by Erik Carter
He knew the risks, Tanner reminded himself.
He scanned the faces in front of him again.
To get Jake out, he was going to have to sate the pugilistic desires of a bunch of adrenaline-and-testosterone freaks. He was surprised they could contain their energy enough to listen to him for five minutes.
He sighed.
Then he turned to the whiteboard behind him, which was covered with papers, diagrams, and maps—the plans for that night’s operation.
“This is the man we bring in first,” Tanner said and pointed to the 8x10 file photo. “Some of you know him. Jake Rowe. He’s been undercover with the Farones for months, longest in PPD history. Study the face. Memorize it. He won’t put up a fight. Cuff him. Protect him. Bring him in. He’s done us all a great service. It’s time to thank him for it.”
Chapter Eleven
The woman calling herself Christie Mosley stared in disbelief at the person she’d just captured, the man lying on the floor beneath her, struggling, going red in the face, as she crushed the lower corners of his rib cage between her thighs.
She’d expected it to be one of Burton’s “illustrious” visitors. Instead, it was possibly the last person she would have imagined.
It was Pete “Loudmouth” Hudson. And he was damn lucky she hadn’t killed him.
Hudson’s gaping mouth and wide eyes said that he was equally amazed that she was the person with whom he’d been struggling.
Which made sense.
An hour ago when he’d last seen her, she’d been in the slut dress and high heels, swaying her hips for the benefit of every man in the Farone mansion. Now she wore a pair of loose Levi’s, an oversized linen shirt, and a black ball cap with her ponytail sticking out the back.
Plus, she’d kicked his ass. That was probably a shocker for him too.
When she’d slipped into the office, Hudson’s back had been turned enough that she hadn’t been able to see who it was. She’d watched as he searched the desk, finally grabbing a short stack of stapled paper from Burton’s letter tray.
The document was Delbert Patterson’s twisted manifesto. She knew this because she’d held it herself only minutes prior to Hudson, having centered the document on Burton’s desk and taken a photograph of each page with a state-of-the-art camera—digital with an LCD screen on the back, small enough to fit in her pocket. It wasn’t yet available to the civilian public, one of many such technological advantages her organization possessed.
The efficient way Hudson had cleared the house and his beeline for the desk had told her the guy was a pro. No doubt.
But what kind?
She lessened the pressure between her thighs, and Hudson sucked in a couple deep breaths, the red color in his face receding.
Her fist remained in the air, wound-up and ready.
Pete Hudson was more than a mere car thief, this tall, cute, sheepishly charming “Loudmouth.”
And she’d known it the whole time, from the moment he first appeared in the Farone syndicate several months back.
But she’d assumed he was some sort of con artist, a faker who wanted the good life but didn’t have the credentials to back it up. He was charming, after all.
Clearly, her assumption had been a dangerous oversight.
Stupid!
She really pissed herself off sometimes.
Below, Hudson wiggled his sides, shaking out the tension. Even with her fist still raised above him, it was clear that he understood the confrontation was winding down.
He’d seen violence before.
A pro.
What the hell was this guy?
She could beat it out of him. That’s what her quivering fist was telling her to do.
But that fire of hers was what had landed her in this life to begin with. It had taken her years, but she’d learned how to control it, when to defer to diplomacy. She couldn’t stumble now. Not when she’d worked so hard for so long.
Not when she was so close to being finished.
Don’t screw this up.
She slowly lowered her fist. Exhaled. And with one swift movement, she rolled off him and to her feet.
Hudson coughed and rubbed his sides. Bloodshot, wet eyes looked up at her. Then a tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—a look of understanding.
In the same way that she recognized him as a professional, his expression said that he recognized the same quality in her.
He grimaced as he rubbed his ribs harder, but the smile remained. “So you’re Burton’s girlfriend and his watchdog.”
The Loudmouth could be a coy little smartass when he wanted to. More of that charm of his.
“What the hell are you doing here, Hudson?” she said.
Hudson slowly climbed to his feet. More grimacing. More rib-rubbing. He pointed. “I saw the broken door. What are you doing here, creeping around in the dark with what looks like a break-in downstairs?”
She reached out suddenly, pulled up his shirt, revealing the small bulge she’d perceived, the tiny break in the line of his shirt.
A digital audio device, its square top peeking out the top of his underwear.
“I knew it. You’re undercover. PPD?”
Hudson narrowed his eyes, still a hint of the bemused grin on his lips. A pause. And he nodded. He slowly reached into his shoe, keeping his other hand in the air for her benefit, and retrieved a badge.
“You got me,” he said. “Now, tell me—why does the girlfriend of a smalltime criminal lieutenant know where to find a listening device on an undercover cop and have the hand-to-hand combat skills to incapacitate a man twice her size? Who are you?”
Double-speak. And that grin, which became a bit more serious.
I gave you something. Now give me something, he was saying.
Undercurrents of diplomacy in a standoff between two competent forces, unacquainted but aware.
Should she, or shouldn’t she?
