by Scott Bell
Harlan nodded and stirred creamer in his coffee. “Somebody else starts a fight, and they’s cops all over the place.”
“I tell you, it’s gotta be Buchanan.”
“Let’s go find him,” Skeeter drawled. “Squeeze his nuts with a pair of channel-locks.”
Harlan nodded. “I think you’re right. The boy ain’t returning my calls. That right there’s a bad sign.”
“Any idea where we ought to look?”
The lawyer scratched his thin growth of beard and stared into the distance. Stone didn’t even notice when Aubrey brought the dishes, set them out, and left. Harlan scooped a forkful of fried potatoes and had it halfway to his mouth when Stone said, “I’ll give you his home address. Go there first. Then try that NewGen place.”
“NewGen?”
“Yeah, it’s out on MoPac. His office where he’s running his scam. Stupid fuck tried it on me, which is how I come to hook up with him in the first place. He has a cute little sex-a-tarry. Lori or some such. Ask her where the boss man went.”
Harlan shrugged. “Shouldn’t be too hard. She doesn’t want to talk, I’ll give her to Skeeter here.”
CHAPTER 19
Austin, Texas
The cartel troubleshooter called himself Enrique DaSilva. To protect his family, he had adopted a different persona when he started muling drugs for the cartel forty years ago. Reprisals against a person’s loved ones were commonplace even then, and taking another name insulated his mother and sisters from all but the most determined enemy. He had almost forgotten his birth name, Pablo Martinez.
His mother was gone, and both sisters were married to high-ranking cartel managers. They were safe and protected behind walled compounds near Mexico City. Even so, the habit of carrying the name DaSilva had stuck so long, he couldn’t change it.
Plus, it scared the living shit out of people when they heard that DaSilva was coming to see them. No one would care about Pablo Martinez, the goatherd.
The driver’s door of the Escalade thunked open, and Pedro, back from a scouting trip, dropped into the seat. They were parked on Fifth Street, several blocks from the bookstore where the shipping labels showed the money had been delivered. Police swarmed around the place. There were enough flashing lights and gawkers and commotion for a circus.
“So what is happening, Pedro?”
The two men in the back seat leaned forward.
“Some kind of shooting.” Small and quick, Pedro reminded DaSilva of a crow or a grackle. Dark-skinned, intelligent in his own way, with bright, darting eyes, he remained one of DaSilva’s steadiest men. “It’s all over the news, they said.” Pedro fiddled with the radio, settling on a Spanish language station that featured news and traffic. The station was playing a Miller Lite commercial. “Ten or twelve men tried to break into the bookstore, and all were killed by somebody inside.”
“Ten or twelve?”
Pedro shrugged. “It’s what they said.”
“And who killed them?”
Pedro shrugged again. “One guy, they said. Must have been a badass, no?”
“Did they say anything about the money?”
“Nothing. Just the shooting. People are pointing at grease spots in the street, thinking they are blood stains. One window on the third floor is broken out. That’s all I could see.”
“Somebody else after our money?” Who could it be?
Pedro shook his head and shrugged yet again. It seemed to be his default response.
The commercial ended, but they had to wait through traffic and weather before the announcer started on the news. The male news anchor had one of those perpetually excited voices that made a broken water main sound like a biblical flood. Talking about the shooting at the bookstore, he was nearly hysterical.
“Only six, he said,” DaSilva commented after the segment. When the anchor cut over to a story about the city council, he turned down the radio. “Not ten or twelve. And no mention of the money.”
“Maybe they are keeping it quiet.”
DaSilva rubbed his chin, staring at the sluggish traffic on Fifth. Everything was backed up from the cars having to detour around the circus at the bookstore. “Maybe. But have you ever heard of cops keeping quiet about that much money, hey?”
“Not likely, no.”
“We need to find out who shot up the bookstore,” DaSilva said. “They had to be after our money, which means the people in the bookstore must know what they have. Why else would they fight so hard for it?”
“If the cops find it, we will lose it all.”
DaSilva nodded. “Nothing for it. Unless we walk up to the police and say, let’s have our money back, hey?”
Pedro smiled. “Say we are needy and poor. Americans always give to the needy and poor.”
DaSilva grunted. “All right. Use the GPS-thing in the dashboard. Find us a place to stay. We’ll have to wait for the cops to clear out then see what we can see later.”
Pedro tapped at the GPS unit for a few minutes. “There’s a Marriott a block away.”
“Good. Let’s go. I need a shower and then to call some people I know. Maybe find out who was massacred last night, hey?”
The cops finally let Nita go in the store at a quarter after five that evening. Tomas brought in his cleaning equipment, and Nita locked the front door behind them. She ignored the small gathering of gawkers outside, who were shading their eyes and pointing.
She found nothing nasty in the warehouse, except for the broken doors and a strong stench kind of like a barbeque grill left out in the rain. In the emergency stairwell, the overpowering, coppery stink of blood hung like an invisible mist. Dried burgundy splotches of human tissue were splattered on the walls and steps.
She decided it was like looking at pictures in a true crime book, one of those gruesome stories about serial killers or axe murderers. She studied the patterns of blood sprayed on the walls, and a chill ran down her spine when she realized some of the chunks of goo were human brains.
