by Juno Rushdan
Charlie picked up her soda with a smile. “Have a good evening.”
They jogged to the checkpoint, where it was one person’s sole job to verify a picture ID against the ticket. They got in place with the string of passengers and shuffled forward.
Loosening the plastic lid on her cup, Charlie adjusted it to sit on top instead of clicked down in place. Aiden lowered the bill of his cap.
Next in line, they were waved forward.
Charlie took his ticket and license, slipping them behind hers. They stepped up to the podium together, and she handed over everything to the fortysomething screener.
The man looked down at Priscilla’s license and up at Charlie. Appearing satisfied, he scribbled a mark on the ticket and gave Charlie back hers.
Then the screener glanced at Benally’s license.
As the middle-aged man’s gaze lifted to Aiden, Charlie stepped to the side and tripped.
The lid of her cup flew off. Soda splashed on the floor, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Darn it,” she said. “I’m sorry about the mess. I really wanted to finish that, too.”
“It’s all right, miss. We’ll get it cleaned up. You were going to have to toss that anyway before you got through security.” He scribbled on Aiden’s ticket and handed it to him along with the license and then gestured for them to move on. “Watch your step, please.”
Clearing the rest of security was a breeze. They put their badges discreetly in the plastic tray along with their communication devices, the flash drive, shoes and the cell phone.
If they had been traveling on official business, they would have had their sidearms, gone to the head of the line and then through a side door.
As regular joes, they each took a turn in the security hoop, hands raised, boots off.
On the other side, they finished lacing up their boots and headed to the gate. It was fairly empty. The majority of passengers taking the flight had already boarded.
“Where are you seated?” she asked.
“Row twenty-three. Aisle. You?”
“Ten. Window. I’ll talk to a flight attendant and see if she can get someone to switch.”
The cell phone rang. Aiden took it out. “Nick’s number.”
“Good thing he called before we got on.”
Their plane was going to land late in the Louis Armstrong Airport, after eleven.
He hit the answer button. “It’s Aiden.”
“Hey, man. I wish I was calling with better news.”
Aiden met Charlie’s gaze and shook his head. “Give me a sec.” He took her elbow and steered her off into a corner, out of anyone else’s earshot, and put the call on speaker. “Go ahead. We can both hear you.”
Charlie paced in front of him, her hands on her hips.
“I’ve got details about the eyewitness,” Nick said. “He was supposedly hiking at Mission Trail Park. As he was leaving, going south on Mission Gorge Road, headed back to a friend’s house, where he was staying while on vacation, he claims he saw Yazzie shoot Torres and Killinger take out the cop.”
“Vacation?” Aiden asked. “If he’s not from San Diego, where does he live?”
“New Orleans,” Nick said.
That jarred Charlie to a stop. “Are you kidding me?”
“Albatross is from New Orleans. You said yourself he has a powerful enemy there, a mobster who wants him dead,” Aiden said. “Doesn’t anyone find that the least bit suspicious?”
“The man has half a dozen powerful enemies from Houston to Biloxi. The eyewitness’s friend, his reason for being in San Diego, checks out, and the time of his 911 call fits the time of the incident. So far his story is so airtight it can’t breathe.”
Charlie muttered a curse. “Albatross said the person who had the biggest ax to grind with him was a guy back home.”
“Do you have proof? Or is it just hearsay? Speculation?” Nick sighed. “Listen, no one is going to take your word. Everyone believes the eyewitness lock, stock and barrel,” Nick said with grim resignation. “From the police chief to Draper, who, by the way, has thrown you two to the wolves. It doesn’t look good. The witness is hanging around San Diego for any follow-up questions and plans to leave tomorrow, seven p.m. flight back to New Orleans.”
“What about the dead cop’s body-worn camera?” Aiden asked.
“The BWC was no help. There was too much smoke and his car door obstructed most of the video. The audio does nothing to clear you. I’m sorry the news isn’t better, but I’m rooting for you guys.”
“We’re being set up,” Charlie said. “Why is everyone so quick to dismiss our track record and believe this witness? What is he? A priest?”
“No. He’s a cop.”
Cold sweat broke out on Aiden’s back. “Are you sure?”
“Yep. His police chief in the Fifth District attested to his honesty, integrity and astounding service record in SWAT.”
The truth closed in on him. The fluidity of the men who had attacked them. Their precision. Their paramilitary approach. Their...professionalism.
They’d been ambushed by a special weapons and tactics team.
“This just keeps getting better and better,” Charlie said.
“Do you have a name and address?” Aiden asked.
“Sure do. His name is Frank Devlin.”
Chapter Ten
Everything Nick had told them played on a loop in Charlie’s head during the three-hour flight. She and Aiden had to go up against a corrupt SWAT team.
Without backup.
Without weapons.
On the enemy’s turf.
She cursed the hand they’d been dealt.
A flight attendant had managed to get Charlie and Aiden seats together, but they hadn’t been able to risk discussing their predicament on the flight.
Her skin itched, and she couldn’t wait to get off the aircraft and move.
