by Black, Regan
He issued those assignments and reviewed the latest numbers from his legitimate operations. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he switched on the news again.
Keeping up with the government antics and posturing had kept him in business for more years than he'd thought to enjoy in such a cut throat industry. While his street rep was frightful it kept the truth safe. Other crime bosses might deal in hard liquor and real drugs, but he'd found a broader customer base in the general population jonesing for fully caffeinated coffee. And since, contrary to government propaganda, coffee didn't actually kill anyone, his clients weren't dying after a few weeks on the product. His customers, in turn, were more than happy to keep his secrets.
He hoped the government never repealed the stupid caffeine laws. Sugar and nicotine were all right, but coffee was his gold mine.
He crunched numbers in the supply chain, adjusting his orders for the coming month. He reviewed recent deliveries, mules, and routes. Smiling to himself, he wondered how people would react if they knew how he managed the scope of his operation.
The smile soon faded as he looked over personnel and adjusted his security teams to give the girls and incoming shipments more protection. He would not have a repeat of Sis. Knowing it was an illogical reaction didn't make it less real. Whoever was gunning for him was one of a very small group who knew the truth about his past. Just one of the reasons he made such a concerted effort not to be connected to any of his mules. To anyone, for that matter.
The thought sent him careening back to high school, to those simple days when natural sugar was his only product. Days when his personal high came from a few minutes alone with Trina Durham by the gym. She'd kill him if she knew he remembered her that way, but it had been such a struggle to be only her friend when he wanted to dive into her and never come up for air.
Then any possible chance went up in flames with that god-awful explosion.
Micky longed for Sis to pull him out of this horrendous melancholy. He'd made a habit, a life really, of looking to the future while taking care of the present and forgetting everything ugly about the past.
Sure he appreciated the valuable resources and lessons of recent and distant history, but he never wallowed in it. Not like this.
His grandmother had taught him how to shift his focus in challenging times by turning his attention to others when he got too absorbed with his own interests. Putting her advice into action, he left his office and headed out to check on the girls who called this warehouse complex home. It always soothed him to see them relaxed and content after the tough circumstances most of them had escaped by joining his team.
That team spirit was what the Gypsy Smith march had taught his many greats-grandmother way back when the old district was full up with gaming halls, opium dens, and brothels like her own. Options, choices, and dignity mattered to the people who worked in any business. That wise woman had listened to the evangelist's message, but she'd taken away a very different idea of what and who to reform. Her reorganized business model had trickled down through the generations and her ideals helped Micky capitalize on his opportunities, expanding his network and territories.
He headed up the stairs to the sugar packaging room. The four girls currently assigned to the task were chatting up a storm and more than willing to include him. Micky exchanged a few pleasantries, confirmed they were all well, and evaded the questions about Sis. Word had gone around quick enough about her death, of course, but everyone seemed to be waiting for him to make some move about a funeral.
Maybe planning that unhappy event should have been April's punishment. But he wasn't half as heartless as the world believed.
Telling them to send any suggestions about a memorial service for Sis to his office, Micky made a hasty exit.
At the other end of the building another crew broke open cartons of cigarettes for upcoming deliveries. He didn't require anything so foolish as putting customer names on labels, but they sorted the most typical requests so the mules could easily find what they needed on any given day.
"How did those new crates look?"
Of the four girls on the team, only three looked at him. The other girl, Chloe, was doing a little dance in her chair while she worked, obviously lost in whatever pumped through her ear buds.
The crew leader, Marion, cleared her throat. "They looked fine."
She'd been with him for two years and he heard the hesitation in her voice. He waited, knowing her extremely shy nature meant she was gathering just the right words.
"One crate doesn't smell right."
Well, she would know. She'd been working in this quiet room almost from day one. It was the only thing she could do while she healed from the emotional shock and physical injuries caused by her former husband. "Show me."
She led him to an open crate and pushed the lid aside. "I think the smell is coming from the packing material. The cigarettes smell fine once they're out of the crate."
Micky wondered. He hadn't smelled anything out of the ordinary during the pick up, but as he leaned in now, the odd scent was unmistakeable. "Smells like burnt honey." He leaned back and rubbed his nose. "You've kept the product separate?"
She nodded. "It's just this crate. The cigarette cartons on top didn't even smell funny." Marion paused, glancing at Chloe. "She did the unpacking. She was herself until she got deep into this crate."
Micky wanted to laugh. Chloe was never agreeable or mellow. "Proof enough for me. You kept her on the cigarettes you thought were contaminated."
"She pretty much wanted to stay on them. I gave her a special bin, just in case."
He chuckled. Slowly, so he didn't startle Marion, he reached for the pen light in his pocket. He wasn't the only smuggler who dealt in real cigarettes, but he was the only one who didn't deal in the herbal blends too.
"You been through the whole crate?"
"No." Marion shook her head. "Just Chloe."
Riding any contact high, she wouldn't be thinking clearly enough to look for the source of the problem. "Go on and finish, I'll take it from here."
Marion nodded, but cleared her throat again.
"Yes?"
"What if you start dancing?"
"Call Jim." Micky smiled at her. "And whatever happens, don't let me dance with her."
