by Layla Reyne
Except gunfire had erupted inside the apartment first. “Someone did hear?” Nic asked.
“The husband opened the bedroom door, and Becca...” Abby closed her eyes, face turned away. She started again after another hard swallow. “Becca shot him, Scott shouted, and the next thing I knew, they were shooting at each other.”
“The gunfight that drew the tactical team?”
Abby nodded. “They stormed in, after Scott and Mike first, and Becca rushed us into the bedroom.”
“That’s when she shot Anica?”
“She was distraught, screaming after her husband. Becca shot her point blank.” Abby’s voice quieted to a whisper. “I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. She’s threatened before, but never...”
“How’d you get loose? How’d Becca get out?”
“She ran to the window. Said the cops were shooting at something across the street instead and that we could jump to the balcony below. Some guys would meet us there.”
Nic hung his head. They’d been covering him and Lauren in the van. He’d drawn Beta team off the exterior, and Charlie team off the third floor and the rip-off crew. “She went out through the window?”
Abby nodded again. “I’m terrified of heights; she knows that. Cops were closing in, so she left me helping the wife. Made me promise not to cooperate, or she’d...” Abby lost her words again, and Nic understood why.
“She threatened to hurt your sister?”
“Yeah.” Abby reached for the iPod again, unwinding the earbud cord and weaving it through her fingers, a nervous tic not limited to her hair. “She said she’d come for me. She’s not gonna let me or the job go.”
“She’s down you, Mike, and her ringleader.”
Abby laughed, short and harsh. “You thought Scott was the leader?”
“We traced the payoff funds to his accounts.”
“Becca let him front as the lead, to protect her own ass, but she called the shots. As for Mike, B&E guys are a dime a dozen. She’s probably already found a replacement and muscle to replace Scott.”
Maybe the two rip-off guys who’d helped her escape.
“Why didn’t you tell us Becca was the real lead?” Nic asked.
She shrugged, eyes downcast. “I hardly knew you. If you turned on me, all I had left was her. And she’s the one holding a felony over my little sister’s head.”
Nic couldn’t trust Abby completely, especially after she’d held back this crucial information, but he understood why she’d done it. Yes, Abby was a criminal—he had no delusions there—but from everything he’d seen and heard since Abby had sought him out, including today, she’d gotten into this for love, not for the money or to harm anyone, and now she was stuck, a victim of Becca’s emotional manipulation. And actual blackmail.
“All that’s left is for her to come for me,” Abby said, fear making her voice tremble. “Then she’ll make another run at the artifacts.”
“Which are now locked up tight in the museum’s vault.”
Abby tapped the iPod on the table, the repetitive knock-knock-knock loud in the otherwise quiet room. “Nothing is as secure as you think.”
Nic reached across table, stilling her hand. “We’ve got eyes on your sister, and we’ve got a safe house ready for you.”
Sliding her hand out from under his, she patted the back of his as if he were an idiot. “Which I guarantee she’ll case. The courthouse too.”
“You think she’ll make a move there?”
She gave him a “duh” face, and Nic conceded the point. Abby was invaluable, not just for this job but for others too, as voice recognition technology continued to grow in popularity for high-end safes.
He drummed his thumbs on the table, contemplating alternatives. “I can’t move the arraignment from the courthouse, but I can talk to the clerk about keeping the exact time and courtroom under wraps. We’ll change it at the last minute, where we’re holding you too, if we need to. Throw her off a bit.”
“And the safe house?”
“We’ll move you each night. I’ll also coordinate with the feds to add more guards to Tony’s protection team.”
Abby lifted the iPod. “Could use some more audiobooks too. Good distraction.”
“I think we can arrange that.”
Worries seemingly allayed, Abby braced her forearms on the table and tilted toward him, flashing her cleavage. “You single, Attorney Price?”
“Yes, but this—” he gestured between them “—would be a clear violation of attorney ethics rules.”
She flapped a hand like she was swatting a fly. “Rules.”
“You’re also not my type.”
She twirled an errant ringlet of her hair again. “Blondes instead?”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice, like he was about to tell her a secret. Building a sense of trust with his witness. “Men instead.”
Her eyes rounded and her mouth dropped open in a silent Oh.
He laughed out loud as he pushed to his feet.
“That’s cool,” she said, recovering. “Good for you.”
“Good for you too. I’m a terrible boyfriend.”
She reclined back in her chair, tucking an earbud back in her ear. “I don’t believe that for a second.”
He didn’t correct her, choosing instead to be amused at the end of this long, terrible day. He was still grinning when he walked back into his war room and found Lauren at the head of the table, face hidden behind her laptop screen, long brown hair escaping from the wobbly pencil bun atop her head. His smile grew wider, then died when she glanced up, blue eyes filled with worry.
His earlier distress came roaring back, mouth dry and skin on fire. He almost voiced it, almost asked where’s Cam, then caught himself, correcting and asking more vaguely, “What’s wrong?” and praying the answer didn’t involve the ASAC.
“The shooter who targeted the van,” Lauren said, “I don’t think he was with either crew.”
“What do you mean?”
“He left behind this phone.” She disconnected the generic burner model from her laptop. “I cracked it.”