The plane’s touchdown was smooth and the taxi to the terminal was fast. The tiny chime sounded, the seat-belt light went out, and passengers leaped to their feet to disembark.
The plane emptied from the front, people moving in a steady single-file stream, funneling out row by row. Charlie and Aiden went out the door onto the Jetway. Muggy air and the stench of kerosene hit them, and they moved on into the Louis Armstrong Airport.
Thanks to their flight time plus the two-hour time-zone change, it was eleven thirty.
Nick had passed along Devlin’s address. That was where they’d start.
They had to find the place on Rampart Street in the Seventh Ward, break in and search the dirty cop’s home for anything that might help them.
Sounded simple enough, but in the pit of her stomach she knew better.
They went to the taxi line and slipped into the back seat of a sedan. Not as if they could take a cab to the cop’s house.
“We need a car rental company,” Aiden said.
“Which one?” the driver asked. “Enterprise? Avis?”
“No, none of those.” Charlie shook her head. “Not one of the big brands or anything in the yellow pages. We want something away from the airport. Small. Discreet.”
The driver flashed a lopsided grin. “I know just the spot.”
Without asking questions, he drove them to a place fifteen minutes away. A lot with about twenty cars, located next to an auto salvage yard. There was a little shack situated between both properties, with two signs—Dan’s Auto Wreckage and Dealing Dan’s Car Rentals.
The driver honked twice.
A minute later, the door of the shack opened, and a man wearing a fedora stuck his head out and waved.
“You’re good to go,” the driver said.
Aiden peeled off a couple of twenties and took care of the cab fare, and then they walked to the shack.
“Looking to
rent a car?” the older guy asked them.
Aiden nodded. “Yeah. Something with a navigation system. We don’t know the city.”
“Take a look at the five cars in the first row. Those have GPS. When you find something you like, give a holler. I’m Dealing Dan.” He tipped his fedora to them and then disappeared back inside like he could’ve just as easily been called Shady Dan.
Bypassing the BMW and Mercedes-Benz, they looked at the Toyota, Honda and Chevy Impala. They needed something fast that would blend in and not call attention to them regardless of the neighborhood they might find themselves in.
“The Honda is out,” Aiden said. “Too many scratches and dents.”
“I don’t like that bright cherry-apple red color of the Toyota,” Charlie said. Too memorable when they wanted to be utterly forgettable.
Aiden agreed. “I guess we have a winner.”
They walked to the shack and knocked on the door.
“Come on in.” A comedy show played on a television behind the desk, where Dan had his feet up and hands resting on his big belly. “What’d you decide on?”
“The black Impala,” Aiden said. “Is it reliable?”
“As reliable as it’s going to get,” Dan said, chuckling at the screen. “It’s a 2005, one hundred and fifty thousand miles, new timing belt and tires. Runs smooth. Shouldn’t give you any problems. How long will you need it?”
Aiden and Charlie exchanged a glance, an unspoken question passing between them. How long did Albatross have to live?
“Three days,” Aiden said.
“At the most,” Charlie added.
They did the deal using the licenses of Johnson and Benally, and Johnson’s credit card. Charlie filled out the paperwork, listing a fake phone number and bogus address. So long as Dealing Dan got paid, Charlie suspected he wouldn’t care too much if the information was made up.
Dan handed over the key. “Be sure to get some beignets from Café du Monde while you’re here and try the coffee with chicory. Nothing else quite like it. Enjoy your time in New Orleans.”
“One more thing,” Charlie said. “Would it be safe to assume with you working out here at all hours by yourself that you’re packing?”
Dan smiled. “Yeah, it would.”
“Willing to sell us your gun?” she asked.
“No can do. But I can offer some nonlethal options.” Dealing Dan pulled out a baseball bat and a crowbar and set them on the desk.
Neither were inconspicuous options, but they’d work under the cover of darkness.
“We’ll take both,” Aiden said.
At a significant upcharge, one hundred dollars bought them two weapons.
They climbed into the Chevy. The tints on the windows were a bit chipped and starting to bubble and the sagging seats creaked when they sat on them, but the engine turned over with no drama.
The address on Rampart Street was easy to find with the navigation system. The neighborhood had a bohemian vibe, colorful street murals, quirky boutiques and hip-looking restaurants.
Devlin’s place was a small shotgun row house on a residential street with a driveway alongside. They parked two doors down across the street.
Charlie dug out two sets of plastic gloves from the box she’d taken from the hospital and handed some to Aiden. “So we don’t leave any prints.”
Putting them on, he said, “You really do have quite the criminal mind.”
“What can I say? I’m a product of my environment.”
“It’s been useful.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, filling her with warmth.
For the first time in her life, she wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed about growing up in foster care and group homes. Even though Aiden had had a picture-perfect home with a loving mother and devoted father, he had a way of seeing her, accepting her, that made her feel valued and special.
They got out of the car, carrying their overpriced weapons, and crept around the long, narrow home. Red security storm doors were on the front and back, where there was also a small patio.
