Blaze (The Stark Affair Book 3)

by Cross, Skylar

  I temple my hands in front of my face and look at his reflection in the top of the coffee table.

  “How long have you known?” I say.

  “Two years.”

  “Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “Because I didn’t need to. Now I do. Lately I’ve been getting the feeling that you’re a danger to me. That’s the real reason I want to bring you more into the day-to-day operation. I don’t want to have to insist, but if I must then I must.”

  I get another ugly mental picture of Jasper with underage girls.

  “Forget it,” I say, gritting my teeth.

  “Oh Colton, don’t play it this way. I’d hate for your little program to get in the hands of the FBI. It’s a Federal crime, you know. Plus, I don’t think orange is your color.”

  I tap my fingers together.

  “You’re funny, Jasper. Real funny. Okay, so you found one of my algorithms. Did you find the other?”

  Jasper remains stone-faced as he lets me talk.

  “Ha!” I say. “I can tell by your eyes you haven’t. The other is more recent and written in a completely different code. In fact, it’s a self-executing program on a USB flash drive.”

  Jasper’s jaw sinks a little as his expression grows more concerned.

  “Once the flash drive is plugged in it activates a program that sends information to computers all over the world. What info, you ask? Oh, Jasper you’re going to like this... this one has it all. Every transaction of Stark Worldwide. Going back to 2001. That’s thirteen years, Jasper. Every deal, every transaction. The real ones. Not the ones that are on the official books. Suffice it to say there’s enough to put you in your own orange jumpsuit. If anything happens to me, the program activates. Poof. Just like that. So you’d better protect me. Because if I go, you go.”

  Jasper folds his hands, examining my face for a trace of bluff. His squared jaw confirms to me that he believes me.

  “Clever,” he says. “You’re far more clever than I thought, Colton. But one thing perplexes me. If you have this evidence on this hidden USB flash drive, why haven’t you used it as a bargaining chip to get your 49%?”

  “Because I actually have other passions.”

  Jasper stares at me for a while longer, then gets up. He buttons his blazer and heads toward the door.

  “Nice stalemate,” he says. “You’re much more clever than I thought. Much more. But I have my people, Colton. I’m going to have them find your evidence. And once they do, I can’t say in what ditch your Bentley will end up. And how many pieces of you will be feeding the alligators.”

  He walks toward the door. I stand up.

  “You know, Jasper, you really should stop watching Miami Vice reruns and read some Elmore Leonard instead. Your bad guy speech needs more panache. You’re like a walking talking cliché.”

  He walks out. Hector glowers at me as he walks backwards out the door and slams it shut.

  I walk over to the window and look out at the water.

  I picture the hidden USB flash drive in the rusted-out shack in Key Largo. The Go-Fast boat waiting for me with its fake passport, credentials, and credit cards.

  All ready to go.

  The Talon Group is all taken care of. Their funds are in a safe bank account that only Eduardo can access. They’ll do fine without me. The plan is in motion.

  All I have to do is get in my car right now, drive two hours, plug it in, and zip away across the waves to Cuba. I could be sipping a mojito with my completely new identity in Havana by dinnertime, a bouncy Cuban girl on my lap.

  Easy.

  So why don’t I just go?

  Right now.

  Why don’t I just go?

  I get a flash of those eyes staring up at me as I fuck her.

  They stare into me.

  Through me.

  They know me.

  I’ve never seen eyes like those.

  I was in love once. She broke my heart. I swore I would never let it happen to me again.

  And it’s ridiculous to even think that it is. I just met this girl four days ago. Only spent less than two hours total with her so far.

  But those may be my favorite two hours. Ever.

  I can’t go yet.

  I can’t believe I’m saying this, but...

  I may have found the only person who could make me stay.

  Too bad it’s her job to put me in jail, huh?

  Chapter 3

  Sofia

  I’m at my cubicle, desperately trying not to think of being pinned down by Colton Stark’s muscles on a bench in a locker room.

