Chapter Seven
The second Lt. Frye’s office door shut behind him, Dom’s stomach felt like he’d swallowed a bottle of battery acid. Everything that was about to pass was part of a carefully choreographed plan, one designed to help keep him alive.
If this doesn’t turn into a total goatfuck.
“Captain.” Dom nodded to Capt. Fazioli. Lt. Frye sat behind his desk. When Gray rose from a chair to clap him lightly on the shoulder, he knew the gesture was one of not only professional support but friendship. True friends—ones who support you through good times and bad—were a rarity.
“When does IA get here?” Dom patted the bulge in his right front pants pocket.
“They’re waiting on my call,” Lt. Frye said as he dialed the extension for the big man upstairs.
Capt. Fazioli extended his hand, which he clasped in a firm grip. “Detective,” the captain said, “I don’t know how this insane plan of yours got approved, but I want to wish you luck and thank you for your dedication and service to this city.”
His captain didn’t have to say the words he really meant: in case I never see you again.
“Thank you, sir.” He shook the captain’s hand, and they all sat in chairs strategically placed near the speaker on Lt. Frye’s desk.
“Commissioner’s office,” a female voice came from the speaker.
“Lieutenant Frye.”
“He’s waiting for your call,” she said. “I’ll put you through.”
A moment later, the confident voice of the commissioner of the New York City Police Department came on the line. “Gentlemen, let’s get started.”
Lt. Frye identified all present.
“Detective Carew,” the commissioner began, “I initially opposed this plan due to the inherent and extreme danger. But apparently you have very important contacts that go all the way to the highest military levels. And there’s nothing I’d like more than for this department to be credited with taking down the Pyramid. As a result, I’m compelled to put one of my most decorated officers in serious harm’s way, and I need to hear directly from you that this is really something you want to do and that no one is pressuring you into it.”
Dom cleared his throat. It was a rare occasion to address the commissioner directly under any circumstances, let alone one as important as this. “Sir, I’ve never felt more strongly about any case I’ve worked. This is something I not only want to do, but I have to do.”
There was a pause, and if he heard correctly, a lengthy disgruntled sigh.
“Very well,” the commissioner said. “Good luck, Detective. Keep me posted.”
The line went dead. For a few seconds, no one spoke.
“All right, then. Moving on.” Lt. Frye leaned back in his chair. “Before we do this, give me an update on the thumb drive.”
The thumb drive Lt. Frye referred to had been grabbed by Alex just before the barn she’d been held captive in went up in flames.
“In the last six months,” Dom began, “Gray and I have interviewed everyone identified on that memory stick. Interviews confirmed they all had a weakness, something a Pyramid assassin could blackmail them with to do their bidding. Gambling debts, extramarital affairs, kinky sexual preferences. So far, none of them have been approached by anyone threatening to out their weakness unless they did something illegal.”
Lt. Frye massaged his chin. “How many people were on the list, and are any of them employed at One PP?”
“There are about sixty people on the list,” Gray said, “three of whom are employed at One PP. Everyone cooperated, and we feel confident that if anyone had actually tried to blackmail them, they would have alerted us.”
“Especially,” Dom interjected, “those working at One PP. The fact that we haven’t heard back from them poses the very real possibility that the Pyramid’s original target has changed.”
“That’s what concerns us.” Gray met his gaze, and Dom nodded that his partner should continue. “When the Pyramid’s assassin—Fatima—kidnapped Alex to get critical security information from her about One PP, we all assumed that One PP was the intended target. Now that the Pyramid knows Fatima is dead, we can’t ignore the possibility that the Pyramid will adapt and alter their plans.”
“And do we know what exactly their original plan was?” Capt. Fazioli asked.
Dom shook his head. “The only thing we can say with reasonable certainty is that they planned an attack on One PP, although it’s not clear whether it was intended to be a massacre of police personnel or a hit on someone specific. Remember,” he added, leaning forward, “the Pyramid is not a group of terrorists, they’re paid assassins. They don’t do hits unless there’s a specific target and there’s money in it.”
“And the list of dates on the thumb drive?” Lt. Frye asked, now tapping his pen on the desk.
