“You wait here,” Selena said politely as she climbed out. Ducking to eye level, she smiled. “We won’t be long.”
“Goddamn son of a bitch!” He jerked his leg, but succeeded only in shaking the seat.
They approached the building en masse. Selena twisted the doorknob and found it locked. When Jamieson motioned her back, she shook her head, then executed a side kick next to the lock. The impact vibrated up her foot into her leg as the door swung open, rattling on its hinges. Without taking even a second to shake off the blow, she strode inside, and the others followed.
“What the hell—” Sonny Yates rose from the table in the back corner, his hand going automatically to the holster on his belt. LeRoy and Devlin, seated at the bar, got to their feet, as well, and, along with the bartender, were in the act of drawing their weapons when Yates raised one hand to stop them. “Well, shit, Selena, if you’d only knocked, we would have been happy to unlock the door for you,” he said, sitting again.
As Devlin sank back onto his stool, she brushed close to him, drew his weapon before he realized what she was doing, then crossed to Yates’s table in two strides and raised the pistol mere inches from his hazel eyes.
“Goddamn, Selena, what are you doing?” His tone was mild, but there was a hint of fear in his eyes. He sat motionless, hands splayed on the tabletop.
“Tell the others to hand their guns over to Mr. Robinette.”
He nodded once in the direction of the bar without ever taking his gaze from her. She listened to footsteps on the wooden floor, the rustle of clothing, steel rubbing against leather, then the footsteps returning.
“You may notice that I’m not looking my best this afternoon. We got a surprise as we were leaving Pawley’s. A man tried to run us down, and when that didn’t work, he and his accomplice opened fire on us. We had to flee on foot through the streets of Savannah, and we barely escaped unharmed. Who was it?”
It took a moment for her words to sink in. She searched his face for some reaction—surprise, dread, a heavier, thicker fear. There was a hint of surprise, and a hint of anger in the tightening of his mouth, but no fear. “You think I sent someone to kill you and you’re still walking around? I’m insulted, Selena. William always said I had the best hitter in the organization. My man wouldn’t have failed.”
Her movements slow and deliberate, she thumbed back the hammer on the pistol. “You keep telling me it’s not you, but this is your territory—your home turf. If you’re not behind these attempts on my life, then you’ve got some outsider acting as if he never heard of Sonny Yates and damn sure isn’t afraid of him. Either way, that worries me, Mr. Yates. If you can’t control one small area like Savannah, how can I possibly believe you can handle the entire Southeast region?”
With every word, Yates’s color turned paler and his manner grew stiffer. “It isn’t me,” he denied through clenched jaws.
“So you say. And yet you can’t seem to find out who it is.”
“We’re working on that.”
“And while you’re working—and failing—people continue trying to kill me right here in the heart of your city. That causes me grave concern, Mr. Yates.”
His gaze shifted around the room, from her men to his own, then back to her. “I’m not stupid, Selena. If I wanted to kill you, do you think I’d do it right here in town where the obvious trail would lead back to me?”
“Maybe that would be your alibi—that everyone knows you aren’t stupid.” She shrugged, and the movement made the .45’s barrel shift from his left eye to the right before centering again. “Using your reasoning, if I wanted to kill you, I should do it someplace other than Tulsa so the obvious trail wouldn’t lead back to me. Someplace like . . . here.”
There it was—that heavier, thicker fear she’d been looking for earlier. Yates knew she could kill him for no reason other than her suspicions, knew none of his men would intervene or even care, knew the only disadvantage to her would be replacing him.
Abruptly, she eased her elbow, drawing the pistol back from Yates’s face, lowering it to her side. The relief that rushed over him was apparent despite his efforts to camouflage it. It was short-lived, though, because she brought the pistol back up and gestured. “Let’s take a walk, Mr. Yates.”
“A-a walk?”
“Just a short one. Let’s go out back.”
