Suspicion (Diversion Book 7)

by Eden Winters

  Victor barked out a laugh. “Maybe I should kill you because you know me so well.”

  Tight bands uncoiled from around Lucky’s chest. “See you around, Victor, maybe.” He closed the door, both on the conference room and his past.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The driver’s seat of Bo’s Durango sat way too high. Lucky adjusted the rearview mirror. Yes, definitely a tail, and none too subtle, either.

  “Bo?” He glanced at the passenger seat from the corner of his eye.

  “Huh?”

  “See that Mustang behind us?”

  Bo turned his head toward the side mirror. “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s been following us since we left the parking garage.”

  “You can’t lose them?”

  “Nope.” Gut feelings told Lucky the driver behind him wasn’t one of Victor’s. Victor’s wouldn’t be so amateur as to be spotted openly. “I’m gonna take a joy ride, see if I can lose them.” He’d never tell Bo about being ordered to go home and sit on his ass while the big dogs ran down the prey.

  Bo might make him obey.

  Lucky peeled down the highway, putting the vehicle’s motor through its paces for the next forty minutes. He’d once owned a Mustang, much older than the glossy black work of art tailing him, and therefore knew the car’s weaknesses.

  Traffic eased as he left the Interstate. He tossed his phone to Bo. “Call up my driving app and see what’s ahead.”

  Bo punched a few buttons. “Cops. Not sure if it’s an accident, roadblock, or what, but there’s definitely cops.”

  Could even be someone searching for the asshats.

  Lucky veered sharply to the left. Cops might be helpful right about now, but they’d also scare off the asshole in the Mustang. Enough already! Time to find out who’d been riding his ass without having the good graces to kiss him first.

  With any luck, it’d be one of the three shitheads he’d spent all morning looking for.

  A dirt road ahead. Good. Leaving the blacktop, he pushed the accelerator to the floor as far as he dared. The Durango went airborne, hitting the ground again with a teeth-jarring jolt, leaving a trail of powdered Georgia clay to spray over the Mustang’s windshield.

  With any luck, the amateur behind him wasn’t familiar enough with the South and might try to use his window washer, creating a layer of visibility-eroding crud on the glass.

  “Um… Lucky? Why are you destroying my ride?”

  “I’m not…” Oh, fuck! Lucky braked in time to avoid a fallen tree, backed up, and spun out across a field of broom sage. The scent of trampled vegetation drifted through the vehicle via the air conditioning. Tall, feathery green horse tails whipped at the truck, and dried grass crackled underneath the vehicle. With no rain to speak of in weeks, a cigarette thrown out of a car window could turn the whole field into kindling.

  He spared a glance into the rearview mirror. Damn it! The Mustang’s driver had more balls than brains, plowing through the mess in a car far lower to the ground. Which only confirmed whoever followed couldn’t be Victor’s. Victor only hired folks with brains.

  Lucky would use the driver’s stupidity against him. “Hold on, Bo!”

  Bo grabbed the “oh, shit!” handle and peered over his shoulder. “A car chase? Seriously? Can’t anything be easy with you?”

  Lucky grinned, adrenaline pumping through his veins. “I’m easy. Wanna see?”

  “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

  The thrill of the chase? Redneck know-how winning the day? “What’s not to love?”

  Bo snorted, but held on. “You are so gonna owe me blowjobs for this.”

  Thud! The truck bounced wildly. What the fuck had he hit?

  “More than that if you total this thing,” Bo added.

  “You name it, it’s yours,” Lucky replied, keeping most of his mind on his driving.

  The Mustang slammed into whatever lay hidden in the grass. Lucky winced at the impact, and the tell-tale sound of crunching fiberglass. The engine whined, changed pitch, and whined some more.

  No going forward. No going backward. Stuck.

  Lucky grinned and hauled ass. “Have I ever told you how much I love this Durango?” Not to the point of giving up his Camaro, but still.

  Once he put some distance between them and the Mustang, he could double back without being seen. Another half mile ought to do the trick.

  He slowed and rolled down the window, the better to hear anything going on. He’d park on the dirt road, take his gun, and approach the car from behind.

