Hunter: Perfect Revenge (Perfectly Book 3)

by Alice May Ball

  Her sodden cocktail dress was certain to have the DNA of the congressman, as well as a number of other dignitaries on it. And a senior cop.

  Commissioner Butler, Detective Paul Butler as he was at the time, of the Saint Louis PD was the last person to check the dress out of the evidence locker.

  The congressman took his own life under murky and tragic circumstances very shortly thereafter and the case went cold. We never did get to the bottom of whether Butler had been one of the blackmail victims, or if he had some other involvement.

  We had a view into the target window from across the street, the apartment was bugged and we had a watch on the street where the occupants habitually approached. So far it had been slow work, and not very productive. All I had to show at the end of each long day was a backache and knots like eight-balls in my shoulders.

  We worked in teams of three, in shifts. I was working with Special Agents Daniels and Schultz, two solid, experienced field agents. Both of them were pretty old school and easy to get along with.

  To guard against even the slightest chance of alerting the subjects, we took precautions entering and leaving the building. Innocent locals and residents would be apt to notice unfamiliar groups of people who walked like cops.

  For undercover work, we were taught to conceal our outward discipline in our dress and manner, but it was hard to maintain, and honestly, it wasn’t usually all that successful. Discipline was too deeply ingrained and it showed.

  In the field we had to accept it for what it was. The only sure way of staying undercover was to not be seen.

  The stairs of the apartment building were a workout. The temporary surveillance nest was on the seventeenth floor. Our team didn’t risk being seen in the lobby or the elevator, or any public areas of the building. Even in plain clothes, we entered always via the service entrance. In the hallways we kept strict silence, with phones and communicators switched off. We walked in ones and two's and never came out of the stairwell into a public area when anyone was in sight.

  At the door of the apartment, I made the distinctive knock to alert the agents inside, and then unlocked the door and slipped inside. Agent Schultz was at the desk with the computers and Daniels sat by the camera that was mounted on a tripod at the window. I hadn’t expected to see our black suited SAC, Special Agent in Charge Damian Crane, and he frowned like he hadn't been expecting to see me either.

  He was in his regular black G-Man suit, which surprised me even more. Crane was bent over to Agent Daniels’ ear. He laid a hand on Daniels’ shoulder for a second as he looked back and stared hard at me. He turned abruptly as I pushed the door shut with my back. He was a tough SAC, and I respected that. But he always gave me a feeling that I wasn’t quite on safe ground with him. An uncomfortable edge.

  In monthly reviews, he could look up sharply from the tablet on his desk and pierce me with a stare that made me wonder, where are you going with this? Of course, law enforcement officers need to be tough, and they, we, often have to be intimidating. It’s a tool of the trade, so I wasn’t going to be unsettled by SAC Crane’s abrupt manner.

  Damian Crane looked every inch the classic FBI Special Agent. The suit, the white shirts that I was sure he had starched, and the pencil-thin black necktie all declared him as an agent. Much of the Bureau’s work was in the open, and agents were often proud to be identified. But it was strange for the SAC to come in such conspicuous dress to a covert surveillance nest.

  He gave Daniels’ shoulder another squeeze and bent down for another word in his ear, then turned smartly on his heel to greet me.

  He stood close, making me look up. His voice was low and confidential.

  “Agent Cross, I just briefed Daniels that our subjects are expected to receive a visitor between three and five this afternoon. The visitor is an informant involved in a separate on-going investigation, which is highly sensitive. So, as I explained to Daniels and Schultz here, surveillance needs to be suspended between those hours. All cameras and recording equipment need to be shut off. You may as well stand the detail down for that time. Take a break. I’m sure you’ve earned it.”

  I nodded. “Sir, in Saint Louis, situations like that were not uncommon. We would just tag those sections of recording as ‘not for distribution,’ and redact. Then we would continue observation, in case something unexpected might occur. Which it did…” I was about to relate a story but he cut me off.

  “I think I’ve been clear, Agent Cross.” His voice was still low and he moved closer, making me uncomfortable. “You’re not in St Louis now. This is the New York, and I’m in charge of this office, and this surveillance. Is that all clear enough for you?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  When Schultz and Daniels turned to look at the SAC, their heads were bent low and their faces were in shadow. Crane left an atmosphere in the room as he left. We had about another hour and a half before the time Crane said we should shut down, and we didn’t talk about our instructions. I had the sense that Crane’s directive didn’t sit any better with the other agents.

