by Desiree Holt
Yeah, I’ll bet, Marcus thought as he shook hands.
“Thanks for coming in.” Grey indicated the other empty chair. “Have a seat. Brad here seems to have a little problem again and hopes we can help him with it.”
Marcus eased himself into the chair and crossed one leg over the other, resting his foot on the opposite knee. He looked at Grey as if to say, Okay, what kind of shit is this guy handing us now?
“What kind of problem?”
“We’re tracking a gunrunning operation in Baltimore,” Brad told him, “and we can’t seem to get a handle on it. The guy is supplying gangs and cartels.”
“Well, shit.” Marcus spat the words out. He hated gangs and cartels, and the mixture was over-the-top lethal. He was well aware of the spread of gangs and drug cartels, and cartels often recruiting from the gangs. In addition, the cartels had connected with terrorists infiltrating the country, often serving as their main source of weapons.
“Brad and his people managed to identify the primary supplier of firearms, but nailing it down has presented a huge problem. We can’t even discover where he’s stashing the money. He’s either very smart or he’s hiding it in his backyard.”
“How did you stumble onto it?”
“We knew someone was doing it. In the past year, the supply of arms and firepower on the streets to gangs and the cartels has increased tenfold.”
“They got lucky and hit the mother lode,” Grey broke in. “Baltimore cops arrested a foot soldier in one of the gangs who the DEA knows has been courted by the Vicario cartel. Lucky for us he had a bunch of burner phones in his car. They all had multiple calls to and from a specific number. That phone was sold as merchandise to a computer store but never resold. We think the owner is the dealer, but we can’t catch this guy with the goods. Besides, these guys are worse than the CIA. They use codes for everything, so the location they mention could actually mean someplace else.”
“But at least,” Grey said, “if it sounded like they were making a connection, we could try to gear up for it.”
“There has to be a place where he takes delivery and distributes the merchandise,” Marcus said.
“That’s what we’re trying to find, but the guy is slipperier than soap. If we could find out when his shipments arrive and which ones are the most likely to have the arms hidden in them, we could get a warrant to examine the cargo. We can’t pay someone to sit at the waterfront twenty-four/seven, so it’s been hit or miss.”
“They’re done with the phones?” Marcus asked.
Brad nodded. “When we caught the guy, his arrest shut that system down. Now they aren’t even using the phones, so we’re screwed. We have to find out their method of information exchange.”
“If they aren’t using them anymore, how do they communicate?”
“Ah. That’s the question of the hour. We managed to tap into one of the burners sold to the computer store, one of the ones we think the owner is using.”
“Did you get anything from it? Any ideas about what they’re doing next?”
Grey and Brad exchanged a look.
“As a matter of fact,” Grey told him, “yes, we think we have one.”
Brad leaned forward. “We got our hands on a snitch who wanted to trade info to let him go. We told him it had to be worth it. He told us about this place called Pat’s Irish Pub. Said someone new started there about the time we grabbed up all the burner phones, and the dealer was using them to pass information. Did it on the busiest nights so they could get lost in the shuffle.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Did he say how? That seems a little risky to me.”
“Apparently, the gang contact started hanging out there for whatever reason, and Mitchell uses the employee to pass the info.”
“I still say risky. But, okay, what’s the deal?”
“You’ll think it might be possible when we tell you who we think it is. Mitchell owns a nice duplex. Lives in one side, rents out the other. A few months ago, he leased the other side to a woman of about thirty who is now working as a bartender at a very popular neighborhood pub. She started about the same time we cut off his other means of communication.”
Marcus lifted an eyebrow. ”So what?”
“So how hard is it for him to give her the info and for her to slip it to some guy at the bar along with his drink? Slick as a whistle, right?”
“And the gang member? Have you got an identification on him.”
Brad made a face. “The guy told us there are four gang members who do this, every week a different one, and he actually gave us their names. We made a visual identification. Based on what the snitch said, I’ve had someone sitting in the bar, but he almost missed it, it was so crowded in there.”
