Adrienne Giordano

by Relentless Pursuit

  He stood motionless, his face unreadable. Not a grunt. Not a twitch of his lips. Nothing. For a solid minute, he simply stared at her. In the deepest part of her, she suspected he knew the self-flagellation taking place for letting him divert her attention. For letting him toss away her phone when she was needed.

  I can’t have this.

  Not with him.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “Kris, don’t get crazy. There was nothing you could have done.”

  “I should have been at work an hour ago.”

  He folded his arms. “Yeah, and the cars would still be gone. What are you gonna do? Put ten guys on the parking lot at all times?”

  She headed to the bathroom. “I have to go.”

  “This has nothing to do with us being together,” he called just as she shut the bathroom door.

  * * *

  The second he heard the shower, he dove for his phone. Got you now, fuckers.

  He punched the screen on his phone and brought up the website. A beautiful red blinking dot appeared and his pulse kicked into a rhythmic warning that an onslaught of adrenaline would soon be unleashed.

  After all the false starts and bullshit leads, he might catch these guys.

  Kristen’s car was on the move.

  Immediately, he called Monk and Bobby V. Together, they’d take Kristen’s P.O.S. car to recover her Aston.

  He hustled into the outer area of the suite and found Kristen’s key ring on the desk. This would get him into a boatload of trouble, but he’d beg forgiveness later. He worked the Aston key off the ring and shoved it in his pocket before heading back to the bedroom to finish dressing.

  He grabbed his shirt off the floor and buttoned it while jamming his feet into his shoes. Gotta go. Except the bathroom door opened and Kristen stepped out, wrapped in a towel, her hair combed, but still wet. No sneaking out now. Moving quickly to the closet, she glanced at him. “Where are you going?”

  You don’t want to know. Decision time. Should he tell her about the GPS? She loved that car. She’d want it back. But she’d also blow a gasket if he went after it. Yeah, he could see her insisting on letting the cops handle it.

  No dice.

  And then silence, huge and loud and drowning every thought raging inside his head, descended on the room. He looked at Kristen, found her suspicious gaze plastered to him.

  “Where are you going?”

  Quicker than he imagined she could move, she was on him, snatching his phone and viewing the screen.

  Caught.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s your car. Moving down Ocean Drive.”

  “What?”

  “Your car was vulnerable. I hid a tracking device on it.”

  It was not lost on him how incredibly stalkerish that sounded. He held up both hands. “Before this instance, I have never checked the car’s location. Not once. I haven’t invaded your privacy. It was a C.Y.A. thing in case the car got boosted.”

  She waggled the phone. “And what? Now you’re going to chase after my stolen car?”

  Yes. He remained silent.

  “No, Billy. You’re not. First, this could be dangerous. Aren’t these the people you think threw you to a gator? Second, we can turn the GPS information over to the police.” She held up three fingers. “Third, because I have no faith in your ability to stay out of this, I am ordering you, as a paid contractor for this hotel, not to get involved.”

  Ordering him? Really? After all the time they’d spent together, knowing his rebellious streak, that’s what she was going with? She was out of her mind. He slid the phone out of her hand and shoved it in his pants pocket before heading to the door.

  “Billy, did I make myself clear?”

  When he reached the door, he gripped the handle, let the cool expanse of it work into his hand. Part of him wanted to give in and tell her he’d stay out of it, but that would never work. He didn’t have it in him to stay out of it. He could give in on some things, but not this.

  He glanced back at her, still standing in the towel, her hair dripping wet. “Yeah, Kris, you made yourself clear.”

  * * *

  Damn him, Kristen thought as she barreled down the hallway to her office. Without a doubt, the man completely ignored her directive and was right now probably chasing down her Aston. So frustrating.

  Bad enough the car she adored, a car that, no matter how silly it might be, made her feel vibrant and sexy and forceful, was gone and now she had to worry about Billy getting hurt. Again. She rolled her head side to side to crack the stiffness in her neck.

