Flight Risk

by Kim Baldwin

  Oh shit. She knew next to nothing about the mafia, only what she had picked up from T.V. shows like The Sopranos and films like The Godfather, and the occasional news report. But it was enough to know that she was in a very serious situation here if Cinzano knew her identity, even if he was in custody.

  “He probably knows you because he owns the building you work out of,” Topping said. “Not on paper, of course. Nothing traceable, because they run a cocaine business out of there. Or did.”

  Blayne’s forehead furrowed in confusion. “That can’t be right. Philippe Cluzet owns the travel agency, and at least our half of the building. He has for twenty years or so.”

  “He runs the agency, yes. But he sold out his share of the property to a European consortium nearly a year ago.”

  Blayne was shocked. And she was certain Claudia didn’t know, She would have said something if her Dad had sold the building.

  “Cinzano is an important guy, and we’ve got him cold with what you saw.” The agent stroked his long ruddy brown moustache with the kind of satisfaction Blayne associated with pompous pseudo-intellectuals. “He’ll be looking at federal charges, including racketeering, as well as whatever the D.A. comes up with in connection with the homicide. And there’ll be the bodyguard’s murder trial. So you’re going to be the star prosecution witness in at least three trials.”

  It began to sink in. She was going to be the key witness in the trial of a mafia underboss. Holy shit. That would put her in a world of danger. Blayne wanted to do the right thing, but at what cost?

  “What if I don’t agree to testify?” she asked nervously.

  Topping answered like he’d been expecting the question. “Then we would bring obstruction of justice charges against you at the very least. And Cinzano’s men would be out on the street looking for you, of course.”

  Her head swam, and that feeling of foreboding rushed back. “He knows who I am,” she repeated, more to herself than the agents.

  “Yeah,” Dombrowski said sympathetically. “You’d last maybe a week.”

  “That was really pretty sloppy of him,” Topping said. “They never make threats like that themselves. He had to be awfully pissed at the way you compromised him. Plus he’s got a big ego. He thinks he’s untouchable.”

  “But you got him cold, you said. So he can’t get out, right?” Blayne wanted some reassurance from these men that she wasn’t in as much danger as she feared. But she knew the answer even before she asked it.

  “No, I don’t think the judge will grant bail on what we have on him,” Topping agreed.

  “But we have to be honest and tell you that doesn’t mean you’re not in a great deal of danger,” Dombrowski said. “ We’re going to have to keep you in protective custody.”

  “What?” Blayne went rigid. She certainly hadn’t considered that. The mere words protective custody made her feel vaguely claustrophobic. She bristled at the thought of any loss of her independence.

  “That doesn’t mean you’ll be locked up,” Dombrowski hastened to add. “It just means you’ll have to stay somewhere safe, not your house, and you’ll have to be under constant police protection. And you can’t go back to the travel agency, at least not for the foreseeable future.”

  “I can’t go home? Can’t go back to my job?” This was getting worse by the minute. Her whole life was suddenly in upheaval. Blayne got a bad case of the shakes and suddenly felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. Without warning, she lost her burger and fries into the nearest wastebasket.

  Chapter Four

  Dawn would not break over Thessaloniki for another two hours, but Alexi Nikolos was already up and pacing on her balcony in the chill morning, restless, despite the fact that Greece’s most popular female singer was just inside, asleep in her bed.

  It wasn’t that their evening together hadn’t been enjoyable, though Alexi had not gone out looking for companionship. Dimitra Lambros had been amusing, fun, and extremely responsive beneath her, just the way she liked, but then again Alexi had always been partial to the passionate women of her homeland. The mistake she’d made was in bringing her home to her villa, because now she had to find a suitable way to get her to leave.

  Alexi rarely sought out someone for sex. She never had to. Wherever she went, men hit on her and beautiful women seemed to want to make themselves available to her. Gay or straight, it didn’t seem to matter. So although she rarely slept with the same woman twice, there was never a lack of bed partners.

