by CW Browning
“How do you know?”
“I learned a lot of things in the Marines, and one of them was organization,” Michael answered dryly. “Everything has a spot, and it always goes back in exactly the same spot. I'm a little OCD with it.”
Alina was silent, absorbing the information.
“What makes you think the two are related?” she asked, glancing at him.
“Blake Hanover. You remember him? FBI agent? You broke into his house and hypnotized his pit bull.”
“I didn't have to hypnotize Buddy,” Alina retorted. “What does he have to do with all this?”
“He's still working the Casa Reino Cartel,” he answered. “They're running drugs up the East coast and Blake's been working a joint investigation with the DEA. He came over last night for dinner and mentioned someone new is running something up and down the interstates along the eastern seaboard. Then he showed me this.”
Michael pulled out his wallet and extracted a business card, passing it to Alina. She looked at the worn, white card. SMITH BROTHERS TRAVEL was imprinted on the front, with a Norfolk, Virginia address and phone number. Alina turned it over and raised an eyebrow. Riviera Gardner - Cancun was handwritten on the back.
“Where did he get this?” she asked.
“At a rest stop in Virginia. He says they're popping up at known hand-off locations for the Cartel drug runners. He thinks they're connected to the new, mystery driver running the interstates.”
“How does this tie into your missing informant?”
“Riviera Gardner is the name of the hotel.”
Alina passed the card back to him and shrugged slightly.
“And all this makes you think someone is planning something why?”
“The men released from Gitmo are being flown into Qatar,” Michael told her. “The exchanged scientist has already passed through Qatar and is en route back to the States. There's an empty cargo plane leaving Afghanistan as a decoy for anyone interested in the scientist not making it safely home.”
“Where's the dummy flight routed to?” Alina asked softly, already guessing the answer.
“Cancun.”
“Suspect, but it's not enough to hang someone with,” she said.
“I've been trained not to discount any kind of threat, no matter how vague,” Michael retorted. “I've got too many coincidences happening here, and now a business card with the location of one of our agents is circulating up and down the East coast. I don't like it.”
“What do you think I can do?”
“The new driver making trips up and down the coast is driving a fast car without headlights,” Michael said slowly. “Blake thinks they’re wearing NVGs and running down the interstate at high speed. The troopers can't see him, but they've clocked him at over 180 miles per hour. By the time their radar goes off, he's long gone. They've tried having a helicopter on stand-by, but again, by the time it's airborne, the car is nowhere to be seen.”
Alina's lips twitched.
“That's fun,” she murmured, “but again, I don't see what you think I can do?”
“Blake has reason to believe the driver is coming out of Jersey,” Michael told her. “Atlantic City, to be precise.”
“So?”
Michael met her gaze steadily, his lips curving slightly.
“Don't tell me you're not intrigued,” he murmured. “And remember, I was closer to your brother than anyone for four years. He told me all about the cars and engines and racing you two got up to. Whoever this new driver is, he's a fast, precision driver who takes risks regularly. He would be well-known in the racing community.”
“You talk like I'm still part of that community,” Alina retorted. “That was a long time ago, gunny.”
“Then why do you have a Shelby Cobra GT 500 sitting in yonder garage?” Michael asked, his green eyes glinting. “And why does it have an illegal mod?”
Alina chuckled reluctantly.
“Touché,” she murmured. “I'll see what I can find out, but no promises. You're right, though. I am intrigued.”
“I thought you would be,” Michael replied smugly.
Stephanie set her hoagie down on her desk and glanced over to John, engrossed in his computer monitor. He had been quiet all morning, which was suspicious enough, but when she left for lunch half an hour ago, he didn't ask her to pick up anything for him. That was downright bizarre. John was always hungry.
“What are you working on?” she finally asked after watching him for a moment.
John didn't turn his head and Stephanie realized he hadn't heard her. She frowned and walked over to stand behind him, shamelessly looking over his shoulder at the computer screen. He had a criminal history up and was scrolling through it, reading intently.
“Who's Tito Morales?” she asked.
John started and swung around.
“How long have you been standing there?” he demanded.
“Long enough to know you're not working on the Atkins case,” Stephanie retorted. “What are you doing?”
“Just looking into something for a friend,” John muttered, stretching with a yawn. “Did you go to lunch?”
Stephanie's eyes narrowed and she turned to retrieve her hoagie from her desk. Pulling her chair over, she settled down at John's desk and began unwrapping her sandwich.
“I told you I was going over half an hour ago,” she told him. “What's going on with you today?”
John had the grace to look sheepish.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I guess my mind is somewhere else.”
“Care to elaborate?” Stephanie bit into her hoagie, watching him over the long Amoroso roll stuffed with Italian meats and cheeses.
“I'm starting to think there may be something more to Dutch's accident,” John said slowly.
“I thought you said he flipped and hit a tree during a street race,” Stephanie muttered around a mouthful of hoagie. “Sounds pretty straight-forward to me.”
“That's what I thought too, but his sister thinks there's something more going on,” he answered, sitting back in his chair.
