Reluctant Burglar: A Novel

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

Tony set his glass on the scrimshawed tabletop. “I assumed by now that your network had informed you about everything from my preference in toothpaste to the day of the week I visit my bookie.”

  The gangster smiled. “True enough. We’ve vetted you thoroughly. I, too, am a cautious man. But I always like to know a few bits of trivia straight from my buyer’s mouth like … ah … aren’t you the great-grandson of Dominic Lucano, one of Capone’s right-hand men?”

  Tony nodded. “You have done your homework. Not one of the stellar moments in our family history. Dominic was killed in a shoot-out with police. My grandfather took the family and moved to Iowa. My dad, Alonzo, was born there, and my grandmother still lives in the family home. We’ve all gone straight now.” He grinned at Feng.

  The man threw back his head and let out a full-throated laugh. “Oh, I do like you.” He set down his snifter and shook his head. “A pity. Ah, well, certain matters must be finished. Come then.” Feng stood and headed for his desk.

  Tony followed. Now we’re getting down to business. The team should be closing in. Time to get those diamonds on the table.

  “I’d like to see the merchandise before I wire the money.”

  “Merchandise?” Feng stopped behind his desk, but didn’t sit down. “There is no merchandise.”

  What the—? “Then why am I here?”

  “How did your father die?”

  Tony’s mouth hung open.

  “He left you and your mother when you were ten years old. Did she ever say why?”

  Tony’s heart rate kicked into overdrive. Feng shouldn’t know that. It wasn’t part of Tony’s cover. Had Meranda slipped up? Keep cool, Lucano. Damage control.

  “Look, I don’t see what my personal business has to do with our business.”

  “Your mother never told you? Even after your father was dead?” The eye went bright. “Most interesting. She must have feared you would pursue me if you knew the truth. How ironic that her attempt to protect you has left you exposed.”

  “Explain yourself, and don’t involve my mother in this. She’s a good woman. It’d break her heart to see me here with you.”

  “Of that I have no doubt. Sit!” He pointed to a chair in front of the desk.

  Tony lowered himself slowly. This guy was way too amused about something. What was going on here? And where was the cavalry?

  The gangster opened the center drawer of his desk and reached inside.

  Tony tensed. A gun?

  The man pulled out two eight-by-ten photographs and studied them. “I knew your father. No, not the Midwestern drugstore owner invented as part of your cover. The real one. AI Lucano was an excellent agent. He did this to me when we both were young.” Feng touched the ravaged side of his face. “A bit of a scuffle involving spilled acid.”

  Icicles formed in Tony’s veins.

  The gangster looked up from the pictures. “You’re following in your father’s footsteps as an FBI agent. Admirable. These past months pretending to be a disenfranchised member of the diamond exchange? A superb performance. Almost as good as Meranda’s.”

  Tony leaped up, but Feng’s only reaction was to lay the photographs on the desk.

  Tony stared at the pictures—and his insides turned to ashes. “Dad?”

  “They’re both your father. Here he is, the day before his death, going into the mall to buy you a graduation present. And here is a close-up of him after the mysterious fire at a crime scene.”

  Tony stared at the blackened face that hardly resembled a man, much less one he knew and loved. But this was no stranger on the morgue slab. This was …

  He retched and staggered away. The swallow of brandy and the pie and coffee he’d eaten at an all-night diner came up on the carpet.

  “Oh, dear!” Feng tut-tutted. “I hadn’t anticipated this. Meranda!”

  The side door sprang open and Meranda stepped in, then recoiled, staring at the floor. Tony watched her face. Disgust was written all over it. She’d played him from start to finish.

  The innocent meeting at a Red Sox game, where she spilled ketchup on him. The giddy plunge into a relationship so good he had to pinch himself every day. Her tearful confession that she was the unwilling mistress of Quentin Feng. That she needed his help.

  All a lie.

  “I thought we loved each other.” Each syllable burst between clenched teeth.

  She darted a glance at him, flushed, then gave him wide berth as she hustled over to Feng.