  Lucky found a good parking spot, killed the engine, and stepped out of the truck. He didn’t have to say a word: the other door slamming told him Bo came too.

  Acrid smoke stung his lungs.

  “Oh, shit!” Bo yelled, tearing off toward the Mustang.

  No running with all the torture he done lately to his bad leg and other assorted body parts. Lucky climbed back into the truck and gunned the motor, following the flattened grass.

  The Mustang sat immobile, smoke curling from underneath.

  And that was why one shouldn’t park in an unmowed field. Hot engines could set dried grass on fire in a heartbeat.

  Lucky grabbed his old .38 from under the seat and hopped out of the truck, gun at the ready. No movement. Maybe the driver ran. He paused long enough to take a picture of the tag and eased around the car. Bo caught up, barely winded, and took the other side.

  More than the radio pounded.

  Screaming and beating increased the closer he got.

  “Help! Help me!” a man yelled, face distorted in terror and partially hidden by a hat. Flames licked up from underneath the car. A tree stump gouged into the car door.

  In a few seconds the whole field would go up like a torch. Lucky eyed the truck.

  No, he couldn’t leave someone to burn to death.

  He yanked at the door handle. Fuck, that was hot! In one smooth motion he yanked off his T-shirt and wrapped his hand.

  “Help me!” the man screamed, pounding harder. “The window’s stuck!”

  The door wouldn’t budge, and the other side of the car already burned. Bo circled but shook his head and ran back to Lucky.

  “Cover yourself!” Lucky shouted.

  The man flinched back and Bo stopped a few paces away.

  Grasping the barrel of his .38, Lucky swung with all his might. Cracks spider-webbed over the side window. He slammed his gun down again. Glass flew.

  The man attempted to scramble through the window, pellets of tempered glass flying. Lucky grabbed his arm and hauled him the rest of the way out.

  The man doubled over coughing. Bolting upright, he slammed a bloody fist into Lucky’s jaw.

  Would take one hell of a lot more than a punch to faze Lucky. But was this moron for real?

  Bo took the guy down with a flying tackle and wrestled an arm behind his back. The hat sailed into the dirt.

  Lucky knelt down by the snarling man. “I don’t like the idea of roasting like a pig on a spit. I’m guessing you don’t either. Unless you want me to toss your sorry ass back into the car, stop being an asshole.”

  The man struggled. Bo shoved the arm higher, earning a pained grunt.

  Lucky trained his gun on the guy. Given half a reason he’d pull the trigger, if not for the punch, then to dare waste a fine car like a Mustang.

  Bo yanked the guy up and took off toward the truck, half dragging the idiot hell bent and determined to get them all fried.

  Lucky took a quick look inside the car. No more people, or anything appearing to have much value. Smoke clung to his clothes, clogged his nose. Flames showed to his left and right, the broom sage ripe for the flames. He stumbled and nearly fell.

  Bo trotted in front of him, but their captive fought, slowing their progress. Lucky spun him around to face the blaze. Boom! The car’s hood shot into the air. They all jumped. “You want to stay here or go with us?” Lucky barked.

  The man whirled and, much
more cooperative, kept pace with Bo. God, please let them get back to the truck and out of this field before the fire overtook them.

  This far out had no city fire department, but a bunch of good ole boys from a volunteer outfit should be showing up any minute.

  Bo hoisted the man into the back seat and jumped in behind him.

  Lucky crawled behind the steering wheel and buckled in. “Better hold on. This old girl got some kick.” Firing up the engine and flooring the accelerator, he got the hell out of there back the way he’d come.

  Black smoke cut his vision, but at least his captive had stopped fighting.

  He turned long enough to rake a gaze over Bo. “You okay?”

  Bo coughed, but nodded. “Yeah. You?”

  “I’ll do.” Lucky jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Him?”

  “He’ll live. Maybe.”

  Lucky glared into the rearview mirror at his passenger. “I’m sure you know the drill with the you got rights thing, right?” He should, he’d been in the same classes Lucky had.

  The man grunted, but didn’t speak.

