Full Exposure

by Debra Webb

  Tito’s Pawnshop wasn’t very large. A glass door and display window, both clad with iron bars, fronted the store. A beggar sat on the sidewalk beneath the window, a used foam cup in his extended hand.

  Angel braced herself and entered the shop. Four men loitered inside, two sitting, two leaning on the counter. All four illustrated the term unsavory to its fullest meaning. She moistened her fiercely dry lips and held on tightly to her purse strap as she forged her way toward the counter at the back of the shop. Display case after display case flanked both sides of the narrow aisle. Shelves stocked with pawned merchandise lined the walls behind the display cases. The place smelled like old shoes and sweaty flesh…or maybe it was the men now eyeing her so closely.

  The two men leaning on the counter stepped aside as she approached. Each sized her up and snickered but she didn’t make eye contact, kept her attention focused on the man behind the counter.

  “You lost, lady?” the shopkeeper asked.

  “I need to buy a weapon.”

  The room burst into laughter.

  Angel swallowed hard and fought to keep a grip on her thin composure. “I have money.” She pulled the wad of twenties out of her purse. She had withdrawn one thousand dollars from her savings account. Surely that would be enough.

  Silence abruptly replaced the laughter.

  The guy behind the counter looked a little nervous now. “Put your money away, lady.” He held up a hand as if trying to avert disaster.

  Angel sucked in a shuddering breath and did as he told her. “I…I just need to buy a gun.”

  Any sign of uneasiness the man had shown morphed instantly into fury. “I don’t know what you’re doing in this neighborhood, honey, but take my advice and go home.” He leaned intimidatingly nearer. “You don’t belong here and you damn sure don’t want to be caught on this street after dark.” He looked at her purse then back at her face. “Now get out of here. Go buy your firearms on the North Side like the rest of your friends.”

  Every instinct screamed at her to run like hell, but desperation kept her rooted to the spot.

  “Come on, baby,” one of the guys on her side of the counter said, moving in close. “Let me walk you to your car.”

  Angel recoiled. “Stay away from me,” she ordered, but the quiver in her voice left the threat hollow.

  Another round of laughter broke out.

  Anger sizzled inside her, burning away the last of her fear. She glared at the man behind the counter. “I said I needed to buy a gun. I was told you could help me. Now, are you here to do business or what?”

  He bracketed his waist with his hands. “Just what the hell are you gonna do with a gun?”

  Angel flinched. “I…I need protection.”

  “Honey, you should of thought of that before you came in here,” the guy on her left said as he surveyed her backside.

  She pushed as close to the counter as possible and let the shopkeeper see the desperation in her eyes. “Please. I need a gun.”

  Something in his eyes changed, she couldn’t say what, maybe the single shred of decency he possessed made an unexpected appearance. He held up a hand for the others to quiet. Angel’s heart beat so hard she felt certain everyone in the shop could hear it.

  He jerked his head toward the end of the counter. “This way.”

  Her pulse tripping, Angel followed the man into a dark room behind the counter. The voice of reason screamed again, warning her to run, but she ignored it.

  He flipped a switch and the blink of fluorescent lighting filled the graveyard-quiet, warehouse-grim space. Boxes in a variety of sizes and stages of deterioration lined the walls. A grimy, cluttered desk held center stage.

  The man propped on the edge of the desk and looked at her long and hard before he spoke. “What kind of trouble you in, lady?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” she answered sharply. “Just sell me a gun.”

  He smirked. “All right. What you looking for?”

  She hadn’t actually considered what kind of gun. She shrugged. “Something small.” Her hand moved down to her shoulder bag. “Something I can carry in my purse.”

  He shook his head slowly from side to side. “Have you ever even fired a weapon?”

  “That’s none of your business,” she snapped. “Stop wasting my time.” The vulnerability in that last statement made her cringe.

  He threw his hands up. “Whatever.” He retrieved a box and set it on the desk. Inside packing materials surrounded the contents. He dug out a smaller box and opened it.

  “This—” he exhibited a small black gun “—is a Smith & Wesson 9mm. It’s small, less than seven inches in length, and only weighs about a pound and a half. Very light.” He depressed something on the weapon and a cartridge slipped out of the handle. “Eight plus one rounds.” He pulled back a mechanism on the top. “That action puts one in the chamber.” He flipped a small lever. “That’s the safety. Turn it off and you’re ready to fire.” He offered the weapon to her.

  It felt heavy in her hands but not as heavy as she’d expected. The cold of the black metal penetrated her skin.

  “Hold it like this.” He showed her how to grip the weapon. “Feet wide apart for balance. Look down the barrel here.”

  She did as he instructed.

  “Then squeeze the trigger and that’s it.”

  She looked at him and hoped it would be that simple.

  He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Look, if you’ve never fired a weapon before take some advice.”

  Angel nodded expectantly.

  “Wait till he’s close. The closer your target the less likely you’ll miss. Aim for the chest.”

  She licked her lips and tried to swallow back the bile in her throat. “If I hit him in the chest, that’s enough right?”

  He lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “Maybe, depends on if you hit anything important.”