“There were over a hundred dates spread over the next twelve months,” Dom continued. “Each date coincides with a city event that would be attended by dignitaries such as senators, congressmen and women, heads of city departments, the commissioner, the mayor. We’ve had extra police security at each of these venues on those dates, but nothing’s ever gone down.”
“Then for now we’ll go on the assumption that the Pyramid changed their plans,” Capt. Fazioli said. “And that the information contained on the thumb drive may or may not be of any use.”
“Agreed.” Dom turned to face his captain. “There were a few dates on the list for events that were either canceled, rescheduled, or for which the date has yet to be determined. The bottom line is, we’ve narrowed down the Pyramid’s target to something connected with that list of dates, but we do have to assume the date and venue may have changed.”
Dom stood to pace the room, feeling the other men’s eyes on him, and continued. “The Pyramid’s leader said they were understaffed, no doubt because Fatima and Abdullah are dead, and because of that they would speed-track my initiation.” He stopped pacing to stare out the window behind Lt. Frye’s desk. “This next hit is different, requiring multiple operatives.”
“What does that change?” the captain asked.
“We need to focus on citywide events identified on that thumb drive, the ones with the largest number of high-level dignitaries,” he said.
Lt. Frye cleared his throat. “If the Pyramid is all about making money off contract hits, who’s footing the bill?”
Narrowing his eyes, he stared out the window as he wrestled with his growing suspicion that this hit wasn’t just about money. “The leader—they call him ‘the boss’—said he planned this job himself, and that’s a serious break in the Pyramid’s MO. The boss has never been known to have anything to do with the individual plans for any hit. That falls to each of his operatives.”
He paused, still struggling to put the pieces together. “I don’t know for certain who the boss is. Yet.”
Gray stared intently at him. “But you’ve got a hunch.”
He met Gray’s silver-gray gaze, and the feeling of déjà vu was crystal clear. The events he may have precipitated nearly fifteen years ago were coming back to haunt him. “Colonel Bud Marsden, United States Army. Delta Force.”
“You’re shitting me.” Gray raised his brows. “I heard the man was dead. Killed in an RPG explosion.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Dom said bitterly. “His body was never found.”
“What makes you think it’s him?” Gray’s forehead creased. “If you’ve got information I don’t, I damn sure need to hear it.”
“We all do,” Lt. Frye said.
“Right now it’s only a hunch. Pure speculation, nothing more,” he reassured them. “My D.C. contact is checking on a few things. If I can firm anything up, I’ll let you know.”
“You said the boss planned the job himself,” Gray said. “You think it’s personal?”
He nodded. “I think the boss contracted the hit. As soon as I figure out why, it may lead us to identifying the target.”
“Makes sense.” Capt. Fazioli met Dom’s gaze. “Stay on it and keep us posted.”
“Meantime,” Gray added, “we’ll continue coordinating with the commissioner’s office and every citywide department to keep tabs on events involving the greatest number of high-level dignitaries.”
Lt. Frye let out a frustrated breath. “It’s a needle in a fucking haystack.”
“Then let’s do this.” Dom straightened and took a deep breath. “They’re already checking up on my background story.”
“Very well.” Lt. Frye rose and came around his desk. He extended his hand to Dom, and they shook. “Don’t get your ass killed, Carew. The next time I see you, the commissioner will be pinning a medal on your chest.”
“No need,” he said. “Watching the Pyramid crumble will be my thanks.”
“Detective Carew, it kills me to say the words.” Capt. Fazioli came forward and stood at attention. “From this point forward you are disavowed. The NYPD will not acknowledge you in any way, except that Detective Yates will remain your POC. You will not meet anywhere in public or on department property. You will report only to Detective Yates, and he will keep us updated on your progress.”
“Understood.” His throat constricted, but not because he had any doubts about the shitstorm he was diving into. It was because this was about to turn into one of the most horrendous days on the job he’d ever had.
Lt. Frye placed the call to IA, and two minutes later there was a knock on the door. Capt. Fazioli rose to open it, admitting IA Detectives Chavez and Simonetti. As Dom had recommended, the door remained open just enough for voices to carry outside to the squad room.