“Please, come away,” Tomas said, taking her arm. “Let me clean that up. Please, señorita.”
“Uh… sure.” She forced a smile and walked stiff-legged to the overhead door. She unlocked the padlock, kicked the bolt holding the door closed, and used the rattling chain to roll it up.
Good. The truck was still there.
Downtown Marriott
Austin, Texas
There’s something about a woman’s hip, Yeager thought, that can move a man like no other sight on earth. That line from under the ribs to the top of the thigh. One of his lieutenants, a ring knocker, had called it sublime. Yeager wasn’t completely sure what that meant, but he knew for a certain fact that it was one of the most exciting places on a woman’s body. Forget all that stuff about breasts and so on, nothing beat the lust that holding a woman’s hips could generate in a man.
He traced that line on Charlie’s body under the covers with one finger, earning a satisfied hum in return. The red LEDs on the bedside clock read 1:33 a.m. He wasn’t sleepy at all, which was amazing, considering all the night’s activity.
Charlie drowsed on her side, bare bottom turned toward him, which pleased him fine. His work-roughened hand contrasted sharply with the creamy-soft expanse of her hip. He roamed that hand over those interesting places, tracing the outline of hills and valleys.
Charlie purred and rolled to face him. “You’re not going to sleep at all if you keep that up.”
“Sleep’s overrated.” He ran his hand over a whole new set of hills and valleys, exploring the mountain ranges and the wild places.
Charlie arched her back and gasped. “Ooooh. I think you found the right spot.”
Yeager leaned over and took one pink nipple into his mouth, tonguing it with gentle swirls.
“Jesus, Abel,” she moaned. “You can stop that in five or six hours.” Her hand found him already stiff and ready. “Oh, my. Whatever shall we do with this?”
“I’m hoping for the same thing we’ve done a couple o
f times now.”
“You’ve already set a personal record for me.”
“Me, too. Let’s go for the gold medal.” He covered her mouth with his.
“Steven?” Nita asked.
Steven Buchanan pressed the cell to his ear with a suddenly sweaty palm. “Yeah, baby. Is it still there?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve never seen that much money in one place in my whole life.”
“Not many people have. Okay, hide it again and lock up. Come back home, and let’s figure out what to do.”
After a beat of silence, Nita whispered, “Are you sure? Just leave it?”
“Nobody knows it’s there but you and me. We need to think of a way to take it without anyone knowing.”
“Uh… okay.”
After he hung up, Steven paced Nita’s small apartment. A bass beat played from a car stereo in the parking lot, fuzzy and distant through the walls of the apartment. He hadn’t meant to let Nita know about the money hidden inside the stacks of books, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized how inevitable telling her had been. With her in the know, he had a ready-made ally inside the bookstore. Already he could see some possibilities unfolding.
Like a way he could maybe take it all and cut Stone and his crew out of the deal completely.
CHAPTER 20
Downtown Marriott
Austin, Texas
It was late on Sunday morning by the time Yeager signed the tab for a room service breakfast for two. He gave the bell boy his last bill, a five, and frowned at the empty space in his wallet where money had once lived.
Charlie came out of the bedroom, wearing his work shirt and nothing else, two buttons done up. How do women do that? Put on a man’s shirt and look better than an underwear model? Maybe Victoria’s Secret ought to take a hint.
“Morning,” she said and padded over to him for a hug.
Her tousled, apple-scented hair tickled his nose when he pulled her close. Her velvet skin felt vibrant and warm beneath his cotton shirt. She molded into him. He combed his fingers through her hair and cupped her cheeks in his hands. Her face looked so small, so delicate. He kissed her and pulled her close, cupped her bottom. Charlie hummed and squirmed against him.
He let her go and got another kiss to start the morning. “Breakfast?” he asked.
“Mm-hmmm.”
At the table, Yeager dug into a Denver omelet with fried potatoes on the side. Charlie slathered a croissant with strawberry jam from a miniature jar.
“So what do you think happened?” she asked.
He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. “We’re not going to talk about our feelings now, are we?”
She laughed. “No, caveman, you get a break on that for a day or two. I didn’t mean last night. I mean why did they come after us again?”
Stabbed some potatoes with his fork, he thought a second. “I killed his daughter. It was an accident, but I’d say Mr. Cruz made it personal. Remember me saying how a woman was killed when I jackknifed the truck? Her husband hired this bastard of a lawyer, who sued my insurance company until they said uncle, but I guess that wasn’t enough.”
“So they tracked you all over the country? That’s… insane.”
His shirt fit tight across her bust. His groin stirred. Yeager swallowed and dragged his eyes back to his plate. What the hell’s up with that? I haven’t been this horny since I was sixteen and Martina took her bra off for the first time.
Charlie didn’t nibble at her food like most women he’d known. She took healthy, big-girl bites of her croissant, somehow without dribbling a single crumb. She smiled at him when she caught him watching and winked one blue eye. Wow.
He didn’t realize he’d said that aloud until she said, “Wow is right.”
“I have to say, I never expected this.”
