make them obey. A fairy tale. You obviously have a snitch, but he’s fed you bullshit. Sure, these stories swirl around the syndicate, but that doesn’t make them true. The Stinger doesn’t exist. Never existed.”
“Like the files that don’t exist.” Vincent’s irritation spilled over. “This guy that doesn’t exist killed these men.” Avery glanced at the photo and felt and thought many things, none of which she was willing to share. “The Stinger disappeared after they turned up dead. In my circles, “disappeared” is code for dead. Coppola cleaning up?”
She shook her head, disgusted. “You know nothing, but jump in with both feet anyway, with what evidence? Some fairy tale.” Desperate to make him understand, Avery took his hand, squeezing it. “I am not your solution.”
Vincent squeezed her hand, too, and then ran his thumbs over her rings as she’d done herself more times than she could count. It disconcerted her, felt threatening. She pulled her hand from his grasp, saw his curiosity, saw that he knew he was missing something.
It made Avery feel trapped, cornered. She bolted for the door, found it locked. Still locked. Of course, it was locked! She couldn’t breathe. Avery attacked the Plexiglas, unleashing all the frustration and fear she’d bottled up since the bell chimed over the diner’s door and death walked in. She pummeled it, finding relief in the violence, and then kicked it hard enough to split the wooden casement near the locking device. Her foot went numb. Her battered hands pulsed with renewed pain, and still she was on the wrong side of the door.
Vincent grabbed her from behind. Avery head-butted him, knocking him onto his ass. Disoriented, his eyes watering, Vincent sat up and pinched his nose to stem the bleeding. Avery fell on him, and used her attack to hide her lifting the key from his pocket, and slipping it into hers. Outside the room, the cops and Feds rushed the door, distracting her. Vincent took advantage and muscled her onto her back, using his weight to restrain her, tucking his head, prepared for a fight. Avery happily obliged.
It took her thirty seconds of maneuvering to work off some steam while the cops got their act together and opened the door. Vincent was highly trained, so he countered her every move, and when she ran out of breath, and he had her good and pinned, she gave up, content to lose the battle when she knew she’d won the war.
She had his key.
All eyes were on them, staring from the other side of the open door. Vincent lifted his head, glaring at them. “No,” he said. “Back off. I got this.” When his weight shifted, she bucked her hips, dislodging his weight enough to turn on her side and get a breath in. She’d been moments from passing out. Vincent tensed, and she realized he thought the fight was still on, so he muscled her, attempting to pin her again. The officers surged forward, triggering Avery. She shrimped her hips to the side, grabbed Vincent’s wrist, swung her legs over his chest, and within seconds, had him positioned for an arm bar. He slammed his palm on her leg, tapping her off, and jumped to his feet. Arms spread wide, he stopping the officers mid-surge toward her, allowing Avery to scurry away.
Crouched in the corner, teeth bared, she sucked in gasps of air, waiting to see what they’d do. Vincent kept them back, blood dripping from his nose. He smiled.
“You play for keeps,” he said, waving the officers out of the room, keeping his eyes on Avery.
“You’re a bunch of idiots.” When the door was closed again, she sat back on the platform, resting her forearms on her knees, doing her best not to pass out.
His smile widened, and he was all charm, bloody nose and all. “Lady, where have you been all my life?”
She straightened her back, furious. “This isn’t funny! Get on the wire. Tell everyone I’ve escaped and put a BOLO out on me.”
“Why would I do that?” He shifted his weight, and sniffed, blinking past his watering eyes.
“They’ll be monitoring the police frequencies. Stop Dante’s men from showing up here. Buy time for backup to arrive.” She saw the flicker in his gaze, and read it to mean he didn’t want to buy time. He wanted to keep the pressure on, to force her to give up the files. “But you’re not going to do that, are you?”
“Because I’m an idiot,” he said, proving he was the only person on the planet that could make a broken nose look that sexy. The man was having too much fun.
“You’re doing it again,” she said.
“Doing what?”
“Putting your gun on the floor, hoping the shooter won’t kill you. Eric. Remember him? Remember how well that ended? Remember who had to save your ass? This time, you’re playing chicken with Dante. You won’t win that game with him.”
“Like I said before, that was bait and switch.” He slapped his tattoo on his forearm. “Sniper, remember? I never intended to put my gun on the floor.” He folded his arms across his chest, still wearing that flirty smile. “So. About those files.”