  Okay, she knew that. She was a nurse for God’s sake. “So, technically I could hit him in the chest and miss anything vital and he could still hurt me.”

  “Technically,” he said in a mocking tone, “that’s right. So shoot him more than once. Twice at least. If he keeps moving, shoot him until he stops.”

  The images his words evoked made her tremble. How could she possibly do this? Her aunt’s face loomed large in her mind. Because she had no other choice. She nodded. “Got it. Shoot until he stops moving.”

  He put the weapon back on safety and retrieved two more cartridges from the box and offered them to her. “When you empty a clip, shove in another one and keep firing if you need to.”

  “Okay.” She chewed her lower lip a second, giving a wave of nausea time to pass, then asked, “How much do I owe you?”

  He cocked his head and looked at her with the kind of belligerence she would expect from a man like him. “How much you got?”

  “One thousand.” Her palms started to sweat as reason tried once more to intrude.

  His gaze drifted down her body. She shuddered. Even with a conservative sweater, jeans and a suede coat she felt naked somehow. When his attention settled back on her face she didn’t miss the sexual hunger there. She held her ground, didn’t run—had to do this. Whatever it took.

  “Eight hundred,” he said flatly, sexual interest clearing from his eyes with one downward swoop of his dark lashes.

  She counted out the twenties onto the desk and shoved the goods she’d purchased into her purse. “Thank you.”

  He moved in close…so close she could smell the spicy scent of the Mexican food he’d had for lunch. “Just remember,” he said, his tone menacing, “if you kill someone with that weapon you didn’t get it from me. Got that?”

  She nodded jerkily. “You don’t have to worry, sir,” she assured him, a kind of defeat she’d rather not have exposed in her voice. “If I have to use this, I probably won’t live to tell anyone anything.”

  Confusion cluttered his features and then he laughed. He swore softly. “I c
an’t believe I’m saying this…” He looked directly into her eyes. “Lady, why don’t you go to the cops for help?”

  “Because they can’t help me.” It seemed incredible. The system she’d believed in her entire life couldn’t help her. For that one instant she suddenly knew how people on this side of the tracks felt—totally alone…desperate to survive. She swallowed back a rush of emotion. “No one can help me.”

  And then she did the only thing she could.

  She drove back to her small cottage in the safe, cozy suburb of Winnetka where nothing bad was ever supposed to happen and waited.

  There was nothing else she could do until she received further instructions.

  Or until Cole Danes showed up.

  The man holding her aunt hostage had assured her that Cole Danes would find her, but every minute that passed made her more uncertain of that possibility.

  Except there was no alternative.

  She had no option but to wait.

  A framed photograph of her and her daughter together tugged at her heart. She reached for it, held it close to her chest. At least her baby was safe. She had done that right if nothing else.

  High-pitched, melodious notes abruptly shattered the silence, sending her pulse into another erratic rhythm.

  It took a few moments for her to catch her breath and to allow her heart to slide back down into her chest and start beating normally again.

  Her cell phone!

  She laid the picture and her gun down then snatched up her purse. The zipper hung and she tugged frantically as another ring chimed. Where the hell was it? Finally her fingers wrapped around the cool metal.

  “Hello.” The two syllables were more a rush of shaky breath than a word.

  “When Danes arrives you follow his lead.”

  It was him. The man holding her aunt.

  “What?” She clutched the phone harder. “He’s coming now? How do you know? How is my aunt? Let me speak to her.”

  “No questions. Just follow my instructions. When he arrives, do exactly as he says. We’ve set a trap for him.”

  She nodded then realized he couldn’t see her. “All right.”

  “Don’t make any mistakes, Angel,” he warned. “Time is running out. Don’t think we’ll stop with your aunt. You may believe you’ve hidden your daughter from us, but, trust me, we can find her if we need to.”

  The connection went dead.

  Angel’s hand fell to her lap, her fingers automatically depressing the end button and then the two others necessary to lock the keypad. Her gaze drifted down to the photograph on the sofa cushion next to her.

  For the first time since this nightmare began she realized the full ramifications of her situation. It didn’t matter what she did at this point, she was dead. She and her aunt. Tears welled in her eyes. They were both dead.

  The only thing she could hope for was that if they got Danes they wouldn’t bother her child. If they had what they wanted and she was dead—of no further use to them—why would they need to harm her child? They wouldn’t. Her three-year-old was far too young to remember what the men who’d held her looked like. She was no threat to anyone.

  Her baby would be safe then. The people harboring Mia would see to it that she was well cared for if Angel never returned. Her baby would be safe.

  She had to do this right.

  No mistakes.

  She thought of Cole Danes. A man she’d never met. Who might even have a family of his own. But she couldn’t think about that.

  There was no room for sentiment or sympathy.

  She had to turn off her feelings…deny the single most significant emotion that had led her into the field of nursing.

  There could be no compassion in this equation.

  She would feel nothing—except determination to do the unthinkable…to lead Cole Danes to his execution.

  Chapter Four

  The residence of Angel Parker, Winnetka, 6:28 p.m.

