by T. E. Woods
“You planning on taking my car again?” Lydia asked.
Allie tossed two envelopes on the coffee table. “Would you mind getting these to my father and brother, please? I’d appreciate it.”
“Your dad’s going to be here in the morning.” Lydia put her gun on the entryway table. “Thanksgiving’s only eight days away. Robbie and the girls will be here. You can do it yourself.”
Allie looked out the window and then at her watch. “You and I both know that’s never going to happen.” Her smile was one of resignation. “Those twins were barely walking the last time I saw them. Robbie says they’re real spitfires. I think I would have liked being their aunt.”
“Patrick’s dead, Allie.” Lydia was surprised to hear herself pleading with Allie to stay. “Let your father do what he can with the DEA. Surely after all those years with Patrick you have something you could offer them. Names of Patrick’s cohorts, maybe? Places of manufacture…points of entry…maybe you even know which government officials are looking the other way when shipments come in. You don’t have to run away.”
Allie shook her head. “The truth, Lydia, is that I know everything about Patrick’s organization. And that’s exactly why I have to leave.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Why do you think I tried so hard to get my dad to put me anywhere but with the cops when I first came back? I’m dead the moment I walk into a police station. Word would get back to Mexico or Colombia before they had time to read me my rights. Nuñez and Durazo always hated that Patrick included me in the details of the operation. But they needed me to control Patrick’s temper. They’re fully aware of what I know. One hint that I’m sitting down with the DEA and they’d send people to stop me. Permanently.”
“What about witness protection?”
Allie’s laugh was harsh. “You know who’s in that? Italian gangsters. You know why? Because running numbers, prostitution, grand theft, murder…those crimes are nickel and dime. Nobody gives a rat’s ass about who does what except the goombahs who may be personally offended. But the international manufacture, sale, and distribution of drugs? Lydia, more money passed through Patrick’s organization on an annual basis than the entire economies of every nation in Africa and the Caribbean and General Motors combined. Can you get your mind around that? Can you conceive of the infrastructure it takes to keep that running? You don’t retire from that, Lydia. You don’t waltz into government-secured housing with a brand-new identity.” Allie again looked at her watch. “I can give you the names of six plants on the witness-protection payroll without even having to refer to my notes.”
“Not everyone is on the take, Allie. Let your father help you.”
“And put him in danger? The only reason he’s still alive is because I’ve made no move to talk to anyone. Do you get that? These people will stop at nothing to make sure I don’t say a word about what I know. And they’d start with Dad…or Robbie.” Her voice choked. “Or Robbie’s girls. Patrick cut off the hands of Tokarev’s lover. And that was just because of something he thought. Imagine what these people would do if they knew I was bartering with the DEA.”
Lydia remembered how easily The Fixer got to her targets. And she was one woman acting alone. The scope of Allie’s drug life was worldwide, with thousands of people dedicated to one thing: keeping the money coming in.
“So what will you do?” Lydia pointed to Allie’s suitcase. “Where will you go?”
“There’s only one place I can be safe.”
The inevitability of Allie’s position sank in. “Tokarev.”
“He knows I’m here. He’s coming for me at midnight.”
“He’ll kill you. You were Patrick’s woman. He’ll want revenge.”
Allie sighed. “That’s a risk, I won’t deny it. But I know how these men operate. He’ll want to rape me first. Put his mark on me. In his own twisted way, he’ll see that as victory over Patrick and vengeance for his lover.”
“And you’ll willingly walk into that?”
“It’s my one shot.” She fluffed her hair and struck a Grace Kelly pose. “Don’t I look like someone a Russian thug with a third-grade education would love to have on his arm at the next borscht fest? The way I see it is that I have the trip to wherever Tokarev plans to kill me to convince him I’d make a better lover than a corpse. Then, of course, I’ll have to make the sex so compelling he has no choice but to keep me alive for a while.” Her lovely eyes were empty. “You’ll have to trust me on this one, Lydia. I can handle it. From there I’ll share with him everything I know about Patrick’s cartel. I’ll hand him sixty countries on a silver platter and convince him he needs me to stay on top. Just like Patrick did.”