  “I picked up your mother off the street corner last night. Two hours later, she insisted on paying me.” Nothing, proving asswipe wasn’t a Southerner. They’d go down swinging if you talked about Mama.

  Bo scowled but kept quiet. Good cop, bad cop, then.

  Lucky hated silence, especially when he’d asked questions. He’d make the bastard sorry for not talking. He turned on the radio wide open.

  Sirens sounded as he shot out of the dirt road and onto asphalt. Let the locals do their thing.

  He drove a safe distance and pulled off the road at one of the many abandoned stores dotting the rural south. Rusted out gas pumps, a sign hanging by a length of chain on one side, roof caved in, and a tree taking root where customers used to park cars.

  He sucked in a breath, killed the engine, and turned to face the sorry sonofabitch he’d saved.

  Blond hair, blue eyes flashing something close to fear.

  “Hello, Phillip. Your mama know you go ’round trying to kill folks?” Lucky gave the man a vicious smile. If Bo wasn’t there, he’d be tempted to use the parking lot for a boxing ring.

  Phillip’s eyes didn’t contain the hate Lucky expected. Defeated. He hung his head.

  “Are you going to explain why you’ve been following me?” Lucky asked.

  “No,” Philip replied softly.

  Maybe adding more growl to his voice might get Lucky some answers. “Did O’Donoghue put you up to this?” Victor said no, but it would take more than a former trafficker’s word on the subject to convince Lucky. He knew firsthand how well Victor could and would lie if given reason.

  Even to the end the lapdog protected his boss and didn’t answer. Instead Phillip averted his gaze and stared out the window. So quietly Lucky strained to hear, he mumbled, “Are you going to tell Loretta?”

  Lucky shrugged and glared at his passenger. “That depends on what you tell me.” Yes, I’m sure as shit telling her everything. “Who put you up to following me?”

  “Nobody, okay!” Philip’s eyes went wide and every muscle tensed. “Oh, God!”

  Lucky focused on the road.

  A Chevy came right at them.

  The car rammed the Durango’s side, rattling Lucky’s teeth. One moment they sat on four tires, the next…

  The world rolled over.

  Glass shattered.

  Thank God the airbag didn’t deploy.

  “Bo! You okay?” Lucky grabbed his .38 from the driver’s side window.

  A groan came from the back seat. “I’ve been better.”

  Lucky wriggled. “Fucking seatbelt! Let me go!”

  Bo reached up from the backseat with a pocket knife, cleanly slicing the restraint.

  Pausing to listen, Lucky kept one hand on his gun and the other on the warped passenger door.

  “Wait! Let me get into position.” Bo clambered into the front seat.

  “What about Useless?”

  “Out cold.”

  Sirens came closer and closer. Maybe the asshole in the Chevy was dead or wouldn’t shoot with firemen, cops, or paramedics present.

  Lucky slammed the door open. No shots came. He struggled out as an ambulance and fire truck pulled up. Another truck kept going toward the grass fire.

  Victor stood off to the side. Walter watched from the back seat of a black SUV.

  What the fuck?

  A man Lucky didn’t know approached. “Are you okay, Agent Harrison?” He peered out at the carnage. Fuck. No way the driver survived crumpling the Chevy like a beer can.

  Lucky batted away the man’s hand and jumped down onto the blacktop, gun still at the ready. Pain shot through his ankle. Fucking ankle.

  “Good work, Agent Harrison, Agent Schollenberger,” Victor said. “You’ve apprehended two of the three fugitives.” His smile fell. “Only, I hadn’t anticipated so much damage.” With narrowed eyes he added, “I should’ve known you wouldn’t follow orders.”

  Lucky clutched a side suddenly given to pain. Gas, oil, and other things he didn’t want to think about charred his nose. He managed to gasp, “Go big or go home.”

  Bo stood beside him while a team of good ole boys disguised as volunteer firemen worked on getting Phillip out of the truck.

  Lucky strode to the other side of what was left of the Durango and winced. Nobody could’ve survived in the Chevy. “Is he?”

  “Dead?” Victor asked, striding up beside him. “Yes, I’m afraid he is. Desperate men do desperate things.”

