He had no doubt they’d be back there. One thing about Monk, he might be a pain in the ass, but he’d never leave a teammate. Even if that teammate occasionally pissed him off. Well, more than occasionally.
Billy took more of the hot, stifling air into his straining lungs and suddenly, the truck lurched forward. The driver must have slammed the brakes. Again Billy hung on to the mirror so he didn’t fly into the front of the container, alert the driver and possibly crack his skull.
And then, like a saving beacon, light shafted into the container and the door slid up. Bobby V. stood there, a big-ass grin on his face, and saluted. Billy had to laugh. Had to.
Before the truck moved—must be stuck at a light—Billy glanced out, got his bearings. Still on the four-lane road. Good. At least he wouldn’t be trying this stunt going eighty. He scanned the opposite two lanes behind the truck. Light to medium traffic in both directions. As long as Monk held back far enough, Billy might pull this off.
From his pocket, for the hundredth time, his phone vibrated. He knew who that was and he wasn’t answering. Kristen would have to wait to yell at him. With any luck, he’d get splattered and wouldn’t have to worry about it.
Quickly, he grabbed one of the portable ramps. The thing had some heft to it. Good news, bad news. They wouldn’t bounce around too much, but they’d be loud as hell scraping against the pavement. Unless the truck driver had the radio up or was afflicted with sudden deafness, he would hear the noise. Too late to ponder a plan B. They had to go for it. Besides there were three of them and only one driver.
Billy jerked his chin. “Grab that end.”
Working together, they aligned the ramp with the driver’s side tires and hooked it into place off the back of the truck. Done. Within seconds, they had the other side done and Bobby hauled ass back to the P.O.S. car where Monk, of course, shook his head.
The truck started moving, sending sparks of metal flying off the roadway and—yep—a loud scraping noise. Hopefully that sudden onset deafness had occurred. Otherwise, Billy was burned. Still, by the time the guy got the truck into park and checked his cargo, Billy would be driving off.
He retrieved Kristen’s car key from his pocket, squeezed into the driver’s side and fired the engine. Now he had to back this baby out.
Bring in the chaplain. He was about to get grinded.
He shifted the car to reverse, tested the gas pedal to see how touchy it was and squeezed the steering wheel. “Nice and slow, Billy boy. She loves this ride.”
A glance at the rearview told him Monk had done the smart thing and given him plenty of room behind the truck for this baby to go ballistic. He eased his foot onto the gas and kept his gaze glued to that rearview. The next group of cars was just far enough back that if he could get safely off this thing, they wouldn’t be an issue. They were gaining though.
Brain-searing panic hit him and a thousand little flickers shot up his arms. Sweat pooled under his palms and he hit the brakes, jerking the car to a stop. What if the ramps had lost their alignment when the truck started moving?
Nah. Monk would be signaling.
He checked the rearview again and got his second beacon of the day. This one from Bobby, waving him back.
Thank you.
Billy counted to three, focused on his breathing and pressed the gas. Suddenly, the sun’s rays poured onto the dashboard, the heat filling the car. He swung his head left and right, checking all the mirrors. Behind him, his boys waved him on while his heart nearly detonated.
If he survived this, he might drop dead of a stroke.
The truck began to slow, but with the Aston half way down the ramps, Billy kept his foot on the gas and checked the rearview. Traffic creeped up and Monk waved his free hand at a furious pace.
“Yeah, buddy, I know, but I’m crapping my pants here.”
Another two feet.
One and a half.
One.
He pressed the gas and the car lurched off the ramps. Billy’s gaze flew to the mirrors because—holy shiznet—he was going backward while everyone else was coming forward. He braked, jammed the car into drive and shot into the left lane as the truck driver eased toward the side of the road.
Billy stared at the open road in front of him while every nerve ending sparked and the little voice screamed go, go, go.
“Hot damn.” He banged his hand on the steering wheel because, yes, folks, he’d just pulled that sucker off.