  Damn him.

  Her cell phone rang. Dennis. “Hi, Den.”

  “The detectives are here. We’re in the security office.”

  “I’ll be right there. Have we contacted the owners of the vehicles?”

  “Two of them. We can’t find the others. We’re trying to keep it quiet.”

  A distinct impossibility with seven cars missing. She puckered her lips. “The other cars don’t belong to overnight guests?”

  “Nothing is coming up in the system.”

  “Okay. I’ll visit the senator’s brunch and see if the owners are there.”

  It would be her luck.

  “Where’s Billy?” Dennis asked.

  Good question. “Out. Try his cell.” Because he won’t answer my call. “Have you seen my father?”

  “He’s here and looking for you.”

  I’m sure he is. “Put him on please.”

  She waited the intolerable amount of time for Dennis to transfer the phone to her father. For the first time, she’d royally screwed up and deserved to be reprimanded. Not that her father would do that in front of staff members. He wasn’t that way. He was a tough boss, but not an abusive one. No. He’d save it for when they were alone. God help her—she’d never been the high-maintenance daughter and wasn’t about to start now.

  “Hi, Krissy,” her dad said and a flood of emotion pinched her throat and held until her eyes watered. She’d failed him. He’d handed her his billion-dollar hotel and she’d let him down by getting distracted.

  “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

  “Did you steal those cars?”

  Finally, the pinch in her throat eased. “I wasn’t available when it happened.”

  “And if you were, what would you have done? Thrown yourself on top of them? Krissy, I love you, but this isn’t about you. Get down here and let’s work this problem.”

  He was right. No time for self-pity. “I’m heading down to speak to the senator. I’ll see if the owners of the other cars are in his brunch.”

  “I’ll do that. I don’t need Ed Freeborn using my daughter for posturing in front of his friends. I got that son of a bitch re-elected. He won’t give me a hard time.”

  She couldn’t argue that. “Shall I go with you?”

  “No. You work with the detectives. Where’s Billy? It’s time to share what he’s found.”

  A fresh bout of panic seized her and she stilled. “Dad, please, no. Billy is out of the hotel. Plus, his investigation might have legal implications. For him. And maybe for us.”

  What the hell was she doing?

  As conflicted as she was, she didn’t want Billy winding up in jail because he tried to help. “Please. Let’s wait for him.”

  Wherever he is.

  * * *

  Billy strode through the lobby doors, still wearing last night’s clothes, his nine-millimeter tucked into his waist holster under his suit jacket. Monk and Bobby V. trailed along.

  “I’ll drive,” he said, handing his phone to Monk. “You watch that screen. It has the Aston’s location. You tell me where to go and we get the car back.”

  “Sounds simple enough,” Monk said as they made their way to the parking lot and Kristen’s P.O.S. sedan.

  Once settled, Billy slid the car into gear. “What street are they on?”

  Monk punched at the screen, probably to expand the map. “They’re going over the ca
useway.”

  “Which one?”

  “MacArthur.”

  Easy enough. Of course, they caught every red light on 5th Street and precious time vanished while they waited. He half considered blowing the lights, but with his luck, he’d get jacked up.

  Monk blew out a breath. “Crap.”

  “Crap what?”

  “They were on Northwest 20th, turned onto 10th and the signal is gone.”

  “Hang on a sec. Maybe it’ll come back.”

  “Or,” Bobby said, “They’re in a garage and the signal is blocked.”

  The final light before the causeway turned green and Billy pressed the gas. “Which wouldn’t be a bad thing, right?”

  “Not if you’re trying to steal a car back,” Monk said.

  Within fifteen minutes, they’d turned onto Northwest 20th, a long, garbage littered four-lane street lined with warehouses and broken down buildings. Any intact windows were covered with bars, the remaining boarded up.

  The plus side? For a four-lane thoroughfare, the area was relatively quiet. It being Sunday in a clearly industrial area had something to do with it. Billy slowed the car as he approached the next block and hung a left.