  Cole watched the house for some time from his rental car and the cover of the dark winter evening. Halfway up the block a street lamp struggled to illuminate the night but failed miserably. No one stirred. The evening rush hour had passed. Dinner and television would be on the agenda for most of the residents of this quiet neighborhood.

  Inside the small home he monitored there were no lights, no sound. But her car sat in the driveway. He checked his thermal scanner once more. There was definitely a warm body inside.

  He deposited the scanner back into his pocket and withdrew his cell phone. When he’d entered the necessary numbers, he waited as the telephone inside Angel Parker’s house rang three times.

  “Hello.”

  A moment passed before he depressed the end call button.

  From that single word of greeting he’d concluded three significant factors. Angel was inside. She felt defeated. But she wasn’t afraid.

  The latter intrigued him.

  She should be afraid.

  He unsheathed his weapon and exited the vehicle, the interior lamps set to the off position to ensure no interruption in his cloak of darkness. He wore black, always did, as much for intimidation as for camouflage. In any interrogation setting the tone proved every bit as crucial as the interrogator’s skill.

  No textbook or classroom exercise offered by the traditional means had taught him those essential elements. He had learned the unvarnished truth about interrogation the hard way, as a prisoner and hostage. His work had allowed him to hone his methods. Wisdom earned from a decade of experience in the field had boiled all he’d gleaned down to one basic fact, fear proved a far more advantageous weapon than pain.

  He needed Angel Parker to feel fear.

  Before this night ended she would know its true meaning. That fear would ultimately save her.

  Cole paused outside the front entrance to the quiet house. He considered the owner for a moment, then the layout of the property. Small, well-groomed front yard with a postage-stamp-size lawn. Neat sidewalk lined with clay pots he imagined would be filled to brimming with flowers in the spring and summer. A tiny stoop, a welcoming wreath on the front door. The backyard looked much the same with a bit more grass and a child’s swing set.

  He estimated that his target sat approximately five yards from the front door. He listened intently for ten seconds. Still no sound. That she hadn’t moved since his arrival forty-five minutes ago warned that she waited for something or someone.

  His steps silent, he moved around to the back of the house. He curled his fingers around the knob of the rear entry and discovered the door unlocked. A red flag went up. The defeat he’d heard in her voice nudged at him. She thought she’d lost this battle already. Her child had been unaccounted for during the past three days. That would certainly defeat any caring parent.

  The door opened noiselessly. Cole entered in the same way, every step carefully calculated for optimum stealth. He moved slowly through a tiny kitchen and into a short hall, giving his eyes time to adjust to the lack of moon and starlight he’d used outside. A subtle fragrance lingered in the air, apples and cinnamon. Some sort of potpourri, he surmised. The interior temperature felt too cool as if she hadn’t bothered to turn on the heat on this cold winter day.

  He waited at the doorway leading into the living room until he’d determined her exact location and gauged her posture using the sparse moonlight that filtered in through the window.

  Cole leveled his weapon and moved toward her. She sat on a sofa, very dark in color, navy or forest-green perhaps. She wore dark slacks but the light color of her sweater or blouse kept her from totally disappearing into the opaque furniture. And there was her hair. Very blond, white almost. It fit with her name. She had the pale complexion and translucent blue eyes often associated with heavenly creatures. But this woman was not only very much from this earth, she definitely was not innocent. He paused in front of the coffee table, less than six feet from her position.

  “Turn on the light.”

  She gasped at the so
und of his voice.

  As long as she’d been sitting there in the dark her reaction surprised him somewhat. Her eyes had surely adjusted to the near darkness. She should have noticed his presence when he’d entered the room, should have felt the shift in the atmosphere around her. But she hadn’t. Clearly she’d been preoccupied with her thoughts.

  “Please just tell me that my aunt’s okay,” she pleaded, assuming he was one of the men involved with Howard Stephens, Errol Leberman’s murdering partner.

  “Slowly reach for the lamp on the table next to you,” he instructed firmly, ignoring her plea.

  She obeyed, using her left hand. She was right-handed. His grip tightened on his weapon.

  A click sounded and light spilled from the lamp.

  The gun in her hand registered in that same instant, visually confirming his suspicion.

  “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

  Maybe she hadn’t lost all hope. She stared up at him with pure hatred, both hands now firmly locked around the 9mm. She’d purchased herself some protection recently. Illegally no doubt. There was no weapon registered in either her name or her aunt’s.

  “Lower your weapon,” he countered, “and we’ll talk.”

  She made a scoffing sound. “You lower yours,” she tossed right back. “I’m not stupid.”

  No. She wasn’t stupid. Just not wise in the ways of kill or be killed. He could have squeezed off a round and ended her life several times since the conversation began, while she still contemplated what would happen next.

  “If I wanted you dead, Miss Parker, you would already be dead.” He nodded to the table that stood between them. “Put it there. Use your left hand.”

  She blinked, long lashes momentarily hiding the fear in those pale eyes. “No.”

  “Then you leave me no choice.”

  Before she could comprehend his intent he had snaked out his left hand, snagged the weapon and twisted it out of her grasp. She rocketed to her feet but froze when the barrel of his weapon leveled back on her chest.