Marion's amused expression was worth the wait as it slowly transformed her face. She returned to her table and the sorting, but Micky felt her eyes on him as he dug into the packing material.
He lifted a handful of what looked like a blend of straw and shredded paper. The sudden, strong whiff of marijuana under the burnt honey smell was enough to make him think he'd been transported to an underground rock concert.
The room started to spin like a wild carnival ride and he dropped the packing material, shaking his head to clear it. No success. "Marion!" His voice sounded so far away. "Call Jim. And get me a bag of coffee. A small bag." At least he had the sense to preserve the profit margin, he thought as she dashed away. He leaned against the wall, trying to clear the scent from his nose and ignore the happy nonsense in his brain that kept urging him to go back for another hit.
He'd never heard of a pot product you didn't have to smoke. Not dealing the stuff didn't mean he didn't keep up with trends on both sides of the law. Even with his head out of the crate, there were six girls in the room now. He told them all to leave.
Micky started reciting the alphabet, determined to clear his head before Jim arrived. Giving up when he couldn't remember what came after 'g', he tried again backwards.
"What the hell are you muttering about?"
He looked up, happy to see Jim's scowling face – both of them. "Hello." He directed the greeting at the point where Jim's ears overlapped.
"You're stoned blind."
"No!" Micky protested, sure of this one thing. "I'm seeing double."
Jim snorted and hauled him off the floor, dumping him into a chair. Micky watched, fascinated with both Jims and Marions as they opened the bag of coffee a
nd pushed it under his nose.
Micky inhaled as instructed, but when he blinked, his vision hadn't improved. He listened, vastly entertained by Jim's interrogation of Marion.
"Next time call me before he does something so stupid."
Marion's heads bobbed in the affirmative, making Micky laugh.
"I'll take him up to the infirmary. Lock down this room and take the day off. I'll send someone for the crates."
"Better be a hazmat team," Micky joked while Jim kept him on his feet while they moved down the hall toward the elevator. "Don't destroy it. Whatever it is."
"Right, boss."
Micky listened, amused as Jim barked orders at the medical team.
He was stoned, not poisoned. But the stuff was obviously potent, because he didn't feel much of anything while the health team poked and prodded. When the oxygen vent dropped down into his face, he just sneezed and laughed.
"You're a freakin' mess."
Micky didn't bother arguing. Couldn't have put up much fight anyway. The oxygen was clearing his head, but something else was making him sleepy. Trying to study the medical equipment, his view narrowed as blackness crept in and blotted out everything.
Chapter Eight
Trina hovered around the docks in a couple different disguises until she learned the rhythm of the place. Slow, but not sleepy, was an apt description. Goods and day laborers seemed to be the primary cargo. Surprisingly, the place shut down just after sunset, as if no one had heard of electricity or the 24/7 productivity rates that plagued other industries.
The quiet nights made it easy for her to snag two empty crates and get them into her storage unit without Mary's interference. The current contents of new clothes and old books was okay, but she needed to find some china or silver just in case the woman got bored and came nosing around. Trina didn't want her finding the money, phones, computer and alternate identifications she'd currently stashed under the other items.
The one night she'd spent in the cold emptiness of her storage unit convinced her it wasn't the season to use the place as a hideout. If only because she didn't want to invest in the things that would make it manageable right now.
The best news was blissful silence from Montalbano. She'd sent him an update, mostly false, assuring him she was about to wrap up the Slick Micky job. But the happy lack of his communication with her was tainted by his intense messages to her alter-ego, Trent, ordering her own death. Just as she thought, Montalbano wouldn't leave any loose ends or tolerate delays. She entertained the idea of taking the job, faking her death, and starting over with one of her back up identities. A familiar scenario, but she wasn't quite ready to take the paycut that would follow as soon as word of her death got out. Unless she didn't give the crime boss time to get the word out.
That was a twisting, dark path she didn't want to tread if she could avoid it. Yes, she was an assassin. A very good assassin. But taking lives for money didn't mean she'd completely ditched her moral compass. She shivered as truth and possibilities mingled inside her head, inside her heart.
There was only one vengeance kill she wanted. She had valid, moral reasons for eliminating Slick Micky. She'd find a different solution for Montalbano.
Her gloomy thoughts brought the dingy motel room closing in on her. With no more local contracts, she needed a distraction. She cringed, thinking of Mary and her bar on the strip, but a night out beat going stir crazy with the lousy feed on the outdated entertainment network the motel offered.
It didn't take long to get familiar with the area Mary called the strip. Surprisingly, the music pumping out of The Levee wasn't half bad. She walked through the open door, saw Mary talking with a guy at the end of the bar and wondered about life's coincidences.
Were there any?
Trina returned Mary's smile and wave and buried her reluctance behind an answering smile as she joined them. When she reached the pair, she discovered the guy looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. He didn't show any sign of recognizing her, which set her instincts humming, but the loud music postponed introductions.
Trina signaled for a pint, hoping the management watered down their brew on tap less than the bottlers. Drinking was always a prop, but when she used it, she preferred it had taste. Her first sip, a full-flavored lager, proved why the bar was full. She raised her glass to the bartender who smiled in return before moving to other customers.
