Chapter Four
François stretched his legs as he sauntered along the sidewalk of the Las Vegas Strip. He hated cramped plane seats. When he sat, his knees dug into the back of the seat in front of him. Usually the exit row was larger and he chose those seats, but being that he booked last minute, those spots were already taken.
He had some time to kill before his meeting with Detective Freeman, so he thought he’d take advantage of the liberty to roam.
Not much had changed since his college years. In his second semester freshman year, a group of new friends from his campus dormitory just outside of Las Vegas wanted to “have a little fun.” He joined in, figuring it would be interesting with the dolts he roomed with.
In town, he met another college freshman, Amie Truman.
His beautiful, vibrant, sexy mate.
The second he saw her across Caesars arboretum, he knew he’d found his other half. It was total luck. She lived off campus at the time, driving in for classes. He might have never met her. The next three years were the happiest— Stop. He didn’t want to go any further with those memories. He needed to move on. His mom was right. Almost four years had passed. Time to grow up.
A light breeze blew into his face as he stared down the street. He noted a black Hummer sitting at the stoplight. He thought about buying one of those, but could hardly justify the cost given DC’s nicely paved streets and living alone.
His cat poked him. There was a delicious smell floating in the air. He sucked in a deep breath. Damn, it was good. And familiar.
He hurried along the concrete walkway, searching for the source. A shopping mall was ahead. Prada, Gucci, and other very high-end store logos graced the sign out front. Behind him, a large vehicle rumbled up the street. The black Hummer passed him, then in front of the Prada entrance, it jumped the curb and skidded to a stop on the sidewalk.
Automatic gunshots rattled over the area, shattering one of the glass doors. People screamed and ran in every direction. The Hummer’s backseat window slid down and the end of a grenade launcher poked out, aimed toward a bench to the side of the mall entrance.
Assault training and shifter instincts kicked in, and François was at the truck in a heartbeat. He grabbed the launcher, snatched it partially out the window, then rammed it back in to smash the shooter’s face. Hopefully dishing out a broken nose. The truck tore away, leaving him with the RPG launcher in his hands.
François surveyed the area, looking for the most damage and greatest number of injuries. Sirens sounded in the distance. And that wonderful smell. He followed his nose to the bench and concrete planter the RPG had been aimed at.
Behind the seat, a woman was curled into a ball on the ground. He stared at her ass. Damn, if that wasn’t the most perfect ass he’d ever seen. He could see she was curvy and not scrawny like most women in this place of sex and sin.
He caught her scent. It was . . . his mate?
He stood frozen as the woman unwound herself and peeked through the bench slats. Her hands shook. He wanted to hold them in his and assure her everything was okay now. But his body wasn’t receiving the message, or was playing stupid, because his cat told him he hadn’t moved toward their mate yet.
More noise and confusion erupted behind him, but he couldn’t worry about that. He had a mate to help. She turned and met his gaze. Her fear and shock floated in the air. Eyes widening, her jaw dropped open. Then her look moved to focus behind him, then at the grenade launcher still in his hand. Shit. He’d forgotten he had it.
Next thing he knew, he was facedown on the concrete, surrounded by a dozen cops pointing guns at him. His mate took the opportunity to scream and run. Shit. This was not good.
A.L.F.A. rules said that when in a situation where being arrested by local police, the agent would follow commands and allow himself to be taken into custody. When the agent reached a more secure location, the agent would contact the DC office. In no case should the agent reveal his true identity or shift. So guess where he was going.
He complied with officer demands and was cuffed and shoved into a police cruiser. Well, now he wouldn’t have to pay for a taxi to take him to the station for his meeting with Freeman. That was the only good thing in the past several hours.
Sometimes he loved fate. It led him to her years ago.
Sometimes he hated fate. It led him to her once again. And she ran. Again.
Fuck. Trying to keep his cat focused on their job would be nearly impossible now. The animal inside agreed. They needed to find their other half and convince her to mate. No, that wasn’t happening. They had a job to do. Screw the job. Nothing is more important than mate.
He almost agreed to that. Almost.
