by Rebecca York
Their eyes locked.
“Okay, I can say the same thing,” he answered.
He held her gaze for a few moments longer, then looked away. If he had to lie to her to save her life, it would mean he was thinking he was going to get killed, and he was desperately trying to keep her out of it. That wasn’t counting his lie of omission—about the wolf—of course.
“Enough dire talk,” he said. “I know where to find the bar, and I’ve looked at pictures of the interior.”
“You said we weren’t going in.”
“That’s right, but I wanted to know the layout, so I need to make a quick visit. Let’s sit in the dining area and make some plans.”
She followed him down the hall where he set the computer on the table and showed her both exterior and interior views of The Tin Man.
“Not exactly upscale,” she murmured.
“Right. I guess that’s why a lowlife hit man hangs out there.”
“He’s a hit man?”
“Well, he’s part of the gang that killed your uncle and went after you.” He looked at his watch. “We have a little time. Do you want to get something to eat at a restaurant around here before we go over there?”
“Sure. That will solve the problem of what to cook. But let me change into jeans and a dark tee shirt first.”
“And a baseball cap,” he added.
“I didn’t see you buy any the other day.”
“I already had a couple with me.”
When she’d put on her surveillance clothing and they’d both donned caps, they drove out of the marina and onto the two-lane road, back toward the shopping center.
There were two fast-food restaurants—a burger place and a pizza parlor.
“Which do you want to try?” Francesca asked.
“I’m not much for pizza.”
They headed for the alternative. Francesca got a burger with the works and a bottle of iced tea. Zane got three plain patties on buns and bottled water.
“You like meat,” she remarked.
“Yes.”
“Didn’t your mother make you eat vegetables?”
“She knew it was a lost cause.”
They took their food to a picnic table under a shade tree overlooking the water.
“It’s low-key and relaxing here,” Francesca murmured as she looked around at the unassuming setting.
“Yes.” Too bad that neither one of them could entirely let down their guard.
He glanced at her before taking his order apart, eating one bun with the three meat patties on it.
She gave him a considering look. “You weren’t kidding about the meat part. Cooking for you is going to be interesting.”
The comment stopped him cold, and their gazes locked.
“That’s assuming a lot,” he said.
“I know. But don’t you think it’s true?”
“Yes.” He hoped with all his soul. He reached across the table and took her hand. There was so much more that he wanted to say, but he kept the words locked behind his lips.
They ate the rest of the meal in silence, until she glanced at the buns still sitting on his plate. “A shame to just throw those away.”
“There are a lot of birds around here. They’d probably like them.”
“It’s okay to feed them bread?”
He laughed. “People do it all the time. It’s almost a cliché.”
“But the restaurant won’t like having bird poop around the picnic tables.” She tore up the buns and walked twenty yards down the river, where she scattered the bread.
He watched her lithe movements with a longing he hurried to conceal as she returned.
Back in the car again, they headed toward town and stopped at a drugstore along the highway.
“What are we getting?” Francesca asked.
“Burner phones.”
“For what?”
“In case we need to communicate.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I thought we were staying together.”
“Approximately. We might need to separate.”
“You won’t leave me in the car,” she insisted.
“No.”
After making that promise, Zane cruised past the bar, casing the joint.
Francesca craned her neck. “There are eleven cars in the lot.”
“Okay. And probably other customers could walk here.”
He drove to a cross street where he could turn around, then headed back. He was glad to see that the parking lot had two entrances, if they had to make a quick getaway.
The ideal place to park was in a row of spaces along one side that was shaded by a line of trees. Since all the slots were taken, he waited in a nearby spot until a space in that row opened up. Then he backed in, cut the engine and pulled down the sun visors.
“He could already be in there. If he’s coming at all,” Francesca said
“Yes. I’m going to take a quick look inside.”
“You said . . .”
“Briefly,” he clarified.
“What’s your excuse for going in?”
“To buy a pack of cigarettes.” He activated his phone, and she did the same. They both set them to vibrate. Just to make sure everything was working okay, he called her, and they established that the instruments worked.
After slipping the phone into his pocket, he reached for the door handle. “Stay here. And slump down.”
“I will.” She cranked back her seat and slid down so that only the top of her hat showed.
He got out and strode toward the door of the bar, his feet crunching on the gravel of the lot. Before entering, he stopped and glanced back at the car, feeling a tightness in his chest. He didn’t like leaving Francesca here, but it was better than bringing her inside where Tuckerman and one of his cronies could be lurking. He pulled the bill of his cap down a little farther before pushing the door inward.
He’d seen pictures of the interior, but they’d been shot to make the bar as attractive as possible. In person, it looked grungier, and the customers didn’t help. Most were men, dressed in tee shirts and shorts or jeans. There were a few women who were similarly dressed in Florida casual. Nobody looked like someone he’d want to meet in a dark alley.