He paled even more and needed a second effort to rise from his chair, needed a third effort to appear unflustered by her suggestion. “I have to warn you, out by the creek on a warm day like today, the mosquitoes are liable to carry us off.”
“In the greater scheme of things, mosquitoes are minor nuisances. I’ve dealt with nuisances before.” She stepped back and motioned for him to lead the way, then stopped him with one arm extended. “Lay your gun on the table, please.”
He wanted to refuse, of course, and not just for the obvious reason. For someone who always carried a weapon, going anywhere without it was like going out without clothing.
Yates reluctantly pulled the pistol from its holster and laid it atop the papers spread across the table. She hefted it in one hand, comfortable with the size and weight of it, then handed Devlin’s gun to Robinette. If Yates thought he was walking outside to his death, then let him think he would die by his own gun.
Gentry stayed inside to watch Yates’s men. Robinette and Jamieson followed Selena and Yates around the bar, into a dingy storeroom, then out the back door. After the dimness inside, the midday sun seemed doubly bright, the light painfully sharp and clear.
The door opened into a clearing. Pine needles carpeted the ground, surrendering only here and there to the plants determined to take up residence. The creek was larger than the word suggested—at least twenty-five feet across. The current was lazy, meandering slowly toward the river that would carry it out to sea.
She made a show of looking around. It was private, sheltered on all sides, isolated despite its proximity to the city. “Is this where you took care of that little problem with the missing boat’s crew?”
Yates shrugged.
“What did you do? Line them up on the bank? Save Devlin and LeRoy the hassle of having to drag them over and throw them into the water?”
He just looked at her, his expression empty now even of fear.
“You questioned the crew, then killed them while the captain watched.” It would have happened at night. Her imagination could easily replace the sun overhead with the pale, thin light of the moon, deepening shadows, mysterious rustles in the dark. What seemed a perfectly peaceful place by day could be menacing by night. Particularly when you knew it was the last place you would ever see.
“Where were they?” Selena walked to the edge of the bank, gazed into the water, then turned to face Yates. “About here?”
Again he remained silent.
“Were they standing or on their knees?” After a heavy pause, she went on. “Standing, I think. That way the impact of the bullet would knock each of them into the water. Am I right?”
This time, when he didn’t respond, she drew back the hammer on the pistol and pressed the barrel into the soft underside of his jaw. “Am I right?”
His words came out grudgingly. “Yes. They were standing. Right there.”
They knew they were going to die—had probably known it from the time they’d disappeared with William’s cocaine. Was it better knowing, having time to regret, to repent, or to be caught by surprise? Six months ago she would have said it didn’t matter; dead was dead. Now that she had someone and something to lose, surely surprise must count for something.
They stood so close that she could hear his breathing, shallow but steady, over the hum of insects and the lapping of water. Perspiration glistened across his forehead, and emotion radiated from him. Not fear so much—he’d accepted that—but anger, hatred, and something akin to respect.
“Captain Rollins watched his crew die, then you turned your attention to him. How did you get him to tell you where the coke was?”
Once again he swallowed hard, then shrugged. “That was Devlin and LeRoy’s job. Whatever happened”—another hard swallow suggested he knew that whatever happened had been torture—“it was his own fault. All he had to do was answer the questions, but he refused.”
Inwardly Selena shuddered. This benign up-and-coming lawyer look-alike had ordered a man tortured before mercifully killing him, and he could stand there and put the blame on the victim. Just as William had, a few weeks ago, blamed her for her own impending death. If only she’d been more grateful, more malleable, more accepting . . .
A wave of nausea swept through her, bringing with it the real or imagined smells of blood, fear, death. She wanted to leave that place, to forget these people, these things. She wanted . . . but what she wanted didn’t matter.
Taking a few steps away, she pointed the Glock at the ground, eased the hammer down, put the safety on, and offered it grips first to Robinette. Then she smiled at Yates. “Uncle William liked you, Mr. Yates. More importantly, I like you. I’ll like you more when you find out who’s trying to kill me and clear your name. Make it your number one priority.”