“So now we’re going to talk about our feelings?”
“Hah! I guess I had that one coming.”
Charlie finished her coffee. “I think you had more than one coming last night.”
Yeager snorted coffee and had to hold his nose for a second.
“I know for a fact,” she added, “that I saw Jesus at one point.”
“Well, you asked for him enough.”
She laughed. “Finish your breakfast, caveman.”
“You ready to get back?”
“Oh, hell no.” She got up and came around the tiny table to stand in front of him. Unbuttoning his shirt, she pulled it open, revealing two hardening nipples, an expanse of lean belly, and lower, a tiny patch of reddish hair.
“You need to eat up,” she said, straddling his lap, “’cause you’re gonna need your strength.”
Wow.
NewGen Office
Austin, Texas
“You think she’s tellin’ the truth about her boss?” Harlan asked. He patted the top of Loren Gaffney’s head.
The NewGen receptionist didn’t look up.
“Sure.” Skeeter made the word sound more like “shore.” “Anything’s possible. Hell of a coincidence, the guy runnin’ off right when the money hits town.”
“No duh. You think this gal knew about the money?”
Picking at a pair of gardening shears, Skeeter shook his head. He dug at something stuck on the blade then flicked away a bit of Loren’s flesh. “Nah. She woulda told by now.”
“Along about the third toe.”
“Prolly right.”
“So our Stevie Buchanan is in the wind?” Harlan asked. “Either spooked and ran, or he’s making a play on his own.”
“Scared of the bad-ass John Stone. The Rock of Texas.”
“Hah. Scared of Stone? Only if he caused a car wreck. Let’s bust.”
Skeeter jerked his head at Loren. “What about her?”
“What about you, tiger?” Harlan asked Loren. “You want to live?”
She nodded.
“Well, you have to promise me something.”
“Anything.” Her voice came out dry and raspy. “Anything,” she repeated a little louder.
“You have to be a good girl and promise to eat your peas and drink your milk.” He held his serious expression for a beat, then he cracked a smile. “Sorry, darlin’, I was fuckin’ with ya.”
Harlan pulled a gun from his waistband and shot Loren between the eyes.
At two o’clock on Sunday afternoon, Charlie parked in the side lot of the bookstore. She gathered her purse and things while Abel climbed out and grabbed their bags from the trunk. The sun burned holes through the heavy gray clouds, and all trace of a breeze had died. It looked to be another warm, humid day in Texas, already approaching ninety degrees.
Even before she made it to the door, sweat broke out and stuck her cotton T-shirt to her back. But it didn’t matter. Nothing could kill the smile that kept trying to break out. Pleasantly sore, her whole body seemed to vibrate from the inside. Warmth climbed her neck when she thought about how much like a cat in heat she’d acted last night. And how much she still wanted to act that way. She’d said things, and done things, she never would have believed she could say or do. And wanted to do more.
Fumbling with her ring of keys, she noticed her hand trembled a little. A couple of college kids came up.
“Is the store open?” one asked.
“No.” Charlie turned the key in the lock. “Not today. Sorry, we’re closed for cleanup.”
The kids looked puzzled but moved on.
Abel came up behind her. “Should’ve told them the truth. You’re closed because the owner’s been busy getting laid.”
Charlie barked a laugh and pushed open the door. She shut off the alarm at the keypad. The inside of the store seemed oddly dead, lit only by sunshine from the windows, no music playing, no customers or staff moving around and talking. More like a funeral home than a bookstore.
Fitting, given the men who died here the other night. She still had a hard time wrapping her mind around that thought. Five men dead. Five men attacking her, her family, and her friends. Her s
tore. Her home. No matter that the attackers were all dead, the sense of violation remained. Her territory had been invaded, and her safety and security rocked. It was going to take some time to get back the sense that all was right and well and good.
One thing is true, she thought as she locked the door behind Abel and led him through the store to the warehouse, things have certainly changed around my house. She remained very aware of Abel’s presence, feeling a flutter in her stomach whenever she remembered the sex.
Not just sex, but…comfort. Safety.
But the sex.
Oh, my God.
The surge of dampness between her legs surprised her. She hadn’t felt this way ever, not even with her ex-husband. That last thought triggered a twinge of guilt. She pushed open the warehouse doors, forgetting for a second the recent carnage that had taken place there while she wrestled with thoughts of Steven.
Then the smell hit her. Heavy bleach, overlaid with something… Charred meat?
Nausea made her dizzy for a moment. How would this place ever get to be home again? Every time she walked into the warehouse, or up the fire stairs, the reminder of men dying would linger, imprinted in the walls.
She glanced at Abel. How did this quiet man with the sad eyes defeat five armed attackers then turn into such a passionate lover? Almost in the blink of an eye. Her lover. What kind of man had she taken into her bed? That question failed to generate the kind of fear she expected.
Is he safe to be around David after all? Would he react violently if she, say, burned the toast? Then she remembered last night, and a flush of warmth blossomed in her belly.
In the freight elevator, she leaned against his solid frame, soaking up the strength and power that rippled off him in waves. So what was he? Beauty or a beast? “How did you do it?” she asked.