by CW Browning
“I know,” she said softly.
There was a short silence, almost as if he hadn't expected her agreement so easily.
“Is everything alright?” Damon asked, his tone serious.
“Of course.”
“You've never agreed with me so quickly in your life,” he told her roundly. “Out with it. What aren't you telling me?”
“Damon, don't worry,” Alina replied. “Everything's fine. Just get here as soon as you can. I...I've missed you this time,” she added reluctantly.
“I miss you, too,” Damon told her, his voice low. “I'll text you when I land.”
“Alright.”
“Viper?”
“Yes?”
“Don't kill anyone until I get there.”
A laugh escaped her and Alina swung her legs off her bed.
“You'd better hurry, then!” she retorted, heading back into the bathroom.
She disconnected and set the phone back on the vanity. She turned to the shower with a smile playing on her lips and started the water again. Suddenly, her mood seemed considerably lighter and the simmering anger had receded to the depths where it normally lived. If she tried very hard, Alina could almost imagine that she and Damon could find a way to make this new, fragile relationship work. For now, however, it was enough for her to know that in a few hours he would be home...whatever that word meant.
The water was just warming up and she was pulling her shirt over her head when the phone on the vanity vibrated briefly. Alina frowned and picked it up, swiping the screen. The alert flashing was a forward from the burn phone number she had given Frankie. Alina read the text quickly, then turned back to the shower to shut the water off once more. Her shower was going to have to wait.
According to Stefan, Tito was on his way to Atco after spending most of the night packing up his apartment. There wouldn't be many more opportunities before he disappeared.
It was time for Viper to introduce herself.
When Tito rounded the corner of the trailer, heading back to the garage from the direction of the track, his stride checked and he raised his eyebrows. His Camaro was parked outside the bay, gleaming in the late morning sun. He had shined it up for his last day of racing at Atco, taking special care to make sure his pride and joy was spotless. When he left to go over to the track, it was perfect. It was still perfect, but his hood had a new ornament. Glancing at the shining black Shelby GT 500 pulled up next to the Camaro, he frowned and turned his attention back to the woman lounging on the hood of his car.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
The woman turned her head to look at him at the same time he got a good look at her, or rather, her legs. They were long and perfect, with black boots that came up over her knees, leaving her thighs between the top of the boots and the hem of her very short, black denim skirt bare. With some difficulty, Tito managed to drag his eyes away from the unexpected sight and slide them over the rest of her before they reached her face.
“You're a hard man to find,” she told him, not budging from her reclined position against his windshield.
“If I knew you were looking, I would have made it easy,” he told her, stopping next to her and letting his eyes sweep over her again. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet,” Viper replied, watching him through her eyelashes. “I'm hoping that will change.”
Tito leaned against the quarter panel and his golden eyes finally met hers.
“So am I, baby girl,” he murmured. “I haven’t seen you around, have I? I would've remembered. Is that your Shelby?”
“Yes.” She tilted her head, a smile playing about her lips. “You don't remember, do you?”
“Remember what?”
“Racing me on the AC Expressway,” she answered. “I won.”
Recognition dawned in his eyes and he looked over to the Shelby.
“You're the one who went around the van in the shoulder!” he exclaimed, turning back to her with a grin spreading over his dark face. “That was some damn good driving.”
“I know,” Viper agreed. “You intrigued me.”
“Trust me, I'm the one intrigued now,” Tito told her, his eyes sliding down her body again to rest on her thighs. “What can I do for you?”
“Oh, I can think of a few things,” she purred, shifting her legs. Tito licked his lips as her skirt shifted upward with the movement. “But business first. I heard you're the one to see if I want to make some money...driving.”
“You're looking to race?” Tito looked up at her face. “I can get you into a few races. No problem. You've got the balls for it, even if you do drive a Ford.”
Viper smiled slowly and sat up. She had his full attention now. Swinging her legs to the side, she slid slowly off the hood and turned to face him. Standing with only inches between them, her dark eyes met his briefly before she intentionally dropped them to his lips.
“Now that business is taken care of...” she murmured, trailing a long finger down his chest.
“Why don't I show you around?” Tito suggested, his voice low and husky. “We can start with the garage. I've got something in there you'll like.”
“I bet you do,” she said with a wicked smile.
Tito reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys, pressing a key fob. The bay door behind them began to slide up and he took her hand, leading her toward it.
“It's an older Shelby,” he told her. “I'm storing it for a friend. I won it.”
“You won it?”
Viper followed him to the bay door. She glanced around swiftly behind his back, her eyes scanning the area around the garage. The bustle picking up at the track in the distance was far enough away that no one could see them.
“The owner raced for pink slips,” Tito explained as they stepped through the bay door. “Car for car. He lost.”
Viper stepped into the garage and the familiar smell of oil wrapped around her. Her eyes went straight to Dutch's baby, crouched in the far bay silently.
“Oooh!” she cooed, turning to walk towards it, swinging her hips as she went.
“I thought you'd like that,” Tito chuckled behind her, hitting a button on the wall.
Viper heard the bay door sliding closed behind her and her lips curved coldly as the sunlight disappeared behind the door.
