by Amy Atwell
The Boss opened it, an eager glint lighting his pale eyes. Withdrawing a gem, he considered its dark red color, turning the stone over and over in his hand. He rolled down the limo’s tinted window and held the gem up to the evening’s remaining sunshine.
Mickey held his breath.
As if by magic, the gem turned olive green.
“I understand you traded a rabbit for these gems.” The Boss rolled the remaining stones out of the pouch onto a tray on his lap.
“That’s right. Of course, there’s no way for me to know if they’re real or not. That’s what I was given.”
“By Fortune’s daughter?”
Mickey shifted uneasily. Just how much did this guy know about Iris? Still it wasn’t much of a leap from Cosmo to his costume jeweler daughter. She might be just as guilty as her dad in this whole disappearance thing, but Mickey still felt a need to protect her.
“Yeah, Iris Fortune gave them to me. She said she got them from her father. That’s what Cosmo told me, too.”
“Before you…dealt with him.”
The words were said with such cold calculation, it made Mickey’s skin crawl. This guy didn’t think of people as people. They were nothing more than assets and liabilities on a balance sheet that tallied up to ten million.
Mickey crossed his ankle onto his knee, spreading himself out to take up more of the space. “Yeah, well, Cosmo was becoming a royal pain in the ass.”
The Boss pursed his lips, but his eyes crinkled around the corners. “We’re agreed on that, Mr. Kincaid. I appreciate you taking care of him.”
“Whatever Turner tells me to do.”
“Good, because his daughter is our…guest right now, and we’re not sure what to do with her quite yet. We may need you to deal with her.”
Each word struck him like a blow. Iris hadn’t left. She’d been taken. With an effort, he continued playing his role. Petty thug Mickey Kincaid was his best cover at this point. “I could do that. You know, if you need.”
“Not sure yet. I’ll have to see whether these are real or not.”
“That’ll take you, what, a day or two?” Mickey asked. The words were nonchalant, but his insides were heaving. Hell, if he’d thought they’d grab her, he wouldn’t be here making the drop.
The Boss chuckled. “More like an hour or two, tops. I have a jeweler waiting to appraise these now. You see, I believe in hedging all my bets.”
“That’s a good idea in this town.”
“Isn’t it. Good day, Mr. Kincaid.”
On cue, the car door opened. “Have a great evening, Boss.” Mickey stepped out, no fuss, no rush. The pirate show was culminating in a crescendo of cannon fire, the mast of the ship breaking in half.
Behind him, the limo pulled away, the sound swallowed by the cheers of the crowd. Mickey turned to look after it as it turned south on Las Vegas Boulevard. There wasn’t any way to get its license plate without being obvious.
Obvious could get a guy killed.
He strolled back into the crowd, keeping one eye on the limo until it pulled completely out of sight. Dammit—he knew involving a woman in this deal would shoot it all to hell. Now he had less than two hours to find where one of Turner’s lackeys had stashed Iris. That whisper of a headache began to pound, but Mickey forced it from his thoughts by sheer will.
Turner had a network of at least half a dozen guys like Mickey—errand boys who did all sorts of tasks from the mundane to the murderous. Well-paid loners who, if they screwed up, were expendable.
Then it hit him that Hunter had said Edgar was missing, too. A sarcastic laugh escaped as Mickey shook his head. There were only two guys on Turner’s payroll stupid enough to kidnap a rabbit.
Mickey whipped out his cell phone and waited impatiently for his call to connect. “I think I know where Iris is, and I’m going after her.”
“Do you need help?” Hunter asked in a low voice.
Mickey considered the offer. After all, Iris’s safety was paramount. “No. This situation is best played quickly and alone. But keep an eye on Cosmo’s other daughters. If someone went after Iris, they might send someone after the other two.”
“Will do. Be careful.”
Mickey stuffed the phone back in his pocket. Be careful. He’d said those words to Brian each time his little brother had gone on duty. A talisman that hadn’t protected him in the end.
Guilt stuck him like a spitted pig. His gut instinct had been to keep Iris by his side at all times. The problem? It was harder and harder to tell where protective gut instinct ended and lust began.
