Cat's Paw (Veritas Book 1)

by Chandler Steele

  “Try me.”

  Alex ran a hand through his hair, agitated, causing it to stick up in front. It did nothing to ruin his bad-boy image. “When you’re inside, your world is . . . confined.”

  “Well, yeah, that’s the whole point. The system keeps the bad guys locked up so they don’t hurt the rest of us poor souls. Present company excluded.”

  “No, it’s not just in terms of security.” Alex stepped into a doorway to avoid a rowdy group of drunks whose T-shirts proclaimed they were Hoosiers.

  “You okay?” she asked, her worry increasing.

  He shrugged, sweat on his brow. “It’s hard to be out here. It’s overwhelming.”

  “Then let’s go somewhere else,” she replied, tugging him toward a side street. Once they were off Bourbon Street, the noise level dropped precipitously. Still, the frown on his face didn’t diminish.

  “Better?”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “A little. Thank you.”

  How can I explain this so she understands?

  “Inside, it’s all about control and the fact that you have none. What you can and cannot do. When and how you do certain things. You give up your autonomy the day you go inside. You eat what they feed you, or you starve. You line up when they tell you; you go to bed and get up when they tell you. They have absolute control over every part of your life.” He gulped air and realized his hands were shaking, which pissed him off. He jammed them into his jeans pockets, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

  “If I’d been guilty, then maybe I could have dealt with it better. The fact that someone set me up made it harder to handle.”

  “Because you lost that control to someone else?”

  He nodded. “When I was in prison, I found myself thinking through every action I took, because the last thing I needed was to get into trouble.”

  “With the guards?”

  “With anyone. I didn’t want to end up in solitary every time I beat someone down who got into my face.”

  “Somehow, I doubt many people would mess with you, Parkin.”

  Alex’s expression tightened. “They did mess with me. You said you did a background check. I bet that means you read my prison record.”

  “Yes. I know what almost happened. The report also told me that you put up one helluva fight.”

  Sometimes, right before he went to sleep, he could still feel the punches, hear the shouts, his own screams. Taste the rank fear that had never completely left him since that night.

  “But Danshov ran interference for you after that, right?”

  “Yeah. It helped.” He looked at her with a challenge in his eyes. “You got a problem with that?”

  “No. We all do what it takes to survive.”

  Her tone of voice told him she knew that better than most.

  “See the irony?” he asked. “You people want me to destroy the organization that kept me alive while I was inside.”

  Morgan jerked to a stop. “Then why did you sign up with us?”

  “Because . . . I figured you’d be less likely to fuck me over than those Russian wolves.”

  She huffed. “Some endorsement.”

  “Well, live with it. That’s where my head is.”

  “I think there’s more to it than that,” she said, not letting him take the easy way out.

  Dammit. The woman was too perceptive. “I won’t truly be free until I know I will never be sent back to that place,” he admitted. “Right now, I’m just waiting for a cop to grab me, slip a dime bag in my pocket, and start the whole process all over again. Except this time, I won’t survive.”

  “That’s what gets you the most. You did everything right, and you still got screwed. Being a good guy didn’t save you, it just made you a target,” Morgan said, looking away now.

  She does understand. Not even his sister had made that connection.

  They walked on for a time, and then she asked, “What’s going on in your head right now, Alex?”

  Morgan’s use of his first name brought him to a halt. He looked at her, saw she wasn’t baiting him. She genuinely wanted to know.

  “I’m confused,” he said. “Confused and bitter and tired.”

  “Scared it’ll happen again,” she said quietly, touching his arm. “I’ll do everything I can to make sure that doesn’t happen. I promise.”

  He nodded and looked away, unsure if he could promise anything in return. Then he knew that he could. “I may be working for the Russians, but I’ll do everything I can to take Buryshkin down. I promise that.”

  She nodded. “That’s good enough for me.”

  To distract himself, Alex homed in on a pair of young girls walking toward them, their skimpy summer dresses barely covering their butts. As the girls drew near, the blond one winked at him and smiled.