Once again relief swept over him, but it turned into something else almost immediately—determination, resentment, and grudging acceptance. “I’ll have an answer for you within forty-eight hours.”
She nodded, then started toward the building. But he stopped her before she’d gone far.
“A friendly word of advice, Selena,” he said, though there was nothing the least bit friendly about him. “Don’t ever pull a gun on me again unless you intend to use it.”
She looked at him a long time before allowing her mouth to curve upward in a full smile. “Absolutely,” she agreed. “I’ll remember that.”
Jamieson went to his room after dinner. While the laptop booted, he dialed his home number, switching the phone from one ear to the other as he shucked his jacket, then his shoulder holster and tie. By the time Jen picked up, he was in his shirtsleeves, shoes kicked off, and leaning back in the chair at the tiny writing desk.
“Fleming residence.”
“Jeez, you sound so formal. Is that how the butler answers at your folks’ house?”
Her throaty laugh echoed in his ear. “We didn’t have a butler, silly—at least, not since I was a kid. Can I ask where you are?”
“You can ask—”
She chimed in with him on the rest. “ ‘But I can’t tell.’ How are you?”
“Missing you so much it hurts.” Just how much he could miss her still took him by surprise at times. Growing up, he’d been so driven, so determined to be more, have more, than anyone else in his family. His commitment to his studies, then to his career, had been 110 percent. And then he’d met her, and all that had changed. “Tell me what you and the kids have been up to since the last time we talked.”
She laughed again. “It’s been all of twenty-four hours. Let’s see . . . we slept all night, got up this morning . . .”
They talked longer than he’d intended, but not as long as he wanted. Finally, though, the kids were demanding their mother’s attention, so he said a reluctant good-bye, then turned to the computer.
Most agents he knew hated financial crimes. They were complex investigations that required patience, diligence, an ability to follow a dozen paths that tangled in two dozen directions, an understanding of and appreciation for the finer details of banking, accounting, and computing, and a sheer love of numbers. He’d worked other areas over the years— wasn’t interested in counterterrorism, did okay with cyber crimes, didn’t care about civil rights, violent crimes, or sex crimes. But he excelled at financial crimes.
That was what had gotten him on this team—his love for the complexity of the issues and his enthusiasm for making sense of them.
Both fueled by his need for taking advantage of them.
This particular job gave him access to accounts all over the world—first Davis’s, now Yates’s. Accounts set up for the sole purpose of secreting ill-gotten gains. Accounts that held millions of dollars. As far as the Bureau knew, no one besides Davis’s money man and Davis himself had had access to his accounts, or had known how much was there. Yates’s accountant had confirmed the same was true of Yates.
Now it was Jamieson’s job to figure out those accounts. He’d spent every free moment deciphering Davis’s information, following electronic trails through twists, turns, and dead ends. Now it was time to benefit from all that work. This was the reason he’d asked for this case—the reason he’d wheedled, coaxed, and damn near pleaded his way onto the team.
Five thousand dollars—enough to matter to him, but nothing in the big picture. He would take it from one of Davis’s Cayman Islands accounts and route it electronically from one sham account to another, using one name after another, before finally securing it in his own secret account. He was about ninety-nine percent sure that he’d covered his tracks thoroughly, though he was prepared with a cover story if time proved him wrong: It was well-known that Davis wasn’t a trusting man; but obviously, he’d shared his financial information with someone else, someone who was currently testing the waters to see how easily he or she could make off with Davis’s fortune.
He felt a twinge of guilt, but, hell, he’d been living with guilt for a long time. But the money was dirty, paid for with human lives and suffering. Davis didn’t need it anymore. Eventually, the government would take it and disperse it among various agencies. They wouldn’t miss a little here or there, and it would make a world of difference for him. It could save him from losing Jen and the kids.
He clicked through screen after screen, typing in passwords, codes, routing numbers. Finally, all that was left was the single mouse click that would set the transfer in motion.