But it was his fault she was now in danger, just as it was now his responsibility to get her away from Jock and Pebbles before anyone discovered the jewels were fake.
With a soft curse he vowed he’d get another chance at arresting the Boss. People had died thoughtless, senseless deaths. The Boss might be polite and businesslike, but he was as cold-hearted as any shooter on drugs, without any concern about killing a man—or a woman.
He wouldn’t risk leaving Iris in this villain’s clutches.
Life was full of hard choices, but for Mickey, this one was easy.
***
Donovan strode the length of the boardroom again while the gemologist peered through his refractometer. In the corner, Turner leaned against the wall and contemplated his nails. The sun had set, leaving only an indigo mass as a backdrop outside the windows.
The gemologist pushed his chair away from the table. “What you have here are top-quality examples of tinted corundum.”
“I didn’t ask for a diagnosis,” Donovan snapped. “Are they, or are they not, alexandrite?”
“They are not.”
Donovan turned away to place tense hands on the windowsill.
Turner rose from his chair. “Thank you for your time,” he said to the gemologist as he ushered the man out the door.
“You’re welcome, but—oh, I forgot my—” The man hurried back to the oversized table in the middle of the room and fetched his glasses. “Take heart. These might not be authentic alexandrite, but they’re top-quality imitations. I’d say they date back to the 1920s—antiques in their own respect. This size, this clarity, they’re probably worth a thousand dollars apiece.”
Donovan said nothing.
“Well, good night then, gentlemen.” The gemologist scooted out the door Turner held open for him.
When the door clicked shut, Donovan turned to find Turner watching him like a trained dog awaiting his master’s orders. Turner was the only solid player in this whole scheme. Everyone else had let him down, screwed up or tried to cheat him.
Donovan strode over to the refractometer and picked up the single gem lying beside it. He held it in his hand, staring at the blood red color, while frustration boiled within him.
“Dammit!” In one quick eruption, he whipped the small stone across the room. It hit with a thwack and fell to the floor, leaving a pockmark in the wall. “Ten thousand dollars, and I spent ten million. Someone’s going to pay for this.”
Turner came forward, not the least intimidated by the outburst. “George Halsted’s already paid, and so has Cosmo Fortune.”
“Do you really think those two flew all the way to Russia and accepted these? Halsted was smarter than that.”
“True. So, you think the real alexandrite is somewhere here in Las Vegas?”
“I’m sure of it,” Donovan said emphatically. “The question is who pulled the switch.”
Turner perched a hip on the table. “Cosmo’s the one who wouldn’t hand them over. And his daughter’s the one who gave these to Kincaid.”
“Do you think Kincaid knew what these really were?”
Turner shrugged. “Even if he did, he didn’t have ten thousand to buy them from somewhere. Someone who knew gems had to be involved to get this quality.”
“So Iris Fortune is a dead woman, but first I need her to tell us where the real gems are.” Donovan rolled down his shirtsleeves. He was still pissed, but at least now he was tak
ing steps to overcome this latest setback. “I can’t sign those real estate contracts until I have the Romanov alexandrite in my hands. I was counting on trading that to the Russian Cultural Minister in return for him reopening my casino in Moscow.”
“Postpone the meeting,” Turner said flatly.
“I wasn’t looking for advice.” Donovan headed for the door, his way of indicating this meeting was at an end.
“And what about Kincaid?” Turner rose from his perch.
Donovan paused at the door. “If he goes near that Fortune woman, kill him.” He stalked out.
“As you wish, sir.” Turner withdrew his cell phone and dialed Jock.
***
It proved too hard to flag down a cab on Las Vegas Boulevard, so Mickey wound up in the cab line at Treasure Island. His first destination was Jock’s apartment. A logical, if wrong, choice. When he discovered the place empty, he cursed, then grabbed the next CAT bus to his own place where he picked up his car. Still, it was an hour and a half after he’d dropped off the gems before he got downtown to the dingy apartment building Pebbles called home.