  “Everything good, Candy?” Morgan asked.

  “Da, it’s good. Better than I hope,” the girl replied, her accent hailing from somewhere within the former Soviet Union.

  “They arrived in town about a month ago,” Morgan explained as pair walked on. “Tanya is barely sixteen and Candy claims she’s seventeen, but she’s probably fifteen. Alexi Krupin is their pimp. He’s not a complete bastard.” She hesitated. “When the girls can no longer pull their weight, he pensions them off. Gives them a bit of money and a bus ticket to wherever they want to go.”

  “As compared to?”

  Morgan’s expression darkened. “Some of the Russian pimps have a more permanent retirement program that involves a boat trip into international waters, a heavy set of chains, and a swift drop overboard. If the girl has really pissed off her pimp, she’s still alive when she hits the water.”

  “Jesus,” Alex said. He’d heard rumors of that kind of thing but had hoped to God it was an urban myth. “What about Buryshkin?”

  “He’s a one-way-trip kind of dude. Or at least the pimps running his prostitutes are, and he tells them what to do. Thank God Krupin doesn’t work for him.” She shifted her gaze in Alex’s direction. “Now you know why I want Buryshkin gone. I wouldn’t hesitate to wind him up in his own chains, throw him overboard, and watch the bastard sink.”

  Alex couldn’t help but stare. The Morgan he knew had vanished. This one had a voice that spoke of raw, bleeding anger; a wound that had sliced so deep into her soul, she had no way to heal it.

  “That sounds personal.”

  “It is,” she admitted. “When I was at the FBI, I worked on child trafficking cases.”

  He blew out a sharp breath, his respect for her rising. “Ugly job.”

  “Yeah. But then yours at the DEA wasn’t any better.”

  Morgan’s cell phone pulled them out of their dark thoughts with a ping announcing an incoming text. She scanned it. “Okay, I have a CI with some info to trade. He’s usually pretty reliable.”

  Confidential informants were the lifeblood of any investigation. Especially if you were trying to locate a shipment of drugs.

  “I’ll see if I can track down some of mine, if yours doesn’t pan out,” he said.

  “Hopefully you won’t have to do that.”

  Morgan headed them in a new direction, cutting down an alley, then halting, her attention focused on the way they’d just come. Checking to see if anyone was following them.

  “Looks good,” she said, then gave him a nod of approval. “It’s nice to work with someone who knows what I’m doing without having to explain it.”

  “Is that a compliment? Damn, I’m on fire tonight.”

  She ignored that. “My snitch’s name is TipTop. He’s usually got a good nose for things. Just don’t mention his hair, okay?”

  “Why?”

  “Ever seen a picture of Tiny Tim, the singer from the sixties?” Alex nodded. “TipTop could be his twin, except his hair is carrot orange.”

  “Only in New Orleans.”

  They ended up in a dive bar, the kind with sticky floors, surly servers, and watered-down booze. Morgan sat at a rickety table on the si
dewalk, taking the seat closest to the building, which left him with his back to the street. He promptly adjusted his chair so it was next to hers, giving him a better view of any threat.

  “Thinking someone is going to stab you in the back?” she chided.

  “Old habits die hard.”

  A girl came to the table, probably in her early twenties and clearly wishing for any other job than the one she had.

  “Whaddya want?” she asked, her eyes on Alex the entire time.

  “Coke,” Morgan replied.

  “A bottled beer,” Alex said.

  “What kind?” the server asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  She shook her head. “It all sucks here.”

  “Your honesty just got you a bigger tip.”

  The server grinned and headed for the bar, while Alex checked out the clientele. Some old. Some young. All seen better days. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time.”

  “Nothing but the best for you, Parkin.”

  He looked at her. “I think all this attitude you’re giving me is because you can’t decide if you want to sleep with me or shoot me. Or both.”

  Morgan gave him a sidelong glance. “If you keep running that mouth of yours, I’ll be fonder of the second option.”

