by Juno Rushdan
Few had the common courtesy to even say thank-you.
“Where’s my Jumpdrive?” Eugene sat up. Then he looked over his shoulder and ducked back down as if at any moment the bulletproof window might explode. “You got it, didn’t you?”
No thank you. Only entitlement. Charlie shook her head in disgust.
“As a matter of fact, I did. What is this?” Aiden asked, holding up the drive.
“My insurance policy,” Eugene said.
Was he holding on to evidence he’d never turned over to the US attorney’s office?
“What’s on it?” Charlie inspected Aiden’s wound.
His cut was still bleeding in earnest and not slowing down fast enough. Charlie wasn’t very good with blood and there was a surprising amount of it, not to mention the sharp metallic scent, but she could handle it. For Aiden. She pressed down, trying not to hurt him, and watched as he looked through the hit man’s phone. It wasn’t password protected.
Aiden’s profile was strong and all male, given his chiseled bone structure and sensual mouth. His hair was the richest shade of black and he had long lashes most women would envy. Damn, he was gorgeous. More beautiful than any man had a right to be.
“I told you what’s on it,” Eugene said. “Give the drive back to me. It’s mine, damn it. I need it.”
“No, you didn’t tell us.” Aiden frowned at something on the phone. “I want details. Right now. Did you know that you can be kicked out of the program for withholding evidence? It’s called obstruction of justice.”
“Protecting myself isn’t the same as obstructing justice.” Eugene started to straighten in his seat but seemed to think better of it. “You don’t have the right to confiscate my personal property.”
“What property?” Charlie asked. “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Do you, Aiden?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“You can’t do this.” Eugene peeked up over the seat. “Marshal, uh, you, the one driving. You can’t let them do this.”
“Sorry, sir. Wish I could help.” Torres lifted a nonchalant hand and checked his mirrors. “But I wasn’t privy to the conversation in the house. If they say they didn’t take your property, then they didn’t.”
“Feel free to jog our memories, Eugene,” Charlie said. “Start by sharing what’s on this alleged thumb drive.”
“This is so unfair. I’m the victim in all this.” Eugene sniveled until he realized there was no wiggling out of telling them. “Fine. Information on a few organizations. I kept it instead of turning it over in case I needed it someday to get out of trouble.”
“Well, it seems to have gotten you into more trouble rather than saving you from it,” Aiden said.
The gauze on Aiden’s arm was soaked through. Charlie removed it and inspected the gash.
He looked down at the deep cut. The wound swelled with more blood and seemed as if it might never stop bleeding. He glanced up at her. “It’s not that bad.”
Granted, it wasn’t a bullet hole. The blade had missed the brachial artery, and she didn’t think the knife had struck bone, but the cut was an inch long, at least half an inch deep in muscle, and was gushing.
This was the definition of bad.
“I got lucky,” he whispered to her as he leaned in. “Could’ve been my throat instead of my arm.”
Her heart lurched. That was so not reassuring. At all.
“Do you know who put the hit out on you?” Aiden asked Eugene.
“Not for certain. There are mobsters in Texas, Louisiana and Mississippi who’d be happy to see me dead.”
That was true. Eugene Potter was in fact Edgar Plinski, aka the Money Magician. An accountant for various organized crime outfits from Houston to Biloxi. The people he’d helped send to prison might’ve put the hit out on him.
Then again, it could be someone on the drive whom he still had incriminating evidence on.
“You must have some idea,” Aiden pressed. “Your life depends on this. Take a guess. Who has the biggest ax to grind with you?”
Eugene’s eyes flared wide as if the answer had dawned on him, but he shook his head. “I don’t know! Instead of interrogating me, isn’t it your job to calm me down? Put me at ease?”
He was hiding something, perhaps protecting someone. In her gut, Charlie was certain of it.
