Chapter Twenty-one
Lucky turned left, then right, cruising through some of the less desirable streets in Atlanta, flicking his gaze from the street in front of him to the rearview mirror. The BMW he picked up five miles from the house followed his every move.
He loved his Camaro, especially since Bo had the whole thing restored for a Christmas gift, but he really, really wished he could ask the car to dial his phone for him via Bluetooth like Bo’s Durango could.
A red light gave him enough opportunity to call Bo. Calling while driving was only illegal if he got caught, right?
“Hey, Lucky! When will you be home? I’m making dinner.”
“Bo”—Lucky kept his voice steady— “I’ve got a tail I can’t shake. Silver BMW.”
Instantly Lucky’s home partner turned into his work partner, all steel and business. “Where are you?”
Lucky peered out the window at traffic signs. “I’m at the corner of Moreland Avenue and Key Drive, heading left down Moreland. I’m not leading them to the house, I’m doubling back to the gym.”
“No. It’s too far.”
“Suggestions?”
“The Raging Stallion isn’t far from you. If the car follows you there, you’ll know without a doubt it’s a tail. I’ll contact Atlanta PD for backup, and call the manager of The Stallion, give him the heads up.”
Lucky eyed the rearview mirror and the BMW stopped at another light two blocks back. “Okay. On my way.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Bo—” The call ended and the light changed to green. Lucky gunned the engine, setting a course for a gay club he no longer frequented.
Even now his partner had his back, likely tossing aside an apron, grabbing a gun, and telling the boys he’d be back later.
No matter how much Lucky weaved through traffic, the BMW stayed with him. A professional then, not Rogers, who’d sooner hit Lucky head-on than manage to keep tailing him longer than twenty minutes.
Tires squealed. What the hell? A quick glance in the mirror showed a car gunning through the red light…
…broadsiding the BMW. A man jumped from the car, holding the cell phone he’d no doubt been texting from, and running toward the BMW.
A siren wailed as a patrol car spun a U-turn and headed back toward the wreck.
The BMW’s passenger door flew open and a man scrambled out. He shoved Cell Phone Guy out of the way and bolted.
An officer jumped from the squad car in pursuit while the other officer went to Cell Phone Guy.
Car horns behind Lucky shocked him into action.
Lucky circled the block and came back. The BMW sat empty in the middle of the road.
Whatever happened, Lucky breathed easier. He called Bo back. “Call off the dogs. I’m okay. I’ll be home soon.”
Bo let out a relieved-sounding breath. “You do that. And Lucky?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful.”
“I always am.”
The BMW driver clearly hadn’t been one of O’Donoghue’s men.
Unease squirmed in his gut. He delayed going home long enough to get the plate number from the BMW. On second thought, he pulled into the parking lot of a deserted building and ran toward the car.
The officer turned from questioning Cell Phone Guy and held up a hand.
Lucky whipped out his badge. “Southeastern Narcotics Bureau.”
The cop nodded and returned to taking a statement. Crashing and running usually meant drugs.
The crumpled driver’s door wouldn’t budge. Lucky slid onto the leather passenger’s seat and searched. Nothing in the glovebox or console, nothing on the seats.
Clean. Too clean. Not even any dirt on the floor mat. He’d have to get a drug dog out here, see what the car hid.
A slip of paper stuck out from the visor. Lucky grabbed at the sheet and wound up with a whole lot of pages. Holy. Shit. Pictures of him. His schedule. Places he frequented, people he knew.
His home address.
He reached under the front seat and pulled out a gun.
Guts roiling, he called Bo.
***
“Look, Todd, I’m sorry I can’t take you myself, but you’re not safe here.” Lucky leaned in the window to Lisa’s car.
“It’s okay. I understand.” The hurt in Todd’s eyes said he didn’t.
“I’ll make it up to you later, I promise.” Lucky patted him on the shoulder, Bo gave him a hug, and Lisa pulled away from the house, her compact car full to bursting from Todd’s bags and all he’d need to start classes.
Bo put his arm around Lucky’s shoulders. “I’m sorry this had to happen, but you did the right thing.”
“Not really. You’re in danger too.”
Bo kissed the side of Lucky’s head. “No more than you.”
“Todd might forgive me, but Ty won’t. Not ever.”
“Ty’s going to be too busy cuddling cats to think of his uncle. Mrs. Griggs said she’d adopted three new kittens.”
Cats notwithstanding, Ty would never, ever forgive Lucky, but Lucky wasn’t about to let his nephews get used as bargaining chips, or worse, bait.
They climbed into Bo’s Durango and headed for a night of clubbing—at least as far as tails were concerned. On the way he’d tried Chastain’s number.
Nothing.
At the Stallion they entered through the front, exited out the back, and drove the manager’s car to the local Walmart.