  “Who?”

  “Agent Rogers with the SNB.”

  Red hair and freckles. Fuck. Lucky wanted the man stopped, but not dead.

  Or adding to the names on the SNB memorial page. He was still an agent after all.

  Someone had to tell Johnson about her boyfriend. He glared at Victor and the men he’d brought. “Wait a minute! What are you all doing here?”

  “I had it on good authority that you wouldn’t quietly go home, so we watched you, and…” Victor flashed an apologetic smile.

  “You used me and Bo as fucking bait?” Lucky might be shorter, less powerful, and much less dangerous, but he rose up on his toes in Victor’s face. “You insufferable bastard! Bo coulda been killed!”

  Victor never even flinched. “Actually, we expected Schollenberger to drive and stay on the road. You evaded our roadblock.”

  Oh. The cops on the driving app.

  Lucky needed to punch someone, something. Bo placed a hand on his shoulder. “Lucky, calm down. I’m fine, but you need to be checked out.”

  “I do not, I…” He muttered every step of the way as Bo half dragged, half pushed him to a waiting ambulance. Lucky stopped struggling when paramedics brought over a sheet-draped gurney.

  Walter, lying on the floor. Walter, lips blue, not breathing.

  Time stood still. Each heartbeat, each breath, thrummed in Lucky’s ears.

  Alive. Lucky lived. Bo lived. Walter lived.

  Everything else was details.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Lucky sat in his chair in the boss’s office. The boss’s office.

  Walter sat behind the desk, out of place without the usual clutter obstructing Lucky’s view. Give him a few days, he’d have the surface piled to the ceiling with folders and reports. Lucky pointedly ignored the cane propped against the wall, the sunken-in cheeks, and additional gray in Walter’s hair.

  “You wanted to see me?” At one time, being called into this office would’ve given Lucky the screaming shivers. Not anymore. He’d gladly sit still for a dressing down, as long as Walter Smith delivered the ass-chewing.

  “Excellent work, as usual, Lucky. Even though you had to go out on your own because you were mistrustful of proper channels.” Walter gave Lucky a healthy dose of stink eye.

  “If by proper channels you mean O’Donoghue, then yeah, I didn’t trust him.” Lucky still didn’t, truth be told.

  “If the two
of you had joined forces, you might have resolved the issue earlier, but I already counseled him for not trusting you, in whom I put my utmost faith.”

  Say what? “Do you mean to tell me you told him off?” Maybe Keith had the right idea, installing cameras in the boss’s office, not that he’d let Keith know. They’d come together for the good of the department, but now with the crisis passed, all bets were off.

  Walter’s eyes twinkled. “Let’s just say that I don’t think he’ll make the same mistake again.”

  “What about the rest of ‘em?” They were O’Donoghue’s minions, after all.

  “Landry seems to have been the mastermind, and the one destined to become a Forsyth Pharmaceuticals executive. Greg Rogers and Phillip Eustace followed his lead.”

  Phillip Useless was more accurate. How would Loretta Johnson handle her boyfriend being locked up because of Lucky?

  Lucky squirmed to get more comfortable in his seat. Being battered about in a Durango left him stiff and sore, and not in a good way. Thank God for family-sized bottles of ibuprofen. “Did he hire the hitman?” Hadn’t Cruz said something to that effect?

  “Landry did the actual hiring, but evidence leads straight back to Forsyth Pharmaceuticals. There’s much money to be made in big pharma, and the new drug Chastain developed would have made Forsyth billions, and provided millions to the CEO in bonuses, among others. Several of his staff members have now joined him in custody.”

  Money, the root of all evil, Lucky’s mother used to say. “What happens now?”

  Walter’s clear eyes burned with intelligence. Hallelujah. No long-term effects of whatever coated the coffee cup he’d touched. “The Atlanta office will close for approximately two weeks, as data is sorted and the department restructured, due to the involvement of so many members of the team, no matter how temporary they might have been.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “My doctor says I’ve made remarkable progress. I’m getting stronger every day.”

  “I mean, about the team.” Walter had always been so proud of him team. They’d let him down horribly. Or rather, some members did.