  “Good girl.” The gangster wrapped an arm around her. She winced. “My niece loves her pretty face more than anything. She doesn’t care to look like me.” He caressed her cheek. Meranda stood stiff as a pole, eyes wide.

  Tony’s heart wrenched. His niece? The sick pervert!

  Feng smiled. “She does what I say.”

  “Well, I don’t! Get your paws off her!” Tony charged the desk.

  The business end of a Glock pistol pulled him up short.

  Feng released Meranda, and she scurried into a corner. He smiled. “I did have more than photographs in my drawer.” He shook his head. “A courageous young man and chivalrous. Just not terribly wise. Women are for one thing. A smart man would have tried for the door. Not that you would have gotten far.” The gangster pushed a button on his desk.

  The two armed thugs came back in through the warehouse entrance, followed by a slight, ferret-faced man.

  Tony recognized the third man from FBI files. Ethan Coble, Feng’s pet computer guru.

  Feng nodded toward Coble. “You succeeded in your task?”

  The little man bowed. “I removed the tracking device from his Lexus and placed it on a different vehicle while he dawdled over a piece of pie, awaiting your next call.”

  No cavalry? Tony’s mouth dried up like the Sahara.

  “Very good,” Feng said. “Then we will have no unwelcome intrusions on our evening.” He turned his eye on Tony.

  The shark was hungry now. The hair on Tony’s nape stood on end.

  “Anthony Marco Lucano, this is a solemn moment for me. The fulfillment of what you Italians would call vendetta. A matter of honor. Not some hotheaded American notion of revenge. Much too sloppy.” He waved a hand. “No, no, this sort of vow waits patiently, for years if necessary, until just the right moment. Your father understood this. He thought that by leaving you he would draw my whole focus onto himself. And he hunted me. Almost caught me a time or two. The game was quite exhilarating.” The gangster chuckled. “But I caught him first.” He tapped the morgue shot. “And now it is the time for Lucano’s seed to end.”

  Tony felt dipped in Novocain. He shook his head as if he could make the last few minutes go away. Memories crowded in, stumbling over themselves—all the bitter words he’d flung at his father on the few occasions he’d seen him after he left. Mom, why didn’t you tell me? But he knew. His parents both wanted him to stay far away from his father and the danger that surrounded him.

  “Are the preparations made?” Feng looked at the thugs.

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “Let’s go then.” Feng waved them ahead of him.

  The meaning of the words slipped past Tony’s comprehension. The gangster stepped around the desk, turned him with a grip on his shoulder, and shoved him out into the warehouse. Resistance was a low priority. He was a rotten son and a foolish man.

  Mom, your prayers keep you safe. Stay that way. But I don’t expect them to work for me.

  They went through another door, stepped up a short passage and into a factory area. A greasy hot smell weighted the air. Tony didn’t look at anyone, didn’t see much of anything except the horror show of lost years with his father. So many games of catch never played. Karate tournaments missed. No father to cheer him on at basketball. A childhood cut short. Robbed. Because of this man behind him. Because of a rotten, twisted—

  A roar tore from Tony’s throat. He bent low and whirled, right leg extended.

  Feng squawked and leaped back, but the kick connected wit
h a beefy forearm and spun the Glock from his hand. Tony followed through with a jumping side kick to the solar plexus. Feng hit the wall, face contorted, then doubled over.

  A blow to the head splintered Tony’s consciousness, then another—then darkness.

  Tony struggled to awareness. He lay on his side, a hard surface cramping his shoulder. Heat and an oily stink choked his airways. A strange bubbling noise brought his eyes open. He was in a clear space between manufacturing machinery. Several yards away stood a huge vat, the source of the sound, the heat, and the smell.

  He started to lift his head, but laid it back down with a groan. A timpani section was using his cranium for practice. He reached up, but his feet followed. He gave a mental curse. His hands were tied in front of him and linked to his bound legs by a cord.

  A large foot prodded him over onto his back. He looked up into Feng’s eye.

  “A hundred gallons of peanut oil. The method is quite humane. You will be dead before you feel much. A burn for a burn, and a debt is paid with interest.”

  Tony’s stomach lurched, but he had nothing more to lose. His French-fried body might never be found or identified. He’d just disappear. His mother would be devastated.

