Chapter 16
Vincent grabbed Lina’s arms and indicated that Avery help drag the woman across the room to the bathroom. “I deserve an explanation,” he said, and then rifled through Lina’s pockets, and found nothing.
“Yes, you do,” she said, her voice a near whisper as she helped drag Lina. “But you’re not getting one.” Once inside the bathroom, she dropped the woman’s legs, and pivoted back out into the bedroom.
Vincent followed, furious, slamming the door behind him. Then he propped a chair under the doorknob to prevent Lina’s escape before his task force could round her up. “You and your damn secrets.” They were going to get them killed.
He kicked aside shotgun shells and casings as he gathered his clothes and quickly dressed. Avery dressed, too, but with greater care. She moved as if in pain, which created the first crack in his rage, because he felt bad for her. When they were dressed, weapons in place, Avery grabbed the money bag and tucked it into her waistband.
“You wouldn’t take the shot,” she rasped, holding her throat. “I saw you had one, but you didn’t take it. Why?”
So, she’d noticed, huh? He’d hoped she hadn’t. “I wanted to question her. You were doing fine. You’d countered her choke.”
Avery stopped walking to the door, turned on him and glared, her rage unleashed. “You didn’t know that!” Half her words were barely understandable, but he understood the jist of it.
“You had it under control. If that had changed, I would have shot her. Okay? But I wanted her alive for questioning.” He could tell she wasn’t satisfied with his answer. “Listen, we need to get Benton in here before local police stumble on her, or they won’t know what hit them.”
Avery’s eyes narrowed, and she folded her arms over her chest. “Be honest,” she rasped. “You wanted her to interrogate me and it almost got me killed.”
He shook his head, knowing there was nothing he could say to convince her otherwise. The woman couldn’t trust him. No…she wouldn’t.
When he didn’t respond, she grabbed her boots, slipped them on, but didn’t take the time to tie them before stepping over the destroyed door and disappearing into the hall. Vincent followed, wondering how he was supposed to explain this crime scene to Benton.
People had gathered in the hall, so he grabbed Avery’s elbow, and hustled her around the corner, through a stairwell door. Avery pulled from his grip, hurrying down the stairs, leaning her weight on the railing. It made him think she’d reinjured her knee.
“You almost got me killed,” she said.
“Bullshit.” He easily kept up with her on the stairs, keeping an eye on their six and his gun at the ready. If Lina found them, odds were others had, too.
She stopped on the stairs, glaring at him over her shoulder. “Bullshit?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Bullshit. No way I’d let her hurt you, never mind kill you.” He stepped close enough for her not to have to look over her shoulder to meet his gaze. “I’ve fought you on the ground. You were like a wild animal, but with Lina? You were barely trying. Why is that? Why didn’t you fight as hard as you’d fought with me?”
Her features twisted with pain. “Because I didn’t want to kill her!”
He pulled her into his arms, and she surprised him when she sobbed against his chest. Her exhaustion was showing. He recognized the signs, had experienced them himself. “I wanted her alive for questioning, but Avery—”
She sniffed, clutching at him. “Yeah?”
“Next time, don’t hesitate. Kill her.” Avery drew back, confused. “When it’s them against you, you walk away. You live. Got it?” She gave him a shaky nod, her chin quivering. “We can’t stay here. When the cops find your friend upstairs—”
Avery winced, and gave herself a little shake. “She was never my friend.”
“Well, they’ll print the room and know we’ve been there. Unless I can get Benton in there first.”
Avery scrubbed tears from her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter. Lina was only the beginning.” Her legs seemed to give out, and she sat on the stair. “Now we know what Dante wants.”
Her dead. Vincent wasn’t letting that happen. He texted Benton about Lina upstairs, and then put his phone away. “You need to start believing in me.” He sat next to her, glancing up the stairwell. They were out in the open, but she didn’t look as if she could move, and he wasn’t sure she’d allow him to carry her. He felt exposed. “Have some faith.”
“Millie’s waiting,” she said. “She has to be so afraid.”
Millie. Avery loved her little sister more than herself. Vincent could only wonder what that must be like. To love like that. To receive love like that. In Afghanistan, he’d had his unit, risked his life for them more times than he could count. That was a type of love, all mixed up with duty, but the most he’d sacrificed was his time, effort…and his marriage. Just didn’t seem on the same level as Avery’s relationship with Millie.
Vincent put his arm around her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. He expected her to push him away. He certainly didn’t expect her to wrap her arms around him and hold on as if she were drowning. When she released him, he was weak enough to need to know why…why she hugged him.
“What was that for?” She shrugged, making him think, even her hugs are shrouded with secrets. “You need to start trusting me.”
“Like you trust me?”
Touché. He wanted to tell her he trusted her, but he knew he only trusted her to a point.
When she started down the stairs again, he followed, easily keeping up with her pace. Making sure no one snuck up on their rear. All the while he worried. She still didn’t trust him, and he was having a hard time being okay with that. He’d spent his life being trustworthy and was used to people automatically knowing it was a given. He was the one who didn’t trust people. That was his thing. Sure, he understood her resistance when they were on different sides of an agenda, but her secrets had been outed. He was here to help her, so why? Why the resistance to trust him?