He saw several people eying him as he entered. Probably he was too clean he thought with a silent laugh.
He thanked God that smoking was prohibited inside bars and restaurants, even here. As it was, the liquor, beer fumes, and body odor were almost too much for his werewolf senses in the enclosed space.
Struggling not to cough, he scanned the patrons and didn’t see Tuckerman or any of the other men who had been with him. That would have been too easy. Or maybe the guy would have recognized him.
He waited a beat, then crossed to the bar, taking a position near the cash register.
The bartender was serving draft beer to a customer and took his time getting to the newcomer.
“What’ll you have?” he asked as he gave Zane an appraising look.
“You got a pack of smokes?”
“What brand?”
He named a popular product.
The man reached under the counter and produced a pack.
Zane paid cash and put the box in his pocket.
“Get you something to drink?”
“No thinks,” he answered before turning and heading down the hall toward the bathrooms. He saw an exit down there, but a sign said an alarm would sound if the door was opened. Which meant that if Tuckerman showed up, he’d be coming in the same entrance Zane had used.
He went into the urine-stinking men’s room and used the facilities, just in case anyone was keeping track of him.
When he’d finished, he wanted to throw the cigarettes into the trash, but he kept them in his pocket, even though the tobacco smell was getting to him.
A minute later he was stepping out the door and ambling back to the car.
He saw Francesca visibly relax when she spotted him. He stopped at a trash barrel and tossed i
n the pack of cancer sticks.
“I was starting to get worried,” she said as he slid behind the wheel.”
“I wanted to seem casual.”
“Was—Tuckerman there?”
“No.”
“I don’t know whether to be glad or relieved.”
“I had the same thoughts.” He looked over at her, then tipped his own seat back.
“We just wait?” she asked.
“You want to play blackjack?”
She laughed.
He settled down, wondering when the guy usually showed up, if at all. They watched a couple of customers leave and pull out of parking spaces. Several more arrived.
He was considering how long this stakeout was going to take when another car slid into the space directly on his left. The breath froze in his lungs when he saw a big man with short hair, a beefy face, and big hands get out and settle his pants more comfortably around his waist.
Zane would have recognize the bastard anywhere after seeing him tossing trash onto the ground in the park like he was scattering birdseed. It was Tuckerman, and the man was staring right at them.
From the passenger seat, Francesca couldn’t see who had gotten out of the car, but she saw Zane’s reaction, and her breath hitched.
Chapter Twelve
Zane went rigid, except for his right hand which slipped down to the gun under his jacket. For a heart-stopping moment Tuckerman stayed where he was, and Zane got ready to defend them.
Finally the man turned away and started walking toward the bar.
Now Francesca could see the haircut, the broad shoulders.
“That was him, right?” she whispered in a choked voice.
“Yeah.”
“He didn’t recognize us?” she asked,
“Not unless he’s playing it awfully cool.”
“He could call for help.”
“I think he’s just going in there to have a few drinks and maybe chat with his friends,”
“You think he has friends?”
“Acquaintances.”
They watched Tuckerman’s big feet crunch across gravel. Moments later, he disappeared inside the bar.
“Now what?” Francesca asked.
“We can’t go in after him. That’s his home turf. We have to wait until he comes out—hopefully sloshed.”
He kept his gun out of the holster and slipped it into the side pocket of the car door.
Francesca gave him a nervous look.
“Just a precaution,” he answered as he scanned the bar entrance. Would the guy notice that the same car had been sitting in the same spot when he left?
When Zane started the engine, Francesca’s head snapped toward him.
“What?”
“I’m moving to another spot, in case he’s curious about what we’re still doing here.”
He pulled out and found a new space about five cars over. Hopefully the guy wouldn’t notice that the unobtrusive Chevy had simply shifted locations. Once they were settled again, he said, “I’m going to use some poetic justice on him.”
She gave him a questioning look.
“We’ll put a tracker on his vehicle, so he won’t spot us following.”
He went to the case of equipment in the trunk, got out the small device and the controller before coming around to the passenger window.
When she rolled it down, he said, “Keep an eye on the bar. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
He saw her tense up as she fixed her gaze on the door.
He went back to the scumbag’s car, walked to the back, and dropped his keys. As he scooped them up, he bent down to stick the small device under the bumper. He was quickly back to their rental, where he got out the controller and activated the screen. He could see a green dot indicating where Tuckerman’s car was.
“When he moves, we can see where he goes.” I hope, he added silently.
They waited, the minutes ticking by, as the thug enjoyed himself at his favorite watering hole.
Zane hoped he wasn’t going to come out with a woman—or a friend—which would complicate things.
An hour and a half later, the mobster emerged from the building, not as steady as he had been when he’d gone in. More good news—he was alone.
As their quarry crossed the parking lot, Zane turned toward Francesca. “We’d better make it look like we have a reason to be here—in case he remembers us. Leaning toward Francesca, he pulled her into his arms across the console. It was awkward with the barrier between them, but he cradled her in his embrace as he pressed his cheek to hers and watched Tuckerman head back to his car.