  He laughed. “I like you, Blake. You don’t pull your punches.”

  “Comes with the territory,” she said. “Like me all you want, but you’re still not getting laid. At least by me.”

  The drinks arrived and Alex insisted on paying the bill, even if it was Veritas’s money. It felt right. Normal, even. Easing back into the real world, one step at a time. Deep in his gut, he suspected he was kidding himself.

  As Alex checked out the bar, he wondered if this was the kind of place where Miri worked. God, he hoped not. He could ask Morgan—she’d probably know everything about his sister’s place of employment—but then he wouldn’t be keeping up his older brother street cred. Once this thing with the Russians was settled, he’d make sure wherever Miri worked was a good place. One that would watch her back when he wasn’t around.

  Alex took a swig from his bottle. The beer tasted okay to him, but then, he was hardly a keen judge of good brew anymore. He watched as Morgan pulled a small strip of paper out of her purse, set it on the table, and used her straw to drop some soda on it. It dawned on him what he was witnessing—she was testing the drink to see if it had been doctored with a date-rape drug.

  “And I thought I was paranoid,” he said.

  Morgan studied the strip, nodded her approval of the results, then took a big sip of the liquid. “Once was enough. It was close, but he didn’t get what he was after. I swear, next time I’m going to gut any SOB who tries it.”

  He blinked, realizing what she’d just revealed. “How old were you?”

  “Twenty. I was in college and I was naïve.”

  Not anymore. “Well, God forbid it ever happens again, but if it does, let me know. I’ll hold the perv down for you so you can gut him properly.”

  Morgan smiled. “You keep it up and I might just start liking you, Parkin.”

  “All part of my plan.”

  She returned to watching the street, but her eyes had grown haunted. Old memories were hard to shake. He had a few of those himself.

  “So when is your snitch going to show up?”

  “Whenever he feels like it. If he doesn’t have anything tangible for us, we’ll go to another watering hole. Maybe I’ll see someone there who will talk to us.”

  “Please tell me the next place is at least a two-star establishment. We ex-cons have our standards, you know.”

  She smiled at him, and he found he liked that. It erased some of the sadness in her eyes. Her attention moved back to the entrance.

  What will it take to get you in bed? He shook his head at the thought. Next subject, Parkin. “Why are we sitting out here instead of inside? Is it because of your snitch?”

  “Partly. Also because I’m packing. Guns are a no-no inside bars.”

  He’d forgotten that. “Hairsplitting, aren’t you? You’re still at a bar.”

  “I’m a lawyer. We can always find a way to skate around the edge of the law.”

  He sighed. “Did you notice the guy on the other side of the street, the one with crazy hair?”

  She nodded. “He’s my contact. He’s sizing you up because I don’t usually have someone with me. Well, except the Iceman.”

  “The Iceman?”

  “Neil. That’s our nickname for him.”

  “Tell me about him. Neil, I mean. Do you think he’ll hit on my sister?”

  Morgan frowned. “No. That’s not like him. He’s all business.”

  “He better be. If he thinks he’s sleeping with Miri, he and his balls will be parting company. I will make sure of it.”

  “Your sister is an adult. And please don’t even think about challenging him. Neil is . . . lethal. He promised to keep her safe, and he’ll die doing it.”

  “Yeah, Krav Maga and all that shit. He said something about losing his own sister.”

  “I’m surprised he mentioned that. It’s usually a tabooed subject.”

  “Did it go down bad?”

  “Very bad.”

  No wonder the Iceman was so intense.

  Morgan’s phone chimed and she looked down at the text message. “We’re on. I’ll text you if he’s okay with you being at the meeting. If anything gets weird, take off. You’ve got the code to get back into the safe house. I’ll meet you there.”

  Like hell. No way was he bailing on her if this meeting went south. They’d take away his man card if he pulled a weenie stunt like that.

  “How can I get in touch with you?” he asked.

