Deep Cover

by Rachel Butler

  Though it had been less than twenty-four hours, the damage from the attack on Selena had already been repaired—flood lamps replaced, a new cinder-block support for a new concrete slab, the debris cleaned up. No doubt, the owner had thought it bad for business to advertise the fact that someone had ambushed one of his customers right on the range.

  “You talk to the lab?” Simmons asked as he leaned back against the tree trunk and wiped the sweat from his face.

  “Yeah. The ground’s too rocky to get any footprints. They collected seventy-two shell casings from an AK. No prints on the casings. They also found a black fiber on the brambles over there. A synthetic blend. Could have come from any of a million garments. That’s it.”

  “Who knew Selena would be here?”

  “Me.” He’d gone to spend the evening with his father while his mother went to her first support group meeting for the caregivers of Alzheimer’s patients. Anna had really needed the break, and the meeting, and he’d needed to feel as if he was helping.

  “Anyone else?”

  “She doesn’t know anyone else.”

  “Anyone could have been watching her. She tends to stand out in a crowd.”

  Grunting in agreement, Tony stared down at the range, but his mind’s eye saw it the way it would have been when Selena was there—the night dark, the flood lamps lit, the place empty but for her. She’d emptied her magazine, set her gun down where the new table was, and the first bullet had hit a few inches away.

  Why? The shooter couldn’t have asked for a better vantage point. He’d had a perfect shot at her from the waist up— an easy head shot, an easier center mass shot. But he’d missed. Seventy-two times. Thank God.

  “Guy must have been one hell of a bad shot,” Simmons commented. “Couldn’t have been a pro.”

  All of Henry’s pros in the area were locked up—at least, the ones they knew about. “Maybe he wasn’t trying to hit her.”

  “Then why . . . To scare her?”

  “Or send a warning.”

  “To stay out of Daniels’s business.” Simmons pushed away from the tree and moved closer as Tony straightened. “Seventy-two shots is one hell of an ineffective warning. More likely, the guy panicked. He thought it’d be easy to pick her off, and when it wasn’t, he freaked and blew the hell out of the place, hoping that at least one of the bullets would hit her.”

  “Maybe,” Tony muttered. Henry had had plenty of shooters working for him, but there had been other employees whose jobs didn’t routinely involve murder. It was easy enough to imagine one of them attempting to remove Selena from the picture. After all, according to Long, Henry had made no secret of his plans for Selena. It seemed a common misconception that she knew more about the business than she really did.

  Simmons tugged at his collar. “Come on, man, let’s go. It’s damn hot out here.”

  Tony gave him a sour look. He’d had a really shitty day, thanks to Selena, and he didn’t need Frankie’s pissing and moaning on top of it. “Hey, no one asked you to come.”

  “I got used to tagging along behind you, working Daniels’s homicides. It’s a hard habit to break.”

  Tony moved, but only far enough to clear the sumacs. There he stopped to look around. The area was industrial, perfect for late-night visitors to the range. Unfortunately, no one around to complain about the shooting also meant no one around to see any suspicious persons or cars. Some of the buildings might have security cameras, but the odds of finding one that recorded activity outside its immediate vicinity were slim.

  “She was parked right down there,” he said, more to himself than to Simmons, “and she left that way and didn’t see any cars. So the guy must have parked on the other side of the hill.”

  “Why don’t we drive around and look?” Simmons suggested. He muttered a curse as Tony headed in the opposite direction, but he followed.

  There was no trail on the other side of the hill, so they made their own, coming out on a dead-end street. There was a chain-link fence on the other side, but no buildings, no streetlights, no security cameras, no nothing. The street was paved, so there wasn’t even the possibility of finding tire tracks. It was literally a dead end.

  His face gleaming red, Simmons loosened his tie, then undid the top two buttons on his shirt. “Come on, son, it’s fuckin’ hot out here, and it’s quitting time besides. Let’s you and me find a dark bar and a cold beer—or a cold bar and a dark beer—and put this day behind us.”