He could feel her heart pounding as he held her, and he wished to hell he’d insisted that she stay on the boat. No, that wasn’t true. If she were out of his sight, he’d be worrying about her. At least he knew she was safe.
When he heard the thug’s car start up, he moved the controller so he could see the screen. The green dot was moving slowly.
He was thinking he should ease away from Francesca, instead he kept her in his arms. Maybe they both needed the contact because they clung together for several moments. He ached to tip her face up and lower his lips to hers, but he ruled out the kiss. Later, when they had something to celebrate.
“It’s working,” Francesca breathed as she stared at the screen.
“Yes.”
Tuckerman’s car had disappeared, but the tracker was sending out signals strong and steady,
“That’s what they saw when they were following us?” she asked.
“Yes. Only they were using a phone.”
She watched the screen avidly as he turned right onto the avenue, then headed north.
Zane followed for several blocks, staying far enough back so that he couldn’t see the thug’s car, but he knew the man had turned onto a side street. When Zane reached it, he saw they were in a downscale neighborhood of small, one-story houses, most made of faded stucco in various rainbow colors. Some lawns were well-kept. Others were scraggly, and some properties were piled with trash. Although it was now after midnight, lights were on in some of the houses. Most were dark.
When Tuckerman slowed, Zane speeded up, driving past the car as though he belonged here.
The thug’s vehicle had pulled into a driveway at the side of a small yellow house that seemed to be an average-sized dwelling for the area. The yard was full of weeds.
“Now what?” Francesca whispered.
Zane kept going down the street, parking about half a block away. He sat for a few minutes, looking around the area and saw no one out for a midnight stroll.
“We’ll walk back,” he said.
They climbed out and headed for the yellow house.
“We don’t even know if he lives alone,” Francesca whispered.
“Unfortunately.”
They walked slowly past, Zane on the alert for signs that anyone was paying attention to them.
One light in their target’s house was on, and the curtains were open. Zane could see the man walking across a small living room. He stepped into a hall and turned off the living room light.
“I think he’s going to bed,” Francesca said.
“Uh huh.”
They waited for a beat before Zane said, “This is where the phones are going to come in handy.”
She gave him a questioning look.
“We’re both going to check out the back. If we can see in, you’ll stay there, and I’ll go back to the front. When you know he’s in bed, text me.”
“Where will you be?”
“Jimmying the lock on the front door.”
“And I’m supposed to stay in back?”
“It’s better if I don’t have to worry about you while I’m questioning him. Also better if he doesn’t see you.”
She thought about that for several moments, then nodded.
They moved slowly across the front yard and eased along the side of the house. Because they didn’t want to alert the man inside, they couldn’t use a flashlight. Z
ane went first, picking his way carefully along a dirt path. When he kicked something solid on the ground sending a flowerpot careening along the walkway, they both froze. But after several minutes when there was no reaction from inside, they started moving again. Zane reached the end of the wall and turned the corner, then began moving slowly toward the one window where he could see a light.
Motioning Francesca to stay still, he eased along toward the lighted window. Cautiously, he peeked around the edge of the frame through partially open Venetian blinds. He was looking into a room with a double bed, a bedside table with a lamp, and a chest of drawers across the room. On top was a flat screen TV. A dirty beige throw rug completed the decor. The room was empty, but Zane saw more light coming from under a closed door, and he figured the thug was in the bathroom.
He turned and motioned to Francesca. They met about halfway between the window and the corner.
Leaning toward her, he put his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “Keep watch, but stay at the edge of the window. Punch in my number now and activate when you see he’s in bed.”
He waited while she put the number on the screen. Giving her a thumbs up, he retraced his steps, turned the corner and headed to the front of the house, being careful not to kick the same flowerpot. He stopped in the shadows at the edge of the front yard, scanning the area. As far as he could tell, nobody was paying any attention to the two individuals casing the little yellow house.
He stayed where he was, waiting for her call. Finally he felt his phone vibrate and whispered, “Okay thanks.”
After clicking off, he walked to the front door, where he tried the knob. As expected, it was locked, and he used a credit card inserted between the frame and the door to gain entry.
As he slipped inside, Zane drew his gun. Standing in the living room, he waited while his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. From the bedroom he heard the sound of shots, and froze. Then he realized that the thug was watching a cop show on TV. Good, that would mask his approach to the bedroom. When he was sure he could see where he was going, he followed the same route that Tuckerman had taken.
Glad that the house had some kind of vinyl tile floor rather than squeaky wood, he crossed the living room and walked quietly down the hall. The bedroom door was wide open. He stopped well back in the doorway, his gaze flicking between the man on the bed and the window. Francesca had eased away from the side of the frame. She raised her hand briefly, indicating that she’d seen him step into the room.