by Eden Winters
“His office?” Bo asked.
“Yeah.” Lucky kept his hand on his shoulder holster, ready to yank out the Glock if needed. “This doesn’t feel right. Let’s take the stairs.” Lucky muted his phone.
Moving slowly to minimize sound, he, Cruz, and Bo crept up the stairs. Though a camera showed them entering the stairwell to anyone watching, he spotted no cameras in the stairwell itself.
Bo opened the door onto the third floor.
Barely any illumination in the hallway.
Lucky flattened himself against the wall, all senses on high alert. The exit sign over the doorway gave him enough light to see Bo a few feet away.
Low lighting gave off a soft glow, but kept things dim. Reminded Lucky of the paintball range, minus the splatters. He eyed the second door to the left. Chastain’s office.
Lucky dialed the number he’d been trying all day.
Straight to voicemail.
Lucky exchanged his phone for a gun and led the way down the hall, sticking to the shadows, and motioned Bo into a recessed doorway. Maybe it’d take Bo a minute to figure out Lucky had strategically placed him in the most protected position.
The feeble light reflected off the gun in Bo’s hand. One slow inch at a time, Lucky worked his way to Chastain’s office.
Chastain sat behind his desk in a rumpled suit.
The door swung shut. A man stepped from behind the door, gun aimed directly at Lucky.
Oh shit!
Lucky grabbed Bo and slammed to the floor, covering Bo with his body.
The man shot four times in quick succession. Lucky braced and fired back.
Silence.
He moved to glance up.
A body lay on the floor, Cruz already hovering. “Nice shooting, man. Got him in one.”
Fuck, not again. Oh, one of Cruz’s guys stood in the doorway, gun in hand. Good. Let someone else file the paperwork and go to therapy. Lucky struggled to rise.
Cruz fished the dead man’s phone from his pocket. “Lay down over here, Lucky.”
Lucky crawled over, settling way too close to a pool of blood for his taste. Behind him Bo spoke in soft tones to a shaky Chastain.
Cruz aimed the phone, then lowered it and hit a few buttons. “You can get up now.”
“Who’d you send to?”
“Someone our dead guy’s been texting all night, asking ‘When you gonna get here’ and ‘I got him right here.’”
So, whoever arranged Chastain being here was on their way.
All Lucky had to do was wait.
Chastain sank further into the chair behind his desk, reached into a drawer, and pulled out a bottle and several cups. “I need a drink. Anyone else?”
“I’m on duty” came in chorus from around the room.
“You all right?” Lucky made his way toward the desk.
“Not yet.” Chastain raised the bottle in salute and drank. “I’m working on it.”
On the desk lay a manila folder.
A coffee cup ring dead center.
Chapter Twenty-three
While Cruz’s men and Keith kept an eye on the perimeter and handled the dead body, Lucky settled into a chair in front of Chastain’s desk and perused the file. The same paperwork Walter had shown him.
The pages Lucky hadn’t read before gave a full description of Chastain’s new drug and copies of e-mails from an executive at Forsyth and Owen Landry.
E-mails Lucky hadn’t uncovered because IT geek Rogers was in the perfect position to clean the SNB’s e-mail server.
A copy of a contract sat in the very back, signed by some of Forsyth’s top brass the same day Landry made a surprise inspection.
The document was only missing one signature.
Chastain’s.
So, this was why someone wanted Walter silenced, the information they thought Walter had passed to Lucky, and that Walter couldn’t remember.
They’d watched Lucky, recorded his conversations, trying to find out how much he knew. No wonder they wanted him dead.
“Cruz? You meant it about having a safe house, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Take Chastain there. Then meet us at SNB at eight a.m., just as everyone’s getting to work. Can you leave your men here in case someone shows up?”
“Will do.”
***
Lucky crept off the elevator with Bo, cup of decaf Starbucks in his hand. As little sleep as he’d gotten last night, he’d love to return to full caffeine, or full caffeine with a hit of espresso, and lots and lots of white sugar.
