Chapter Twenty-Two

“Lacy? Jamaal?” Jake whispered into the burner phone he was now holding close to his lips so as not to be heard. Poindexter was back all right. So were Rocky Rabbit and Ferret Face. He’d forgotten their real names, like it mattered anyway.

Neither Jamaal nor Lacy answered. All he got was static. Not good.

He was holed up in Poindexter’s coat closet, standing on his toes just inside the door. If Poindexter had been smart enough to look to the right when he’d jerked it open, he’d have seen Jake sucking in his gut and trying to make himself invisible in the one-foot corner of the closet. But Poindexter hadn’t done anything more than to reach inside for a wooden hanger to hang his trench coat on. He’d shut the closet door not realizing he’d already found the intruder he was reaming the Rabbit and Ferret’s butts for losing. The intruder’s backpack, too.

“You guys make me sick. You bust up one stupid black guy who can’t tell me shit cuz you hit him so hard. Where is he? He gonna live?”

“In the basement with the rest of ’em,” Rocky Rabbit mumbled. “It’s all Leo’s fault. He’s the one that hit ’em.”

“He’ll live,” Ferret Face, aka Leo, declared over Rocky Rabbit’s finger pointing accusation. “Gawd, I just gave him one little tap to his chin. The guy’s big, but he must be a lightweight.”

Poindexter kept ranting. “I’ll tell you what. That piece of shit nurse is sitting out there watching us right this very minute. Mark my words. If one of you doesn’t catch up with her and slit her throat by six tonight, I’m putting a contract on the two of you. I’m calling Manny. He’ll clean up this mess.”

“No, Boss,” the Ferret rasped. “We’ll find her.”

“See that you do. Now get out and send Annette in.”

The door opened and closed. Rocky Rabbit and Ferret Face must’ve left. By the sounds of it, Poindexter was shuffling papers. He let out a deep sigh. “Good. At least she didn’t get this. I’m safe.”

Jake allowed himself to breathe. He’d been extra careful to not disturb the paperwork in the secret compartment of the desk any more than he’d needed to. He’d replaced the metal pipe beneath the vanity in the bathroom. The only thing that could ruin everything was the damned cordless screwdriver still clutched in his hand. There hadn’t been enough time to put it back under the desk.

He swallowed hard past the dry patch in his throat. At least he’d gotten the last text off to Lacy. With Jamaal caught, she now had everything to go to the police and bring Poindexter down.

Poindexter had grown quiet. Too quiet. Jake cocked his head to listen. There was no way to know where Poindexter was in his office or what he was doing, but Jake knew what he’d be doing if he were Poindexter. He’d be covering his tracks and double-checking everything that mattered, his gold stash, his secret compartment, hell, everything. He’d also be pounding the shit out of Jamaal for information. He’d be dissecting every last call and text on Jamaal’s cell phone if he’d still had it on him when he was taken down. And Poindexter would be looking for his damned screwdriver.

Relax. Zack’s calm tutelage came back to him. It aint over ‘till it’s over.

Well, it sure as hell feels like it’s over. Any minute now, Poindexter would open his closet door and the proverbial jig would be up. Jake wedged himself in nice and tight. Let Poindexter come. Jake had a weapon. The screwdriver wasn’t much, but it was something. If he got in the first hit....

His gaze drifted through the dark to the backpack at his feet. He’d stand half a chance of winning if he had Lacy’s nine-millimeter Ruger in his hand instead of a Black and Decker with a pivoting handle grip. Slowly, he sank to his knees without making a sound. He’d left the zipper on the backpack halfway open in case he needed the gun in a hurry. Keeping his ears trained to the room outside the closet, he set the B&D down on the carpeted floor while he slid his other hand into the backpack. The second his fingers touched cold steel, he calmed.

“Manny. Rafe,” Poindexter’s curt voice declared from the direction of his desk.

Jake pulled the loaded pistol to his chest.

“We got trouble. Yes. You know what to do. Did I say I couldn’t take delivery? Hell, no. Tomorrow night, ten p.m. as planned. Right.”

Someone knocked at the door, but Jake couldn’t tell for sure if the door opened or not.

“Of course. Same fee as the last time, but I need you to do her today. She’s been a pain in my ass for too damned long, and Clayton and Shunck ain’t getting it done fast enough.”

Rage filled Jake’s heart. Poindexter had just put out a hit on Lacy.

“Double the fee? You bet. It’d be worth every penny to be rid of the redheaded bitch.” A pause. “Yeah, I’ll need another dozen girls next month. Keep ’em coming.” He snickered. “Make that a dozen and a half. I know a guy who likes ’em young. The tighter the better.”

Jake straightened in the closet, the time for hiding over. He just didn’t expect that Poindexter would pull the closet door opened at the exact same moment and stick the business end of a rifle in his chest. Damn. Where had that thing come from?

Old battle-axe herself, Miss Annette Plunkett peered over Poindexter’s shoulder. “Told you he had to be in here somewhere. I would’ve noticed if he’d left.”

Poindexter cocked the rifle. “Two down. One to go.”

“You’ll never get Lacy,” Jake declared as Poindexter’s lady friend relieved him of Lacy’s pistol.

Plunkett chambered a round in the Ruger and pointed it at his head. She closed one scary hazel eye. “Hmm. Nine mil. I might just need a little more target practice, Rafe honey.”

Poindexter nodded toward his door. “I can arrange that. Move it, Weylin.”