Cruising by the truck, he stuck his left arm out the open window and flipped his middle finger up.
“Take that, asshole!”
Sorry, Ma.
Behind him, following in the left lane, Monk and Bobby caught up and, to Billy’s vast amusement, stuck their arms out and gave the truck driver a double flip-off.
Friends were so important these days.
Billy laughed, but it was time to let Kristen’s mega-expensive car show him what it could do.
The buzz of his phone filled the much-appreciated silence within the car. Billy contemplated not answering. It would surely be Kristen and he’d be back to Dante in ten minutes anyway.
But when had he turned into a wuss afraid of a smackdown? He might have the hots for Kristen Dante, but he wasn’t afraid of her.
Not much anyway.
“Hi,” he said.
“What are you doing?”
There’s that question again.
“I’m on my way back. With your car.”
“What?”
“Yeah and you’re welcome.”
“Billy! I just reported it stolen.”
That might be a problem, since he was driving it. And it didn’t have any plates. “Is that detective there? Wilson?”
“Yes, but he’s about to leave.”
“Well, tell him to cancel the BOLO on the car so I don’t get stopped. That would be a tad awkward. I’ll see you in a few. Tell him to call me. I got some info he’s gonna need.”
Then he did the only thing a smart guy could.
He hung up.
* * *
Kristen stood under the large canopy covering Dante’s circle drive waiting for Billy.
One foot tap, tap, tapped against the sidewalk as she pondered all the different ways she could kill him.
True, he was a trained operative, but she might be able to drive her four-inch spike of a heel through his brain. That would hurt.
Damn him and his ego. This was retaliation for the gator. And they both knew it.
Which only proved to her that she had lost her mind by getting involved with him. In South Beach, in her own family, for that matter, she was surrounded by egomaniacs. By people who wanted nothing but the next adventure. She was so sick of it. Give her normal, nine-to-five, boring people and she’d be happy.
Ecstatic even.
At the same time, she wanted to wrap the big lug of a man in her arms. The dope cared enough about her to risk his life and go chasing after her car—a stupid piece of machinery—because he knew she cherished it.
And then her beloved Aston, looking every bit of its sexy self, came into view and her throat clogged. Whether that clog had anything to do with the man driving it, she couldn’t risk knowing.
Not after she’d spent the last fifty-eight minutes worrying about him.
He parked the car in front of her, got out and her bottled angst broke free. There he was, wrinkled suit, screwy hair, but otherwise in one solid piece.
She turned away, smacked at her cheeks with both hands to focus on anything but crying.
“Kris?”
Time to kill him. She spun and made a beeline. “You shouldn’t have done this crazy thing. You could have gotten killed.”
He drew his eyebrows together. “You love this car.”
“That’s not the point!”
He waved her off. “Yell at me later. The plates are gone. Maybe they’re in the trunk. Not that I think they are, because you’d have to be a real dumbass to steal a car and then put the original plates in th
e trunk, but hey, you never know.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
He popped the trunk. “Whoa.”
Angling her head, she stared at him. “The plates?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“Sweet thing, why do you have titanium alloy sleeves in your trunk?”
Kristen stared into her trunk. Titanium alloy? “Those aren’t mine. What are they?”
“I’m sure they have multiple uses, but in my experience, they’re for Iranian centrifuges used in making enriched uranium.”
Despite the seventy-degree temperature, a cold, icy panic settled in her bones. She folded her arms against the chill and dreamed of burrowing into one of her sweaters. Enriched uranium? “Nuclear weapons?”
Billy shut the trunk. “Let’s keep our voices down, shall we?”
“That cannot be.”
He grabbed her arm, inched closer to her ear. “Kris, I don’t know. I opened the trunk and there they are. I’ll tell ya though, the idea of these guys stealing cars so they can smuggle titanium alloy sleeves to the Middle East? Not effing crazy. That would be huge money. And they’d still get paid on the cars. It’s double dipping at its best.”
“I don’t understand.”