Their Uber driver picked them up, hat pulled down to hide her poufy hair and much of her face. They didn’t speak, only drove a few blocks and into the Smith’s garage. The door closed behind them.
Heart pounding a mile a minute, Lucky joined Johnson and Bo, entering through the kitchen and into the den where Walter sat in his reclining chair. Mrs. Smith brought coffee and tea, making their meeting into a social occasion.
Once Keith arrived, she made herself scarce. Keith gawked at Walter, opened and closed his mouth a few times. “You’re looking really well, Walter.” Had he expected less?
Johnson gave Walter a quick hug and retreated to the couch.
“So, they’ve raised the stakes,” Walter began.
Lucky handed Walter the note from his car and the gun and papers from the BMW. On pure instinct he shot a glance to Rett’s neck.
Rett patted her bare skin. “I keep the necklace in the freezer when I don’t have reason to wear it.” She slipped off her hat and fluffed her hair.
Safe enough in the freezer, and quiet too, even if Keith winced.
Others handed Walter piles of papers, their own contributions to this case that wasn’t a case. Walter sifted through the piles. “Keith, did you bring what Lucky asked?”
Keith nodded, and lifted a heart necklace on a delicate chain toward Johnson.
She growled. “Where’d you get that?”
“I made it to look like the one you’ve been wearing. He’ll never see the difference.”
Johnson allowed Keith the fasten the chain around her neck. “Won’t he notice when he doesn’t get audio?”
Keith grinned. “Leave that to me.”
“So.” Walter rubbed his hands together. “Loretta will gather what intel she can from Phillip.”
“I’ve also got friends in Southwestern. Alabama might not be their jurisdiction, but could be somebody knows something.” She stepped away from Keith and ran a hand over the heart-shaped charm, lip curling in disgust.
Walter nodded. “Keith? How’s your assignment going?”
“I’ve got tags on O’Donoghue, Eustace, Landry, and Rogers’ car.” He nodded toward Lucky. “Yes, he’s been following you, but he wasn’t the one today.”
Today. The note. The gun.
“Bo?” Walter raised a brow.
Bo flexed, hooked his thumbs into his jeans’ pockets, turned and drawled, “Cyrus Cooper rides again. Let’s see if I can find out who put the hit out on Lucky. No matter how hard he tries, my buddy Chuck can’t find out anything more from Forsyth. The woman who nearly told Lucky the name of their new hire was reprimanded. They’re keeping things very hush-hush.”
Lucky did a swift double-take, but Bo had totally transformed himself with attitude only. Da-yum.
“Bo, Loretta, Keith. Obtain what information you can and report back to me immediately. Though I’m indisposed as far as much of the SNB is concerned, I still have sources of my own.” The slight tremble in Walter’s fingers gave away his fatigue, but only those close enough to truly know the man would have noticed.
“What about me, Boss?” Lucky ventured.
Walter’s smile might have frozen fire. “Stay with me a while. We have much to discuss.” To the rest of the group Walter said, “I’ll see to it he gets home.”
While a goodbye kiss might have been nice, Lucky settled for a brief finger squeeze when Bo strode by.
Once the others were out of the house, Walter turned his attention to Lucky. “Someone obviously has discovered that you’re still in town. How about your family? Are they somewhere safe?
“Todd’s on his way to Clemson, Ty’s staying with Mrs. Griggs, and I’ve warned Charlotte to stay away a few more days.”
Walter nodded. “I never thought I’d find myself working outside of proper channels, but it seems that corruption has grown within the SNB ranks. The possible profits from Chastain’s diabetes drug are enough to fuel greed.”
“How much are we talking?”
“Potentially billions.” Walter shuffled the papers in his lap and placed them on an end table. If he didn’t get back to work soon, no doubt every flat surface in his home would be covered by files and paper like the desk in his office.
Lucky let out a low whistle, though he’d figured as much.
“Lucky?” Walter eyed Lucky over the top of his glasses, expression as stern as he’d ever been. “You’re at risk. We already know the driver of the BMW had photos and a gun, all of which were stolen.”
Figured. “I’ll watch my back, Boss, I always do.”
“Be that as it may, you need protection.”
“No, I don’t!” After all, he’d brought both his Glock and his .38 to this meeting.
“If you think that, then you’ve tragically underestimated how badly Forsyth wants that drug. I’m putting you in a safe house for the duration of this investigation.”
“Do what?” Lucky shot to his feet. “Bo’s out there. Johnson too!” As an afterthought he added, “And Keith.”
“None of them have been targeted yet.” Walter swiped a hand across his forehead, sinking down into his chair. Only now did Lucky truly take in the slumped shoulders, the tired eyes. “I cannot risk you. Someone thinks you’ve uncovered something solid. They’re determined that you find out nothing more.”
“How do they know I haven’t told God and everybody what little I’ve found?”