Nic eyed the device like it was poisonous. Ridiculous—it was just a piece of handheld electronics—but judging by Lauren’s wariness, his caution was warranted. “What’s on it?”
She held the phone out to him. “It’s wiped clean, except for these.”
He slid it from her hand and stared at the picture on the screen.
Of him.
He swiped his thumb left, across the screen. Again and again.
More pictures, of him.
At the Federal Building. At the UN Plaza food trucks. At the gym where he worked out.
Lauren closed her laptop, the click loud like the gunshots that had hit their van earlier today. That had been aimed at him. “You were the target.”
Chapter Three
Nic swung his truck into a parking spot near the front entrance of Gravity Craft Brewery. Five years ago, when his friend and SEAL teammate Eddie Vasquez transferred out of the Navy to the local Coast Guard unit, they’d tapped their savings, bought a couple old warehouse buildings in Redwood City, and opened the microbrewery they’d dreamed about while stuck in the desert together. It wasn’t easy, working the equivalent of two full-time jobs, but Nic wouldn’t have his other job forever. The writing was on the wall at the US Attorneys’ Office. He didn’t want it forever either, or a similar job in private practice. As much as he loved the courtroom, he’d started to itch for a different challenge. In Gravity, he was building something with his teammate and friend, a future they could call their own. Every hour Nic spent at the brewery, even the hours doing paperwork as Gravity’s business manager, were worth it. For perhaps the first time since he’d stepped into the Navy enlistment office the day after high school graduation, Nic felt like he was taking
control of his destiny again.
On his way to the door, he peered between the brewery buildings to the back lot where tonight’s band and food trucks were shutting down. The music and variety of food options, together with the hanging lights and electrical spools-turned-tables and barrels-turned-stools, created a festive atmosphere that drew a steady crowd on weekends when they were open to the public. One of Eddie’s more brilliant ideas.
He keyed in his access code, the electronic lock switching from red to green, just as the hanging lights over the back lot darkened, leaving only the sodium lights glowing in the main lot behind him. Slipping inside, Nic waited for the lock to reengage, then followed the wail of nineties grunge toward the expansive tasting area.
“Yo!” Eddie called from behind the bar.
Par for the course, Eddie’s black brewery tee was about to bust at the seams, the falling-apricot logo on the short sleeve peeling and cracking with each swipe he made over the bar top. Eddie’s shirts had always been two sizes too small. Just like his gravity-defying pompadour of jet black hair had rarely deflated since he’d grown it back out.
Nic grabbed another bar towel and began wiping down the stools and pub tables around the tasting room. “Good crowd tonight?”
“Packed. Only a couple cases left of the Imperial Stout, and the public stock of IPA is selling fast too. Few more weeks, at most.”
More than half their award-winning IPA had already been committed to restaurants. The fast-moving other half was a good sign. “You brew a mean beer,” Nic said with a nod to his brewmaster.
“Damn right I do.” Eddie grinned, fist out for a bump. Nic returned it—top, bottom, then knuckles. “Didn’t think you’d make it in tonight.”
“Work thing,” Nic replied.
Eddie shot him a disapproving glare, and Nic shot him one back, plus the middle finger. Eddie was the last person to give him shit for working too much. Gravity aside, Eddie’s Coast Guard hours, while more predictable than other service branches, were far from nine-to-five.
“Went tits-up?” Eddie asked.
“That’s being generous.”
Whistling low, Eddie drew a pint of pilsner off the tap and passed it across the bar. “Guessin’ you need this, then.”
“No question there.”
As if the shoot-out, asshole boss, fretting CI, and apparent attempt on his life hadn’t been enough, Nic had spent hours filling out paperwork for rotating safe houses and rousing court clerks about rotating courtrooms. By the time he’d left the office, once Tony radioed in that Abby was secure in tonight’s location, he’d angered more than just Bowers.
Taking a long draw of his favorite brew, Nic forgot about all that shit for a few heavenly seconds. With a higher malt concentration than other pilsners, Gravity’s Alto Pils was less sweet and more spicy, “a stand-out in its class” according to Beer Advocate. He took another swallow, savoring, before his happy sigh turned weary.
“And I’ve still got another call with the feds.” He needed to touch base with Cam and see if he’d gotten anywhere with Scott or Mike. He also needed to find out if Lauren had said anything to Cam about the shooter. Nic had sworn her to secrecy, but technically her duty was to the FBI, not him. He should have called Cam on the drive down from the City but he’d taken the rare, traffic-free forty-five minutes for himself, enjoying the relative silence after an otherwise very loud day.
Eddie yanked Nic’s bunched-up bar towel out from under his fisted hand. “I stand by my earlier glare. You work too much.”
“Whatever you say, Pot.”
Chuckling, Eddie ran the towels over the bar once more, then tossed them into the laundry basket beneath the back bar. “Speaking of, I’m due at Alameda at oh-five-hundred.”
“Then what the fuck are you still doing here?”
He stretched out a hand to Nic, as if for a handshake. “Hi, Kettle, I’m Pot, nice to meet you,” he said with a brown-eyed wink.