Billy guided her to the sidewalk. “Get Dennis to put a guard down here. Nobody touches the Aston. Wilson needs to come and take a look at it. I gave him the warehouse address and he’s working on that.”
“What warehouse?”
“The cars. We followed your Aston to a warehouse. There’s a bunch of high-end cars there. Fake titles on the seats. At least I think they’re fake. One of the cars looked like yours, but it was titled to someone else. I got a picture and sent it to Wilson. He needs to get a warrant to search the place.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa. “Slow down. You found the cars?”
Billy rolled his eyes, led her away from the brunch crowd entering the hotel. “I think I found the cars. I don’t know if Wilson can use the pictures for a warrant though. Technically, they were obtained illegally.”
“Because you broke in. After I specifically asked you to stay out of it?”
He held up a finger. “First off, you didn’t ask. You ordered. I chose not to follow that order.”
Damn him. Her own incessant warnings about not getting involved with him converged and her head nearly shattered.
But Billy didn’t get it. No. He was busy dialing his phone. “Who are you calling?”
“Wilson needs to know about these sleeves in your trunk.” He turned away from her, waved at Peter and Bobby waiting in her sedan. The one Billy thought was so boring. “And then I’m gonna talk to Bradley J. Murphy.”
For the hundredth time today, Kristen thought she might bludgeon him. She held her hands out, her fingers straining into claws. “What is it going to take to get through to you? These people fed you to a gator. God knows what else could happen now that you’ve stolen a car back. Do you want to get killed?”
“Relax.”
“And what about Peter and Bobby? If you’re stupid enough to get killed, they shouldn’t be sacrificed as well.”
“They love this crap.” Dropping his head back, he sighed then came back to her. “Kristen, I hear what you’re saying. I do. But the lid is about to come off this thing. Wilson, I’m guessing, can’t do dick because most of the information I have was illegally obtained. The way to put an end to this circus is to get somebody to flip. That somebody is either Alex or Bradley J. My money is on Bradley J. He’s got the paper trail. Now, get a guard on this car and make sure nobody touches it.”
With that, he turned and headed for the boring sedan.
“Billy!”
He kept walking, jumped into the backseat of her sedan and didn’t spare her another glance. Unbelievable. How was she supposed to deal with a man who wrestled gators and stole cars? Every day with him would be a missile launch.
She couldn’t do it.
Simple as that.
Blowing out a breath, she dialed Dennis and told him to have a security guard watch her Aston until the police could get to it. Upon finishing the call, she turned and saw Reed Davis rushing through the lobby doors. She checked the time on her phone. Reed held a standing ten o’clock brunch reservation. At 10:15 a.m., the chances of him being done with his meal were nil.
Kristen glanced at the valet stepping out of a Jaguar and watched as the keys were handed off to Reed. For his car to be retrieved that fast, he must have alerted the staff he’d be leaving.
Reed Davis was in a hurry.
Where would he be going? If Billy’s suspicions about Reed being involved with this car-theft ring where correct, Reed would know the Aston had been stolen back.
He spotted the car sitting on the curve of the drive and for a brief second, hesitated. Anyone else may have missed it, but not Kristen.
Then Reed’s gaze leveled on her and a sharp pinch landed between her shoulder blades. Uncertain of what to do, she smiled at him, held her frozen hand in greeting.
He nodded, slid into the car and cruised down the driveway.
If Reed was involved with this theft ring, he could be trying to flee. Billy was off chasing Murphy, the police hadn’t arrived to search the Aston yet and Reed Davis was simply driving away.
Her warnings to Billy about leaving this to the police whispered—nagged—at her, but this was the man who may have thrown Billy to a gator.
And he was getting away.
A black Town Car was parked in the drive. Spiked heels notwithstanding, she ran toward the valet and pointed to the car.
“Is that one of ours?”
“Yes. The driver just came in. He’s taking it out again and told me to hang onto the keys.”
Excellent.
“Give me the keys.”