  It was an invitation he made often, but one Tony hadn’t accepted in a long time—not since meeting Selena. Removing his sunglasses, he blotted the sweat from his forehead, then slid the glasses back into place. “Yeah, okay.”

  They returned to their cars and settled on a midtown bar. After locking his weapon in his trunk, Tony met Simmons at the door.

  They were halfway through the first round when Frankie finally broke the silence. “What’s up with you, Chee? All day you been actin’ like a man that ain’t gettin’ any, but you’re damn near livin’ with Island Girl, so that can’t be the case. Tell Uncle Frankie all about it.”

  Tony wasn’t the sort to confide his problems in coworkers—and since this problem dealt not only with his love life but an undercover FBI operation, that should go double. But he trusted Simmons. The guy was a putz; but he was Tony’s putz, and he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

  Still, it took Tony the second half of the beer to reply. “She took their deal.”

  “Who took—? Selena? And the feebs? Holy shit, son. The cop and the drug lord . . . that’s gonna put a crimp in the romance department, ain’t it? You’re gonna be just like us married fools and not gettin’ any.”

  Tony scowled. Sex was the least of his worries. “They’ve got her convinced that if she doesn’t help them, she’ll either spend the rest of her life in prison or get deported. I told her that’s bullshit, but she . . .” Didn’t believe him. Didn’t trust him over the goddamn feds. Didn’t value his opinion. Didn’t think he was even entitled to an opinion. After all, it was her life, her choice, all about her, and the hell with him.

  Simmons signaled the waitress for two more beers. “Maybe this is the right choice for her. If it gets the FBI off her back and guarantees they’ll stay off . . .”

  “They’ll get her fucking killed,” Tony said, each word clipped.

  “Maybe not,” Simmons said. “Stranger things have happened. But someone’s looking to kill her anyway, Chee. At least this way, she’ll have some protection.”

  “My way, she wouldn’t need protection.”

  “Yeah? What would happen the next time someone comes around with an AK?”

  Tony wanted to insist there wouldn’t be a next time. When no orders came down the line from Selena, Henry’s people would realize the rumors weren’t true. It had been two weeks since he and Long went incommunicado. A few more weeks at most, maybe even just a few more days, and the rest of the bastards would be divvying up the spoils among themselves. They would forget Selena even existed.

  But until they forgot, she was in danger.

  She believed the FBI could protect her.

  And she believed Tony couldn’t.

  He finished the second beer, turned down a third, and headed home. His senses zeroed in on Selena the instant she came into sight, standing at the easel on her patio as if the temperature weren’t a hundred sizzling degrees. She wore denim shorts that rode low on her hips and left her long legs bare. Her tank top was one of his favorites, fitting like a second skin and bearing the message, I MAKE GROWN MEN CRY. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she held a paintbrush in her right hand, and the fingers of her left hand were tucked into the belt loop of her shorts, providing support for her injured arm.

  She looked damned amazing.

  He parked his Impala, got out and hefted his attaché case, then walked to the mailbox at the end of his driveway. All the way back, he looked at her, and she looked back. He felt guilty that he hadn’t called her once during the d
ay to ask how she was, but he’d been so angry, so convinced that she was making the worst mistake of their lives—yes, damn it, their lives. Everything that affected her affected him. Didn’t she understand that?

  Or did she just not care?

  His steps slowed to a stop behind the Impala. If he was going to cut across the yard and join her on the patio, this was the place to angle off to the right. Forty feet, and he’d be there . . . to say what? Do what?

  Damned if he knew.

  He turned to the left instead, went inside the house, and slowly locked the door behind him.

  When Selena arrived at the FBI offices on Wednesday morning, the receptionist showed her to a conference room, offered her coffee, then left her alone to wait. With a sigh, she walked to the windows and gazed out, but hardly noticed the surroundings.