A half moment passed, then the warring thoughts in her mind reached a compromise: she’d give Hudson a creative bit of semi-truth.
“I’m undercover too,” she said.
“No shit. What precinct?”
“I’m not with PPD.”
“Escambia County?”
She shook her head.
“Wait a minute!” Hudson said, pointing a finger. “There’s a manifesto from some goddamn lunatic on Burton’s desk … You’re FBI, aren’t you? You’re here to—”
“Burton isn’t just trying to take over the Farone crime family,” she said.
It was time to give the guy a bit more. He knew too much now to keep him completely in the dark. She’d bring him into the mix, allow him to think she was FBI.
“There’s a lot more to it, Hudson, and … Wait. What’s your actual name?”
Hudson’s mouth twisted to the side, and a moment passed before he replied.
“Rowe. Jake Rowe. PPD narcotics. Who are you?”
“You can continue to know me as Christie Mosley.”
Rowe opened his mouth wide in feigned offense. “Well, that’s not fair. Give a little, get a little.”
She didn’t break a smile, but she couldn’t help but warm to his disarming, unassuming quality, which paired well with his humble good looks and tall, broad-shouldered body.
No wonder the Farone chick had gone gaga over him.
“Burton’s been using the Farone counterfeiting presses to fund some really bad dudes,” she said, “like the one who wrote that manifesto. That’s why I’m … um, undercover.”
Rowe reached into his pocket and took out a small notebook. It had a bright yellow plastic cover with white lettering that labeled it as a PenPal.
She snorted. “You’re taking notes?”
He popped a pencil from the spiral binding and started writing. “Trust me. I need to.”
“Do you just carry that thing around with you?”
He didn’t look up. “Continue, please.”
“Nine months ago a guy named Keith Sutton
tried to used counterfeit bills to buy a shitload of weapons in Boston. Caught in the act. Escaped police. A couple days later, on a different side of the country, here in Pensacola, of all places, he was found dead—two bullet holes in his chest and weighted ropes around his ankles. Someone tried to sink him in the bay, but ol’ Sutton was more buoyant than they’d counted on. Since the Farone crime syndicate is known for counterfeiting, a connection to the Farones was obvious.”
Rowe scribbled away. “Why the Farones? There’s gotta be plenty of decent counterfeiters up north.”
“It’s more complicated than just counterfeit bills. That’s why I staged the break-in tonight. There’s also…” She trailed off. She was giving him too much. A moment of consideration, and she pivoted. “Just understand that everything is tied to Burton.”
Rowe studied her, wanting the extra info she wasn’t sharing. She could see him weighing his options. Finally he said, “And all of this relates to tonight’s hit on the Rojas?”
“In a manner of speaking. Burton told me tonight’s the night he’s taking over the Farone family.”
Rowe’s pencil came to a sudden stop. He looked away.
The guy’s long undercover investigation had surely consumed him—his time, his energy, his mental health—and the deep lines on his forehead said that the information she’d just shared had hit him hard.
He’d been at this for several months.
That was a hell of a long time to be undercover.
She should know.
“Which means you need to be especially careful tonight,” she said. Rowe’s attention returned to her. “And we need to figure out all we can.”
“We?”
“You and me. We’re a team now.”
Rowe shook his head. “I’m not going.”
“Come again?”
“I’m not going to the Roja hit tonight. I promised C.C.”
She forced something resembling a smile onto her face. “C.C.? Cecilia, you mean?”
Rowe nodded. “My lieutenant planned to pull me out in the event of something like this, to ‘arrest’ me at the next big hit. I was getting out tonight anyway. C.C. has a bad feeling about the Roja hit; I promised her I wouldn’t go.”
She could no longer muster a mediating smile.
“Listen, Rowe, you are going tonight.” She glared at him. “This is much more important than a promise to your little girlfriend.”
She paused and again weighed how much she should tell him. She went with her gut instinct.
“Burton has something else in mind, something even bigger than funding anarchists. This past week, he’s been telling me about a bigger vision of his, an idea of using other Farone family resources to get into activities more lucrative than printing fake money.”
“What resources are those?”
She shrugged. “That’s what we’re gonna find out, teammate.”
She turned and headed for the door.
Without looking back, she said, “Now, come on. We gotta get you back into town.”
Chapter Twelve
An hour later, Jake was back in Charlie’s musty old Taurus. Charlie guided the car to a stop behind the other parked vehicles, then gave a quick flash of his brights before extinguishing the headlights entirely.
The car in front of them flashed its brake lights.
A moment later, so too did another car farther up the alley.
Three vehicles in position, and they’d acknowledged each other, a three-car train idling in a dark alley with Charlie’s Taurus as the caboose.
The two-story brick walls loomed high on either side, only a few feet away, marred by mildew and fissures. The broken windows were dusty and dark. Lighting was scant and came from a single fixture above a utility door, left on undoubtedly to curb off intruders, though the patches of graffiti said the tactic hadn’t been entirely effective.