  Getting fucked by his huge cock.

  And fucked. And fucked. And fucked.

  I uncross and re-cross my legs.

  I’m going through Colton Stark’s public financial records line-by-line. Looking for anything that stands out, anything unusual.

  So far, I haven’t found anything even remotely suspicious. No strange purchases. No property. No investments in Bright Eyes Academy, which is owned by Bright Eyes Academy Trust, LLC. No connection to anything.

  Except the purchase of a 2001 Toyota Corolla two years ago for $2,300. That’s suspicious. But not a crime. Not to mention it’s obvious why he bought it. He doesn’t want to take the Bentley over to Wynwood, which would advertise his presence.

  He wants to conceal his identity. Why? If he’s a proponent of charter schools, what’s the big deal? Why the costume and charade?

  Could be that he wants to hide his connection from Jasper van der Voort and the Board. Because maybe that’s where he’s funneling the money he steals from them.

  Oooh, that sounds about right. Damn, Sofia, you’re good.

  But there are pieces missing here.

  I continue looking through records. Stark Worldwide owns a shitload of property. Warehouses. Loading docks. Office buildings. Processing buildings.

  One piece of real estate catches my eye. It’s not owned by Stark Worldwide, but by a shelf company into which a series of deposits have been made.

  Hm.

  I click on the deed to the property. It’s a tiny metal-frame shed right on the water in Key Largo. Surrounded by overgrowth. An ugly old dock. Something rotting and brown floating in the water. Ugh.

  I click through about a hundred more properties, but find myself back at the Key Largo shed.

  Hm, something about it. It stands out because it’s so out-of-sync with all the other property owned by Stark Worldwide.

  Hm.

  “Everything okay?” says Frank Scarpelli as he leans over the wall of my cubicle.

  “Yeah, fine,” I say as I leap in my chair.

  Frank’s eyes narrow and he frowns.

  “What happened to your eye?”

  “Oh this? It’s nothing. I was... sparring with somebody at the gym. I didn’t slip and duck in time.”

  I smile.

  Frank continues to frown and folds his arms. “Sofia, do you remember when you met me?”

  “Um—”

  “Of course you don’t. It was in the hospital the night you were born. I held you in my arms. You were this big, making little googly gurgling sounds with your eyes closed. So strange. And here we are colleagues with cubicles in the same room.”

  “No shit, huh?”

  “I’ll never forget your dad that night. He was beaming. Proudest man alive. He’s a good man, Sofia.”

  “You’re a good man too, Frank. He always asks about you.”

  Frank folds his arms and looks down. “Sofia, I’m a little concerned about you. I know you. Something is eating you up.”

  How can he tell that from all the way across the room? While facing the other direction?

  “Really?” I say.

  “Yeah, the last thing I’d want is for you to get in over your head.”

  Uh-oh. What does that mean? Is that a warning?

  “I’m fine, Frank. But thanks.”

  “Remember, there’s nothing wrong with asking for help. Is there anyt
hing I can help you with, Sofia?”

  He emphasizes the word help. Is he trying to tell me something? If so, what?

  “No, but I appreciate your concern, Frank.”

  He sighs and nods. “Okay. Just be careful, that’s all. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you that I couldn’t have prevented. Like my dad always told me, ‘Just make sure you know what you’re doing.’ I’m right here if you need me.”

  Frank saunters back to his cubicle and sits down.

  My head is spinning. What was that? On the surface, it was my dad’s friend, an older man who feels a father-like concern for my well-being because of his connection to my family.

  But on the other hand, there was something behind the words. Something sinister.

  Is Frank the mole?

  No. No way. I could never believe that. I trust Frank. I always know who I can trust.

  Right?

  * * *

  “Trust me,” says Wanda with a forced smile. “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

  Angel, her boyfriend, sits on the concrete steps. The top half of his body is covered in tattoos, a snake leading up the side of his neck. He’s motionless, staring at nothing.