“Lucky, you’re not in this alone. Martin Chastain was also supposed to be in protective custody. He barely missed being the victim in a drive-by shooting a few hours ago.”
Bile burned the back of Lucky’s throat. “Where is he now?”
Walter sucked in a deep breath, letting the air out in a whoosh. “I’m afraid I don’t know. After he reported the incident, he vanished.”
“Oh, shit. I need to find him. I’ve been calling and texting, but no answer.”
“Atlanta PD is looking for him. Let them do their job.” Walter ran his fingers through his graying hair. “I wish I could remember what was in that file. It must be of great importance. I can’t even remember who gave it to me.” Walter stared off at nothing. “I believe I mentioned before that Forsyth’s international operation warranted me involving others.” His voice didn’t boom like it used to, but he’d recovered a good bit of strength.
“Yes.” Which made Lucky’s heart try to escape his chest.
“Someone is coming by to get you and take you someplace safe.”
“Me? What about you?”
“I’ve worked very hard to maintain the illusion of being an invalid who had yet to regain the power of speech. Thus, my new private nurse.” Walter gave a rueful smile. “One with a high security clearance and many years’ experience in law enforcement.”
Oh. Security. That worked.
“When—”
The lights flickered and went out.
Lucky had his hand on his Glock, crouched on the floor before he’d taken another breath. He backed up to Walter, scanning the windows, searching for movement. Night had fully fallen now.
The darkened yard indicated the street lamp in front of the house lost power too. Lucky slithered over to the window and glanced out. Lights shown from the house windows across the street.
Walter murmured into his cell phone.
Oh, shit! Mrs. Smith!
“I’m going to find your wife,” Lucky hissed, passing his boss his .38, the same .38 Walter gave him when Lucky’d finally been able to carry a gun on the job.
Walter nodded, but continued his call, whites of his eyes showing in the minimal light.
Keeping low, safety off and gun at the ready, Lucky crouch-walked to the kitchen and stopped, straining his hearing. Nothing. Surely if she could she’d have come running to check on Walter the moment the power failed.
Lucky turned and crept down the hall. He’d only been into the back of the house a couple of times. Was the Smith’s bedroom on the left or right? Maybe she’d fallen asleep, blissfully unaware of what was going on.
A muffled “Umpph” drew his eyes to the den. A figure stood in the middle of the room, clutching a wriggling Mrs. Smith, one hand over her mouth.
Damn it! They must have gotten past when Lucky went to the kitchen.
He hunkered down, making himself as small as possible.
“Where is Harrison?” a blatantly Southern voice drawled.
“He’s not here,” Walter replied coolly. All the tells Lucky had been taught to look for in a liar weren’t there. Better to never play poker with the boss. He gave away nothing.
“I know he was here.” The man gave Mrs. Smith a shake.
As cool as her husband, she said or did nothing, though the captor had to crouch down to hold her, as small as she was. Good. He’d be off-balance.
Outside a car passed by, lights hitting the window. For a moment Lucky caught a good look at the man, and the gun he’d pressed to Mrs. Smith’s temple.
Oh, shit! So, ramming the man wasn’t going to work. He’d not put Mrs. Boss in danger. His pulse thundered in his ears.
“Yes, he was here,” Walter said. “But he left. Now, unhand my wife.” He kept both hands on the arms of his chair, no gun to be seen. Oh, man. Surely the asshole who’d broken in wasn’t stupid enough to think Walter harmless.
“Then call him back.” The man gestured with his gun to Walter’s cell phone.
Lucky lunged, knocking the man’s legs out from under him. “Run!” he shouted at the Smiths. He whirled, coming to his feet, well-practiced boxing moves posing his body without conscious thought.
The guy struggled to his feet and took a swing—too high.
Lucky kept a chuckle inside. Sometimes being structurally impaired paid off. Trusting the Smiths to get the hell out, he charged, tackling the larger man to the floor.
A thunk sounded on the tile, something heavy sliding across the floor and hitting the wall. Hopefully, the gun.
Lucky fought as best he could while holding on to his own weapon.
His weapon. He hit the safety, turned the gun, and pistol whipped the motherfucker.
The would-be hitman slumped to the floor.
“Freeze!” a voice shouted behind him. “Atlanta PD.”
Lucky held up his hands, still holding his gun. “Agent Simon Harrison with Southeastern Narcotics Bureau. My badge is in my wallet.”
“What name did Agent William Schollenberger use while undercover in Mexico?” The owner of the voice circled around to stand in front of Lucky.
That voice. Slightly lilting, with a hint of a Mexican accent.
Nigglings of anxiety or something squirmed through Lucky’s gut. “Cyrus Cooper.”
Lucky felt rather than saw the man relax a moment before a snicker reached his ears. The lights came on and Lucky stared up at a familiar face.
“Hola, mi amigo.”