  One pass on the narrow street revealed a pallet yard on one side and a single story warehouse on the other. Farther down was a two-story warehouse. Not one other car traveled along this road. Billy waited for Monk to tell him which building might be holding Kristen’s Aston.

  “It’s gotta be this building on the corner. Let’s park and take a look.”

  Billy swung another left and traveled away from their intended target. Half a block down, he found a paved drive that led between two buildings. He’d just tuck the car in there and it would look like someone had come in to work on the weekend.

  And, hopefully, someone wouldn’t actually come to work on the weekend and wonder who the hell left their car there.

  He couldn’t worry about it.

  The three of them walked back to the suspected building, a squat white cement structure with a loading dock at the back. One side entrance. One in front that he could see. No vehicles outside. If the Aston was inside this warehouse, the driver either left in another car or was still inside.

  Billy glanced around the side of the building. No windows, but the ones that ran along the back and the front of the building by the roofline. No help there.

  They’d have to risk going in blind.

  Noise from the adjacent street, a truck braking hard, caught his attention and he tugged both of them behind the building. The noise slipped away and he nodded to the guys.

  Monk dragged his lock-picking tools out of the pocket of his cargo shorts and handed each of them a pair of latex gloves. That Monk. Always the Boy Scout, always prepared.

  Monk quietly eased the door open and they listened for voices inside.

  Nothing.

  They waited another minute. Still quiet. Billy breathed in, held it for a second and exhaled while his heart banged inside his chest. Crazy adrenaline got him every time. For him, it was worse than an illegal substance and highly addictive. He did his best to quiet the chaos in his body.

  Finally, he nodded at his cohorts and circled his finger in the air. Time to go.

  One by one, they squeezed through the door. The frigid air-conditioned air blasted Billy. Weapon drawn, he crept down the short entry hall, sticking close to the wall, Monk and Bobby in tow. At the end, he stopped. Listened. When he heard nothing, he peeped around the side of the wall and nearly pissed himself.

  “Wow,” he mouthed.

  Not twenty feet in front of him sat three rows of—Billy did a fast count—six cars. Big-time cars. Mercedes, Jaguars, BMWs, a Ferrari. His gaze shot to a Bentley in the middle row and the energy devouring his body exploded. Nearly blew the back of his skull right off. He gripped his weapon tighter and willed himself to stand still while scanning the remainder of the building.

  “Let’s clear it,” Monk whispered, and Billy nodded before stepping into the main area of the warehouse.

  Using hand signals, he directed Monk and Bobby to the opposite side and rear of the building. He’d take the front. Given the timing, if the Aston was here, it would most likely be in the front row.

  Crouched and moving toward the front, Billy spied an office along the side wall. Lights out. Nobody home. He’d get to that in a minute. They’d hit it lucky that the structure was basically a big open area with no obvious hiding places.

  Seemed like whoever owned this building had one thing in mind. Storing cars.

  And—oh, baby—there sat Kristen’s Aston. The plates had been removed, but he knew that car. He’d thought about Kristen and that car in many different ways. Many different ways.

  He passed a Mercedes and noticed paperwork on the front passenger seat. He tried the front door. Open. Without disturbing the papers sitting on the seat, he studied them. A car title sat on top. Not that he recognized the name, but he made the wild, but most likely accurate assumption that the title was fake. Efficient little bastards. For posterity, and for whatever other reason he’d come up with, Billy snapped a picture of the title with his phone. Couldn’t hurt. Then he got a shot of the VIN number. He’d check it out later.

  Monk approached from the rear with Bobby trailing behind. “We’re clear. What have you got?”

  Billy jerked his chin. “Paperwork on the front seat. It’s a title. I’m guessing fake. I got a shot of it and the VIN number.”

  “There’s Kristen’s car,” Monk, the car lover, said.

  “We gotta find the button to open the bay door. I’m driving it out of here.”

  “Does it have a key in it?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I swiped Kristen’s key.”