Lydia shook her head. “But what kind of life—”
“How much do you earn in a year, Lydia?” Allie interrupted with a defiant tone. “A hundred thousand? Maybe one fifty? I spend more than ten times that on one party. On a dress. This visit to Kansas these past couple of weeks has served my purposes, but it’s time for me to go back to Oz.”
Lydia wasn’t buying her bravado for one moment. Allie was scared out of her wits. “Stay here, Allie. You know what your father is capable of. You have no idea what I am. We can figure out a way to make this work.”
A distant whir sounded overhead.
“And do what, Lydia? Live in your spare bedroom for the rest of my life? Smuggle in visits from Robbie and those nieces of mine every Christmas Eve, hoping to God the ten people Durazo and Nuñez have watching my brother’s every move all stepped out for eggnog at the exact same moment?”
The whir grew closer and louder. Lydia felt sonic waves pulsing in her chest.
“How long do you think it would be before I took one of those guns you have planted around the house and stuck it in my mouth?” Allie was shrilling now over the din. “How long before you and my dad both began praying I would?”
A near-blinding beam of light bathed Lydia’s backyard in lurid relief. The evergreen trees surrounding her property were buffeted by heavy manufactured wind. Lydia saw the helicopter descend.
“My father knows I love him.” Allie grabbed her bag and reached for the door. “Tell him I know he loves me.”
The helicopter had now landed in Lydia’s yard. She reached for her Beretta as the blades slowed and the side door slid opened. Allie stood on the deck, her bag at her side. Two men with automatic rifles leapt from the chopper and surveyed the darkened area. Moments later, a stocky man dressed entirely in black emerged. Sparked by moonlight, a large diamond flashed on his hand. Without hesitation, he strode toward Allie, grabbed her by the arm, and dragged her to the chopper.
Lydia watched through her picture window as though viewing a Hollywood action movie. She saw Tokarev and Allie stop midway to the chopper. Allie turned to face her abductor. She threw her shoulders back and thrust out a defiant chin. Lydia saw her mouth moving and she saw Tokarev grab her arm and pull. Allie dug her stilettos into the grass and held her position, pointing back to the house.
Lydia tightened her grip on her gun and stepped back toward the stairs leading to her basement. If Allie was sending Tokarev and his henchmen in to kill her, she’d need every weapon in her arsenal to stay alive.
Tokarev looked her way. He turned to the man on his left and said something Lydia couldn’t hear. The man trotted toward the house as Lydia stepped backward, toward the stairs.
The man stepped up onto Lydia’s deck, grabbed Allie’s bag, and ran it back to the chopper. Lydia watched Allie shake her arm free and walk ahead of the Russian. She boarded the helicopter with the grace of a princess entering her limousine.
Lydia stood in the shadows in her hallway and watched the chopper rise into the dark sky.
Chapter 53
SEATTLE
Lydia pressed the button on the intercom and waited. The wind blustered in off the water and whipped her hair about her face. She pressed the button four times in rapid succession. She tightened her jacket around her. When t
here was still no response, she pressed the button and held it until the irritating buzzer drove her prey out of his lair.
Mort Grant came through the sliding glass door and stepped onto the deck of his houseboat. He wore department-issued sweatpants and a flannel shirt. She estimated it had been three days since his face saw a razor.
Three days…that’s how long Allie’s been gone.
“I’m not in the mood for visitors, Lydia.” His voice sounded like he hadn’t used it in a while. “I’d appreciate it if you went on back home.”
Lydia crossed the boardwalk and boarded his boat. “I’m here. Might as well show me your new place.”
Mort didn’t budge. They stood two feet from each other while the gusts of November wind chilled them.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Mort.”
Mort looked to his left and studied a length of bright-red rope hanging from his deck into the cold waters of Lake Union.
“I imagine you might have some questions for me. Maybe some that weren’t answered in Allie’s letter.”
Mort’s jaw tightened. “Go home, Lydia.”
“Say what you need to, Mort.” Lydia thrust her hands into her pockets and wished she’d worn gloves. “Maybe we could go inside. You don’t want your new neighbors listening, do you?”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t want you in my house.” His voice was colder than the wind. He retreated back into his silent rage. Lydia watched the staccato pulse of his breath emerge, feathery white. It was more than a minute before he finally spoke.
“You let her go. I trusted you to take care of my daughter. And you let her go.”