At last the band struck a final chord and following the smattering of applause Mary introduced her companion as Ben. "He's new to the area too," she finished.
Ben stuck out his hand and Trina clasped it. "What brings you here?"
"Business." His voice was steady, but she caught some flicker of sadness in his eyes.
"She's waiting on a shipment from her dead grandma," Mary blurted. "Whoops." She tapped her lips with a perfectly shaped fingernail. "Sorry."
Trina waved off the blunder as it only reinforced her cover story. "It's no secret." It wasn't even the truth, but she was grateful when the band screamed into another fast, loud song.
Mary nudged Ben out to the dance floor and Trina relaxed at the bar. The name didn't help her memory, but she knew she'd seen him before. Where? She was good with faces, she just had to give it some time. Hopefully it wouldn't be something awkward like she'd taken out one of his relatives or something.
As Trina scanned the crowd on the dance floor, she saw Mary's fun get cut short by whatever device Ben pulled out of his jacket pocket. He checked the display, then hurried back to the bar. He put cash under his beer mug and waved to Mary who was already dancing with someone new.
"Nice meeting you," he said to Trina.
She nodded. "Take care." But he didn't leave.
He fiddled with his cell card and cleared his throat. "You're beautiful."
"Thank you."
"What I mean is, well, maybe you'd have drinks with me another night."
She wished her memory would kick in already. "I don't know –"
"It's okay." He cut her off with a self-deprecating smile. "I'm not with Mary. We just sort of met at the storage place. Maybe I'll see you in here again."
No one had asked her out on a date in ages. Before she could think of any reply, he was gone.
"The pretty ones always fall for the bad boys." The bartender shook his head as he collected the cash.
"What?"
"You. Him." The bartender wiggled his eyebrows. "I could write a book." He counted the money, deliberating over every dollar. "What is it about smugglers? Some collective subconscious pirate fantasy in the female population?"
Of course. She cursed herself for overlooking the obvious. People with legit jobs usually used plastic. She tossed him a ten dollar bill and a wink along with it. "Guess I'm about to find out." And she sauntered out in Ben's wake.
Once clear of any prying eyes in The Levee, Trina relaxed into her natural stride, letting her long legs eat up the distance between her and the docks while she scanned the streets for any sign of Ben. Assuming the bartender knew his customers, Ben was the lead she needed. If he wasn't working for Slick Micky, he could probably connect her with someone who did.
Innate caution ruled her route and kept her vigilant, despite the extremely low odds that this was a trap set for her. No one knew her real face or her real business. No one alive anyway. She'd been disguised in Slick Micky's lair and as far as Mary knew, her intentions at the storage center were legal. Still, rushing in blind was never smart.
The streets grew more quiet and empty as she neared the docks. Had she let the bartender's opinion send her on a wild goose chase?
She pressed on, sticking to the shadows, confident she'd hear or see something soon. As if she'd conjured it, an engine rumbled to life nearby. A block over, she guessed. Doing her best impersonation of a dock hand's tired swagger, she hunched her shoulders and continued toward the water. She kept up the ruse, inordinately pleased when the truck appeared at the next corner and turned in the same direction.
&nbs
p; Her temper sparked when she saw the storage company logo on the side. If Ben was driving that truck, he was using Mary to compromise what might be Joel Mickleson's family business. Feeling obligated to good people who'd once helped her, she kept the truck in sight.
Only one kind of business required a truck down here at this hour and she intended to catch either a smuggler or a supplier red-handed. Let the bartender have his opinion, this 'pretty girl' had a far better reason than sex for following a suspected smuggler.
She heard the truck idling and gave it a wide berth, picking her way closer to the water's edge. It was cold, and the wind off the water nipped at her cheeks, but she'd survived worse conditions.
Minutes stretched out, the quiet reached up to swallow her, until at last she heard the soft putter of a boat motor. From her hiding place, she watched a ferry tie in at the deserted dock. More silence until the metallic scrape and rumble was followed by a muted slam that could only be the gangway rolling from the ferry to the dock.
Footsteps preceded Ben's voice. Pitched too low for her to make out the words, the ferry captain's French Canadian accent was clear enough.
Definitely smugglers. Around here no one doing legitimate business worked at this hour.
Trina crept back toward the truck. Of all the audacious, rude schemes. She didn't care about the ferry, the product, or the men involved. But she'd seize the shipment and hold it for ransom until Slick Micky revealed himself. Even if this wasn't his shipment, she was sure she could interest him in whatever contraband was coming ashore. She'd take her revenge on the murderous bastard and sell the contraband to the highest bidder.
Win-win.
Trina let the pick-up man do the heavy lifting. When the crates were loaded – only three she noticed – she inched closer. She braced, ready to overtake the guy just as he closed the door, but he spun around and grabbed her, hauling her inside.
"Got him! Go! Go!"
Grudgingly, she admired the iron grip pinning her back to his chest. It was a good move. The truck lurched forward and though compromised Trina picked out camera feeds and mics, realizing too late the vehicle's decrepit exterior hid a wealth of technology. Damn.