“Did he follow the gang member?”
Brad made a rude noise. “And nearly got killed for it. Since then, we sent two men in undercover. Both were made and ended up shot. We need someone who doesn’t even smell like a fed who can go in and not be made.”
Marcus lifted his eyebrows. “Doing what? You don’t have enough men at ATF?”
“That’s where you come in,” Grey told him. “But not the way you think.”
Marcus raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t understand.”
“We want you to watch the female bartender. Keep a very careful eye on her on the weekend and see if you can spot the deal.”
“I agree with Brad,” Grey broke in. “It seems funny that right after we picked up the guy with all the phones she shows up out of nowhere, goes to work at the pub, and rents the other side of the dealer’s duplex. We need someone to go in and check it out.”
Marcus looked from one man to the other. “You want me to beat it out of her?” He knew that wasn’t the plan, but he needed them to be specific.
Brad snorted. “Not hardly.”
“Here’s the deal.” Grey leaned forward. “The bar is a neighborhood Irish pub. Your mother was Irish. The girl is Irish. We thought you could roll into Baltimore on your big hog, drop in at the bar. Tell them you asked about an Irish pub because of your heritage and people suggested this place.”
“And then…what? Won’t she think it strange if I just hang out around there? Don’t I have a job? Someplace to be?”
“No.” Grey shook his head. “You finished your tour in Afghanistan and are taking some time off before you decide what to do with the rest of your life. That’s close enough to the truth. You don’t have to romance her, for god’s sake. Just hang out and pay attention.”
“And if intimate opportunities present themselves,” Brad added, “take full advantage. It’s amazing what people get from pillow talk.”
Marcus was not going to seduce someone to get information. There were other ways he could make this work, but he didn’t want to argue now.
“You’re exactly who we need for this,” Grey told hm. “You fit the profile perfectly.”
“What profile?” What the hell?
“ Returning military. Road soldier. The Collins family who owns the place is big on the military.”
“Even military who look like refugees from a bikers’ club?”
“They get all kinds of people in there,” Grey assured him. “You have a real knack for getting close to people and getting them to spill their secrets.”
“That’s what we need.” Brad shifted in his chair. “The secrets.”
Grey leaned forward. “I don’t have to tell you how critical this is. Hundreds of arms of all kinds are being processed through this guy to the worst element you can imagine. I’m sure he’s not the only one, but, right now, he is a major supplier. We need to get him shut down.”
Marcus looked from one to the other. Then he shrugged.
“Okay. But like always, Grey, I do this my way.” He glared at Brad. “I don’t need daily orders on how to do my job.”
“There’s a high degree of urgency here,” Brad began.
Grey held up his hand. “You call the shots, Marcus. It’s your gig.”
“And ours, if you fail,” Brad added in a nasty tone.
Marcus bit back the words that rose at once, gritting his teeth to keep from saying something he might regret..
“Okay. Give me all the info and my expense money. I’ll leave in the morning.”
Chapter Three
The pub was jammed as it always was on Thursday night. Not only was Paddy, Tris’s son, working along with Ailis, Paddy’s sister who waitressed, but Tristan himself was helping behind the bar. Every seat at every table was taken, including some spillover from Sunday’s Side, all the barstools were occupied, and people stood wedged between the stools. Thursday had become as busy as the weekend.
“It’s the music,” Tris told her as he slid behind her to get something. “Always brings people out.”
And they certainly came to see Jana Workman and Finch Daly, two young people calling themselves The Two of Us. They had started working there the weekend before Mary was hired, and she really looked forward to their music. The duo lived in the neighborhood and attended the University of Maryland Baltimore campus, but both were music nuts and had been singing together “for fun,” they said since high school. Tris always put out a tip jar for them, and the patrons were generous. Mary had a sense their finances were stretched tight, and the money they made here made a big difference to them. The best part, she often thought, was they were really, really good.