In her mind’s eye, Avery saw a prison cell closing on her forever. The FBI were digging. They would discover Avery trained with Dante’s dead contract killers, all six of them, and that Dante was the one that named her The Stinger. They would discover the rings on her fingers belonged to those six killers, were proof of their deaths, a reminder of what had been don
e to her family, and that justice had been served. Could she burn the whole Coppola Syndicate down? Sure, but not without implicating herself. Vincent and his team had enough of the threads to unravel the whole skein. She had to make sure she was nowhere to be found when they did.
Not an easy task. She didn’t know what to do, so she curled into a ball and leaned against the wall. Ten minutes later, still silent, unwilling to speak no matter the provocation, Vincent stood to leave, and she had a moment of panic. He’d need his key to get out, but luckily, the officers hadn’t locked the door after her outburst. He exited, and allowed a passing officer to lock it after him.
So, she prayed, knowing she’d lost that right three years ago, but she did it anyway, because she was desperate. She prayed for that miracle Vincent mentioned earlier. Avery didn’t know what else to do, and nothing short of divine intervention would save them, because Dante’s men were coming. Death was coming, and she was afraid.
Chapter 7
“She’s holding back,” Deming said.
“You think?” Vincent rolled his eyes. Every time he thought he was getting through to Avery, she pulled back and shut down. “But she’s right about one thing. We can’t stay here anymore.”
Benton grimaced. “The sheriff’s men radioed in while you were chatting with Mrs. Coppola. Three black sedans with New Jersey license plates, filled with known Coppola associates, were spotted parked three blocks down the street. Luckily, ETA on our backup is better than we’d hoped. They should be here soon.”
“Modena,” Deming said, “did Mrs. Coppola give you anything new?”
“She doesn’t like to be called that,” Vincent said. Deming’s blue eyes narrowed. “That’s new,” he said. “Hey, she’s divorced. How would you feel—” He stopped talking when Deming showed him her palm.
“Don’t get me mixed up with whatever is going on in your head,” she said. “You’re giving every sign that you’re too close to the subject. You two kissed?”
Vincent smiled. “What can I say? Women like to kiss me.”
“Let’s stay focused,” Benton said, catching Deming’s attention. “Tell Gilroy that when our guys arrive we’ll come downstairs, and get her out of here. The safehouse is preparing for our arrival, and the Federal Marshalls said they’ll meet us there.”
When Deming hustled to the exit, pulling her phone from her back pocket, Benton turned toward holding, staring at Avery through the Plexiglas. “She’s the only thing stopping brass from shelving this operation. A year, Modena. I took a year of my life to bring Coppola down, and she’s all I have to show for it.” He caught Vincent’s gaze, and held it with an intensity that made him worry. Deming claimed Vincent was the one too invested? Benton’s eyes seemed dead, and hopeless. “She has to flip on her ex, or we’re dead in the water.”
“I know,” Vincent said. “We’ll get it done. It’s soon yet. Give me time.” Like Benton had said. They’d been on this a year. If they didn’t get Coppola now, they’d get him some other way.
Benton nodded toward holding. “Get her ready to leave.” Benton’s phone rang, and when he saw who was calling, he held up a finger, silently indicating Vincent should wait. “Yeah?” He inhaled sharply, and then released it in a burst. “Don’t interact, but keep close. Follow them in and keep me informed.” Benton disconnected the line, and then pocketed his phone. “Two of the sheriff’s men are watching Coppola’s people, and they say they’re on the move. I’ve ordered the officers to hang back. They’re not trained to deal with this level of shit storm, and I refuse to lose lives today. You get all nonessential personnel out of the building, Modena. Go. I’ve got to consult with the sheriff.”
Benton took off, and just as Vincent was about to follow orders, he took a moment to glance at Avery. She was leaning against her prison wall, staring back at him. Her glare held fear and accusation, and it occurred to him that she must feel vulnerable there, caged, waiting for contract killers whose sole objective was her death.
His instinct was to bring her with him as he followed orders, but Benton was in charge, and he’d never authorize that, so Vincent left her there…feeling as if he’d left a limb behind.
Chapter 8
It seemed like forever until the first gunshot had Avery on her feet, searching the holding cell for cover. It was a fruitless search, because there was no cover. She was a sitting duck. The cops in the outer office scattered, and Vincent was nowhere in sight, hadn’t been for some time. She’d waited as long as she could, but if she didn’t escape now, she might never get another chance.
She slipped her hand into her pocket and felt the key. A second, third, and fourth gunshot discharged in the distance, sounding progressively closer.
Three damn years. Why couldn’t Dante move on?