  Her appearance was what first drew them in. Although not a large woman, only 5’6” and slight of build, Alexi knew how to make the most of her commanding presence. She was confident, smart, and sexy. And really more handsome than beautiful, though she was certainly that, too. She had a rather androgynous body, with a small ass and few curves to speak of save for her well-shaped but not overly large breasts. Her shoulders, arms, and legs were tautly muscled from regular workouts at home, and the flat plane of her stomach always elicited sighs of envy from the women she slept with.

  But while her body might tread the sometimes thin line between masculine and feminine, her face was all woman. She had the bronzed complexion of her Mediterranean homeland and classic features. A strong jaw beneath a straight nose and high cheekbones. Full, expressive eyebrows, long, dark lashes, and a pronounced, dramatic widow’s peak. Her medium brown hair, cut in loose waves, hung below her shoulders. Her lips, full and rosy red, formed a perfect cupid’s bow. Kissable lips, most women said.

  Alexi was aware of her beauty from any angle, but the feature that always drew the most compliments could only be admired face to face. Her eyes were the deep rich blue of the Aegean, a gift from her maternal grandmother. Alexi enjoyed gazing into them herself. Because of the resemblance, they brought back happy childhood memories.

  The women she chose to keep company with were drawn in by her looks and then fascinated by her charm and the polite attention she gave to everyone as a matter of course, a product of her formal upbringing and an ingrained part of her personality. They were one-night stands, but she made sure they never felt as though they were. First she would romance them in a way that few people did these days, listening attentively and laughing at their jokes as they shared a candlelit dinner and dancing. She would pay them compliments and treat them like queens, and when she took them to bed, the entirety of her attention was on their pleasure and not on her own. So she always left them wanting more, and never knowing that no matter how magic the evening might have seemed, Alexi had no feelings at all for any of them. Sexual encounters were simply one way for her to relieve the boredom that had taken over her life.

  Dawn was as long as she could bear to wait before having her home to herself once more, so she went about evicting her guest. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she gently caressed Dimitra’s back until she roused.

  “Good morning,” she said in Greek, Kalimera. The tone of her voice and the expression on her face could easily have been mistaken for affection, and often was. “I’ve brought you some coffee.” She set a mug on the bedside table.

  “Why don’t you come back to bed, and we can think about coffee later?” The singer threw back the covers, exposing her full breasts, curvaceous hips, and the dark triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs. She parted her legs and ran her hand invitingly up her thigh to the tender, swollen areas still damp from Alexi’s expertise the night before.

  “I would love to,” Alexi responded gently. “But I’m afraid I have to be somewhere.” She stood and took a few paces away to forestall any further efforts to seduce her.

  “Will you call me?” Dimitra asked, taking the hint and getting up to dress.

  “We’ll see.”

  Alexi made sure their goodbye was pleasant but non-committal. She was honest in her recreational dealings with women. No false promises meant no hurt feelings.

  Last night’s distraction had scarcely departed before Alexi’s phone rang. It was unusual for her to get calls this early, unless it
was from overseas. Probably some American who cannot tell time, she surmised, another unworthy ne’er-do-well seeking money from the philanthropic foundation she ran. So she answered in Greek instead of English, just to annoy them.

  “Parakalo. ”

  There was a long silence on the other end before a deep male voice asked, “Alexi? Is that you?”

  Her hand tightened around the telephone. She recognized the caller; she had a talent for accents and languages, speaking five herself. But she didn’t answer immediately, for it conjured up painful memories.

  When he repeated her name, she finally replied, “Theo. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Her polite tone did not entirely mask the sarcasm she felt, but Theodore Lang was not as adept at picking up nuances as she was and missed it. The last time she had seen her former associate, they’d both been stationed in Chicago. Unless he had been relocated, that meant it was now after midnight where he was.

  “You’re a difficult woman to track down,” he said. “And this is a business call I didn’t want to make at the office.”

  She was intrigued. “Business call?”