  I look at Mike. He shrugs.

  His radio crackles. “Four-Victor-Eight, do you need backup?”

  Mike taps the radio. “No, no need. We’re fine.”

  “Copy that,” says the dispatcher.

  Several other tenants of Flamingo Terrace Apartments have gathered to see why a cruiser’s flashers are lighting up the night.

  Mike and I have been here before for the same reason. Angel and Wanda fight a lot. The neighbors get scared and call us.

  It usually ends the same. They make up and hug, and we leave.

  Angel has been in and out of prison five times, out again for four months now.

  I turn to Wanda. She’s a very pretty girl. Big brown eyes. Thick lips. Gorgeous caramel skin. She could be a model, making tons of money just five miles from here. But instead, she’s gotten herself a snake tattoo on her neck to match her boyfriend’s. And another tiny one under her right eyebrow. Not to mention cheek and lip piercings.

  There’s a spark behind her eyes too. An intelligence. She could be something. But she chooses to live here.

  With... that.

  “I don’t know, Wanda” I say. “Why don’t you just let us take you and your daughter to your mother’s? You two had a fight and maybe it might be best if you just spend a night apart.”

  I look over at Angel. Still motionless.

  “No, we’re fine” says Wanda. “He just gets like this when he has a... beer or two.” She squeezes my arm. “He’s a good man.”

  I’d laugh if this weren’t such a serious situation. Good man? No fucking way. What does she see in him? The guy is a lowlife, barely human. When he speaks, he grunts. I’m constantly amazed at the sheer number of women who think this type of man is attractive.

  I feel a speech building inside me, a rant about how Wanda should be with somebody else... how she deserves somebody else.

  But I know it’s a waste of breath so I don’t.

  But still, there’s something bothering me. Something is different tonight. They’re not making up and hugging. He just sits on the steps.

  “Please go,” Wanda says. Her eyes are pleading.

  I look at Mike. He shrugs again.

  “Okay,” I say. “Fine.” I walk over to Angel. “If we’re called here again, I will personally—”

  “Sofe!” says Mike. “Come on.”

  We walk back to the cruiser. I start the engine and pull out of Flamingo Terrace Apartments.

  “What’s wrong?” says Mike.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Something was off.”

  “Aw, come on. It was just a fight. They got a little out-of-hand. Neighbors called the cops. We’ve done this a thousand times, Sofe. We’ll probably see two more before our shift is over.”

  “This time was different. There was something off.”

  “Sofe, we can’t save the world. We can only do what we can do. People make their own decisions and live their own lives the way they want, even if what they decide is a mess.”

  “We should have taken him in.”

  “On what? We had nothing.”

  “I don’t know, Mike. We just should have done something!”

  “Forget it, Sofe. It’s over. They’re probably smoking some crack and chilling out right now.”

  I grip the wheel hard and grit my teeth as I turn onto 12th Ave.

  * * *

  “What have you learned?” says LaTashia as she gets in the car. We’re in the parking lot of Checkers across from the Hilton. I had just bit into my burger.

  I give her the one sec sign as I chew and wipe my mouth.

  “Is that a Checkerburger with Cheese?” she says.

  I nod yes, then take another out of the bag and hand it to her. I also hold up the milkshake next to mine in the cup holder to indicate it’s hers.

  “Oh, you’re so getting a raise,” she says as she takes it. “I haven’t had one of these in years.”

  “Gotta be done every once in a while,” I say. “Once I have one, I can think better.”

  She unwraps her burger and bites into it. “Mmmmmm,” she says.

  Once I swallow my piece and take a sip of milkshake, I turn to her. “So, I’m still working on it. He has some sort of connection to a charter school in Wynwood.”

  LaTashia stops chewing and looks at me. “The place right next door to the Asian Spa?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure of this, but I believe he sneaks over there in disguise.”

  “Disguise?”

  “Yeah, he looks like an old college professor. Gray hair and goatee. Shabby clothes and glasses.”