“Ma’am?” Eddie said.
“I need the keys, Eddie. Quickly.”
Eddie stared for half a second, clearly confused, but passed off the keys. She darted to the Town Car. With the traffic lights, Reed couldn’t have gotten that far ahead of her. She floored it out of the driveway, the front end scraping along the road when she reached the street. Roaring up Ocean Drive, she spotted Reed’s car two ahead of her, stopped at the light on 5th.
Her heartbeat slammed and she squeezed the steering wheel, waited a few seconds and released her grip.
What am I doing?
But she had him. Wherever he was going, she was going with him.
* * *
Billy tapped the screen on his phone and found a blinking red light. “He’s on the move. Downtown. Over the causeway we go.”
“On it,” Monk said.
“Okay, he’s close. Just got on Biscayne Boulevard. Take the northeast 13th Street exit. We’ll hit Biscayne from there.”
Bradley J.’s signal led to 4th Avenue. Monk parked at the end of the street while they did a quick recon and waited for Bradley to leave his car, which he’d parked in front of a small two-story building snuggled between a design store and another warehouse.
Finally, Bradley J. exited his car, walked to the door, unlocked it and went in.
“Let’s hit it,” Billy said. “Park around this corner. We’ll walk it. Doesn’t look like any windows on the building. We’ll have to go in blind.”
“Doesn’t that sound fun?” Monk said.
“Wha, wha.”
Bobby snorted when Monk flipped Billy the bird.
Before they reached the door, Bobby split off to check the back of the building. At the front door, Billy stood to the side while Monk placed his hand on the door. In a soft voice, Billy counted down three, Monk whipped open the door and Billy swung in with Monk on his heels, weapons drawn. They’d done this hundreds of times, like a choreographed dance, sometimes flawless and others, well, those times they were usually met with flying bullets.
No bullets this time.
Sitting at a desk on the far right side, was Bradley J., who leaped out of his chair, his face stretch
ed in surprise. Most likely, he’d pissed himself. Billy took some satisfaction in that.
Moving forward, gun aimed, Billy slid his gaze around the empty space and found bare cement walls and a cat walk on the second story. That was it. What the hell? The desk was the only item in there.
“Sit,” he said
“You’re screwing up. You want my wallet? Take it and get out.”
The man had a set of stones on him. “No wallet. I’m about to save your ass.”
* * *
Kristen got stuck at a light in the Design District, but spotted Reed Davis turn onto 4th Avenue.
Tapping her fingers, she counted down the seconds in her head. “Come on light.”
When the light turned, she cruised to 4th. Hello. There was her sedan parked out of sight from the remainder of the block, where a woman stood on the corner with a stroller. Kristen made the left and saw Reed get out of his Jaguar. He’d parked in front of a vacant lot across from a warehouse. Another car was parked directly across from Reed’s. Bradley J. Murphy’s? Billy had said he was going after the lawyer.
Billy and his pack of merry men could be in that building. The one Reed Davis was about to walk into.
Dammit. A curling panic squeezed her stomach. Without a doubt, Billy, Monk and Bobby were armed. But how many other people were in that warehouse and also armed?
She should call 9-1-1.
Shouldn’t she?
And tell them what? That she thought a man running a car theft ring, which she had no proof of, was having a meeting.
The police would think she was a mental case.
She needed to do something. Wilson. Tearing her gaze from the building, she grabbed her phone off the seat and checked her contact list for Wilson’s number.
Voice mail.
Of course. She left him a message with the location. At the very least, she’d have communicated it to someone. She set the phone in the center console and rested both hands on the steering wheel to get her thoughts together.
A sharp rap hit her window and her heart lurched. She yelped, then stared into the barrel of a gun.
“Out of the car,” the large, make that humungous, linebacker of a man said.
His looks alone scared the hell out of her. He had one of those pockmarked faces she used to see in comic books. His age, she guessed, would be around forty, but he’d lost most of the dark hair on his head.
Adrienne Giordano Page 27