It could damn him to hell.
Or it could save his life.
Or maybe even both.
The message on the screen seemed to pulsate. Transfer? Yes. No. His breathing shallow, he guided the mouse arrow to the YES button . . . and the bedroom door swung open. His finger twitched, clicking the button, and the message disappeared from the screen, replaced with one that read Processing transfer.
Shoving the screen down, he jumped to his feet and turned to find Damon Long standing in the doorway. “Oops. Wrong room,” he said without any hint of sincerity. His gaze shifted to the computer, then back to Jamieson, speculation obvious in its chill. “Checking out a few porn sites?”
“Wh-what—No.”
Long remained very still, very suspicious. “People usually only jump like that when they’re doing something they shouldn’t.”
Sweat popped out on Jamieson’s forehead. “I was talking to someone.”
“Yeah. Talking.” Long glanced over his shoulder into the hallway, and a moment later Jamieson heard footsteps. “Sorry I interrupted the conversation.” He pushed away from the door frame and went down the hall. An instant after his door closed, Gentry passed on the way to her room.
Jamieson dragged in a deep breath, then bolted from his position to close the door. His hand trembled when he twisted the lock, and again when he raised the lid on the laptop. Another message awaited him. Transfer complete.
He forced in another breath. No matter what Long had seen, it hadn’t been enough. He couldn’t possibly have known what he was looking at, couldn’t have a clue what Jamieson had been doing.
What he had done. The money was on its way. Jamieson’s hard work was starting to pay off. Disaster had been averted for another day.
Shaky with relief, he sank into the chair and shut down the computer.
11
By Saturday night, Tony knew nothing new about Carl Heinz, except for the certainty that wasn’t the man’s real name. He’d had better luck, though, with the bastard posing as a detective. Both the weapon he’d confiscated and the man’s car were registered to a private investigator by the name of Kevin Stark, with an office over on Admiral. Stark wasn’t answering his phone, and there had been no sign o
f him or his vehicle all day. The SOB knew he was screwed, but he would show up eventually. With three ex-wives and four kids living in Tulsa, as well as elderly parents nearby, Tony figured he wasn’t a good bet for relocating. Likely, Stark would be willing to deal with him.
After spending part of the afternoon and early evening staked out outside Stark’s house, Tony was set down across the street from the office. The ’Vette was backed up next to a burger place that had gone out of business, the car’s top down in deference to the heat.
Stark’s office was a grimy storefront, the name across the glass in flaking paint, the walls battered paneling, the furniture secondhand. It didn’t give a great first impression, but when you were hiring a sleaze to spy on someone, who cared what the office looked like?
He’d been sitting there two hours, head tilted back, gun tucked between his thighs, watching traffic, and thinking too much about Selena. Three times he’d reached for the cell phone, wanting to hear her voice, needing to tell her . . . What? That he was sorry? He was, but it wouldn’t make any difference. He still hated what she was doing, thought it was reckless and dangerous and pointless and stupid. That he loved her? He did, but at the moment that didn’t seem to make a whole hell of a lot of difference, either.
Sometimes he found that as hard to believe as the fact that she’d shot him. Loving someone was supposed to solve everything. It was supposed to make everything easier, like in the fairy tales his sisters and nieces had so dearly loved—And they lived happily ever after. Was he naive? Too influenced by his parents’, brothers’, and sister’s marriages?
Falling in love with Selena was the easiest thing he’d ever done. Being in love with her . . . that was turning out to be pretty damn tough. But if they could survive all this, everything that followed would be simple.
It was shortly after nine o’clock when a familiar car pulled into the parking lot across the street. Stark parked right in front of the door and hustled inside, flipping on the lights, then closing the blinds, leaving Tony with a view of nothing but the carpet and paneling just inside the door. He waited five minutes to see if anyone else was coming, then started the engine, drove across the street, and parked directly behind the shit-box Chevy, blocking it in.
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