They also brought in a lot of new customers, most of whom Tristan told her were probably from the university. Mary thought he was probably right, although some of them were older than she’d expect, and a few looked a little rough around the edges. Although, what she did know was people went to school at all ages these days.
The duo had just finished “Tennessee Whiskey” by Chris Stapleton when the bell over the door rang. Mary looked up as she handed two black and tans across the bar and nearly dropped the glasses. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought the model from her motorcycle jackets poster had just walked through the door. Big was the first thing she thought. Then sexy. Then wow! Just wow! A very brief vision flashed in her brain of herself laid out on his motorcycle seat as he pounded into her whiles sucking her nipples.
Holy mother!
She had wished for the poster to come to life, and here, in the flesh, was the image of the guy she lusted. She figured him for well over six feet, with streaky dark-blond hair just to his collar. His T-shirt and jeans were molded to a figure that screamed sculpted muscles, and his feet were shoved into worn biker boots. She knew two things right off the bat—she was seized by an insane desire to strip off all his clothes and run her hands over every inch of his body, and he’d never been here before. He looked around, obviously searching for a place to sit down.
“Mary, are you frozen in place like a statue, darlin’?” Tristan’s rich voice pierced her state of insanity.
“Oh.” She blinked. “Oh! Sorry, Tris. I was just, um, checking the crowd to make sure everyone’s taken care of.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Don’t try to kid a kidder. Just try not to drool in the customers’ glasses.”
She actually felt herself blush. She, Mary McCoy, high-powered public relations expert and temporary barmaid, wasn’t ever given to blushing.
“Not drooling,” she muttered, but she had to ask the waitress to repeat the order she’d just given her.
Ignoring Tris’s low laugh, she moved up and down the bar filling orders, pulling taps, mixing drinks, opening bottles, refilling the bowls of nuts. But all the time, she was acutely conscious of Mr. Motorcycle. He had managed to make his way to the end of the bar and squeeze into a standup spot. She raked her gaze over him head to toe, drinking in all those muscles again, and damn! Was that a bulge she saw at his fly? Was his package so big that even at rest it was there?
Somehow, she managed to yank her gaze upward again and smile at him.
“Welcome to Pat’s Irish Pub. What can I get for you?”
“I don’t suppose you’d be Pat, would you?”
His voice was low and husky, his beautiful lips tilted up in a half smile. He had eyes the most incredible blue, ringed with lashes so thick it was a shame to waste them on a man. A square jaw and high cheekbones gave his face a raw masculine look, but those eyes and those lips told her there was a softer side to this man, too.
“I didn’t think that was such a difficult question.” She realized he was smiling at her. “Shall I ask it again?”
Giving herself a swift mental kick in the ass, she brought herself back to reality.
“Um, no, that honor belongs to the gentleman holding court at the middle of the bar. What can I get you to drink?
“I don’t suppose you have any Murphy’s Irish Red stout, would you?”
“Is the name of this place Pat’s Irish Pub? Coming right up.”
She grabbed a bottle from beneath the counter, popped the top, and set it down in front of him, along with a glass.
“Glasses are for sissies,” he teased, lifted the bottle and took a healthy swallow.
“It’s a good thing I grew up working this bar,” Tris said in a low voice form behind her. “Otherwise, I might not be able to cover my shift and yours.”
“Oh!” She jumped. “I’m sorry, Tris.” She looked at Mr. Motorcycle, mumbled, “Excuse me,” and went to see who needed what along the bar while Tris handled the orders from the waitress.
Ten minutes later, she had worked her way down to his end of the bar again. The man on the end stool moved over to join friends at a table, dragging an extra chair from against the wall with him, so Mr. Motorcycle claimed the stool.
Good. That means he’s staying for a while.
Holy shit! What am I thinking? I don’t even know the guy. He could be a rapist or a murderer.