“Officer, would you please call ahead and tell Detective Freeman I’ll be early for our meeting?” The cop eyed him with a frown. A few minutes later, he picked up the radio’s mic, hopefully passing along the info.
The police car pulled into the station parking lot and, with little consideration, François was hauled inside the building. The place was busy for morning hours, but in a city that didn’t sleep, neither did the police.
A partially bald guy with deep lines etched around his eyes leaned against the wall. His sport jacket looked as worn as he did.
“Thanks, Marshall,” he said, pulling keys from his pants’ pocket. “I got him from here.” The man removed the cuffs and held out a hand to François. “I’m Max Freeman.”
François accepted his hand. “Nice to meet you. François Dubois.” The man opened a door next to him and motioned for François to precede him. The cougar shifter wasn’t keen on having a potential threat at his back. And that’s why the detective made him go first. This was a test for the detective to see his reaction. Team player or rabble-rouser.
“Second door on right.”
He kept his cool and chose team player. No reason to cause problems. Yet.
“Seems you got caught up in some gang action at the mall,” Freeman said.
“Got caught up in something,” François said. “But didn’t feel like gang. How many around here carry RPGs?”
The detective’s brow raised. “Really? At a shopping mall?”
“Yeah, a bit overkill, I’d think.” But what did he know about the Las Vegas underground? Zilch. He entered the second office on the right. He’d heard once that the longer a person lived in one place, the more they accumulate and nest. Freeman was well nested with stacks of folders on every flat surface, photos taped to the walls, and an empty pizza box sitting on top of the black mesh trashcan.
“How’d you end up with the launcher?” Freeman asked.
“I took it from the person in the backseat of a black Hummer, after smashing his face for my warm welcome to your city.”
Freeman laughed. “At least you’re alive still.” He pulled a file from several sitting on the side of his desk. “Did you by chance catch the number on the tags?”
“I did,” François said. “They had a paper plate like those on new cars, which I’m sure was faked.”
Freeman sighed. The tired office chair creaked when he leaned back and laid his twined fingers on his hairless crown. “Goddamn Mafia boys.”
“Yeah, about that,” François replied. “I thought the Mafia was history in Vegas. How strong are they now?”
“Not very,” Freeman replied. “Their influence has been cut way back, but they are still here. Most have corporations to hide their names and illegal activities. Giuseppe Ragusa is the power right now.”
“Why would the Mafia want to blow up the front of Prada?”
“Who knows what the fuck they want,” Freeman said. “If I had a clue, I would’ve busted Ragusa’s ass long ago and retired when I was young enough to enjoy it.” He rocked his chair forward to put his arms on the crowded desk. “All of which brings us to you.”
“Ah.” The first puzzle piece locked into place for him. “The Mob boss’s niece you want to keep alive.”
“You got it. I don’t know if you know much about the Mafia in Las Vegas, but they’ve been here since the beginning. They owned several of the first casinos and gambling hangouts. As I mentioned, the current head of the family is Giuseppe Ragusa, and he’s a real son of a bitch.
“But his son, Tony, apparently didn’t get the shitload of brains his father has. Robbed a bank yesterday, killing a senator and a kid in the process—and didn’t even take the money bags when trying to leave. Someone shot Tony on his way through the door, so he was an easy catch. But who wielded the gun and where that gun has gone is a mystery. We’re getting bank surveillance footage shortly.
“Anyway, Ragusa’s niece was inside the bank and agreed to testify. But I’m hoping she’s the foot in the door we need to get in and bring down Ragusa. She’s important, Dubois.” A hidden phone rang. Freeman reached into his jacket’s pocket and pulled out a beat-up cell phone. He glanced at the ID on the screen. “Hmm. This could be interesting.”
He answered, and a high-pitched voice that sounded scared shitless floated to François. Whatever it was didn’t concern him. His attention turned to the surroundings. The cat inside paced, was agitated. It needed to chill out. Maybe later they would search for their mate and find out why she left him four years ago without even a good-bye.
Freeman launched from his chair. “Come on. Got someone you need to meet.”