Deep Cover

by Rachel Butler

Tires squealed on the hot pavement at the end of the block. Selena turned and watched as a brown panel van accelerated toward the stalled traffic, the driver showing no intention of stopping. At the last instant before crashing into Jamieson became inevitable, the van jerked to the right, slamming into the rear of a car parked next to the Mercedes. To the accompaniment of tearing metal, the car bumped over the curb and skidded toward Selena and Damon, pushed along by the van’s ongoing acceleration.

  “Fuck this!” Long muttered, sliding over the trunk of another car, then darting into the street.

  Before Selena could think about following him, a hand grabbed her from behind. “Let’s get the hell out of here!” Gentry ordered.

  Hoping Jamieson went after Long, Selena followed Gentry, dodging frightened pedestrians. With a grind and squeal, the battered car came to a stop against a storefront, leaving the van no place to go. An instant later, car doors slammed and, a breath after that, gunshots exploded into the air. They threw themselves around the corner to safety but didn’t slow their steps. Arms pumping, feet pounding, they headed for the next intersection.

  “Goddamn sons of bitches,” Gentry said, her breathing hardly labored. “They couldn’t have waited until the sun went down? It’s too fucking hot for this. Turn down that alley.”

  The alley was narrow and stank from the Dumpsters that lined it.

  “Damn! When you make enemies, you do it good, don’t you?” Gentry was still keeping pace with Selena, though she was shorter and less accustomed to the heat and humidity. The will to live was a great equalizer. “We’ve gotta find a place to hide, only please, God, not the Dumpsters.”

  They were practically to the end of the alley when Selena noticed a door ajar on the right side. Jerking Gentry up short, she shoved her inside, then followed. They were in the dimly lit storeroom of an Asian restaurant, judging from the smells. Juggling boxes marked FORTUNE COOKIES, they took cover in the darkest corner.

  “Can you hear anything?” Gentry whispered.

  “Just my heart.” Selena strained to listen, to distinguish sounds of an ambush from the everyday noise of the restaurant. There—footsteps pounding against pavement, angry Southern voices. They continued down the alley, grew faint, but still Selena waited, listening. Moments later, the men came back, moving slower this time, cursing.

  “Fucking bitches,” one of them said, then banged his fist against the restaurant door. It swung open, then bounced back, and both Selena and Gentry stopped breathing. The silence was heavy, broken at last by the creak of a shoe sole as someone eased inside the door. Through a slit between boxes, Selena could see the intruder was over six feet tall, had a Marine Corps globe-and-anchor tattoo extending under one short sleeve, and held a Glock in his left hand. Behind him was the shadow of his partner.

  How long until the tattoo shoved the boxes aside? How many seconds would she and Gentry have to act before he shot them? One? Half of one?

  Her muscles were tensing as she gauged the distance between the man and their cover. If she acted first, if she leapt from her hiding place and kicked the gun from his hand—

  A scream split the air, followed by shrieks in Chinese, as a round little woman stopped short inside the storeroom door and grabbed a broom. Her shouts brought everyone else piling in from the kitchen, yelling angrily at the men, forcing them out the door again. While several young women comforted the woman who’d screamed, a man slammed the door and locked it, then shepherded the others back into the kitchen.

  Selena exhaled in a quiet whoosh as she sank against the wall. Next to her, Gentry did the same, then murmured, “Confucius say you are one lucky cookie.”

  Lucky. She’d nearly been run down, then chased through downtown Savannah by men with guns who wanted to kill her. Her heart was thudding, her knees were shaking, and she’d broken out in a cold sweat. She didn’t feel lucky.

  But she was alive. And if that didn’t make her lucky, she didn’t know what did.

  Pulling out her cell phone, Gentry punched in a number. Even from several feet away, Selena heard the adrenaline in Robinette’s voice when he answered. “Gentry, tell me you have our CW with you and she’s alive.”

  “She’s alive. Did you get Long?”

  “We’re tracking him. Where are you?”