But she didn’t think so. She was pretty good at reading people, and he didn’t give off those kinds of vibes. And god help her, when he hefted himself onto the stool, her eyes had automatically gone to the bulge in his crotch. Was his cock really pressing against the fabric? How big was he, anyway?
The bottle of Murphy’s Irish Red was still half full. She was glad to see he wasn’t the type to just slug it down. Looking for something to do so she didn’t have to walk away just yet, she pulled a small bowl from the shelf beneath the bar and filled it with mixed nuts. Then she slid it over in front of him.
As she leaned forward a little, she caught a whiff of his aftershave, something clean with a vague scent of the ocean. It was the faintest, lightest hint, but it made her hormones leap to life and start jitterbugging. And the inner walls of her pussy tightened as if seeking his cock to grab onto.
Ohmigod! What is the matter with me?
She took a step back and inhaled a breath to steady herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a sexual fantasy in her dreams, never mind awake. Maybe that was her problem. Whatever. She needed to get a grip so the entire bar didn’t get to witness her attack of horniness.
“Hey, Mary,” one of the regulars sitting next to him said. “Do I get one of those, too?”
Cheeks flaming, she nudged the bowl over so it was between the two of them.
“Learn to share, Tommy.”
“I’ll always share with you, sweetheart.” He grinned and popped a handful of nuts into his mouth.
Mary hated the heat creeping up her cheeks again. She didn’t think she’d blushed in the last ten years, and in the last ten minutes she’d done it twice.
Damn!
She took a quick look up and down the bar and saw that everyone was good.
“So,” she said to Mr. Motorcycle, “this is your first time in here.”
“You know everyone who comes into this place?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“Pretty much. Although The Two of Us has been bringing in some new faces.” She nodded toward the stage.
“They any good?”
Mary stared at him and frowned. “Of course they’re good. Pat wouldn’t have them in here other
wise.”
“Hey, Mary.” She turned as someone a few stools away hollered to her. “How about a refresher. I could ask Tris, but you’re prettier than he is.”
She laughed. “And don’t you forget it.”
She took care of him and the couple next to him, filled two orders for the waitress, and turned back in time to see Mr. Motorcycle gesture with an empty bottle.
“Is it this busy all the time, Mary?”
Her name sounded almost lyrical the way he said it. “How did you know my name?”
He smiled, and, for a moment, she was afraid her panties would melt clear off her body.
“I heard that good-looking guy over there call your name.” He indicated the customer then lowered his voice. “I think he has his eye on you.”
Mary glanced over her shoulder and laughed. “Nate? He’s got his eye on everyone. And if you’ll excuse me, the guy next to him needs a refill. Just signal me whenever you want another.”
Jana and Finch stepped up onto the tiny stage, Finn picked up his guitar, and they launched into the next set. The crowd shouted and clapped along to the music. For the next couple of hours, Mary was so busy filling orders and serving customers she had no time to think about the very sexy stranger at the end of the bar.
Eventually, The Two of Us finished their last set to a rousing round of applause, and customers began to settle up their tabs. Finally, with most of the tables empty and only a handful of stools occupied, she stopped and drew a breath.
“Nice work.” Tris moved up next to her, wiping his hands on a bar towel. “Sure you wouldn’t like to do this forever?”
When she’d applied for the job, Mary had told them she was taking a vacation from her life and wanted to begin enjoying things again. She was careful, however, to be sure they knew it would not be a permanent thing. But after they gave her a tryout behind the bar, they snapped her up.
“For as long as you can, darlin’,” Pat had told her, giving her a hug.
Now she looked up at Tris and smiled.
“Probably not, but I’m far from ready to leave here yet.”
“I see your admirer is still here.” He tipped his head toward Mr. Motorcycle at the end of the bar. “You be careful, Mary. He’s a stranger, and we know nothing about him. We don’t even know how he found this place.”