Now the gunshots were constant. Pop, pop, pop-pop-pop. She licked sweat off her upper lip as she scanned the area. Some had taken cover in the sheriff’s office in the back, so they were out of her line of sight when she opened the door and then low crawled out of holding. Hiding behind shelves that separated her from the entryway, she took a moment to gather her courage. The gunshots sounded as if they were closer, though more spaced apart. Was that a rifle? Sniper? She wouldn’t be surprised to discover she was hearing Vincent’s handiwork, and could imagine him lying on a roof, playing hero. Longer intervals of silence between gunshots passed as she continued to low crawl toward the main door, her one known avenue of escape. It made her wonder if the cops and Coppola’s men had reached an impasse, or if attrition was giving one side the edge. Quite selfishly, she rooted for the cops.
She peeked under the shelves to her right, looking toward the door. Three pairs of dress shoes. Feds or Dante’s men? The pant cuffs broke perfectly, and the suit was a familiar New Jersey brand, but that wasn’t definitive enough to make an ID. Poking her head up a bit, she peeked between the shelves and saw men bottlenecking the room’s entryway. They wore familiar pinkie rings. Damn. Unsurprisingly, Dante’s men had cleaved through the cops outside like a hot knife to butter, though they did it faster than she’d expected.
A rifle’s discharge came from the sheriff’s office, and had Avery faceplanting on the cool tile. The bullet splintered a piece of the entryway’s casement, and had Dante’s men fall back. Someone in the sheriff’s office was feeling frisky, she thought, and kudos to them. Even so, it told Avery she needed to find an alternate exit. Dante’s men were probably moments from tossing a concussion canister into the room, and she didn’t want to be here when it happened.
“I’ve got two counties sending reinforcements! Leave while you can!” The sheriff sounded confident enough, but Avery knew those police stations were five miles out. Full throttle, sirens blaring, would they be here in time to help? Avery didn’t think so.
One of Dante’s men, shotgun in hand, dropped to the floor and low crawled toward her. He hugged the shelving on his left, coming right for her. Flat on the floor, afraid to poke her head up, Avery felt around on the shelf above her, desperate to find a weapon. The man had eyes on the Sheriff’s office, so hadn’t seen her yet, though she couldn’t count on that lasting long. She felt a paperweight, grabbed it, and lobbed it at the man’s head. He slumped on contact, out cold.
Avery low crawled to his side and nabbed his shotgun. Firing it would announce her location, so it was a last resort option, but she certainly wasn’t going to leave it behind. Instead, she crawled to the door closest to her, which was open already; a file room, with a small window high on the wall. Increased gunshots outside, and more in the halls, had her twitchy.
“Give us the woman,” said an unfamiliar voice. Avery flipped him the bird, and wished he could see her.
Protected by the file room’s wall, she stood, hoping this was where she’d find her escape route. Dante’s men were evil, and they had one goal: whatever Dante last told them to do. Today, that was kill Avery. A “good” person would stick around
and fight that evil, but Avery didn’t have the luxury to cater to her conscience. Millie was out there, alone, waiting for her. Avery needed to live, so Millie could live.
Eyes on the small window across the room, she climbed the filing cabinet below it. As quietly as she could, shotgun in hand, she crouched on the cabinet, and opened the window. Peering outside, she contemplated the two-story drop with dismay. If she survived the fall without breaking an ankle, she’d have a barrage of bullets to dodge.
Avery sighed, glancing around the room. She needed a rope.
“Two minutes before you hear sirens,” the Sheriff shouted, “and then the town will have more law enforcement than citizens. Go, now.” If he was hoping to scare them away, he was wasting his breath. Avery had trained with men like this. Only the kill would stop them.
She hopped off the cabinet, and started lifting things, opening drawers, searching for anything that would ease her fall. She ripped an extension cord off the wall, and decided it would have to do, then climbed back up the cabinet, tied an end around a handle, and threw the other one out the window.
As predicted by the sheriff, sirens grew in volume and number as neighboring county’s cruisers neared the building. The cavalry had arrived, and none too soon. From the looks of it, so had a phalange of FBI Special Agents. Avery could tell the difference, because the Feds were in huge black SUVs with tinted windows and sirens on their roofs. Did their arrival cut down on her odds of escape? Probably not. They were dismal even before, so she was no worse off.
Feet first, she squeezed the extension cord between her boots’ treads, and used the friction to slow her descent, while hugging the cord to keep herself upright, but not suffer burns. It was a controlled fall until the cord length ended, and then she just fell, hit the ground, tucked, rolled, and then slapped out just like she’d been trained to do, never once losing the grip on her shotgun.
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