  “In the storeroom of a Chinese restaurant a few streets away.” She started to recount the route they’d run, until Selena turned one of the boxes they’d hidden behind so she could see the shipping label. She read off the name and address, told him to come to the alley, then disconnected.

  Seconds ticked past as they huddled there. Ordinary sounds drifted from the restaurant kitchen, along with the distant rumble of traffic—average sounds, normal, made surreal by the fact that someone had just tried again to kill them. If the Chinese woman hadn’t come in when she had . . .

  “I think we could have taken ’em,” Gentry said, her tone aiming for boastful but not quite there. “Once you’d drop-kicked the big guy . . .”

  Selena gave her an appraising look. “Why couldn’t you have taken the big guy?”

  “Did you see that big gun? Besides, you were poised to strike. I didn’t want to disappoint you by stepping in.” Gentry lifted her hand, saw that it trembled, and gave a laugh that verged on hysterical. “Does this sort of thing happen to you often?”

  “More every day. What about you?”

  “Even with all the training we do, the first rule is to avert danger if we can. So, no, not often. In fact, in my twelve-year career, today was only the second time anyone ever shot at me.”

  “And yesterday was the first?”

  The redhead nodded. “I’ve never fired my gun at a person, never had a serious physical confrontation with anyone.”

  “That’ll probably change before this case is over.”

  “Looks like.” Gentry tilted her head to one side to study Selena. “You’re damn calm.”

  Selena’s answering smile was weary. “That’s shock, not calm.” The last time her mother’s husband, Rodrigo, had beaten her had been as scary as the first. The time Long had tried to rape her had been as traumatizing as when the man in the Ocho Rios alley had tried. Getting chased through the streets today made her feel as vulnerable as getting run off the road yesterday. She would never get used to people wanting to hurt or kill her.

  A low buzz came from Gentry’s pocket, and she pulled out the cell phone. The conversation lasted mere seconds, then she pushed away from the wall. “Come on. Robinette and Jamieson are outside.”

  When Gentry cautiously eased open the door, the Mercedes was parked a few feet away and Robinette stood next to the open rear door. Jamieson was settling in the front passenger seat, his laptop open and running. “Get in,” Robinette commanded, one hand extended to Selena. “Gentry, you drive. Jamieson will tell you where to go to pick up Long.”

  As Gentry headed toward the street, Selena removed the compact from her purse and offered it to Robinette. He looked questioningly without making a move to take it.

  “Charlize Pawley,” she said. “ ‘Any smooth surface . . .’ You’ll find my prints around the rim. The rest are hers.”

  Understanding dawning, he accepted the compact, careful to touch it only on the rim. The possibility of discovering Charlize’s true identity clearly tantalized him—she could see it in his eyes—but he didn’t offer thanks or a good job. She didn’t think he was capable. But she hadn’t done it for his gratitude or respect.

  “We’ll get these checked out, just as soon as we pick up your boy. Then we’re going to get packed and head back to Tulsa.”

  The words startled Selena, and she paused in closing her bag. “Why?”

  Robinette gave her an impatient look. “Someone’s trying to kill you.”

  “I expected that. Surely you did, too.”

  “We figured they’d try,” he admitted.

  “So why run away because they lived up to your expectations?”

  “It’s called caution, Ms. McCaff
rey.”

  “Mr. Yates might call it fear.”

  “Are you so eager to get shot at again?”

  She gazed out the window, her sad smile reflected in the glass. She could happily live the rest of her life without being someone’s target. But since she was a target, better to find out whose and stop him than hide in fear. Better to stop them all. And the sooner that was done, the sooner she could have her life back. “No, of course not. But we’re here, Mr. Robinette, and Yates is cooperating with us, however grudgingly. We’ve got his financial records, but that’s not all you want, is it? Personnel records, suppliers, distributors, the identity of his hit man . . . Why give him an opportunity to rethink his cooperation?” She paused, but he offered no response. “When we leave, it should be because it’s our choice, not theirs.”

