by John Lansing
The seventeenth floor was a flurry of activity. Orders shouted, men and women moving with concentrated purpose, but for Agent Hunter, it was all unfolding in slow motion.
* * *
Agents huddled around television sets in the conference room. The president was giving a news conference in the Oval Office with the most current information gathered by the FBI, CIA, NSA, Coast Guard, and local law enforcement.
He calmed the fears of the American public, assuring them that although the investigation was ongoing, the terrorists responsible for masterminding the attack in Long Beach, California, were either dead or in custody.
The bomb found in the Queen Mary had been disarmed, and the bomb detonated in the waters of Long Beach Harbor had leaked minimal amounts of radiation into the atmosphere. The double steel hull had absorbed the bomb’s shock waves, dissipating the radiation, and the water had nullified the toxicity of the nuclear material. Cleanup of the site was under way, aided by the Santa Ana winds blowing the trace particulates in the atmosphere off shore. The northern quadrant of the Port of Long Beach would be shut down for months during the reclamation of the containers and the salvaging of the ship. The cleanup costs to the United States would run into the millions.
The president thanked the first responders who had risked their lives for the greater good, offered condolences to the families of the dead, and again assured the American public there was nothing left to fear.
Thirty-six
Jack and Angelica were lounging poolside at the St. Regis Princeville Resort, with a spectacular view of Hanalei Bay. The resort was on the north shore of Kauai. The rain was abundant; the cliffs on the far side of the bay were a rich, verdant green.
Life had gotten too complicated for Jack in Marina del Rey, in the wake of the terrorist attack, and a secret escape had fit the bill.
The only thing more beautiful than the island was the woman lounging next to him, Jack thought. He was unwinding for the first time in recent memory and enjoying the moment.
“Where do you think the Bella Fortuna is right about now?” she asked, taking a slurp of her mai tai through the straw.
“Halfway through the Panama Canal.”
Caroline had taken the hit from the feds for the gambling concession, since she couldn’t very well ask the Mob to step up to the plate on her behalf. She was now serving eight of a sixteen-month prison sentence for her part in the illegal enterprise.
The upshot was: a gambling yacht on the West Coast was now a nonstarter.
Mateo had taken the lead in negotiating a settlement with Vincent Cardona and the East Coast families. Caroline, with Mateo’s financial help, ended up paying more than the boat’s worth, but you couldn’t put a price on freedom.
Mateo was presently motoring through the Canal in Central America while Caroline served her time. The Bella Fortuna would head up the coast, where a well-placed slip with a killer view of Miami was waiting. The Bella Fortuna would dock there, and on her release, Caroline would make a legitimate living running a luxury charter.
Cruz had earned a bonus. He’d put his own life in jeopardy to save Jack’s. Jack told him to pick any destination in the world: he’d pick up the tab and fly him and a friend first class. Cruz’s mother was Guatemalan, and being the great young man he was, he chose to take his mother back to the old country.
Agent Liz Hunter had been flown to Washington to speak before a Senate subcommittee on terrorism. She’d been reinstated, upped a pay grade, and given a promotion for exemplary conduct. Special Agent Flannery was not invited to the party.
With Trent taking the hit for Luke Hunter’s death, Vincent Cardona was off the hook on the murder charge and made bail. So, Cardona was back, more notorious and more successful than ever while his money-laundering charges wended their way through the judicial system. Jack knew he was guilty as sin, and had ambivalent feelings about the pending outcome, but what the hell, with Cardona out on bail, it freed Angelica up.
“I got an email from Deak,” he said.
“Oh?”
“He received a reprimand for letting a civilian use government property, and then they bounced him up to rear admiral.”
“Well deserved,” Angelica said. “Did you know they shot the musical South Pacific in Hanalei Bay? Right across from where we’re sitting.”
“You are a fount of information.”
“Am I bothering you?” she asked coyly.
“Not by half.”
“Do you think Chris is going to quit baseball?”
“I hope not. But I’m behind him one hundred percent whatever he decides. I hope he understands that.”
“Even if it means becoming a cop?”
“Hmmmm.” Jack looked at Angelica and couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll have to give that some thought.”
“You know there’s one way to make me stop talking . . .”
Jack signed the tab and reached out a hand.
As the sun slipped behind the ridge of emerald across the bay, Jack and Angelica walked arm in arm up the garden path and disappeared into the hotel.
* * *
As Jack rinsed off in the shower, the hotel phone rang.