  “Billy is a bad boy,” Bobby shot.

  “Yeah, well…”

  And suddenly, they didn’t have to worry about finding the button because the bay door made a creaking sound and started to rise.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Immediately, almost in unison, the three of them pointed their weapons and, with a lack of viable hiding places, hauled ass to the rear of the building and the back door. As he flew through the doorway, his head pounding like a wrecking ball, all Billy could hope was no bad guys would be found on the other side.

  Still, they had bad guys inside and he was damned close to getting Kristen’s car back. A stack of pallets sat in the open area on the side of the building. Good cover spot for spying.

  Billy nodded toward the stack and the guys followed. One way or another, he was driving Kristen’s car out of here. Even if it meant disabling someone.

  The rumbling of a truck engine drew closer—no, no, no—and a not so gentle panic ripped into him.

  Son of a bitch.

  He nosed around the side of the pallets and spotted a truck backing into the loading bay. Not one of those car-transporting trucks. This one had a shipping container on it.

  Monk made a low grunting sound and Billy spun to him. “Telling you right now, if they load her car on there, I’m jumping into that truck. Somehow, some way. These fuckers are not taking that car.”

  “Chill. Let’s see what they’re doing.”

  And sure enough, the driver, a fifty-something guy wearing jeans and an ancient black T-shirt, jumped out of the cab and pushed the rear door on the container up. He stepped inside and squatted to slide two tire-width portable ramps into place.

  Unfortunately for Billy, the quiet roar of the engine on Kristen’s Aston filled his head.

  His mind went all kinds of crazy working different scenarios on how to take out the guy in the truck and the Aston’s driver. Monk could take the truck driver. Billy could handle the Aston while Bobby gave cover.

  Billy worked his bullshit scenarios while the Aston was squared away and the young, maybe mid-twenties, guy who’d loaded it jumped off the truck.

  “Come inside a second,” he told the driver.

  To Billy’s vast pleasure, the driver left the rear door p
artially open while he went into the warehouse.

  Now.

  “I’m jumping in,” Billy said. “Follow behind and when the truck stops, slide the door up.”

  “What?” Monk in his best Daddy voice.

  “Don’t ask me what I’m doing. I don’t have an effing clue. You gotta get that door open though. If they lock it, I’m screwed.”

  “And what?” Monk huffed. “You’re gonna drive the car off a moving truck?”

  “Just get the door open.”

  Billy tore off to the side of the building where he swung his head around the corner. No jag-offs in sight. Nothing. Three seconds later, he leaped into the back of the container truck and squeezed into the car to hide. He scooted low into the driver’s seat, his knees knocking against the steering column. With any luck, the driver wouldn’t get back into the container and spot him.

  A minute later, Billy heard voices from outside and the sound of the container door ratcheting down.

  Success.

  When darkness descended, he closed his eyes, reopened them and let them adjust.

  He squeezed out of the car, slid along the wall to the front of the car, felt for the bricks behind the tires and removed them.

  With nothing else to do, he planted his ass against the driver’s side door, one hand on the mirror to steady him, and waited for the truck to come to a stop.

  Within minutes, heat saturated the container and reminded Billy just how much he despised dark, enclosed places. Tight, airless spaces that made his lungs ache and sucked the moisture from his body. Drops of sweat trickled down the side of his face and he rubbed his cheeks against each shoulder. The smell of his own sweat in the stagnant air made his throat burn. Relax. He breathed through his nose, felt the sting of it and let it out his mouth.

  Think about the plan. The truly fucked up plan that had him driving Kristen’s hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar car off of a moving truck.

  He was sure to get killed.

  Worse, he’d total the car. Then she’d really be pissed. But he’d be dead. What would it matter?

  The distinctive lurch of the truck downshifting jostled him and he grabbed the side mirror to steady himself.

  Please stop this thing long enough for my boys to open the door. With the traffic lights on the main drag, they’d have the opportunity.