He was all hers now.
Chapter Forty-Five
Michael glanced at his watch and looked around the wide entryway to the restaurant. Chris called him about an hour before, interrupting his research on Trasker, and invited him to brunch. That in itself was unusual, but even more suspect was the fact that Chris practically ordered Michael to accept.
The aroma of maple syrup, pancakes and coffee surrounded him and Michael's stomach rumbled in response. While he'd easily drunk an entire pot of coffee so far today, food had completely slipped his mind. Perhaps it was a good thing Chris strong-armed him into coming to brunch.
“Mike!”
Michael turned his head toward the sound to see Chris waving to him from the dining room. He was seated at a round table with another man, dressed in slacks and a casual polo shirt. Michael lifted his hand in acknowledgement and began weaving his way through tables covered with white cloths and sporting china place settings.
“Thanks for coming,” Chris greeted him as Michael approached the table, standing and holding out his hand. “Mike, this is Simon Peters, an old friend of mine.”
Simon Peters was around the same age as Chris, with salt-and-pepper hair that curled at his temples. As Chris introduced them, he stood up and held out a tanned hand.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking Michael's hand firmly. “I'm glad you could make it.”
“I hope you weren't waiting long,” Michael said, seating himself next to Chris.
“Not at all,” Chris said, reaching for a pot of coffee in the center of the table. “We just got here ourselves a few minutes ago. Coffee?”
“Thanks.”
“Chris was just telling me you make f
urniture in your spare time,” Simon said as Chris filled Michael's cup. “Are you working on something now?”
“A bookcase,” Michael answered with a nod.
“That's really amazing,” Simon told him, sipping his own coffee. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“I took a class in high school and learned I love working with wood,” Michael answered readily. “When I got out of the Marines, I picked it up again. It's therapeutic.”
“He made his dining room table last year,” Chris told Simon, handing Michael his coffee. “It's a farmhouse style. It's outstanding.”
“My wife wants a farmhouse table for our dining room,” Simon reflected. “The one she showed me was over two grand.”
“That's why I made it myself,” Michael said with a laugh. “I made it for less than two hundred and it's nicer than anything I could find when I was looking.”
“You're in the wrong line of work,” Simon told him with a grin. “You could be making a fortune. Hell, I'd pay you to make one for me.”
“Don't go trying to talk him into a different line of work,” Chris warned good-naturedly. “I'm not letting him go.”
“I'm not telling him to quit his job,” Simon retorted. “I'm just saying he can make some extra money for what he already does for fun. Don't tell me you haven't said the same thing.”
“He has,” Michael confirmed with a grin. “Repeatedly.”
“That's what I thought,” Simon laughed, standing. “I'm going to get my food. Chris, I know you said you wanted to talk work with him, so I'll give you a few minutes alone. But that's it! You two are crazy for working on the weekend, and while I'm here, you're going to relax and enjoy one of the best brunch buffets in DC!”
Simon headed off towards the buffet lining the side of the dining room and Chris looked at Michael.
“Sorry for dragging you away, but it's worth it, I promise,” he said, sipping his coffee.
“I assumed so when you practically forced me to come,” Michael replied. “What's going on?”
“Last night, I was thinking about this mess we're in, and I suddenly remembered Simon. We’ve been friends since college. He works for Trasker!”
“What?!”
“Yes!” Chris nodded, clearly pleased with himself. “He started out as a rep and worked his way up. Last year, he moved into an executive position with the company. I called him and suggested we meet for brunch.”
“Have you told him anything?”
“No, I'll leave it to you to handle,” Chris said. “Tell him as much as you feel necessary. I've known him a long time and one thing I can guarantee; if he knows about the antidote, he believes it's exactly what Trasker says it is. Simon's always been doggedly honest, sometimes uncomfortably so.”
Michael nodded slowly, then stood up.
“Let's go get food,” he said. “I'll tackle him while we're eating. Thanks, Chris.”
Chris nodded and stood with him.
“I'm just glad I remembered all this last night,” he replied. “Anything new with your Black Widow yet?”
“Not yet,” Michael answered. “I have a feeling that when I get pulled into that particular battle, it will already be game time.”
Chris glanced at him.
“Better hope you're suited up.”
Blake glanced at the license plate on the shiny, black Scion FR-S and turned to look back at his Challenger. He nodded imperceptibly to Stephanie and she nodded back. Continuing past the lowered sports car, he stepped onto the pavement outside Wawa and opened the door, disappearing into the convenience store.
After leaving the bar last night, he and Stephanie spent half the night looking up every Ricardo Martinez in South Jersey. There were quite a few and it took a few hours to narrow down the possibilities. Eventually, Blake simply pulled the registrations for the final twenty that made their cut. Only two owned vehicles that could be considered racing appropriate, and of those, only one had multiple speeding violations and a record of racing illegally.
This morning, Stephanie had come back from the store with half and half and informed him that she didn't think it was a good idea to confront Ricardo just yet. Blake shook his head and walked past the registers, his eyes moving around the store, looking for the racer. She didn't want to spook Ricardo and run the risk of them losing the only lead they had. While he supposed he could understand that reasoning, Blake wasn't sure he agreed. He was more confrontational in his style of investigation. Give him a good brawl over politics any day. After a lively argument, however, he gave in. It was only then Stephanie told him she had a plan.