She took out a packet of hemostatic powder from the kit and poured the brown granules into the angry wound on Aiden’s arm, really getting it in there good. On contact with the blood, the tiny pellets swelled, forming a soft gel to clot the cut. It’d form a quick scab that would hold until he got stitches.
After peeling open a package of self-adhesive gauze, she applied the pad. As she gave the wound a little more pressure to help the powder set faster, she caught Eugene’s eye. “The only way you’ll ever truly be safe is if the people on this drive are behind bars.”
Eugene, or rather Edgar, had worked for more than a handful of mobsters but had only turned state’s evidence on two, claiming he didn’t have anything incriminating on the others.
“The marshals at the SSPC are going to look at the contents on this drive,” Aiden said. “They’re going to find out whatever you’re hiding. You may as well tell us, if you have any idea who might’ve put the hit out on you.”
“It’s complicated.” Eugene sat up, keeping his head low. “Let’s just say that someone back home had a lot invested in me. After I testified, I’m pretty sure he blew a gasket. I’m talking off the Richter scale. Okay. Satisfied? Can I have the drive now?”
“Nope,” Aiden and Charlie said in unison.
“Come on,” Eugene snapped.
Torres called the field office on the wireless comms to update their self-righteous, self-important leader, Will Draper, on the situation. Charlie was thankful not to hear how the loss of a good marshal was going to reflect poorly on Draper. It sure would’ve been nice to have a boss who cared more about his people than his career.
Inevitably, Draper would spin this, play pin-the-blame-on-someone, anyone, to keep his spotless hands clean. How on earth he’d managed to avoid the chopping block after the debacle with the breach of their WITSEC list that had occurred on his watch was anyone’s guess. What happened to crap rolling uphill?
Eugene slunk down, muttering curses under his breath, protesting that he was the victim, complaining about injustice, while she finished patching up Aiden’s arm and wiped blood from his skin.
The cut was deep, needed stitches and would leave a scar. Dear God, to think it could’ve been his throat.
Her stomach bottomed out at the idea. It took everything in Charlie not to deck ungrateful Eugene.
She poured antiseptic on a fresh piece of gauze and cleaned the cut on Aiden’s face.
What would she do if she ever lost him?
Sure, they faced danger on a regular basis, and heck, the job was more fun when bullets were flying and they were kicking in doors together and slapping on handcuffs.
But today was different.
Today, hit men had got the drop on them.
Today, Aiden had fallen off a roof where his neck could’ve been the one broken. If the contract killer’s blade had found its mark—Aiden’s jugular instead of his arm...
She pressed a palm to his cheek, caressed his chiseled jawline.
The intimate gesture sent an electric charge up her arm, making her nerve endings stand at attention. His expression, his piercing stare that bored straight to her soul, was just as intimate.
Perhaps more so because she knew he saw the fissures in her carefully constructed walls. When they were together, it was the only time she didn’t feel alone in the world.
“I wasn’t worried.” She blurted out the defensive comment, having no idea where it came from.
She dropped her hand, clenching it
into a fist in her lap, and forced a pretense of indifference.
Way to go, Killinger, stepping over the professional line.
But Aiden had a way of obscuring the line until she forgot it existed.
The intensity of his focus didn’t waver, making the car cabin seem too small, with not enough space between them.
He covered her fist with his hand, his fingers engulfing hers. The scorching touch of his palm was hot as a brand on her skin.
“Biyooch’idi,” he said. Liar in Navajo. The low, sensual rumble of his voice sent unbidden heat rushing to her cheeks.
She’d wanted to learn the language after going home with him, surrounded by his large family in the heart of the Navajo reservation—a sovereign territory roughly the size of West Virginia—to bury his mother. It’d been a strange trip for her, considering she no longer spoke to her own mother, but if their roles had been reversed, he would’ve been at her side. Aiden was eager to teach her, to share himself like turning on a faucet and letting her drink until she slaked her thirst, but Charlie was more of the sipping kind. From a disposable bottle.
What passed between them now, unspoken, reflected their bond.