“Detective.” Capt. Fazioli directed his attention solely to Dom. “Empty your pockets.”
Dom hesitated and stared at the IA detectives. Slowly, he emptied both his pockets and removed a clear plastic baggie containing oxycodone that he’d stolen from the evidence locker that morning. The evidence sticker was prominently visible on the outside of the bag.
“Detective Dominick Carew,” the captain’s voice rose. “For stealing evidence, misuse of alcohol while on duty, and overall misconduct, your employment with this department is hereby terminated. Remove your weapon and badge and place them on the lieutenant’s desk. Also give us your department keys and access passes.”
Dom clenched his jaw. Even though this was part of an undercover ruse, it was as if the earth were being torn out from beneath his feet. When he tugged his duty weapon from its holster and laid it beside his detective shield on the desk, it was like leaving a piece of his soul behind. The only other time he’d felt so bereft was when he’d left Afghanistan. Anika, the woman he’d thought he’d spend the rest of his life with, had already been dead six months by then, but leaving her torn, broken body behind in an unmarked grave had given him no peace.
He knew this was for his own good, but as he turned to leave Lt. Frye’s office he glanced back one more time at the gold shield he’d worn for the last ten years and wondered if he’d ever put it on again.
Taking a deep breath, he turned and pulled open the door. As expected, every face in the squad room was pinned on him. Some wore expressions of shock, others anger. After all, they thought he’d just betrayed everything they stood for.
When he strode from the lieutenant’s office, the squad room was dead silent. Not a single phone rang. As he limped down the aisle, accompanied by the two IA detectives, he couldn’t look at his colleagues, couldn’t bear the intense scrutiny of their stares. The only light at the end of the tunnel was that if he didn’t survive this assignment, every man and woman in the department would be told the truth. That he hadn’t gone bad.
He held his head up, continuing down the aisle, and was escorted all the way outside One PP’s main employee entrance. Without a word, the two IA detectives turned and left him standing there. He glanced over his shoulder at the red brick exterior of One PP. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed. Then he turned and limped toward his personal vehicle, a blue Explorer parked in the lot reserved for police personnel. Even as he got into his SUV, uniformed officers heading inside police headquarters cast him derisive looks.
Word travels fast.
The SUV’s powerful V-8 engine rumbled as he pulled out of the lot onto the street.
Get a grip, Carew. Time to get to work.
He gunned the Explorer down the street in the direction of his target’s run-down apartment. Background checks he’d conducted from his home office identified Jimmy Gonzalez as living in a tiny apartment in the West Village, and for the next three hours Dom conducted surveillance on the petty drug user.
He watched Gonzalez leave his apartment and walk several blocks to the bodega Smith mentioned. Several minutes later he came out and returned home. Dom suspected the bodega owner or someone who worked there was the junkie’s supplier. He broke off surveillance, then scouted out a tall building opposite the bodega. The rooftop of the building was perfectly located for the hit. But there was no security camera anywhere close enough for his needs.
After pulling over onto a side street, he used his personal cell to call Gray and provide him with the updated information. At the end of the call it was agreed that the behind-the-scenes work would fall solely to Gray.
Exhaustion crept up his spine, and he closed his eyes. What he needed was a shot of adrenaline. Daisy’s smiling face came to him like an angel through the dark mist. For some reason, he wanted to see her. Needed to see her. Not to start something up with her, he couldn’t do that. But her beautiful face, so full of life and energy, was exactly what he needed to get through what was to come.
Cranking the wheel, he headed back onto the street and in the direction of Highland Floral. When the shop came into view he double-parked across the street and half a block down.
A large delivery truck with the Highland Floral logo on the side was parked in front of the store. The driver leaned against the hood of the truck. He couldn’t see the guy’s face, obscured as it was beneath a ball cap in the fading evening light. He was tall, nearly Dom’s height but not quite.
Several minutes later the lights in the shop went out and Daisy exited through the front door. A colorful skirt swirled above and around her knees as she spun and locked the door. The bright pink shirt tied snugly at her waist emphasized her sexy curves.