When she told him about the tracking device she planned to install on Ricardo's car, he stared at her for a full minute before laughing. Naturally, she hadn't been amused. Blake's lips twitched now at the memory. How could he explain his surprise that Ms. Walker, Agent-By-The-Book, was prepared to install a tracking device without a warrant and without probable cause? Hell, Blake wasn't even sure how he felt about the move, but he was game to do it. At this point, what did they have to lose? His career was already over if the Bureau ever found out that he had knowledge of evidence removed from their lab by one of their own employees. What difference would an illegal tracking device make?
When Ricardo left his apartment, Blake and Stephanie were waiting for him.
Blake caught sight of him in the back at the refrigerators, pulling out a couple of cans of Red Bull. He strode towards him purposefully, turning his head away to look at something in the front of the store.
“Umph!”
Ricardo grunted as Blake plowed into him, knocking the cans of energy drink out of his hands and onto the floor.
“What the hell, man!” Ricardo exploded, his dark eyes flaring.
“Oh man, I'm sorry,” Blake exclaimed, bending to pick up one of the cans rolling away. “I didn't even see you.”
Ricardo picked up the other can and took the one Blake was holding out to him.
“Try opening your eyes.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
Blake moved out of the way and Ricardo went past him, heading toward the registers. Opening one of the glass doors to the refrigerator, he pulled out two bottles of Pepsi and turned to follow Ricardo. He glanced out the windows at the front of the store, his eyes going straight to the Scion parked in front of the door. There was no sign of Stephanie. Blake got into line at the register, one customer back from Ricardo, and looked further down to his Challenger. She wasn't there either.
“Two packs of Newport,” Ricardo told the cashier ahead of him, “and a pack of Black and Mild.”
Blake's brows came together in a frown. Where the hell was she? Was she still installing the tracker? Ricardo was paying now and would be out the door in less than a minute. Blake glanced around, thinking quickly. On the counter next to him was a heating unit with sandwiches wrapped in foil sitting under the lights. Next to it was a wire basket filled with soft pretzels in clear plastic bags. Reaching over, he grabbed one of the two-packs of soft pretzels, knocking the woman in front of him intentionally. The fountain soda she was holding slipped out of her hand and fell to the floor. The top popped off and Sprite and ice splashed everywhere. Letting out an un-naturally high-pitched squeal, the woman jumped back away from the soda. Her foot slipped in the ice and she crashed into Blake, pushing him backwards.
“Ooof!”
Blake tried to catch her, but her momentum carried them backwards and down they both went, Blake taking all her weight on himself as they hit the floor.
“Oh my God!” The cashier stopped mid-payment with Ricardo to lean over the counter. “Are you alright?!”
The woman made an unintelligible noise and tried to scramble up off of Blake. Her right elbow nailed him in the stomach and Blake grunted.
“Oh, I'm sorry!” she exclaimed, trying again to get up. The Vans on her feet were soaked from the soda, however, and she kept slipping and falling back down on top of him. “Oh my God!”
“Here, grab my hand,�
�� Ricardo offered, stepping over the huge puddle of ice and Sprite and holding out his hand.
The woman took it thankfully and he pulled her off Blake, only slipping once on the ice.
“Thank you!” she said, gaining her feet. “How embarrassing!” She turned to look down at Blake. “Are you OK? Oh God, I didn't hurt you, did I?”
“I don't think so,” Blake replied, pushing himself up off his back and getting to his feet. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” she assured them. “Just mortified. I don't know what happened!”
“Joe!” The cashier yelled toward the deli counter. “We need a mop and bucket out here!”
“I think I might have knocked you,” Blake told her apologetically. “I was getting some pretzels for my girlfriend. She's due in a couple days and all she wants are carbs,” he added with a laugh.
They all looked down at the pretzels laying in the middle of the lake of soda.
“Dude, you gotta pay more attention to what's going on around you,” Ricardo told him, shaking his head. “Is it your first?”
“Yeah,” Blake replied. “I guess I'm a little distracted.”
“Well, that's not gonna help your girl,” Ricardo informed him. “Trust me. They're stronger than they look. She'll be fine.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Blake said. “I'm sorry about your soda,” he added to the woman.
“It's OK,” she said, turning away to head toward the fountain sodas. “I'll just get another one. Good luck with the baby!”
“Thanks.”
Blake watched as Ricardo turned back to the cashier and finished his transaction. A minute later, he was out the door and Blake was paying for two new pretzels and two shaken up bottles of Pepsi. A quick glance out the window revealed Stephanie back in his passenger seat.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said to the cashier.
The young man shook his head with a grin.
“Don't worry about it,” he said, handing Blake his change. “Happens all the time. I'm used to it.”
Blake nodded and turned to leave the store. As he stepped out of the door, the Scion pulled out of the parking lot, Ricardo's powerful engine anti-climatically making a muzzled noise reminiscent of a lawn mower. Blake shook his head and headed for his muscle car.