  Jesus, You can’t do this to her! She trusts You!

  “I don’t want to stay,” Meranda said from behind Feng. Her voice quivered.

  “Me either.” Coble’s voice shook worse than Meranda’s.

  Feng turned his eye on them. “You’ll both see this through.”

  The two nameless thugs hefted Tony by his shoulders and legs and carried him toward stairs attached to the vat. Tony bucked. They swore and dropped him. One kicked him in the temple.

  Tony faded. He felt himself lifted and carried. Heat from the vat walls sucked at him, like he stood at the gates of hell.

  Morn, I’m so sorry. My life … an empty waste. Out of chances … to make it right.

  His captors grunted up one step. Then another.

  “But, my Anthony, God is the God of new chances.”

  Mom? No, not his mother. Her words spoken years ago. He hadn’t listened then.

  Tony’s brain cleared like a curtain had been swept away. Okay, God, I’m listening now. I’ll take one of those chances, if You’ll give me one. I’m Your boy from now on, whether I’ve got two seconds left or a hundred years.

  The thug who had his feet choked. He scrambled back down the stairs, pushing the other ahead of him.

  Feng snarled in Chinese.

  “I … can’t … go … closer.” The hired muscle gagged. “Too … hot. Stinks.” The man dropped Tony’s feet.

  “Use the pay loader,” Coble said. “You can dump him in from the bucket. If you stupid clowns just toss him by hand, you’re going to get splashed with boiling oil.”

  “Yeah!” This from the man who had Tony’s shoulders. “Thanks for the warning after we almost got burned.” The man let go of him.

  Tony’s head bounced on the floor. The room spun.

  Feng laughed. “If you’re so foolish, you deserve what you get. You won’t be needing first aid anyway.” He leveled the Glock on his hired help. “Can’t have too many witnesses to the murder of an FBI agent, and you two are brainless enough to get caught and talk.”

  The hirelings cursed and backed away. One’s gaze darted toward a barrel. Their AKs lay on top.

  “Not another step toward your weapons.” The gun cocked. “Ethan, drive the loader over here.”

  “M-me?”

  “Be thankful I have use for you after tonight.”

  Feet shuffled out of Tony’s line of vision. An engine ground, caught, then sputtered and died. The engine turned over again and rasped.

  Feng spewed more Chinese. “Stop! You oaf. You’ve flooded it.”

  Coble stepped into Tony’s view, stammering apologies. He passed between Feng and one of the hired thugs. The man lunged for his automatic. Feng turned and fired. Coble screamed. The thug jerked and went down, his automatic spitting in a ragged burst. Coble’s head bloomed into a red flower. Blood spattered Tony.

  The dead thug’s weapon skittered across the floor. Meranda snatched it up, teeth bared, eyes wild. She sprayed bullets, and the second thug jittered like a rag doll and collapsed.

  Silence rang. Bodies lay still.

  Feng lowered his gun. “Good work, my dear.”

  Meranda looked at him, face carved in ice. She squeezed the trigger. Feng duck-walked backward and slammed against a piece of machinery. Disbelief etched his marred face before his single eye went blank, and he crumpled to the floor. His gun slid within feet of Tony.

  Chills rushed through Tony’s body. These people had gone nuts and turned on one another, evil destroying itself, just like in one of those Old Testament Bible stories he’d been taught in Sunday school. The scenario was crazy. But it had happened … and he was still alive.

  He looked toward Meranda. Her white face glowed. She clutched the gun and stared at her handiwork. A queen surveying conquered territory.

  Tony raised himself on one elbow. “Everything’s all right now, baby. I don’t blame you for anything you did. Lay down the weapon and untie me. I can get you a good deal with the DA for saving my life.”

  She trained her gun on him. Her eyes flayed him. “Men are slime. My uncle taught me that when I was thirteen years old. Today, I go free.”

  “No, Meranda!”

  Tony rolled. Pain stitched his left leg and side. His bound hands found the Glock. He fired from the hip.

  Silence filled the car.