  They drove a block or so before Robinette broke his silence. “Have you ever heard the saying, ‘The third time’s the charm’? You might not be so lucky next time.”

  She smiled again. She never should have survived Rodrigo’s endless beatings, all those years on the streets, that day in William’s study, that night at the shooting range. She had been incredibly lucky. “Now it’s time to make Mr. Yates feel unlucky.”

  After jogging a zigzag route through most of downtown, Damon slowed to a walk, wiped the sweat from his face, then turned a corner onto a busy waterfront street. He’d caught a glimpse of Jamieson getting out of the car, but given a choice between coming after him and protecting his boss, without a doubt he’d protect the boss. After all, she was his current meal ticket, and was proving to be a damn generous one. By the time any of them realized that Damon was missing, it would be too fucking late to do anything about it.

  The first thing he had to do was get his hands on some money. That was why he’d chosen that street. It was filled with trendy, touristy shops and restaurants—a target-rich environment. Next, he knew an old boy outside town who was handy with all kinds of tools, who would be happy to remove Damon’s ankle jewelry for the price of a bottle of booze.

  He studied possible marks as he walked, settling on a middle-aged couple. The man wore knee-length shorts and a bright Hawaiian shirt, and she wore a summer dress in colors so loud that they hurt to look at. It exposed her soft, fleshy arms and clung to the rolls that made up her body.

  He lengthened his stride, then fell into step directly behind them as they reached the end of the block. When they stepped off the curb and into the street, Damon deliberately stumbled against the man, knocking him forward and smoothly sliding the wallet from his hip pocket. “I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed, putting on a drawl, helping the man regain his balance. “I just slipped off that curb there like I didn’t even see it. Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “No, no harm,” the man said, straightening his shirt. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Still murmuring apologies, Damon crossed the street with them, but when they went straight, he turned right. In the middle of the block, he turned down an alley, retrieved the wallet from the pocket where he’d stashed it, removed the money, and tossed the rest into a Dumpster. Whistling softly, he continued down the alley, turned another corner, and came to an abrupt stop.

  Robinette and Jamieson stood three feet in front of him, looking none too happy. Parked in the street, motor running, passenger doors open, was the Mercedes, with Gentry behind the wheel and Selena in the backseat.

  Well, hell.

  Damon stood there, weighing his options . . . as if he had any. He could flee, but Selena’s two goons would be right on his heels, and Gentry would probably as soon run him down as look at him. Besides, they’d tracked him once already, and it would be just as easy to do again. He should have gotten the goddamn bracelet off first and worried about money later. He could have persuaded his old buddy to do it, even if it had meant beating the shit out of him.

  Scowling, Robinette jerked his head toward the car, and Damon reluctantly headed in that direction. He was taking his sweet time about sliding into the backseat when Robinette shoved him and damn near sent him tumbling into Selena’s lap. As he settled in the center of the seat, he gave her a chastising look. “This ankle bracelet isn’t deactivated at all, is it?”

  She shook her head.

  “You fucking lied to me.”

  “You lied to me first. I’m just returning the favor.”

  Robinette got in beside him, and Jamieson took the front seat, lifting his laptop off the console, clicking out of some kind of electronic tracking program. Resting his head against the back of the seat, Damon frowned straight ahead. He’d been suckered—had believed he really had a chance at getting away that weekend, when nothing had really changed, except which fucking asshole was monitoring him.

  “You know, I’m starting to think I can’t trust you,” he said mildly.

  “You never trusted me.”

  “And you don’t trust me, which makes our working together kind of pointless. Once you make your deal with Sonny boy, why don’t you pay me off and let me go on my way?”

  “I spent a lot of money getting you out of jail, and I took on a lot of responsibility. I don’t intend to get nothing for the money, and I don’t intend to take the blame if you fail to show up in court.”

  “I’m not going to trial.”

  She gave him a long, steady look, then a speculative light came into her eyes. “Prove your worth to me, and you might not have to.”