  After Tony had arrived home from work the night before—and given her that long, unfathomable look—he’d disappeared inside his house and she’d spent the night in hers. Funny how quickly she’d gotten accustomed to sharing his bed. If, as she feared, their relationship was too new and fragile to survive the demands she’d placed on it, she might never share it again. That was too bleak a future to contemplate.

  When the door behind her opened, she didn’t immediately turn. Three faint reflections in the glass showed that she’d been joined by Special Agent King and two other men. She slowly turned to face them.

  “Ms. McCaffrey. Sorry we’re late,” King said. “This is Adam Robinette”—he gestured toward the man with reddish-blond hair—“and Brian Jamieson. They’ll be working with you. I’ll leave you to get started.”

  “Have a seat,” Robinette said, tossing a manila folder on the table.

  She leaned against the windowsill instead and studied the two men. Robinette was a tall, lanky man with bad posture and a piercing gaze that never wavered. He lacked Jamieson’s polish and easy manner, as well as his taste in clothes, but compensated for it with an extra dose of suspicion and distrust.

  Thanks to Henry, her life was filled with people who routinely used multiple names, and no doubt, Robinette and Jamieson were merely the latest. Even if she were a trusted member of their team, they wouldn’t share their true identities with her, no more than Damon Long had, no more than Henry had. After all, they had real lives with wives, girl-friends, children, and extended families to protect. Information she didn’t have was information she couldn’t pass on to the wrong people.

  Almost as if he’d heard her mental reference to Henry, Robinette said, “First thing . . . for convenience, we won’t use Henry Daniels’s name. His people will be more comfortable with William Davis since that’s how they knew him.”

  Truthfully, the name was all his associates had known about him—that, and that he was a man to fear. No one but Damon had ever met him face-to-face. No one but Damon had ever visited his house, or even known exactly where he lived—including, during the years she was growing up, her. Being socially prominent because of his money and politically prominent because of his law enforcement career, he’d had far too much to lose by being identifiable, so he’d put Damon out front and remained a mystery even to his oldest associates.

  “Second . . . you’ll be moving into Davis’s house. If you’re going to play the heir to a multimillion-dollar enterprise, you’ve got to live the part. Your little house just doesn’t cut it. Besides, the estate’s better for security.”

  Selena’s breath caught in her chest. Move into William’s house. Once, the idea would have thrilled her. Until two years ago, she had never been allowed to visit him at home; when he had finally invited her, he’d sequestered her in the guesthouse and declared the main house off-limits. She had been inside only twice—once when she’d broken in, and once when Damon Long had escorted her at gunpoint. And now they wanted her to live there. Eat there. Sleep there. She wasn’t sure she could.

  But what choice did she have?

  “Everybody in town knows that house belongs to the former chief of police,” she pointed out.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Robinette replied. “You’re going to tell Davis’s cohorts the truth about him—that he was the chief of police and he’s in a coma and, as his chosen heir, you’re taking over.”

  Just as he’d wanted. How reluctant would they be to take orders from a woman they knew nothing about? How long would it take them to start thinking about removing her and claiming their share of the business for their own?

  Someone had already thought about removing her, a twinge in her arm reminded her. That was why she was there.

  She nodded once to signal agreement, not that Robinette seemed to care. Why should he? He knew her options were limited.

  “Third . . . you’ll be working with Damon Long.”

  Grateful for the solid sill supporting her weight, she concentrated on controlling her breathing, on keeping her voice steady and hiding the shock that chilled her. “Damon Long and I have what some would call an adversarial relationship. He tried to kill me. I thought I had killed him. To say I don’t think we would work well together would be an understatement.”

  “We know he’s dangerous.”

  Selena walked to the nearest chair, sliding into it as if her knees hadn’t gone totally weak. “He’s facing nine murder charges in a state that carries out executions in a timely manner.”

  Robinette shrugged. “Long knows more about Davis’s business than anyone else alive. He knows the people. He knows the details.”

  “Then why don’t you make a deal with him and forget about me?”