Spying the PT Cruiser—purple, no less—that Pebbles babied, Mickey skirted the building and parked on the opposite side. Doubling back to the Cruiser, he studied the parking lot for something he could use to stop it from running. A plastic ballpoint pen cap caught his eye. Round, blue, it had a protruding arm that would normally be used to anchor the pen to someone’s pocket. Perfect—he had a much better use for it.
He hunkered down next to the driver’s side front tire, unscrewed the cap from the tire valve, and wedged that protruding bit of plastic against the valve to open it. Air continued to hiss even after he let go. With a smile, Mickey dusted off his hands and headed into the building. As long as no Good Samaritan tampered with it, that tire would be flat in less than ten minutes.
Who was he kidding? No Good Samaritan had lived in this neighborhood for years.
Climbing eight flights of stairs winded him a bit, but he checked out the hallway, listened at other doors. Everything seemed normal. With a final cleansing breath, Mickey knocked on the apartment door.
Footsteps approached from inside. Mickey saluted the peephole.
The door opened a sliver. One of Jock’s eyes and half his nose showed. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I believe you have something that’s mine.” Mickey shoved through the door.
Jock was thrown back by the force, and he danced around to stay on his feet. Brushing off his jacket, he looked Mickey over. “Oh yeah? Did you come for the bimbo or the bunny?”
“I want them both.”
“Aw, come on, Mickey. Let me keep the bunny.” Pebbles sat on the derelict sofa. At his feet, Edgar sat up on his hind legs as if he’d just been taught to beg.
Mickey thought about telling the giant to go fuck himself, but then decided against it. As it was, he’d be lucky to get back out of here with Iris, Edgar and himself intact. He looked at the rabbit. “Edgar, buddy, sorry to say, but you’re the first one I’ll sacrifice.”
The rabbit swiveled his ears and raised his head to sniff, as if he understood the situation.
“Well, you’re not getting either.” Jock folded his arms and waited.
From the sofa, Pebbles added, “Turner said if you showed up, we should invite you to stay until he got here.” He leaned over to stroke Edgar’s head with a pudgy thumb.
Jock gritted his teeth, and his face flushed with whatever curses he repressed.
Mickey’s eyes darted from one to the other while he sought for the most plausible story. “You want to hide behind that chain-of-command shit? Fine, but Turner’s being a dick.” He placed a hand on Jock’s shoulder and lowered his voice. No need to frighten Iris. “Turner’s boss—the big guy, top dog, white leather in the limo and everything—told me to get the woman out of here and deal with her. Now, if you won’t let me take her, I guess I can deal with her here, but it could get messy, and you know Turner will ask you to clean up.”
Jock shrugged out from under Mickey’s touch and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. Take her. She’s in there.” He jerked his head toward a door.
Mickey opened the door and squinted at the dim light. The room was empty but for a bed in the corner, a dresser along one wall with a mirror above it, and a chair in the middle of the carpeted floor. Iris sat in the chair, her thighs bound to the chair seat, her hands bound behind her. A simple cloth gag limited her sounds to grunts.
She looked uncomfortable and scared, but unharmed.
Stealing to her, Mickey held up his forefinger. “Shhh, it’s okay. I’m taking you with me.” He looked over his shoulder, but Jock was busy talking on his cell phone. If that was Turner on the other end, Mickey needed to get them out of here pronto. He strode forward and loosened the binding on Iris’s gag.
She spat the wet fabric out and heaved a few deep breaths. Mickey understood how she felt—gags were the worst. Even if you could breathe fine, you always felt like you were about to choke on them. He gave her a few seconds to compose herself.
“You’ll pay for this, Kincaid,” she whispered. She looked up, those tawny eyes ablaze with anger. “They claim they’re friends of yours. When I get loose, I’m going to beat the living crap out of you.”
“I’m glad you told me that before I untied you.” He studied her for a few seconds, reassuring himself she hadn’t been bruised, giving thanks that she hadn’t double-crossed him like he’d suspected earlier. “They’re not exactly my friends, more like business acquaintances. Keep quiet and let me try to get us all out of here alive.”
“Where’s Edgar?”