Vincent descended the stairwell just ahead of her when they reached the bottom, because he didn’t want her rushing into the underground garage. She was upset and not thinking clearly. When he opened the door, he peeked into the darkened lot, looked left and right, and only saw parked cars. Avery barreled on through, breezing past him, as if getting away from him was her one goal.
A squeal of tires had her pivoting back to Vincent. He saw her panic, saw the advancing men in suits behind her and aimed his gun. He reached for her. More men bled from between parked cars. Coppola’s men. It was a trap.
They distracted him, making him miss the man who rushed him from the side. He got off two bullets before his gun was stripped from his hand. A van squealed to a stop in front of them, two masked men jumped out, grabbed Avery, and forced a hood over her head. Vincent lunged after them, but he was hit hard, a shoulder connecting with his solar plexus, doubling him over.
He couldn’t breathe. Then he was lifted—no easy feat—and thrown into the van with Avery, hitting the interior hard. He lashed out, stopping his punch mere inches from Special Agent Cynthia Deming’s face. Deming dismissed him with a frown, and turned toward a still-hooded Avery, who was fighting for her life. Benton knelt on her chest, but she’d broken free, and was swinging. The van jolted forward, its tires screaming, and the sliding door slammed shut during acceleration.
“Stop!” Vincent pulled Avery’s hood off, and was clocked in the jaw for his troubles. “Shit!” He glared at everyone, holding his palm up. “Everybody stop!”
Avery scurried to the van’s back wall, more caged animal than woman. She saw the three agents hovering, and then released a shuddering breath. Benton scowled at Avery, giving Vincent a preview of the shit they had coming, and Gilroy was up front, doing his best to lose their tail. But Deming…Deming could have been having tea with the Queen. Sporting a sweet smile, dressed in her usual expensive pantsuit, perfectly coiffed, her patent leather heels were pristine, and he knew for a fact that her string of pearls was an heirloom. Deming couldn’t have looked more out of place. She studied Avery in her academic way, doing her profiler voodoo thing, while everyone else sought to regain their breath and calm down. “It’s just us, Avery. No worries,” Deming said.
“Gilroy?” Benton called to the driver. “How are we doing? Anyone tailing us?”
“Not yet, and not if I have anything to say about it,” the big guy said.
Vincent pushed down his anger and did his best to appear calm. “Why the snatch and grab?”
“We didn’t want to get made,” Deming said.
“Made by whom? Did you get a call about the shooting?” Vincent said.
“What shooting?” she said.
“I texted Benton.” He scowled at his team leader, who pulled out his phone and seemed surprised to see his text. “Made by who?”
“Coppola’s men were in the parking garage,” Benton said. “We’d just arrived, saw them lying in wait, and had to make some decisions.”
“I recognized a few,” Deming said. “Most of them, actually. That was his full stable of contract killers in that garage.” She arched a brow, studying Avery again. “Makes a person wonder.”
Benton caught Vincent’s attention. “Tell me about what happened upstairs.”
“One of Coppola’s killers. Room 339. Alive, unconscious when we left her, and scrappy. If local law stumbles upon her, there will be blood. She’s dangerous.”
“Name?” Deming said. Vincent glanced at Avery.
“Angelina Modelli,” Avery said. “Lina.”
“What’s wrong with your throat, Avery?” Deming said. She reached behind her and pulled out a bottle of water from the cooler. The van filled with a horrible fish smell.
“Damn, Deming. Didn’t you throw that fish out?” Vincent said.
“Yeah, but soap and water doesn’t cut it and I haven’t had time to buy bleach.” She scowled at him, making her pert nose wrinkle. “I’ve been busy.”
Benton was ignoring Deming and staring at Avery. “Coppola has your sister.”
Deming handed Avery the water. “Let’s go save your sister.”
“Where are you taking me?” Avery said.
“That’s up to you and how willing you are to be straight with us,” Benton said. “So far, you’ve been anything but.” He pulled out a file and laid photos in front of her. “These were taken from the coroner’s records. Coppola’s men. Take a close look at the hands.”
Vincent picked up one of the photos, noticing how Avery refused to even look at them. He studied the hands, recognizing rings like the ones Avery wore.
“The rings, Modena.” Deming sounded impatient.
So, the rings were important. His stomach tightened as he lifted another photo. Identical rings from the previous photo. All pinkie rings on dead shooters. Like Avery’s rings. “What of them?”
“Those are custom made,” Deming said. “They’re made by a particular jewelry shop in Jersey City for Coppola’s contract killers, apparently a tightknit crew.”
“Each ring is titanium,” Gilroy said from the front of the van, “worn on the pinkie, with their initials inscribed on them.”
“I thought they were silver.” Vincent looked closer at the photos, panic growing as he began to piece together what was being suggested. The profiler put more photos in his hands.
“These are The Stinger’s victims,” she said.
Vincent glanced at the photos. That’s all it took to see what Deming wanted him to see. “No rings.”