  Color seeped into Robinette’s cheeks. “We’d rather deal with you.”

  She looked from Robinette to Jamieson, who was toying with a pen, his eyes averted. “You tried, didn’t you? And he turned you down. That’s why Mr. King was pressuring me— because Long refused.”

  “Actually,” Robinette said at last, “headquarters refused. Damon Long is guilty of more crimes than we’ll ever know. They won’t let him walk away from this.”

  Which made her their next best choice. Through her, they could get Long’s help but still punish him when they were through. “So you want me to pretend to Long that I’m really taking over. That I’m getting him out of jail and it will be business as usual, except he’ll be reporting to me instead of William.”

  Robinette shrugged. “Consider it the first test of your skills. If you can convince Long, you can convince anyone.”

  True enough. And if she couldn’t convince Long, she wouldn’t have to worry about convincing anyone else.

  “Security won’t be a problem. We can control him. We’ll have the judge order an electronic bracelet, and one of us will be with him twenty-four/seven. He’ll be as much a prisoner at the estate as he currently is in jail.”

  Except he wouldn’t be in jail, and she would be a prisoner right alongside him.

  Certainly, she understood Long’s value to the FBI. He knew enough about William’s business to put away everyone involved for a very long time. It would take the FBI years to gather even a fraction of that information. And, truthfully, that fact strengthened her position with them. They needed him, but they needed her to get to him.

  Jamieson spoke for the first time. “The only realistic way to bring down a criminal enterprise of this magnitude is with the help of criminals. Long’s not going to straighten up and fly right. He’s not going to repent or reform, and he’s not going to help us shut down what he’s spent more than half his life building. He’s got a hell of a lot more to lose by working with us than he could ever gain. But working for you . . .”

  He would resent every minute of it, but he would realize that the benefits—freedom from jail, the possibility of escape, the chance to be in power once again—outweighed the drawbacks.

  Her stomach knotted. Robinette claimed they could control Long. Was she willing to risk her life on his say-so? They’ll sacrifice you if it suits their purposes, Tony had warned. She understood his dislike for the FBI, but they were the FBI. She di
dn’t believe they would deliberately let harm come to her. Was that reasonable? Or incredibly naive?

  She quashed the faint smile conjured by the thought. She hadn’t been naive since her mother’s husband had beaten the innocence from her with his fists. Adam Robinette was a federal agent charged with upholding the law. He might not like her, he definitely didn’t trust her, but he would protect her. After all, where was his case without her?

  And she would protect herself. She’d been doing it a long time.

  Opening the folder in front of him, Robinette fingered the pages on top of the stack inside. They were a copy of the papers she’d signed in her lawyer’s office the afternoon before, detailing her agreement with the FBI. What she would give them. What she would get in return. What would happen if she failed to uphold her end of the bargain. Too bad she hadn’t known about Damon Long before she signed them.

  Though it wouldn’t have changed anything. She would have signed them anyway to avoid prosecution or deportation. To learn more about her past—to have a future with Tony—she would have made a deal with the devil himself.

  Looking at Robinette’s thinly veiled smugness, she thought perhaps she had made a deal with the devil.

  “Fine. But I won’t live in the same house with him.”

  There was a hint of relief in his eyes. “Of course not. He and I will stay at the guesthouse, along with one of the agents tasked with security. You’ll be in the main house, with Jamieson and a female agent.”

  Selena nodded grimly.

  When William had offered her a new life fourteen years ago, she had been so young and so grateful to him. If she’d known then what she’d learned in the last few weeks, would she have run in the opposite direction? Would she have avoided the pressures, the constant striving to please, the blackmail, the coercion, the threats, and stayed in Jamaica?

  Probably not. Clean clothes, all the food she could eat, and a bed to sleep in were powerful temptations to a half-starved street rat whose future held nothing more than prostitution and early death. The promise of affection, when she’d been denied even a hint of it her entire life, had been even more powerful.