Of course, he’d have gotten a bit more sleep if Bo hadn’t been dressed like a badassed biker—briefly—and the nephews were home.
Bo’s cup smelled like hay. How could something so bad smelling taste so good on Bo’s lips?
“Hi, Lisa.” Bo gave the receptionist a forced but toothy grin. Dark circles made shadows under his eyes.
She beamed. “Would you believe it? Mr. Smith is back. Seeing him made up for getting called in early.”
Lucky gave Lisa a wave in passing. Too early yet for coherent speech. God, but he hated mornings. What day was it, anyhow?
He paused by the conference room door. No telling who might be sitting in there.
“It’ll be okay.” Bo rested a hand on Lucky’s shoulder. “Walter’s back, and we’ve got enough evidence for a solid case against Forsyth.”
Yes, Walter was back. But for how long? And at what cost? “Yeah, nobody ever showed up after we left Chastain last night. They might be on to us.”
They filed into the conference room, Lucky heading straight for the rear where no one else sat. Only when he’d claimed his seat did he take stock of everyone else in the room.
Upon spotting Lucky, Johnson meandered down the table, settling into a chair to Lucky’s right.
She dropped her head into her hands. “I feel like roadkill. You wouldn’t believe how many shots I had to do last night with Phillip to get him to talk.”
Bo sat to Lucky’s left. A cushion of insulation from the rest of the proceedings.
God, was he ever tired.
Keith entered the room and stopped, staring at Lucky for a long moment. He might be a jerk most of the time, but he’d been solidly in Walter’s corner. Lucky nodded to the seat next to Bo.
At least that meant Landry couldn’t sit near Bo, if and when the asswipe showed up. If he’d gotten word about Chastain slipping the leash, he might’ve had the good sense to run.
However, anyone dumb enough to get involved in such a half-assed scheme wasn’t long on brains.
Several more people filed into the room. Lucky vaguely recognized a few from the SNB legal team that had nearly fried his ass a few years ago when they’d accused Bo of wrongdoing.
Next, sending a wave of relief washing over Lucky, came Walter, followed by O’Donoghue, Chastain and…
Oh, fucking hell.
Victor Mangiardi.
Lucky’s heart seized in his chest, and for a moment breath wouldn’t come.
Victor. Here. Now. His dark, dark eyes swept back and forth, gaze landing on Lucky before he glanced away. Gray sprinkled his nearly-black hair, with a touch more icing at the temples. His expensively cut suit didn’t hide his fit body. More than likely he still worked out daily, as he had when Lucky lived with him.
Gorgeous. Age had merely sharpened his features, adding character.
Why couldn’t the man have turned into a troll?
Victor smiled and chatted like he and Walter were old friends, bringing to mind a photo Lucky had once found of the two.
His former lover. What would have happened if they’d escaped to Rio like Victor planned instead of being arrested? Would they still be trafficking?
Or had Rio been a ruse to make them disappear if Victor had already made a deal to go legit?
Bo grabbed his hand under the table. Lucky sucked in a deep breath and grabbed onto his anchor.
While Victor drew Lucky’s eyes, and no denying hi
s external attractiveness, Bo drew his heart, with both internal and external beauty.
They all sat down, Victor waiting until last, nodding to Lucky, and then Bo, as he sunk into his chair with all the grace of a cat. He showed no signs of recognition, but then again, he’d always had darned near unreadable poker face.
Landry, Eustace, and Rogers weren’t there.
“Where’s the Three Stooges?” Lucky muttered to Johnson.
“I dunno. I called Phillip a few minutes ago and he didn’t answer. I figured he was still passed out cold, but the attendant at his apartment complex said he’d left early this morning.”
Keith leaned over Bo, earning himself a glare he wasn’t smart enough to heed. “I can’t pick up the location tracer on Landry’s phone, and Rogers hasn’t been seen either.”
Yet O’Donoghue sat at the front of the room. The rats dared desert the sinking ship without their leader?