  Since the day I joined the New York Anti-Corruption office, Agent Don Schultz had always been friendly towards me. His presence was like a big, kindly arm around my shoulder. He was flirty, too, but in a way that was more playful than serious. I have no doubt at all that, if I’d been down for it, he would have been happy to take it further, but still I felt it was more genuine friendliness than anything else. So, that day, I think he was trying to lighten my mood after my abrasive encounter with Crane.

  “Any time, baby, night or day,” I felt him close behind me, covering me like a warm rug. “I’ll park my car down the street from your house. Leave the back door open on the driver’s side. Any time, Vesper baby, you just climb on in.”

  “Wouldn’t that be risky?” I lifted my eyebrows innocently, my eyes wide and an ‘O’ of shock on my lips. He smiled at my expression, “Here in the dangerous Big Apple, the citadel of crime?”

  “Don’t tell anyone, Vesper,” he grinned and lowered his voice, “But I’m a federal agent.” With a grin like his, Schultz could get a shot at any woman in New York. “I may look slow,” he said, “But I’m a tough son of a bitch. Anyone who messed with my car, they’d find God and pray for forgiveness before I was through with them.”

  I made the innocent face again. “But, Agent Schultz,” I put a finger to my open mouth, “You’re so strong and handsome.”

  “Yeah. And old.”

  It was cute. I often wondered how far it would go if I encouraged him. But I wouldn’t ever do that. Not with an Agent in the same Bureau office, and certainly not one on the same team. I think he knew that, and I think he respected it, too. I was sure that he just wanted me to feel better about the day, and I liked him all the more for it.

  Just before three, without any discussion, we switched off all of our equipment and made our way separately out of the building.

  I watched as Schultz and Daniels parted and left in different directions. They had worked as a team a long time before I came to New York, so when they didn’t even take the unscheduled coffee break together, I took it as a sign that they weren’t any happier with the turn of events than I was.

  My SAC in Saint Louis, my father figure in the agency, was Special Agent Lou Gaines. He was the one who had sent me to New York in the first place. In a situation like this, he would have taken the team for a briefing. He would do that routinely over far less serious issues. He would say to all of us, regularly, “If you aren’t happy with something, anything, whether it’s operational or not, I hope you can come directly to me. But, in case you can’t, I’ll always have a channel of communication open for you that goes over my head, just in case you need it.” He valued openness and a free-flowing exchange of information of all kinds, especially intelligence.

  New York was not Saint Louis, though, just as Crane told me. It was clear to me from the start.

  All of that afternoon, I was able to think about just two things. How I should
do more yoga to make up for all of the days that I spent hunched over cameras and field binoculars on low tripods. The hours and days spent crouched and still, staring out of windows for a highly resolution view of nothing happening. That was one thing.

  The other was him. The guy with the salt beef on rye and the dark patch in his eyelash.

  Back at the stakeout, when it was time for the night detail to take over, I was thinking about a bar downtown. The kind of a place he’d likely fit in.

  T WAS SUNNY and warm so I took my sandwich down 76th to the strip of parkland by the river. The sandwich was as good as always and every bite reminded me of the cute fed I had met in the deli.

  Yachts, barges and a ferry made their way slowly up and down the wide river, honking now and then. Kids on rollerblades and skateboards whipped along the curbside track beside the trucks and cabs and all the cars.

  A couple of rowers streaked by and their boats cut through the water like long knives and it made me think of an old movie with corny music, night time, distant drums, canoes, an Indian raiding party. And I thought of her eyes. Dark, almond shaped pools over high cheekbones. Was there some Lakota or Iroquois in there?

  Maybe I’d have to ask her.

  A fed, though. The idea had some appeal. Opposites attract. Sometimes I’d get a kick out of a thing like that. There was a federal marshal once. Man, she was strong. And supple. Had good stamina, too.

  The phone vibrated in my pocket. El Guapo’s number was on the screen. But I knew it would be him anyway. I don’t give my phone number to too many people.

  “Tomorrow,” his voice grated in my ear. “I’m sending you a text message with the address. It’s where we’re keeping the Bonaventura twins. Be there at 4pm tomorrow. It should be a couple of days at most.”

  “What are you hoping I’ll do?”

  “Stay there. Keep watch. See that they don’t die.”

  “Is that likely?” I couldn’t tell if he was just swaggering, the way these guys did, or if he was serious. The safe choice, I figured, was always to act cool, but take what they said at face value.

  I listened. His voice was thin. “I’m giving you good money to make sure it doesn’t happen. That’s all.”

  When he hung up I wondered why the two sons of Carmine Bonaventura, one of the biggest crime bosses in the five boroughs were going to be ‘kept’ somewhere. When the text message came in it gave the address and a door code. Also details of the house security.