The bluish light from this simple security precaution was in contrast to the street beyond, which glowed a faint yellow-orange. Past the street was the wide-open parking lot where the Rojas’ truck was to arrive. A beat-up chain-link fence surrounded the lot, and in the distance was the abandoned school, a sprawling two-story brick building, completely dark and overgrown with untended plant life.
Jake took his cellular phone from his pocket, illuminated the green-colored screen to check the time: 6:27.
He pressed the 1 button and held it for a moment. Speed-dial.
Charlie leaned over. “Who ya calling?”
“C.C.”
Soon Jake would need to call Tanner, let him know he was in position. But first he was going to come clean to C.C., tell her he’d broken his promise, that he’d had no choice but to break it, that he’d come to the Roja hit.
Charlie chuckled. “Not even married yet, and she’s already got you checking in with her. Man, you’re whipped. Wah-PSSH!”
Jake shook his head and held the phone to his ear.
Chapter Thirteen
Burton approached the backside of Wagner High School—two stories of brick with a grand, tiered entryway, all of it eaten by ivy and surrounded by unsightly bushes and crape myrtles and a few wretched palms. Tangles of weeds crawled out of the deep crevices in the sidewalk.
He trotted up the three limestone steps to the main entrance, which had been covered by a section of chain-link. Someone had cut a gap through the fence large enough for a grown man to fit through, and evidently this had been done some time ago, as the cuts in the wire were as rusted over as the rest of the fencing.
Burton slipped through the hole and tested the door handle. Unlocked. Just as he was told it would be.
Inside, the hallway was a long tunnel of cracked flooring and dangling ceiling tiles, bounded by battered lockers. None of the light fixtures were operating, of course, but there were plenty of ambient city light to illuminate his path.
At one time, this had been a magnificent place. The quality of the workmanship and materials was apparent even as it decayed from existence. Burton imagined teenagers in 1950s garb roaming the hallway, smiling big 1950s smiles, smart kids on their way to futures as doctors and lawyers and engineers.
The public had complained when the powers-that-be boarded up this grand old place. How can you shut down such a beautiful building? It has so much history. Do we really need a new school?
People with that mindset were being left behind in the emerging world, dying off as much as the twentieth century itself. People like that were the reason people like Burton were prospering. Change was inevitable. And inevitabilities were profitable.
At the staircase in the back, he took the handrail and climbed the granite steps, which were smooth and scalloped from decades of foot traffic. The tapping of his shoes echoed off the walls as more phantom 1950s kids funneled around him, late for class. He could almost hear the ghost of a bell.
The second floor hallway was as dilapidated as the first. No lockers on this floor, just classrooms. Some doors were closed, some open, some hanging from their hinges, some missing entirely. Burton headed to his designated location, one of the empty doorframes.
As he turned the corner, he saw the man he was to meet, at the opposite side of the room, past a vista of ruined, upturned desks. The man was a silhouette by the windows, his back turned to Burton.
Burton stopped at the doorway and gave the man a warm greeting.
“Good evening, Mr. Roja.”
Chapter Fourteen
In the brief pause before the phone attempted to connect, Jake looked past the other two cars, across the abandoned parking lot to Wagner High School, a stately, two-story classic. When Jake had first moved to Pensacola as a kid, the school was still operational—past its prime but still magnificent. Since then, time and neglect had done their parts, eroding its austere character.
Instead of dialing, the phone gave a busy signal.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP…
Jake frowned.
The Farone mansion had several phone lines, and the one he’d dial
ed was C.C.’s personal line, which rang in her bedroom and the library. She rarely used the line—as she rarely spoke on the phone—and she didn’t own a cellular.
He pressed END.
“What’s the matter?” Charlie said.
Jake shook his head.
A tickle of guilt wriggled in Jake’s gut. He could have called C.C. before he left Burton’s beach house, but he purposefully hadn’t. He’d thought that if he called her from the Roja hit, explained that he’d had to go, the immediacy of the situation would make her less likely to be upset.
That had been cowardly of him.
He entered another number, Saunders’s, which rang in the butler’s pantry.
An immediate busy signal.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP…
Another number, one that rang in the great hall and kitchen.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP…
All the lines busy at once. That could only mean one thing: some sort of technical issue. A fallen tree lying over a cable, perhaps, or a vehicular collision with a telephone pole.
Of all the freaking times for this to happen…
That guilt he’d tasted a moment earlier compounded. Now he wouldn’t be able to contact C.C. until after the hit he’d promised her he wouldn’t attend.
He exhaled, let his head drop back to the headrest.
He couldn’t let that worry him right now. There was a task at hand, something much more immediate.
C.C. was always trying to help him organize his chaotic mind space, and she told him that one thing he needed to do was focus on one task at a time. Multitasking, she’d told him, was highly overrated.
Focus.
The phone was still in his hand, and there was another phone call he needed to make, the one to Tanner.
This call would finalize Jake’s decision, would alert his superior that he was ready to be pulled from the operation he’d been working on for months. It would solidify his lie to C.C.
Here we go.