He turned off the water, shrugged into a terry-cloth robe and, towel-drying his hair, stepped out of the bathroom. Angelica was fully dressed, with her leather carry-on bag and suitcase open on the bed. Her makeup had been stripped from the top of the dresser, and she was emptying a drawer.
Angelica didn’t look up. From her posture, the light tremor in her hands, and the tight set of her jaw, Jack could see she was wrestling with her emotions. “They arrested your father again,” he intuited, the only scenario that made sense.
Angelica spun, her face incredulous, and then, realizing Jack wasn’t the enemy, stepped into his arms and held on tight. Held on for dear life.
“Rusty’s been busy,” she said. “He implicated my father in the shooting death of a hijacked big-rig operator. Accessory to murder after the fact. Dad’s been named the mastermind of the robbery. Add that to his money-laundering charges, and the judge revoked bail, calling him a flight risk.”
“I’d ask you to think carefully before making a move, but it appears you’ve made up your mind.”
Angelica took Jack’s face in her hands and gave him a tender kiss on the lips. Jack took in the smell of sunscreen and sex, memorizing the worry lines on her young face and the gold rim around her green eyes, which searched Jack’s for an answer.
“They picked up Peter and Frankie-the-Man,” she said, and continued to pack. “There’s no one to run the Chop House.”
Jack wasn’t good on his emotional feet in situations like this, and chose his words thoughtfully. “You’ve got a choice to make. This is not your problem,” he said, knowing his words rang hollow. “It was only a matter of time before your father went down. You told me very convincingly that you were born into a situation beyond your control. You weren’t a Mob princess, and you weren’t a member of that family. You were your own person.”
“Why didn’t you just run away with me when I asked?”
“It never works. Life doesn’t work that way. You’ve got a choice to make.”
Angelica slammed the suitcase shut and snapped the locks with more force than necessary. “I need some time.”
“It’s complicated. But in your heart, you knew it couldn’t last forever. And as hard as it is to accept, your father is where he deserves to be.”
Angelica flushed, and her legs gave out. She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. Shoulders back, military-straight, trying to make sense of an impossible situation.
“You’ve got all the right stuff,” Jack said tenderly. “If you make the right moves.”
Angelica was on emotional overload. She glanced at her watch and jumped to her feet.
“Let me throw on some clothes,” Jack said. “I’ll drive you to the airport.”
There was a knock at the door. “Dad’s lawyer sent a car . . . Give me a second!”
she shouted, and then locked eyes with Jack. “Don’t give up on me.” Angelica didn’t wait for an answer. She yanked the door open.
The bellhop stepped in. His smile faded as he picked up on the energy in the room; he grabbed her bags, slid them onto his brass cart, and wheeled it down the hallway toward the elevator, never looking back.
Angelica stood on her toes, gave Jack another kiss, and eased the door closed behind her.
The day hadn’t ended as scripted. Jack was glad he was alone. His throat felt constricted, and his heart pounded in his chest. He gazed across Hanalei Bay to where South Pacific had been filmed, and all he could see was the beautiful face of Angelica Marie Cardona, etched in a pain he could do little to heal.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my publisher, Karen Hunter, to my editor, Adam Wilson, for a masterful job, and to the entire team at Simon & Schuster for their continued support. Thanks to my attorney, Les Abell, and to my nephew, Lucas Detor, who was the inspiration for this book. Thanks to Micah Winkelspecht for his expertise on Bitcoin, Bruce Cervi for his understanding of physics, and Kathy Solorzano for her knowledge of criminal law. A heartfelt thanks to Vida Spears for being there every step of the way, lending her support and giving insightful notes. Diane Lansing, Deb Schwab, Annie George, and Bob Marinaccio all sacrificed their time and energy reading early drafts and sharing their ideas. And a special thank you to Gordon Dawson, whose creative notes kept me on the straight and narrow. I’m fortunate to be surrounded by so many talented friends.
About the Author
© KARA FOX
JOHN LANSING is the author of three thrillers featuring Jack Bertolino—The Devil’s Necktie, Blond Cargo, and Dead Is Dead—as well as the true-crime nonfiction book Good Cop Bad Money, written with former NYPD Inspector Glen Morisano. He has been a writer and producer on Walker, Texas Ranger, and the coexecutive producer of the ABC series Scoundrels. A native of Long Island, John now resides in Los Angeles. Find out more on JohnLansing.net and follow him on Twitter @jelansing.
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Also by John Lansing
DEAD IS DEAD
THE DEVIL’S NECKTIE
BLOND CARGO
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by John Lansing
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ISBN 978-1-5011-8952-4