  “Yes. How would you feel about taking on an assignment?”

  “Who’s asking?” she replied.

  “You’d be reporting to me. Paul was bumped back to Inspector last month. I’ve taken over the Chicago office.”

  “Why ask me?” She made her tone perfunctorily. She didn’t want Theo thinking she would just come running the moment the welcome mat was out.

  “Someone from the Joint Task Force on Organized Crime is leaking information to the mob.”

  He had to know this would push her buttons. Alexi contemplated the prospect of returning to witness protection. It did have a certain appeal, despite the way things had ended. WITSEC was the one thing she had done that she felt really suited her, and it had certainly never been boring. Yet it was also where she’d made the worst mistake of her life.

  “And why should this appeal to me?” she asked.

  “Because we just lost one witness and another was attacked in a safe house.”

  A breath hissed from deep in her throat. “Any ideas so far?”

  “I think it’s one of the FBI guys, and not someone from this office, but I can’t eliminate anyone at this point.” He tried flattery. “D.C. wants the best and I want someone I can trust. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

  “There is something else. Don’t be coy with me, Theo.”

  He hesitated, but only for a split second. “It involves the Salvatore family.”

  They both lapsed into silence as she digested this information. She walked to the balcony and stared out at the clear blue waters of the Aegean, already missing her beloved Greece.

  “When do you want me?”

  *

  No way. No fucking way.

  Blayne stared into the mirror, unable to recognize herself. Her hair was dyed black and cut very short in a spiky hairstyle she despised. She had a realistic-looking tribal tattoo on her right bicep and a scorpion tattoo on her neck. Attached to her lower lip were two small rings that looked like authentic piercings, and there was a slightly larger one in her right eyebrow that pinched uncomfortably.

  Her eyes had been made up in thick black goth makeup, and she had ruby-red lips. I’m a punk raccoon looking for love.

  The woman who had taken two hours to dye her hair and make her up had not let Blayne near a mirror until the work was done and she’d packed up her makeup kit and fled. Now Blayne knew why. It was all she could do not to wash it all away so she could find herself again beneath the garish circus paint.

  There was absolutely no way she was putting on the clothes. What the hell were they thinking? Punk. Goth. Grunge. Make up your mind already. And all of it is so ‘90s.

  She said aloud to herself. “Guess I should have expected this, letting total strangers decide how I’m going to look.”

  It wasn’t that she considered herself fashion conscious by any means, but no one could look good in what they’d given her to complete her disguise. Hugely baggy jeans, an obscenely studded military-type jacket, clunky Doc Marten boots, and an oversized black T-shirt that read Some Days It’s Not Worth Chewing Through the Restraints. The FBI agent who picked that one out must have had a good laugh. She wondered if it was Topping. The man seemed to have no sense of humor at all. She liked Dombrowski much better and wished he were still with her. At least he had let her in on what was happening some of the time.

  At the outset of this nightmare, the day she’d witnessed the murder, she’d been allowed to make a quick trip home under the protection of three FBI agents. Under instructions to collect any personal belongings that were important to her, she’d packed two bags with clothes, toiletries, photographs, papers, and whatever else she thought she might need or want. She’d put her Fiji fund into a large envelope and stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans.

  For the next three days, she’d stayed in a not-too-shabby hotel suite on the outskirts of Chicago, under the watchful eye of a dour female Special Agent named Monica Wright. Another agent was always stationed outside, in a car or van, and Blayne was not allowed to leave or contact anyone, even Claudia.

  No one would tell her what was going on, or whether Claudia was also under protection. Blayne had hated the restrictions and complete disintegration of every routine and sense of normalcy in her life, and showed her irritation in flashes of Irish temper.

  The arrangement hadn’t lasted long. On her third boring evening in front of the television, Dombrowski had showed up and ordered her to get changed and pack all her things as quickly as possible. When Blayne quarreled and demanded to know what was going on, he looked her in the eyes and said in the gentle way one would break the news to a close friend or relative, “Joyce Houseman has been murdered.”