Nic swatted his meaty paw away, laughing. “You know how long?”
“Captain thinks a couple weeks.”
Probably a drug interdiction matter then—chasing illegal drug vessels around the Pacific—which meant it’d land on Nic’s desk eventually. “I’ll check the schedules. Make sure we’re covered here, since I won’t be around much either. Trial.”
“Already done. Ang and Steph will hold down the fort.” They’d lucked out in the staff lottery, finding not one, but two, UC Davis grads who were talented apprentice brewers and competent assistant managers.
“Good deal.” Nic finished off his beer and handed the pint glass to Eddie, who rinsed and put it in the dishwasher.
“Owe the team a couple of cases.” Eddie stepped out from behind the bar. “Help me load ’em?”
“Sure thing.” Nic shrugged out of his coat and tie, pushed up his shirtsleeves, and followed Eddie into the warehouse. They carried two cases of Belmont Red Ale out to Eddie’s sand-crusted Wrangler, surfboards still stacked on top. Nic liked the coast all right—had spent plenty of time there as a kid—and Eddie’s place in Half Moon Bay was great. As nice as it was though, Nic could never live there. Not in a place where sand in his shoes was a daily occurrence. Not again.
Eddie slammed the trunk door shut, snapping Nic out of his thoughts. “How much longer you gonna be?” he asked.
“Need to make that call, then I’ll be on my way.” Nic followed him to the driver side, waited for Eddie to climb in, then held out his fist. “Don’t run to your death.”
Eddie bumped back. “Hooyah.”
Once Eddie’s taillights cleared the lot, Nic started back to the main building, pausing halfway when his phone vibrated.
Unknown lit up the screen.
“Nic Price,” he answered.
Silence greeted him.
“Hello, is anyone there?”
Still nothing.
“Who is this?”
A male voice answered, but not from the phone. “I’d be more worried about who’s here than who’s on the phone,” he said from behind Nic.
One look over his shoulder and Nic spied a shiny-suited man rushing toward him. The big guy wrapped his arms around him from behind, and though he’d gotten the jump on him, Nic thought someone was a fool for not telling this idiot who he was up against. Even without the Ka-Bar and Beretta he’d left in his truck, Nic could take this guy.
Or maybe someone had warned the goon, because a second one came barreling out of the back lot, pistol aimed at Nic. “I’d stay still if I were you.”
“Why don’t you stay still for me?” Nic replied.
Using the big man behind him as a support post, Nic crossed his arms, grabbed the stranger’s biceps, and curled up with his abs, lifting his legs off the ground. One swift scissor kick and Goon Two’s weapon was gone. Another swift kick to Goon Two’s blond head, and he hit the pavement. One threat neutralized, Nic swung his legs down with as much force as he could muster and used his momentum to flip Goon One over his back, laying him flat out next to his partner. Nic plucked his sidearm free in the process, so by the time the two idiots staggered up, Nic had a pistol leveled on each.
The Silicon Valley version of “muscle,” their trainer-honed physiques were decked out in designer suits and Italian loafers, capped off with three-figure haircuts. They looked like TV G-Men, not real-life enforcers, but the weapons in Nic’s hands were very real and very high-powered. Jacked as they were, the handguns were also highly illegal.
“Gentlemen.” Nic widened his stance. “You want to tell me who sent you here?”
The dark-haired one tried to skirt around Nic to the door. “Your father give you the money for this place?”
Nic blocked him. “Not a single goddamn dime.”
“If he did—” Goon One talked over him “—we’d have to take our cut. Your father’s debts are growing by the day.”<
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Nic schooled his features, more to hide his anger than any sort of surprise. He’d heard the rumors floating around. His father, Curtis Price, was selling off his real estate holdings. Most speculated he was cashing out, old age and a booming real estate market hastening the sell-off. Nic knew better. One, cashing out for what? Curtis sure as shit wasn’t putting the money away for him. And two, his father never gave up control of anything, unless he was forced to. Now whatever upside-down deal he’d made was blowing back on Nic.
“Wonder what this property would sell for?” Goon Two said. “I suspect the value might decline, if something unfortunate were to happen. Alcohol burns fast, I hear.”
“Bet the insurance proceeds would be significant,” Goon One added.
Red-hot rage surged through Nic, but he kept a lid on it, barely, taking a measured breath and keeping his aim steady, an idle tune flitting through his head. “I asked who sent you here.”
Goon One reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a card. He held it out to Nic. “Our employer wants to be sure you’re aware of the issue.”
A mind-boggling dollar amount was scribbled on the back of the heavy ecru cardstock. Nic turned it over and bit back a curse as he read the printed block letters.
VAUGHN INVESTMENTS.
He should have fucking known. Duncan Vaughn, the man Nic’s father was apparently indebted millions to, was a prominent “real estate investor,” among other things. Crook was more accurate. “That what those shots at me earlier today were about?” Nic asked.
Silence from the Goon Squad.
“I haven’t spoken a word to my father in twenty-seven years,” Nic carried on, “and I don’t want a fucking cent of his money. Never did. He sells his properties, Vaughn can take the money. Leave me and my brewery the fuck out of it.”