  Steve Crane swore long and low and hard. Oddly enough, the words didn’t seem like blasphemy, but like another man expressing the gaping wound of Tony’s soul.

  “So you shot her,” Crane said.

  “That’s right.” Slumped against his seat, Tony stared out the window. The scenery passed in a blur.

  Crane whistled. “Office scuttlebutt has that shoot-out a big free-for-all where one of our own came out the sole survivor. You’re a legend, you know.”

  Tony sat up. “I’m a what?”

  His partner returned his gaze. No mockery. “I figured you knew. Guess not. Probably because you bite the head off anyone who mentions the old case to you. The job’s done. Come get me.’ You recognize that statement?”

  Tony shook his head.

  Crane wheezed a chuckle. “That’s all you said when you called in. They’ve turned into Bureau buzzwords, like people spout Schwarzenegger’s ‘I’ll be back.’ Agents still talk about the team bursting in to find you covered in blood and sitting in Feng’s leather office chair like the CEO of the world.”

  “You’re making this up.”

  “Nope. When they transferred me, I was afraid I’d end up working alongside a schmuck with a big head.”

  “So that’s why you try so hard to bring me down?”

  The shadow of a grin lightened Crane’s face. “You’re not too dumb.”

  “I figure I’m a prize schmuck, like you said. The grace of God kept me alive.”

  “Maybe.” Crane shrugged. “More like the girl cared about you.”

  Tony glared at his partner. “How do you figure that? She hated men, and last I checked, I was a card-carrying male.”

  “Then explain why her aim was so good when taking out that goon and her uncle, but she just winged you.”

  “God.”

  “Have it your way.” Crane’s face closed up. He stared at the road.

  Tony sagged against the seat. Had Meranda loved him a little? A wonderful, terrible thought. If she cared, then their relationship hadn’t been a complete sham. But that meant he’d sent a woman to hell who’d still had a chance of recovering from her uncle’s abuse. Now he’d never know. His chin fell to his chest.

  Let it go! The words crackled.

  But—

  Let it go now!

  Yes, sir! His heart expanded.

  Tony exhaled a long breath and with it went five years of hurt he’d tried to wipe away on his own. He ch
uckled out loud. Thank You, Lord!

  His partner sent him a narrow-eyed look.

  Tony grinned. “So I bare my guts about an experience with God that changed my life, and then my hard-shelled partner zaps me with a truth that sets me free. How does it feel to be an instrument of the Lord?”

  Crane’s mouth fell open. A shiver passed through his body, as if Tony had thrown a bucket of cold water on him. Which, in a way, he had.

  Nothing like the finger of God to wake a guy up. Still grinning, Tony settled in to get some sleep.

  Tony jogged through the deserted park in the predawn hush. Only the birds were up. His sunrise hill lay ahead. Puffs of praise and short prayers came from his lips in time with his stride. The little woods closed around him, and he slowed to pick his way in the gloom.

  “Tony.” The soft voice hardly disturbed the air.

  Lord?

  No, a flesh and blood person. Desi!

  He halted and looked around. She sat as still as a tree shadow on a small bench beside the path. He could barely make her out. He approached with measured step. She stood to greet him. Her light perfume attracted him, as so much of her did, if only—

  “I’ve decided to trust you.”

  He stared at her. “Say that again?”

  She heaved a breath. “I’ve figured out that I’m nobody’s savior, including my own. I need help.”

  Hope leaped in Tony’s breast. He put a leash on it. “All right. What have you got for me? No holding back.”

  “I’m way past that. After yesterday …” A shudder ran through her slight body.

  Hands to yourself, Lucano. He crossed his arms.

  She paced as she talked about death threats and secret messages, hidden pictures and warnings from her father about the Chief. A slow burn snaked through Tony’s veins. Whoever this Chief joker is, he messed with the wrong woman. And I’m the guy who’s going to make sure he knows it.

  He let his arms fall to his sides. “So you didn’t report the location of the stolen paintings because you were afraid for your life.”

  “And the lives of my staff. But that wasn’t the whole reason.” She stared at the ground. “I couldn’t bring myself to betray my father as a thief.”

  “Okay, I can buy that.” High marks for honesty so far.