He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “The rabbit’s living the high life. Believe me, if Pebbles could make him king, he would.”
She sighed, as if the rabbit’s safety were more important than her own. Women. Mickey came forward, intent on untying her. Iris flinched away, her eyes wide, and she gasped in fear.
Too late, Mickey realized she wasn’t afraid of him.
***
On his way from the conference room, Turner was hailed by his boss. Robert Donovan lived the lifestyle of all these preppy corporate SOBs, determined that money could resolve any conflict he’d ever face.
But he’d still hired Turner. Money might resolve conflict, but it didn’t always buy silence. There was only one way to guarantee that. Not that it was any cheaper. Turner received top dollar for his work.
“Yes, sir?”
“There’s an article slated for the Tuesday business section. A guy interviewed me about the Russian real estate deal. We had it all timed so the article would appear after the deal.”
So? But Turner only nodded.
“If this contract gets postponed tomorrow, I don’t want that article to print. And either way, I don’t want to talk to that writer again. Deal with it.” Donovan turned to his computer screen, effectively dismissing him.
“Yes, sir.” Turner’s gaze traveled dispassionately over the other man. For all his tailored shirts and five-days-a-week-at-the-gym physique, the man was little better than a thug. His answer to not wanting any embarrassing questions asked was to kill minor players in this George Lucas-esque drama he’d concocted.
Turner left the office and walked to the elevator. It irked him that his talents were being so wasted on this job. A real estate attorney, a translator, a jeweler, and now a journalist. He looked at his watch. The sooner he dealt with the journalist, the better. He knew where to find the Fortune woman, and it might be good to wait and see if Kincaid showed up there. Even though he’d told Jock he’d be over shortly, there was no rush.
It wasn’t like Iris Fortune was going anywhere.
***
It felt like Iris waited an hour before Mickey came to. That guy Pebbles, bigger than a Hummer, had cracked Mickey over the head with the butt of a gun. Iris tried to erase the picture her imagination had created of what would have happened if Pebbles had shot that gun i
nstead. It made her sick to consider it. Mickey wasn’t kidding when he said these guys weren’t his friends. He must have come here for her.
So, was he a good guy? She wished she knew.
Mickey moaned, and his head moved slightly.
“Psst.” She still couldn’t move but, thankfully, those two thugs hadn’t replaced the gag. They’d knotted some cord around Mickey’s ankles, then bound his wrists behind his back and left him lying on his side. Some rescue. “Mickey, wake up.”
He attempted to lift his head, but it fell back against the floor.
Iris waited some more. Through the slatted blinds, slivers of the distant mountains stood silhouetted black against an indigo sky. It had to be going on ten o’clock by now. She gulped. She hated being this frightened, this out of control. Mickey—hell, even unconscious, Mickey was her only hope right now.
As if he heard her thoughts, he stirred again. This time he managed to lift his head nearly upright.
“Are you all right?” she whispered.
“Never better,” he muttered. He moved his shoulders as much as his bindings would allow and eased his head around as if to verify his neck still functioned. “Nothing broken. Pebbles has always been really good at taking me out without any permanent injury.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing that he knocks you out.”
“It beats the alternative.” With a minimum of fuss, he pulled himself into a sitting position then scooted his way toward her chair.
“Can you get us out of this?” Iris asked, her mouth dry.
“Yeah, don’t worry.”
“It’s hard not to worry. When that guy hit you, I thought they were going to kill us both.”
“Well, that’s still a possibility—”
“Don’t make jokes,” Iris whispered vehemently. She pursed her lips against the sob that threatened to escape. “I’m scared, Mickey. I told you I wasn’t cut out for this.”
He scooted the last two feet to her chair. “I know it’s scary, but I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.” He sounded dead sure of himself.
Iris looked down on him, wishing he could take her in his strong embrace. She desperately wanted to feel safe and, while Mickey might be a risk, he was a much safer risk than the other two guys. Only, she had no idea how he thought he was going to save her when he was sitting on the floor, his knees bent before him, his ankles tied with what looked like telephone cord, and his arms trussed behind him. “Do you have a plan?”