  “I saved my number in your phone. It’s under ‘Valkyrie.’”

  Of course you did. Alex watched as she made her way across the street, her jeans hugging her butt. He chugged his beer, trying to cool his libido. And failing.

  “Another one?” the server asked.

  “No, thanks,” he said. The girl was attractive, but Morgan had something else going on, something hard to define. Whatever it was, he was beginning to see her as the ultimate challenge.

  Though he’d been told to stay put, Alex set off to keep an eye on his partner. To his amusement, he managed to tail Morgan without her seeing him. Then she merged into a tour group and disappeared from sight. He held his position in front of a souvenir shop, acting as if he really cared to own a stuffed alligator with sparkly gold eyes.

  “Come on, where are you?” he muttered, his anxiety rising. His phone pinged and the text indicated he was to head north and meet her in the third alley on the right.

  With a sigh, Alex walked down the street, counting alleys as he went. When he reached number three, he slowed, then stopped, pausing to look around. As best as he could tell, no one was following, but in the Big Easy it was often hard to tell.

  He swung into the alley and joined up with Morgan about halfway down the gloomy passageway, which was far too dark for his liking. To his right were the inevitable garbage cans. He hated the things, and not just because of their smell. Druggies ditched their stashes in these, and it used to be Alex’s job to root around inside to find the dope. He’d pawed through his share of rotten food and baby diapers when he was a junior agent. A rite of passage, the older guys had claimed.

  A quick glance upward showed there were no galleries above them, just a few windows. At the end of the alley was a chain-link fence, probably installed during Kennedy’s stint in the White House. The alley beyond the fence was equally dark and uninviting.

  If Alex was designing a trap, this place would be it. As he approached, he noted that Morgan stood with her feet apart, weight carefully balanced, her hand inside her purse as if she expected something to go wrong.

  I’m not the only one who’s twitchy.

  “So where is he?” Alex asked.

  “He’ll be here in a minute.”

  “I’m no
t liking this place.”

  “I’m right there with you,” she replied.

  Alex tensed when a man stepped off the street and walked toward them. As Morgan had claimed, he was one of a kind, from his carroty hair to his long nose. TipTop appeared equally ill at ease, his eyes darting around.

  “This is the new guy,” she said, gesturing toward Alex. “This is TipTop.”

  “Heard of you,” the man replied, eyeing him. “Heard you were dealing and the feds sent you upstate for it.”

  “Everybody has a theory on that,” Alex replied.

  The dude nodded like he wasn’t surprised. “Richie told me about you.”

  One of Alex’s snitches. “He still alive?”

  TipTop shook his head. “Got gunned down a year ago. Funny thing—it wasn’t one of the dealers who did him in. It was his old lady.”

  “He didn’t put the toilet seat down or something?”

  The snitch laughed. “Something like that.”

  “So what have you got for me?” Morgan asked, impatience edging her tone.

  “Three possible places, all in the Warehouse District. I’ve got the addresses for you.” He stepped closer to them now, holding out a small piece of paper. “Your best bet is—”

  There was a sharp pop, and TipTop took a stunned step forward, his eyes wide with incomprehension. Bright blood bubbled out of his open mouth.

  “Get down!” Morgan commanded.

  As the snitch crumpled to the ground, she and Alex dove behind the trash cans, startling a rat in the process. Bullets impacted the cans, chipping bricks on the building. A piece hit Alex’s forearm and it stung, as screams echoed from the street.

  “Can you see the shooter?” she asked, her gun in hand.

  “He’s at the entrance to the alley. There’re civilians behind him. You don’t have a clean shot.”

  The shooter kept firing at them, growing closer to their hiding place.

  “What about TipTop?” Morgan asked, out of position to see her informant.

  Alex inched out from behind the can to get a look, then jerked back after ascertaining that the snitch’s eyes were vacant, staring at nothing.

  “History. One shot, through the back of the skull.” It had to have been a hollow-point bullet, or they would have been wearing TipTop’s blood and brains.