The driver pushed from the hood of the truck and opened the passenger door. Turning to face him, Daisy smiled and accepted the hand he held out while she got into the truck. Dom narrowed his gaze at the gentlemanly gesture. Something about it wasn’t solely gentlemanly. It was intimate.
After she was seated, the driver carefully shut the door. As he rounded the front of the truck he tugged the ball cap from his head.
Dom bolted upright. He stared in disbelief.
He gripped the Explorer’s steering wheel, willing his ID of the guy to be a mistake. But it wasn’t. It was Jack Schneider.
What the fuck?
His pulse raced, and his body was instantly on red alert.
The truck eased onto the street, and as it drove past him, he shielded his face. He waited for it to get half a block away before ramming the Explorer into gear and whipping it into a U-turn.
He followed at a safe distance, not wanting to tip Schneider off that he had a tail. But he damned sure wasn’t going to let that truck out of his sight. This was too much fucking coincidence, and he wanted answers.
Blood thrummed in his veins as he recalled that last night after dinner Daisy had rushed out the door to catch a ride from one of her employees. Schneider, he now realized, must have been her ride home.
When the truck turned right, he followed, fighting every instinct not to pull the truck over and beat the shit out of Schneider. He gripped the steering wheel tighter.
This is goddamn insane.
Why is a Pyramid assassin making time with his— His what?
Daisy Fowler wasn’t his anything, so this couldn’t be connected to him.
The only people who knew he’d had any connection with her were Gray, Alex, and Cassie. Alex confided in Gray that Daisy hadn’t told another soul about the night they’d slept together. The only other interactions he’d had with her since had been at the hospital when Gray had gotten shot, the Yankee game during which Gray proposed to Alex, and then at the wedding. But any interaction he’d had with Daisy at the wedding would have been expected between the best man and the maid of honor. No, he doubted this had anything to do with him.
Then what the fuck did Schneider want from her?
The truck made a left, heading in the direction of her apartment. He slammed his open hand against the wheel and was rewarded with a shaft of pain that went straight up his forearm to his shoulder.
Think, man, think.
If Schneider really had been Daisy’s ride home last night, then killing her wasn’t on his agenda because she was still alive. And why kill her at all? What would the Pyramid gain from that?
She must be of some use to Schneider, and he’d bet the answers to all those questions tied in to his employment with Highland Floral.
The truck double-parked in front of Daisy’s apartment building, and Dom was lucky enough to find a spot a few cars down on the same side of the street. From his vantage point, he had a clear view of the truck’s passenger door. He parked quickly and killed the engine.
Schneider came around to the passenger side of the truck, then opened the door and held out his hand. The next thing Dom saw was Daisy’s shapely leg as her skirt caught on the seat. When Schneider’s head dipped down, a low growl rose in his throat. He wanted to rip the guy’s heart out just for looking at her, let alone touching her.
On the sidewalk, she and Schneider talked for a few seconds, then Schneider placed his hand at the small of Daisy’s back and followed her up the stairs and into the building.
Goddammit.
Dom resisted the urge to punch the window. Was she sleeping with the guy?
He squeezed his eyes shut, tormented by the image of Schneider’s hands on Daisy’s naked skin, his mouth on her—
Don’t do this to yourself.
How the fuck is this happening? His instinct to storm in there and save Daisy warred with the facts.
Despite the huge coincidence, his brain told him she wasn’t in any immediate danger. But Schneider was in her apartment. The idea of her sleeping with another man—let alone Jack Schneider—tore up his guts. He had to be sure she was okay, but rushing in there would only put her even more at risk.
He yanked his cell phone from his belt and punched in Gray’s number. When Gray answered, he summed up the situation as succinctly as possible, telling his partner to have Alex call and make sure Daisy got home okay.
A few minutes later, Gray called back to say that Daisy was fine. Dom ended the call and let out a heavy breath. He lowered the window and looked up at the second-floor windows he knew were part of Daisy’s apartment. He also knew which window belonged to her bedroom.
While he sat there alternately clenching his jaw and praying like hell that her bedroom light didn’t turn on, he had to figure out the answer to one tactical question.
Would telling Daisy who and what Schneider really was put her more at risk, or save her life?