One of the things she admired about Aiden was that he never called Charlie out on her BS or razzed her in front of the others, at least not in a language they understood. He’d never divulge her secrets, never betray her trust.
That was just between them, only for them—the real intimacy she treasured. And the only kind she needed. The depth of their friendship ran deeper than blood ties and she’d never do anything to jeopardize it, especially something as reckless as date him.
“Prove it.” She cocked her head to the side in challenge.
“Trust me, I intend to.” He gifted her with a devastating smile, flashing his annoyingly attractive dimples.
It was a punch to the gut...to her heart and, unfortunately, to her libido.
Pull yourself together. She averted her gaze and moved her hand from his, tossing the bloody gauze in a disposable motion-sickness bag.
“Did you find anything on the cell phone?” Charlie threw a glance at the device in his hand.
“Looks like a burner. With texts from only one number. Apparently, Eugene is worth two million dollars, if he’s killed. An extra four million if he’s brought in breathing so he can be tortured.”
“Jesus, Bill,” Eugene muttered low, but Charlie caught it.
He knew who was after him all right.
“That’s a first,” she said. “You’re worth more alive than dead.”
“And if any sensitive information in his possession is recovered...it’s worth another four million,” Aiden said.
Torres let out a low whistle. “Wow. Ten million. There’s a whopper of a bull’s-eye painted on your forehead,” he said to Eugene. “Let’s hope it’s smooth sailing picking up Mrs. Potter and getting them to the SSPC.”
Eugene’s eyes bulged from his head as he clutched his stomach.
Charlie handed him a sick bag and turned to Aiden. “Please, tell me your bad feeling has gone away.” Two assassins and one darn good deputy marshal were already dead. Not to mention close calls for the rest of them. That had to be the end of it. Right?
“I wish.” Aiden lowered his eyes. “The feeling has only gotten worse.”
Great. Why did she have to ask?
Chapter Three
William “Big Bill” Walsh was a creature of habit.
Every afternoon he sat down behind his desk to have lunch in his office at Avido’s, his James Beard Award–winning restaurant on Bourbon Street.
The place was quiet at this time of day, before they opened later in the afternoon and welcomed customers until 3:00 a.m. Unlike the Windfall, the 24/7 casino he co-owned, which stayed hopping around the clock.
Overseeing operations, ensuring the sex trafficking ring ran without a hitch and the drugs flowed smoothly, and keeping a close eye on his business partner, Vincenzo Romero, demanded his attention the rest of his waking hours.
This was his one respite. From work. From his hostile partner, Enzo. From his clingy mistress.
In here, he could hear himself think.
He looked up from his computer as Colette, the hostess, strutted in carrying a tray with his lunch. A medium-rare rib eye and a side salad that he’d ordered in place of his regular fully loaded baked potato. He was trying to cut back calories lately. Slim down the waistline that’d only grown more robust with stress eating.
Colette had been there three years. Easy on the eyes with a tight hourglass figure. She minded her business and earned extra by selling his drugs at the eleven universities in the area. A true hustler who never missed a day of work. He liked her.
She took the plate from the tray and set it down in front of him, along with ceramic salt and pepper shakers and utensils rolled up in a napkin.
He nodded his thanks.
“Can I get you anything else, Big Bill?” she asked in a tone that straddled the line between sweet and flirty.
He licked his lips as he undressed her in his mind. “A beer, sugar.”
“Tommy is pouring it.”
Even though Bill was cutting back and could forgo all the fixings, he wasn’t giving up his Baltic porter. There were many things in this world he was capable of doing. Abstaining from sex and alcohol wasn’t among them.
Colette flashed a small smile, tucked the tray under her arm and headed for the door. He loved watching her leave. Her body-hugging black dress fit her like a second skin, skimming all her curves, framing her nicely.
His gaze fell to his plate. Damn if that steak didn’t smell delicious, but Bill had no appetite for it. The only thing he hungered for, the one thing that’d satisfy him, was Edgar Plinski’s head on a silver platter.