  The address was in a pretty upscale part of the East Village. Not a particularly dangerous area, especially not for the wealthy sons of a high-ranking gangster. I wondered what was wrong with their own arrangements for security. I wondered why they would want freelance help to assure their survival.

  It was strange, but the assignments I got from El Guapo were never run-of-the-mill. And the money was always fine.

  She waited until after seven before she messaged me the name of a bar. I was impressed by her restraint. After the name of the bar it just said,

  9 o’clock. Bourbon. Straight.

  BIG, CHISELED-GRANITE faced super-soldier, too much muscle. He really wasn’t my type. Especially not when he was so obviously one of the criminal kind. But, I thought, what the hell. I had been going through something of a dry spell – a spell of several years. Since I signed up with the Bureau, in fact.

  Wouldn’t you know it, the thing that had made me want to join up at the start was the impression that a Special Agent had made on me, the first one I’d ever met, in fact. Matt Trayner was investigating a case my father was involved in. He had an easy, confident gleam in his eye, with a spark of mischief and a burning intelligence. And he made me laugh. He was well built and he dripped with effortless charm.

  Truth be told, I want to be one of those, was only my second thought. My first was, I want one of those. That one, in particular would do very nicely. And, for a week and a half, every minute of which felt like a crime in the best way, he did. We did. But, like most of my relationships, however wonderful it was with the lights off, it couldn’t survive exposure to daylight.

  Still, Matt’s combination of confidence and deadly skill combined with brains and a wicked sense of humor left, let’s say, a deep and lasting impression, and made me determined to become a Special Agent myself. And, honestly, a big part of the attraction was that it would mean working in environments where I was surrounded by male Special Agents.

  I loved the training, the study, the law, the combat skills and the marksmanship, and I made fast progress. Since my graduation from Quantico, I had worked closely with a lot of agents, and many of them had those exact qualities that I found so sexy. But, naturally, I was working too closely with them to allow any other kind of a relationship to develop.

  It happens in the Bureau, and sometimes it works out. Team members work together, get together and pair up. They marry. Successfully. Not all that often, though. There are too many stresses and risks of a conflict of interest.

  Federal Agents are almost all fiercely loyal and ready to die for a colleague. But an older Agent once told me that it’s tougher to be out in the field with someone you’re in a relationship with. Your instinct will always be to protect them. That could mean getting distracted at a crucial moment, and that could endanger the team or the mission.

  I always knew that wouldn’t be for me. I didn’t know if I could be with someone all night then work with them all day? It didn’t appeal. It seemed like you would never have anything to talk about outside of work.

  Still, a guy from the other side of the fence? One of the bad guys? No. Definitely not. I figured we’d have a drink, maybe some laughs. Possibly spar a little. But that would be all.

  He would probably make a move. I would take a pass. Come away feeling good about myself with a little triumph to tuck into my back pocket.

  As I made my way to the bar, I wondered if that was my real motive. That I wanted him to put the move on me so I would feel good about being wanted, and then feel superior about turning him down. That gave me a twinge. It wasn’t like me at all.

  At nine sharp, the bar was almost empty. Still, when I walked down the steps and opened the door, the sound changed. I’ll never get used to it, that thing that happens every time I walk into a bar, a woman alone. Everything went a notch quieter and a little still, as though paused in anticipation of what I would do.

  Peering around the gloom, I saw the half dozen or so dark figures intently not watching me. None of them were him. Fucker. Not that I would have any fear of being able to handle myself, but I was unimpressed by him not bothering to be on time.

  Perhaps I’m always a little too uptight about that kind of thing, I don’t know. It annoyed me enough that I was ready to leave. As I turned, the barman called to me. “Ma’am?”

  As I stepped up to the bar he put a heavy tumbler down in front of me, swirling with a dark amber spirit.

  “I believe this is for you, Ma’am. Horse called ahead,” Horse? What kind of a name was that? “He insisted on a double shot of our best bourbon for you, and asked me to tell you that he apologizes for being delayed, and that he’ll be here in about five minutes.”

  I looked up to see the glimmer in the barkeeper’s eyes. I asked him, “How do you know he meant me?”

  “He said you would be dead on time and drop-dead gorgeous.” He looked around the room, then back at me. “He definitely meant you.”

  There was a dark chuckle behind me. “I don’t know about that, Donny,” a big man in a check shirt lumbered up to the bar, “I’m pretty damn gorgeous, if you get me in the right light.”

  There were sounds of chairs scraping as he said, “Donny, let me buy the little lady’s drink.” And to me he said, “I’m here right on time. Come over to my table and let’s get acquainted. Forget about the ass who didn’t make the date.”