“Lani is in shock and looking to place blame,” Stephanie said after swallowing. “It's a perfectly natural reaction to such a devastating accident, but that doesn't make it true.”
“I know.” John nodded in agreement. “But I told her I'd look into it, and so I did. I don't like what I'm finding.”
“Ok...” Stephanie looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.
“For starters, supposedly Dutch was racing for pink slips, which he never did,” John said. “He didn't have to. He had enough cash to lay down. He didn't need to race for cars, and he certainly would never willingly bet the Shelby. That alone was enough to make me start digging. I started with the man Dutch was racing.”
“Tito Morales?”
“Yes.” John motioned to the flat screen. “He's got a rap sheet longer than most. The majority of it seems to be high-speed traffic violations, but then I came across this little gem. He served four years for manslaughter and was released early last year. His parole officer confirms that he's gainfully employed at Atco Raceway, working as a mechanic.”
“So he has a history.” Stephanie shrugged. “Still isn't enough to prove that it wasn't an accident.”
“I just don't like it,” John muttered, shaking his head. “Something's not right here.”
“John, do yourself a favor,” Stephanie told him, setting her hoagie down and wiping the oil off her fingers with a paper napkin. “Let it go. Dutch was racing illegally at night and had an accident. It sucks, but it happens. Don't go looking for bad guys where there are none. We have enough real ones to worry about without looking for more.”
Lani watched as a black pickup truck hauling an enclosed trailer turned into the long driveway, followed by a 1967 Camaro. She didn't get up from her seat on the porch, but watched numbly as the vehicles approached the house. She knew who was driving the Camaro. It was black with orange flames painted over the hood and a
long the front quarter panels. Incorporated into the flames were skulls, reminiscent of the Ghost Rider, and Lani felt her heart sink a little more through her grief.
Tito Morales was coming to take the Shelby.
Dutch wasn't even buried yet. She was still in shock and trying to sort out the arrangements. Lani had been expecting him to come for the Mustang, but part of her was convinced that he wouldn't be heartless enough to come before the funeral. Apparently, she was wrong.
The heavy truck crunched up the dirt driveway, slowing to a stop near the front of the house. Lani watched as the Camaro stopped behind it and the driver's door opened. Suddenly, she wished she hadn't sent her cousin to the store for some rolls. She wished she wasn't all alone at the house. More than anything, she wished Dutch was here to take care of this.
But Dutch was dead, she was alone, and she had to face Tito herself.
He was dressed in navy work pants and an old t-shirt. He must have come from the track. Though the drivers who raced at Atco brought their own cars and did their own work, the track recently employed two in-house mechanics. Dutch often hypothesized about what they were really employed to do, since the only cars he ever saw them working on were their own. Lani had her own ideas about what Tito did at the track, but she kept them to herself. Dutch could get funny about some things, and talking about a man with a criminal record was one of them. Dutch always believed that a man’s past didn't necessarily dictate his present. In his case, it was true. Dutch overcame his own juvenile history to make something of himself. He said everyone had the capacity to change. For the most part, Lani agreed, unless that someone was Tito. Tito was bad to the core and always had been.
“How's it going, Lani?” Tito called, walking across the worn grass to the front porch where she sat.
“How do you think it's going?” she retorted with an edge to her voice, watching as he stopped at the base of the porch steps.
Tito looked up at her, resting one hand on the wooden banister and propping one foot on the bottom step. His amber-colored eyes were cold and lifeless and Lani repressed the urge to shiver.
“I'm sorry about Dutch,” Tito told her. “He was a good driver.”
“He was a better man,” Lani answered, standing up. “You could have waited until after the funeral.”
Tito shrugged.
“Dominic wants the car now,” he retorted. “He's waited long enough. Don't shoot the messenger.”
“Now there's a pleasant thought,” Lani muttered, turning toward the screen door into the house. “I have to get the keys.”
“Don't forget the paperwork,” Tito said, advancing up the steps onto the porch. “We don't want me to have to come back again, do we?”
Lani turned her head and glared at him. When he took a step to follow her into the house, she held up her hand and pressed it against his chest, pushing him back.
“You can stay out here,” she told him coldly.
Tito's eyes narrowed and he watched as she turned to go into the house, the screen door slamming behind her. Lani clenched her jaw as she moved through the front living room toward Dutch's den in the back, frustration and anger coiled deep within her. The man didn't even show the slightest sign of remorse at her loss, the loss he had caused! Then he had the nerve to think he was just going to walk into her house?!
Lani strode into Dutch's den and swiped up the envelope from the desk that contained the keys and paperwork for the Shelby. Dutch left it there Sunday afternoon, and she hadn't looked at it since the accident. She knew what was inside. He told her on his way out the door that night.
Her eyes fell on the framed picture propped on the desk. It was a photo of the two of them, taken last summer down the shore at the boardwalk. They were laughing and Lani could almost smell the boardwalk fries in the air as she remembered the day. They were down for the annual car show, and Dutch brought home a trophy for the Boss that day. Now, the Boss was a mangled, twisted coffin of burnt metal, and Dutch was gone.
Lani tore herself away from the memories and turned to leave the den. She gasped when she came face to face with Tito.