Deming nodded. “Six rings are missing. The shopkeeper was happy to talk about them. Protocol is that the men are buried with their rings. These rings were stolen. It’s a sign of disrespect. Isn’t that right, Avery?”
Leaning against the van’s interior, Avery curled herself into a ball, resting her chin on her knees as she hid her hands between her thighs and her chest.
“Let me see the rings,” Vincent said. Avery didn’t resist. She held her hands out, showing the rings, revealing the initials inscribed on their tops. “Dammit, Avery.” He didn’t even have it in him to raise his voice.
“They’re the ones.” Deming gathered up the photos and tucked them into a manila folder. “Who gave those to you? Your ex-husband?” She glanced at Vincent. “This might be all we need to take Coppola down. If we can pin those murders on him, he’s ours.”
Benton grimaced, studying Avery. “Look at her. Do you see her testifying?”
“Avery,” Vincent said. She wouldn’t look at him. “Where did you get those rings?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, and I have no proof to make you believe.”
“Modena, come on. We know where she got them,” Deming said. “It has to be Coppola. We suspected he was behind their deaths, and these rings prove it. Avery can prove it!”
“She could have gotten them anywhere,” Benton said. “Without her testimony, they’re useless as evidence, and even then, it would be a he said, she said.” He exchanged glances with Vincent. “She knows this. She won’t testify. Remember, I lived with these people for a year. I was one of them. She won’t testify.”
Deming narrowed her eyes, pinning Avery with a stare. “She’ll testify. Between the files and those rings, we’ll take Coppola down. She’ll never have to be afraid of him again. Isn’t that right, Avery?”
Vincent realized Benton hadn’t shared his intel on the “files” with the team. “Deming, the files don’t exist.” They’d believe him, if not Avery. “They’re a rumor Coppola created to justify his hit on Avery.”
“Of course,” Deming said. “Of course, they don’t exist. Everything else about this case has cratered. Why wouldn’t that, too?” She sighed, lowering her head.
Benton leaned into the front of the van. “Gilroy, get us to the safehouse.” Then he turned back around, exchanging glances with the rest of them. “We’ll verify Coppola has her sister, get the necessary warrants, and see what happens.”
“No. We need to get to Saddle River,” Avery said. Benton shook his head.
“Avery, we don’t know if that’s where she is,” Vincent said.
“She’s there.” Avery sounded positive.
“I’m not bringing his ex-wife to Dante Coppola,” Benton said. “Look at her. She has the dead men’s rings on her hands. She’s involved and probably complicit. The last thing we should do is anything she wants us to do.”
“Millie is ten,” Vincent said. “She’ll need her sister when we grab her. I just don’t think we know she’s there.”
“She is there,” Avery said. “I know it. He’d want her close, and… And he said she was in the pool.” She swallowed hard. “Take me to Saddle River and I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll tell you everything. Even the stuff I know you won’t believe.”
Gilroy cleared his throat, interrupting Benton’s deliberations. “There’s a safehouse close to Saddle River. Close enough to Coppola’s complex to be acceptable. And we should keep the asset close by in case things go south.”
“You mean, Avery.” Vincent instantly regretted his snappishness, but Gilroy shouldn’t have called her the asset. It was dehumanizing and intolerable.
Gilroy nodded. “Exactly. Right. I mean, Avery. We don’t know what Coppola will do. The safe bet is to keep the asset close during negotiations.” Vincent told himself to shut up. Just shut up.
Benton nodded. “Fine.”
Deming pulled an ice pack from the cooler, and again, a wave of fish smell. “You’re injured. Press this to the bruise.”
He saw Avery wave it away, and was about to protest, maybe demand she take a Tylenol, but then Deming pressed the ice pack to his swelling cheek. Avery saw her mistake immediately and cringed, clearly embarrassed. That small misunderstanding startled him. When had everything become about Avery to him?
Vincent took the ice pack from Deming. “Thank you.” Then he crawled across the van’s interior and sat next to Avery. Tugging her onto his lap, he made her hold the ice pack to her neck, and pressed her swelling hand to it, to keep the ice pack in place. “Deming, you got any pain meds?”
Deming nodded, and reached into a first aid kit affixed to the van’s interior wall. She tossed a packet of ibuprofen to him. Adjusting Avery on his lap, he felt her face turn into his neck as she slumped into his arms. She was exhausted.
“No, come on. Take them.” He tore open the small paper container, and held out the two pills, then opened the water bottle for her. When she’d swallowed it, she leaned on him again, limp as a dish rag. He was worried about her. She needed to regain her strength, because things were about to get harder, not easier.
What with the quiet inside the van, and the white noise of them driving on the interstate, Avery drifted off to sleep, her hand pressed to his chest, her breathing synced with his. It gave him plenty of time to study those damn rings, worry about who gave them to her, and how he’d feel once her latest secret was revealed. He was falling hard for her, and felt stupid about it. He suspected Deming and Benton had already guessed. They weren’t staring at Avery. They were studying the tableau of Avery sleeping in his arms.
Vincent allowed himself a sigh, and pretended not to notice their worries, because…well, whatever. His feelings were what they were, and right or wrong, they were his. So, what if he was being stupid. It wouldn’t be the first time.