  “Huh. How do you know this?”

  “I watched.”

  “We have two guys watching. They never picked up on that.”

  “That’s because they’re too busy eating donuts and parking in a spot where they can’t see between the two buildings.”

  “Goddamn. I knew there was a reason I promoted you to OCS.”

  I eat another piece of burger. So fucking good. “LaTashia, my gut tells me he’s not a criminal. At least not in the way you and I know criminals.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Don’t know. Just my gut.”

  “You’re gut’s been wrong before.”

  I look out the window at the darkening sky. Thunderheads are rolling in and the wind is picking up.

  “That wasn’t my gut,” I say. “My gut was certain and correct. It was the fact that I chose to trust the girl. My gut knew he was going to kill her.”

  “You haven’t been to therapy in a while.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m head of OCS, remember? I know everything.”

  “It’s a fucking waste of time... sorry, waste of time. Those people are idiots. We just have the same conversations over and over.”

  LaTashia squints at me. “Is that why you haven’t had a real relationship ever since that night?”

  “Lieutenant, is this pertinent to my job?”

  “No, Sofia, but it’s pertinent to you and you are pertinent to OCS. Sometimes you have to learn to let go and trust people. Not everybody is lying to you.”

  “I trust you. And my father and brother. And Mike.”

  “Who else?”

  The rain suddenly comes down in torrents and lightning flashes all around.

  “That’s about it.”

  Chapter 4

  Colton

  “Yeah, I know who he is,” says Max Zanik as he bites into his Big Mac.

  We’re at a McDonald’s in Miramar, sitting at a concrete outdoor table, still with a pool of water from the storm that passed through about an hour ago. He insisted we meet here.

  Max Zanik looks nothing like I had expected. He’s skinny, maybe thirty-five, with wire-framed glasses and messy brown hair. He’s in a plaid shirt
, cargo pants, and sneakers. If you asked me who he is, I’d guess I.T. consultant or video game developer.

  Certainly not South Florida’s top contract killer.

  Not that I would know what South Florida’s top contract killer would look like.

  Whatever. It is what it is.

  I take back the picture of Jasper van der Voort, replacing it inside the manila folder. I take out the other one. “He’s not the problem. This is the problem.”

  I throw down a picture of Hector.

  Max Zanik freezes in place for two full seconds, then continues eating.

  “Forget it,” he says. “No deal.”

  Huh? “You know him?”

  “That’s Hector Gonzalez. He’s from Mexico.”

  “Yes. But so what?”

  “He’s a legend, man. Worked for every criminal organization from Medellín to Baja. Forget it. If word got out that I put an end to Hector, not that I could, I would be blacklisted. Never work again.”

  Can’t fucking believe this. Florida’s top killer is afraid of Hector. Really?! Okay, Hector must be the baddest badass of all. But there’s always a badder badass.

  “Fine,” I say, “who can take on Hector? Give me a name.”

  “Nobody, man. I’m the best. Hector is the best. Maybe ten other guys. We don’t do each other. Professional courtesy. Not only did your man Jasper hire the most talented, he bought himself a built-in defense. Nobody is going to kill Hector.”

  “Fine. How about just Jasper, then?”

  A smear of special sauce has lodged itself on his upper lip. He reaches into the paper bag and takes out a napkin. “Professional courtesy extends to clients.”

  I shake my head. “This is ridiculous. Do you have any suggestions?”

  He wipes his mouth with the napkin.

  “Yeah, man. Run.”

  * * *

  I’m about to take the I-395 exit when my phone rings. It’s Beacon.

  “Yep,” I say.

  “There is a hidden transponder in your car,” says the electronic voice, then clicks off.

  Hidden transponder? Seriously?

  I pull off the highway and turn into Museum Park. I check my seats, the back seats, the trunk, the glove compartment, over the sun visors, in front of the rearview mirror, back of the steering wheel, under the rims.