  He returned the look, searching her face, but there was nothing else to see. “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. Quit lying, quit trying to escape, quit setting me up to fail, and when it comes time to go to trial, Damon Long might have ceased to exist.” She gestured toward the front seat. “Mr. Jamieson can deactivate the ankle bracelet, and Mr. Robinette has helped previous employers relocate with new identities when situations got too sticky. We can help you, if you give me reason. Or . . .” Her voice chilled. “You can keep screwing around with us, and Damon Long really might cease to exist. It’s your choice.”

  He would rather see her dead than alive. But more than that, he’d rather be alive himself, and that wasn’t likely to last long if he went to trial on a whole shitload of murder charges in a state where executions were a regular thing. If the price of saving his neck was letting her live . . . Living was better than dying, winning better than losing. In the long run, getting out of the situation with his skin intact was the only thing that counted. A new name, a new start, and a fortune to make that start—what more could a man ask for?

  “Okay,” he said, hands raised in surrender. “No more misdirection and no more escapes on my part, and I don’t set one foot in court. Deal?”

  Selena nodded coolly. “Now prove it. How should I deal with this latest attack?”

  “You gotta have a come-to-Jesus meeting with Sonny— threaten him if he doesn’t find the people responsible. No nice little chitchat. You’ve got to scare him. Make him think he’s gonna die.”

  She nodded again, then opened her purse. Damon caught a glimpse of a sweet little Beretta inside before she snapped it shut again, then patted her waist and pockets. “Damn. My cell phone . . .”

  Damon shifted on the seat, too aware of the phone making the smallest of bulges in his pocket. “You must have dropped it when you took off like that. It’s better to surprise him, anyway.”

  “I suppose so.”

  He dropped his hands to his lap, his arms effectively concealing the phone, and gazed ahead. The deal he’d just made with her hadn’t really changed anything. It wasn’t as if reneging on it would affect his honor, because he didn’t have any. She knew that—knew better than to take his word for anything. And if he got a chance for a little payback . . . well, hell, a man had to keep his options open.

  Just as she was likely keeping her options open.

  Clancy’s Bar was located a half mile out of town, an unremarkable building in an unremarkable location. There wasn’t so much as a neon sign to identify i
t, but people who frequented places like Clancy’s didn’t need a sign. Rodrigo had had such a place in Puerto Rico, where he drank away money that could have been used for food and came home too drunk to hurt her when he tried.

  Long’s advice had dovetailed nicely with their own plan, formulated while they’d followed the bracelet’s electronic signal. The local FBI agents had followed Yates to the bar when he’d left Pawley’s. Devlin and LeRoy had gone straight there, as well, and there had been several visitors in the meantime, presumably Yates’s other appointment. Selena’s task was to put the fear of God into the man. It shouldn’t be difficult, considering she was still shaken herself.

  An expanse of pines stretched out on either side and a creek out back isolated the bar from its nearest neighbors. No one to complain about loud music, rowdy customers . . . or gunshots. There were only two vehicles parked out front—a beat-up pickup, blue and white except for a primer-gray fender, and an older SUV that looked as if it had seen its share of off-road use. The tail end of a third car, a silver convertible, was just visible around the back corner of the building.

  Gentry parked near the door and shut off the engine. For a moment, the silence was unnerving. Selena could feel anticipation radiating from Robinette, in direct opposition to the dread building in her stomach. Make Yates think he was going to die, Long had advised—in Robinette’s more polite terms, hold him responsible. Give him an ultimatum to find the hit men or suffer the consequences.

  She was suffering the consequences. She was looking over her shoulder, feeling like a little yellow duck in a shooting gallery. How unfair was it that to be safe in the future, she had to make a target of herself in the present?

  As she opened the door, Jamieson handed something from his laptop case to Robinette, then stowed the computer under the seat. It was two heavy-duty cable ties, she saw, their purpose to ensure Long didn’t make another escape attempt. Leaning forward, Robinette secured the tie around Long’s ankle and to the steel undersupport for the front passenger seat.

  “Hey, what the fuck— Get this thing off!”