“I want to thank you all for coming,” Walter said, “and would like to dispel rumors of my death, though I thank the misinformed person who sent flowers.” He sniggered at his own joke.
A few chuckles sounded around the table.
Wasn’t funny, in Lucky’s book. Even after a brush with death, Walter still laughed at anything.
“I suppose you all are wondering why you’re here.” Walter folded his hands in front of him on the table. He spoke slowly, less boom to his voice, and his shadows under his eyes made him appear exhausted. Still, he forged on. “I believe everyone knows almost everyone else in the room.” He introduced the legal team.
No one said anything, in fact, the only sounds came from outside the room. He paused at the empty chairs, but said nothing. O’Donoghue’s minions had been invited, hadn’t they?
Walter glanced at O’Donoghue, who nodded, but settled quietly into his chair. “In my absence, it seems my team has been quite busy.” Walter wasn’t in full boss mode, nor had he adopted the favorite uncle persona guaranteed to make the most hardened criminals spill their guts.
Again, silence met the remark. Those who’d wronged the boss likely shook in their boots, while those loyal to him held their breath, waiting for justice.
Where were Landry, Eustace, and Rogers? How did O’Donoghue manage to breathe without his sycophants hovering around him?
Sycophants. Heh. He’d picked up a new word from Bo.
“In fact, some have been very busy indeed.” Walter rifled through a folder in front of him. Would he never start using technology, like the iPad parked in front of Bo?
“While I was away, someone overrode an official SNB audit and caused a company closure as the company was on the brink of launching a breakthrough treatment.”
Lucky glanced around the room, but no one gave much of a reaction. He fixed his gaze on O’Donoghue, watching for some sign of guilt.
Walter shuffled more papers; a gesture Lucky knew all too well. He stalled for a reason, to let any guilty parties squirm and give themselves away.
“Someone on my team,” he peered at each one in the room in succession, “colluded with another entity, not only eliminating a potential rival, but using evidence to provide trade secrets about the new product, conspiring to rob a company of their revolutionary diabetes therapy.”
Walter paused to take a sip of water. O’Donoghue took over the telling. “The guilty parties believed by incapacitating Walter Smith they’d not only implicate me, but that I’d overlook any wrongdoing while busy assuming responsibility for the department.” He slammed his hand on the table, effectively tagging Victor. Had he left off mention of the incriminating evidence Walter gathered on purpose?
Victor spoke, voice the same smooth silk Lucky remembered. “As the entity in question is a global company, the crimes are international in nature. That is where my team comes in.” He gave a shark smile but didn’t introduce himself. Yeah, he played for maximum impact, as always.
No one running for the door proved they didn’t recognize Victor Mangiardi moving in for the kill.
Hell, even Lucky wanted to be anywhere but here. Bo squeezed Lucky’s knee under the table, sending silent support.
Lucky relaxed, only now realizing he’d tensed. Anyone watching his body language might mistake his survival instinct for guilt. While he’d met many dangerous men over the course of his life, their undisputed king now addressed the group.
Victor skated a fingertip over the polished wooden surface of the table. “In exchange for a key position in the company, this person betrayed their duty to the organizations they worked for, whose mission it is to prevent drug diversion and other pharmaceutical-related crimes.
“As the plot thickened and others became suspicious”—Victor stared straight at Lucky—“the stakes of the game grew higher.”
O’Donoghue sat his coffee cup down and read from a list. “Extortion, fraud, conspiracy to commit murder, kidnapping, attempted murder.”
The door opened and one of Cruz’s associates from the night before entered. Instead of sitting, he leaned against the wall behind Victor’s back and dimmed the lights.
O’Donoghue closed his eyes, forced out a breath, and reopened his eyes, resolve firmly in place. He swiveled his chair toward the wall, as did Walter and Victor. Video played on the dropdown screen. Lucky entering Walter’s office, Walter’s collapse, the splice hiding the removal of the coffee cup and folder.
All things Lucky knew, no additional information.