  Blayne still couldn’t believe it. Joyce’s body had been found on a street near her apartment. She’d been shot. No witnesses. Worse still, Philippe and Claudia Cluzet hadn’t been seen in a couple of days.

  “You think something bad has happened to them, don’t you?” Blayne had asked, thinking No! Not Claudia. There was a knot in her chest that made it hard to breathe. She couldn’t imagine life without her best friend, and Philippe had become like a second father to her. They were the only family she had.

  Dombrowski had reassured her that they were following up every angle and they would find Claudia and Philippe. Meantime she had to get to a more secure location right away. So Blayne had relented, and five minutes later she was packed and they were ready to go.

  When they got down to the lobby, the desk clerk was checking in a middle-aged couple with two cranky kids in tow, and there were a few other guests about, but nothing had appeared out of place. A tired businessman with an open briefcase in his lap chatted at one of the pay phones. A couple of Hispanic men in their sixties bickered good-naturedly over a game of chess. A young couple preoccupied with kissing each other headed out the front door to catch a cab. No one paid the three of them any attention, and they set off toward the side door to the parking lot, walking at a nice steady clip but not hurried, nothing that would draw undue attention to them.

  There were no windows on that side of the building, so once they reached the big metal fire door, Wright held Blayne back until Dombrowski could confirm they were clear to exit. Everything had seemed fine. Only it wasn’t.

  Blayne still couldn’t remember the exact sequence of events. One moment they were crossing the well-lit parking lot, the next Dombrowski’s head snapped around and he alerted Wright to two teenagers rounding the corner of the building.

  The word that sprang to mind was punks. They wore baggy jeans and oversized sweatshirts, the hoods partially obscuring their faces. They were everywhere in Chicago these days—nameless young men who relied on petty crimes to pay for whatever they were injecting, smoking or inhaling. That’s all that mattered to them. How to finance the next fix.

  Dombrowski had parked the dark SU
V in the spot nearest the door, and they quickened their pace toward it. The punks exchanged a couple of quick words and Blayne became aware that they were staring intently at her. As if they recognized her. Or thought they did.

  “Get her in the car! Now!” Dombrowski reached for his gun as the punks reached for theirs.

  Wright had the door half open when the first shots rang out. Shielding Blayne’s body with her own, she pushed her forward, knocking the wind out of her, which only heightened Blayne’s sense of helplessness. Dombrowski was returning fire and got one of the shooters in the head just as the kid was about to pull the trigger. He hit the other in the chest, but not before the teenager had fired a round himself.

  That bullet grazed Wright’s shoulder and shattered the tinted window beyond, showering Blayne with shards of glass. None of this deterred Wright from covering Blayne with her body and ignoring her protests. Pinned by the agent’s weight and panicking over the attack, Blayne had struggled until Wright barked “Stop it!”.

  The authority in her voice stunned Blayne into submission. The close call had scared the shit out of her, and all she could feel was the rush of fear and adrenalin. After Wright moved off her, she’d had to look herself over to be satisfied she hadn’t been hit. She couldn’t stop trembling.

  “You saved my life,” she’d stammered. “Thanks.”

  “That’s what I get paid for,” the agent replied drolly, before gracing Blayne with her first real smile in the three days of their acquaintance.

  They both stared at the blossoming bloodstain on Wright’s left shoulder.

  “Not too bad,” Wright reported of the two-inch tear the bullet had made in her flesh.

  Blayne could hear sirens in the distance, and the local cops soon showed up to secure the scene. A half-hour later, ensconced in a replacement sedan, she was driven away from the downtown headquarters of the FBI’s Chicago division and soon found herself on the ramp to Interstate 55, heading southwest. With her was a new female agent who’d been called in to replace the wounded Wright. And because Dombrowski had discharged his weapon in the line of duty, he was also off the case. Agent Skip Topping was accompanying Blayne.