“She knew what she was doing.”
“Did she?” He ran a hand through unwashed hair. “Allie’s impulsive. Always has been. I counted on you to keep her safe.”
“You read her letter.”
He stepped toward her and, for a moment, Lydia felt the primal fear of an animal trapped as the hunter approaches. She focused on his face. This was Mort. Her pulse slowed.
“Don’t talk to me about letters,” he sneered. “Tokarev will kill her. You know that.”
“She knew the risks.”
“You could have stopped her!” he roared.
“There was a helicopter, Mort. Men armed with submachine guns.”
“And I know you! Don’t forget that. Not ever. The Fixer does what she wants and doesn’t do what she doesn’t want to do.”
Lydia looked to the houseboat docked next to Mort’s. She didn’t need anyone hearing his allusion to her past identity. But it was twelve thirty on a weekday afternoon. Whoever lived next door was probably off earning the exorbitant moorage fees life on Lake Union demanded.
“You never liked her.” His fury punctuated every word. “Not from the minute I brought her to you. I trusted you, Lydia. If you wanted her gone, you could have told me. I would have taken her someplace else. But instead you betrayed her to Tokarev.”
“The only way my guns could have stopped Allie from doing exactly what she wanted to do would be if I killed her before she had a chance to board that helicopter. Is that what you’d have me do?”
Mort stared at her and Lydia braced herself for his next tirade. Instead, she saw the wrath drain from his eyes, replaced with a disappointment she found even more painful. His voice was calm and resolute when he spoke.
“A while back…when you came to help me pack up the old house…you told me you thought it might be best if we didn’t see each other.” He stepped back and opened his sliding door. “You were right. Go home, Lydia. We’re done.”
He turned his back and walked into his houseboat. She heard the lock click into place.
—
Lydia sat on her deck, wrapped in a blanket, and watched the whitecaps churn on Dana Passage as the sun dipped behind the Olympics. Frigid gusts slashed across her face. The night darkened from purple to black and still she sat, allowing her body to feel the same glacial numbness as her mind. High above her, she heard a call, from deep in the branches of a giant Douglas fir, faint above the rush of the wind.
“Who?”
Acknowledgments
I’m having so much fun with Mort, Lydia, and the rest of the crew, but clearly the most enjoyment I’ve received is from all the help I’ve gotten from so many folks along the way. There’s no way one person brings these books to life, and my particular village is filled with wondrous folks. Victoria Skurnick is my uberagent…the woman who believed in the project and urged me to go visit my darkest places in order to create the characters and situations you read in The Justice Series novels. My Random House team: Kate Miciak, my editor; and April Flores and Kimberly Cowser, my marketing team, have held my hand every step of the way. Any success these books have is to be laid right at the feet of these talented women. It has been my pleasure to develop a relationship with them I hope lasts a very long and lucrative time.
I’ve got my local ladies, too. Barbie and Julie and Judy and Cynthia: thanks for nudging me all those Wednesday afternoons when I hit walls and fell into pits of helpless despair. Teresa, Rosie, Patricia, and Anne: thanks for helping hash out plot points and getting characters from A to B. Suzanne, Kate, and Anne: those wine-filled evenings, talking out all the great existential questions of our times…I hear your voices as my fingers move across the keys.
I want to give a shout-out to the readers, too. Thank you, thank you, thank you for taking the time to read and review the books in this series. I derive so much encouragement and direction from your comments. Please keep them coming.
And through it all is my man. From the very moment I announced I wanted to write a murder mystery, he’s been there. He’s always assumed the books would succeed. He never allowed one tinge of negativity to color his picture of what my writing future would hold. I don’t tell him enough, but I know he knows what he means to me. He’s made my world the happiest and most secure place to be. Thank you, sweetheart. Waking each morning next to the finest man I’ve ever encountered has made me fearless.
BY T. E. WOODS
Fixed in Fear (coming soon)
Fixed in Blood
The Fixer
The Red Hot Fix
The Unforgivable Fix
About the Author
T. E. WOODS is a clinical psychologist and author living in Madison, Wisconsin. For random insight into how her strange mind works, follow her:
tewoodswrites.com
Facebook.com/TEWoodsWrites
@tewoodswrites
[email protected]
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