“Please tell me you learned how to pick a lock, too,” Aiden said.
Charlie shrugged. “I did, but it’s not like I have the right tools on me. We should try a window.”
They did, but they were all locked.
“I’ll have to break a windowpane,” Aiden said.
That was when she noticed the aluminum sill. It was easily breakable. “No. Too risky. Someone could hear the glass breaking. I think I can jimmy it open.”
She shoved the flat edge of the crowbar between the window and the sill. As she leveraged the pane up, Aiden pushed. The sash latch gave way and the window slid open.
He gave her a boost, with her foot on his palms, and she hoisted herself up the frame and climbed inside. Aiden followed behind her and they closed the window.
The houses on the street had historic charm on the outside, but inside, this one had been renovated with high-end finishes and stainless-steel appliances.
It was a straightforward two-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath home. The living room flowed into the dining room and on to the kitchen.
They split up and searched the place. Aiden took the master bedroom and the other one set up as an office/guest room.
Charlie started in the kitchen. There was nothing hidden in the fridge or freezer. No false backs in the cupboards, no fake tins of coffee, nothing hidden in the jars of flour or sugar. No voids behind the wallboards.
Next, she checked the dining room and living room. No loose boards in the hardwood floor, no hollowed-out books. Nothing in the sofa cushions, either.
She blew out a frustrated breath and spun around to see what she might’ve missed.
On the wall in the dining room hung some pictures. Most of the photos were of one man surrounded by nature. Frank Devlin.
He knew their faces and names and now they knew his, too.
Early to midforties. Six-two. Athletic build. Rugged. A thick head of sandy brown hair. Eyes so intense they were chilling.
In one photo, Devlin held up a huge fish by a lake. Another was of him kneeling beside a dead deer in a meadow covered in mist. Two teenagers stood in front of a cabin in the next one. A boy with his arm around a younger girl’s shoulders. They resembled one another. Brother and sister.
She stared at the last picture. Five men, smiling, standing together behind a bar. A backlit sign read The Merry Men.
Robin Hood’s band of outlaws. Mighty brazen of them.
“I’ve got nothing,” Aiden said, walking out of the office. “Not even a laptop. Any luck?”
“I think this is Devlin.” She pulled out the cell phone and took a picture of the photo with the men. They looked like standard-issue tough guys: hardened, brawny, merciless beneath the smiles. Badges and guns on their hips. Devlin had his right hand on the shoulder of the man in the middle. “There’s five of them here. But we were hit by a team of four. What if one of them stayed behind?”
“Only one way to find out. Are you up for a drink?”
“Always.”
* * *
A 411 CALL GOT them the address. The parking lot of The Merry Men was almost full. Only a few spots left at the far end by a wall. The idea of getting blocked in didn’t sit well with Aiden.
He parked across the street. “Stay here and keep it running.”
“Come again?”
“One or more cops own that bar. That’ll make it a cop bar.”
She turned in her seat and faced him. “And?”
“Bars are already a weapons-rich environment with glasses, longneck beer bottles, even heavier wine bottles.” You could club a person with one. “If they have pool tables, that’ll mean pool cues.”
Charlie’s brow furrowed. “I have been in a bar. I’m familiar.”
“But in that bar, most of th
e patrons are going to be packing heat, and we can’t stroll in with a crowbar and baseball bat. We need answers about a dirty cop. Answers no one inside is going to willingly give. If the car is running, it’ll be easier to make a quick getaway if push comes to shove.”
Her frown deepened. “Why am I supposed to be the one left in the car? And if you give me ‘it’s an order’ or ‘I outrank you’ crap, I think we’ll have to arm wrestle for it.”
He suppressed a chuckle. “I can take you in an arm wrestle.”
“Not the way I play.”
Which meant no rules. Winning by any means necessary.
Would she throw a fist to his groin?
“Follow the order without giving me grief,” he said, wanting to avoid an arm wrestle. “We can debate it later.” If it came down to a fistfight, he’d rather be the only one getting his butt kicked. Spare her a beatdown from a bunch of cops.
“I have a better idea.”
“Really?” He raised a suspicious brow. “What’s that?”
She took off her jacket, tucked her short sleeves up into the body of her T-shirt, displaying her toned arms, and pulled the V-neck front down, showing off her ample cleavage.
He realized how she intended to play this, and it made his gut churn with a shocking possessiveness.
“You keep the car running while I drop a little bait and separate our prey from the herd.” She fluffed her hair. “I’d kill for lipstick and a little mascara.”
Aiden gritted his teeth, hating her impetuous plan from start to finish. “You look better without it,” he said without thinking. “Prettier.”
Charlie’s gaze flew to his as her jaw dropped a little.
He usually kept such comments to himself, not wanting to make her uncomfortable by reminding her that he saw her as an enticing woman.
Since he’d started speaking his mind, why stop there?
“You’re a natural beauty, Charlie.” He dared run his knuckle along the side of her face. “You’ll have every guy in there drooling, wishing he could take you home tonight.”
A slight flush stained her cheeks, and she gulped.