Correction. Torturing that traitor for hours, no, no, for days, if they could keep him alive that long through the punishment Bill was going to mete out, then see his head on a platter.
Tommy Guillory, his right-hand man and his late sister Irene’s eldest, walked in with the beer. His nephew’s demeanor was low-key but could quickly shift to menacing, like flipping a switch. A good attribute for a gangster.
“Yo, yo, here you go.” Tommy set the pint of dark, frothy porter beside the plate.
Bill shook his head. Today’s youth had a flagrant disregard for old-school decorum. His nephew might be a classless millennial, but he loved the kid like a son. One day Tommy would run the organization.
“The game has begun,” Tommy said, with the enthusiasm of a kickoff on Super Bowl Sunday, referring to the hunt for Edgar.
The news gave Bill a much-needed jolt of hope. “It’s about time.”
“D checked in.” Frank Devlin was in charge of the secondary team. The fail-safe. “You were right, Uncle Bill. You won the bet.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a rolled-up wad of hundred-dollar bills and set it on the desk. “Those two Cajuns bit the dust.”
The hit men brothers from the bayou were dead. They’d looked sharp enough, seemed capable and had an excellent reputation for specializing in Colombian necktie executions, but Bill had suspected that it’d take more than two backwater contract killers to get the job done.
Edgar was a slippery sucker, tougher to wrangle than an alligator and harder to hold on to than an eel in the dark.
But he wouldn’t slip out of Devlin’s snare.
Bill tugged on a self-assured smile. He was always right. Tommy was a fool to have doubted him in the first place and an even bigger fool to have taken the bet and staked his money on those bayou boys.
In his gut, Bill knew this would come down to the A-Team. “Nothing wrong with outsourcing, but this is why it’s important to have a contingency. Our local fellas will get the job done and collect the fee.”
Ignoring the steak, he picked up the cash and tossed t
he roll in his desk drawer. Later tonight he’d give it to his little lady. He’d learned after two failed marriages to stick with a mistress who was young, had perky breasts, a firm backside and took more interest in shopping and staying pretty than in where his money came from.
That kind of curiosity could be used against him. The feds would jump on any weak link around him and crawl even further down his throat. They were already so deep in his gullet he was choking on their surveillance. Wiretaps on the phones. Spies in the casino. Bugs on the gaming floor and in the Windfall’s offices. His every move watched by hawkeyed stalkers.
Besides his house, Avido’s was the only other safe space where he could talk freely.
Tommy had the restaurant swept for surveillance devices daily before Bill set foot inside.
All Big Bill’s men were absolute in their loyalty. Still, the only one he ever fully trusted was Tommy, since he was family.
“But it was good initiative on your part,” Bill said, appreciating his nephew’s gumption, “for thinking outside the box and contacting those Cajun housepainters.” A euphemism for hit men who offed someone in their home. Quite acceptable to use around the little lady or in polite company without raising suspicion.
Tommy plopped down in a leather chair across from his desk, rested a booted ankle on the opposite knee and rubbed his bald head. Tall and thickset, the twenty-six-year-old kept his head clean-shaven to spare himself from getting the receding hairline that Bill had.
At fifty, Bill was too old and busy to fret over his lack of hair that emphasized the smooth cliff of his forehead and abundance of wrinkles.
“Do you think they’ll bring him in alive or dead?” Tommy asked.
Bill wasn’t a religious man and believed in no higher power than himself. Nonetheless, he was praying for alive.
His mouth watered to sink his teeth into Edgar. Literally. He wanted to rip off a body part Edgar would miss. Bill just hadn’t decided which one first.
The depth of Edgar’s betrayal was despicable. Unfathomable. What he had done was absolutely beyond the pale. Thinking of it, as Bill had endlessly done for the past two years, made his blood pressure skyrocket to the point his eye sockets ached.