“Now,” O’Donoghue said, “because the perpetrators intended to use me to achieve their goals, they never realized I was on to them. I’m sure it’s clear to everyone here that the footage you’ve just seen had been altered.” He clicked a remote and the video started again.
A man in a dark hoodie entered the office, face hidden by the camera angle. He placed a coffee cup on Walter’s desk with gloved hands.
“They’d smeared something on the cup,” Lucky growled.
“Right you are, Agent Harrison,” O’Donoghue said. “Keep watching.”
Walter’s collapse stole Lucky’s breath, Bo holding his hand beneath the table helped. The gurney left.
They watched a few more minutes until…
The same hooded man came in again, grabbed the file and the cup, hands protected by gloves. The video stopped and zoomed in. What? The man wasn’t tall and had hair the same color as Lucky’s.
Well, it sure the hell wasn’t Lucky.
Damned sure looked a bit like him.
For a moment, a brief second in time, the camera caught the guy’s face.
Next to Lucky, Johnson gasped.
Phillip Eustace.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lucky used every tool at his disposal, but couldn’t seem to find the three missing men. What happened to the trackers on their cars? “Anything?” he asked Keith over the phone.
“Rogers’ car was found in at a Walmart in Valdosta, but nothing else.”
“Keep looking.” Slamming the phone down didn’t offer the same satisfaction it usually did.
How could three dumbasses evade the professionals? Not even a single credit card receipt. Then again, they’d been trained by the same people who’d trained Lucky. Maybe they’d paid attention.
He scrubbed his hand though his hair and hefted his coffee cup. One lone drop rolled out onto his tongue. Damn it!
Oh well, going to the break room gave him an excuse to stroll past the closed conference room door, as slowly as possible without a full stop. What the hell could Victor and Bo possibly be talking about?
All Lucky’s deepest, darkest secrets.
Acid pooled in Lucky’s stomach. He’d never been a saint, never pretended to be, and he’d always been open and honest with anything Bo wanted to know about his life.
Still, some of the things in Lucky’s past didn’t bear repeating. Heat flared up his neck to his face and ears. The things he’d done. The times he’d bragged about stealing a truckload of drugs right out from under the nose of some pharma company.
Or how he’d taken some of those drugs himself, on occasion.
The expensive clothes and jewelry he’d worn as a drug lord’s plaything. Back then he’d been proud of himself, thought he’d risen above his redneck upbringing.
Yet his redneck upbringing saved his life time and again.
What was Victor telling Bo? Once they’d spoken, would Bo ever want anything to do with Lucky again? Lucky sure wouldn’t.
Though he’d been honest with Bo about his life, he hadn’t divulged every little detail. And Victor knew a lot of little details.
What if… What if…
What if Bo decided Lucky wasn’t worth the effort? After all, before they’d met, Bo had a reasonably settled life, no ex-cons, no getting shot at.
Oh, right. Awful father. Four years in the Marines. Facing his own less-than-perfect past.
Only, Bo was perfect. Perfect in every way that mattered.
Perfect for Lucky.
Bo wasn’t jealous of Lucky’s time with Victor, was he? He certainly had nothing to worry about. Victor had been a road Lucky needed to travel to get to the here and now.
“You’re gonna wear the damned carpet out if you don’t quit pacing.” Johnson stopped Lucky mid-stride with a hand to his chest. “Will you trust the man for a minute?”
Lucky gestured to the closed conference room door. “He’s in there with my… with my…”
Johnson rolled her eyes. “How about the senior agent in charge of an international drug investigation, taking a statement from another agent who’s also worked on the case?”
Lucky jerked his head toward Johnson and back to watch the door. “You think that’s all they’re doing?”
“Yes. I’ve already given my statement.”
Lucky glared. “What?”
Johnson sighed, took a few steps down the hall, and parked on the corner of Bo’s desk—there wasn’t enough room on Lucky’s.
“Walter called a meeting to let us know about Mr. Mangiardi’s involvement in the case. When we couldn’t find you and Bo, we were about to send out a search party. Mangiardi said he already had a guy in place.”