“Nice house,” he said, his eyes sweeping around the den. “Are you going to keep it?”
Lani involuntarily backed up a step as his bulk took up the doorway, blocking her exit. She glared at him, forcing herself to remain calm as he brought those cold amber eyes to her face.
“Of course I am,” she replied, relieved when her voice came out steady and firm. “I told you to wait outside.”
“I didn't listen,” Tito retorted, advancing into the room. “Isn't it a big house just for you?”
“I'm sure I'll manage,” she snapped.
Tito watched her for a second before glancing at the desk. He noted the picture, then his eyes moved on to the bookshelf against the wall. He moved toward it leisurely, ignoring the look of loathing Lani sent his way.
“You know, Dutch was real quiet about you,” he said, reading some of the titles of car manuals on the shelves and looking at the eclectic mix of model cars and discarded tools that cluttered the shelves. “I don't even know what you do for a living.”
“There's nothing about me you need to know,” Lani retorted, watching him as she inched closer to the door.
“Funny. That's what he said,” Tito muttered, reaching out and picking up a torque wrench. He absently balanced it in his hand while he glanced at her, his eyes sharp. “Not very friendly of you two.”
“Us?!” Lani demanded, her temper forcing out her uneasiness. “You manage to get Dutch to race for pink slips, then watch as he burns alive in his car. You come here, before he's even buried, to take possession of his pride and joy. You force your way into my house, and you want to talk about unfriendly??”
“Dutch's accident was just that...an accident,” Tito said, turning to face her. His eyes bore into hers, sending shivers of warning down her spine. “You know that, right?”
“That's what they say,” she retorted.
“I was there,” he told her, moving toward her slowly. “Remember?”
“I'm not likely to forget.”
“A deer ran out in front of us and he lost control,” Tito continued evenly, ignoring her interjection. “It was just an accident.”
“So they say.”
Lani met his stare stubbornly, grief and anger over-riding her common sense. Dutch was gone and, as far as she was concerned, Tito was responsible for that. She knew he could see it in her eyes and there was no way to hide it from him. She didn't believe it was an accident, and nothing was ever going to get her to say that it was.
“You don't believe that?” Tito asked, his voice low. “Is that why you have an FBI agent hanging around here?” Lani's eyes flared wide and Tito smiled a slow, terrible smile. “You think we don't know about John Smithe?”
“John's a family friend,” Lani replied, backing up a step as Tito closed the distance between them. Her uneasiness returned in waves as she realized he was still holding the wrench in his right hand. “His job has nothing to do with anything.”
“You better hope it doesn't,” Tito told her, backing her into the corner beside the door. “Dominic doesn't like the Feds, and neither do I.”
Lani swallowed and held her breath as Tito leaned forward into her space. The hair on her arms and neck stood up in warning and she clenched her fists at her side. He was trying to intimidate her, and she would be damned if she let him see that it was working.
“If it was just an accident, you don't have anything to worry about, do you?” she said sharply, raising her chin and meeting him glare for glare.
Tito's lips thinned into a grim line and an ugly glint gleamed in his gold eyes. Lani felt like she was confronting a snake and she shivered despite herself. The sudden isolation of the house leapt into her mind and she again silently cursed herself for sending her cousin to the store.
“You might want to watch your tone when you talk to me,” he growled, all pretense of civility gone. “Dutch isn't aro
und now to run interference for you.”
Lani flinched as Tito lifted a hand and grabbed her hair. Tears flooded her eyes as he ripped her hair at the roots and yanked her head painfully to the side. His eyes bore into hers as she struggled to maintain eye contact with him.
“Where I come from, women know their place. I got no problems teaching you the same,” he told her. “Consider this a warning.”
Lani managed to nod before he finally released her hair. She gasped as her neck throbbed from the sudden release from the awkward angle and she watched as Tito plucked the envelope from her fingers. He turned and tossed the wrench on the floor behind him before heading out of the den, leaving her sagging against the wall for support. A moment later, she heard the screen door slam closed behind him.
Lani closed her eyes briefly as a mixture of relief and terror flowed over her. Her legs grew weak and she slid down the wall until she was sitting in a ball on the floor. She stared sightlessly across the den, focusing on the torque wrench laying a few feet away. Through the clamor of emotions flooding through her, one thought made it through the noise, loud and clear:
It wasn't an accident.
Chapter Eight
Alina watched from the shadows on her deck as a motorcycle roared to a stop next to her Jeep in the driveway. She was sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs, wrapped in the night, lost in thought when the sound of the motorcycle broke the silence. Only one person was known to come calling on a Ducati.
John cut the engine and pulled off his helmet, getting off the bike and glancing toward the deck. Alina smiled faintly as Raven straightened up from his lazy perch on the edge of the banister near her shoulder. John started across the dark lawn toward the deck, glancing at his watch as he went. It was later than normal for a social call and Alina watched him thoughtfully as he came closer. He looked troubled and there was a grim set about his already habitually harsh mouth. He was at the steps to the deck before he saw them, lurking in the shadows at the far end of the deck.
“Is it safe?” John asked, his gaze going between her and the bird.