Chapter 3
Vincent was still riding an adrenaline high as he muscled Eric and his brown-haired psycho-playmate to a table. The restaurant looked as if a bomb had gone off, and it gave him pause. Benton wasn’t going to be happy. Vincent was supposed to chat with Avery Coppola, not tear the place up. Chairs were on their sides, tables knocked over. Everyone was sporting masks of horror. He kind of felt bad for them, remembering what it was like back in the day, when death and dying had the ability to shock him. After four years in Afghanistan and ten at the bureau, he’d come to process violence differently. Nuisance nightmares, insomnia, and a continually renewed appreciation for life. All life, whether it be innocents, or monsters like Eric and his crew.
He soon had Eric and the brown-haired guy trussed up tight with the borrowed belts, and as he stepped back to peruse his handiwork, he promptly slipped on blood. Either Charlie’s or Eric’s, but he found his equilibrium quick enough so as not to take a spill, but not before irritating his bum shoulder. He rolled it, and then cracked his neck, trying to work out the kinks.
He glanced at the diner’s counter. “Damn.” Where was Avery Coppola?
He’d had one job; keep her at the restaurant. If Coppola’s men were trolling the neighborhood and caught up with her, there was a good chance she’d soon be dead like Charlie here. He glanced at the body, and the bloody mess on the floor and wall. Epic fail. Deming wasn’t gonna let him live this down.
Then he remembered the cook, and thought maybe Avery had gone to tend to him. Dead or alive, though, odds were she’d be calling out for help, maybe even screaming, but he wasn’t hearing anything like that from the kitchen, so Vincent jumped over the counter and landed next to Jim’s unconscious body. After tying him up with twine he found in a nook and cranny by the register, Vincent took a moment to notice Jim’s injuries. Broken nose. Clearly a fractured skull, because mother nature didn’t do that to a head on purpose, and he was covered in defensive knife wounds. Vincent lost count quickly, but the slices were shallow, non-life threatening, and covered Jim from face to calves, as if the druggie’s every blow or kick had been tapped off by a slice.
Shit. When the hell did this happen? Jim looked as if he’d had an epic battle with a multiarmed warrior, and Vincent didn’t remember Avery having a knife fight with anyone, least of all Jim. She’d disarmed the guy, yeah, but…then again, he’d been busy taking out Eric and the other dude. Still. Something was off here.
When his knots were secure, Vincent hurried through the swinging door leading into the kitchen and pulled his iPhone from his pocket. He dialed Benton. The line connected. “You won’t believe who just foiled a robbery and subdued a murderer.”
“What are you talking about? We’re almost done here,” Benton said.
“Avery Toner Coppola, with some help from little ole me.” Vincent stopped walking when he stood center kitchen, and glanced left and right. The grill area was empty. He pulled his gun, moving farther into the kitchen, looking for surprises. “Finish up at the apartment, because our girl is in the wind, and probably heading your way.” He turned a corner and found the cook, did a three-sixty scan and saw he was still alone, then allowed his gun to hang at his side. “Diner’s cook is dead. Do me a favor? Call an ambulance and local law enforcement. It’s a circus here.”
Benton swore so long he started repeating himself. “Find her.”
“Can’t.” Vincent crouched next to the cook, noting the GSW to the head. “I can’t leave the scene until the Sheriff arrives. Presently, I’ve got three perps tied up and waiting to be processed. Once the cops arrive, I’ll give them an excuse so I can slip away.” Benton hung up mid-expletive. “Then I’ll track her down,” he finished his thought aloud, though no one heard it but him. He peered out the back door and found it led to an alleyway. No Avery in sight.
So, she’d run. He wasn’t surprised, nor did he blame her. She was a woman with something to hide.
And he’d kissed her. What the hell was wrong with him?
* * * *
When the fetid vapors from the back alley hit Avery, she was in shock, and autopilot took over. Images of Sam with a bullet hole in his head tormented her. And Jim. If ever a man deserved to die, Jim did. Yet, when she’d brought her foot down for that last strike, she’d aimed for Jim’s head, not his neck. Sam deserved to be avenged. He did. But Avery couldn’t do it. Experience taught her though vengeance was sweet, it ate your soul. Nothing could bring Sam back. Not even killing Jim.
She scrubbed unwelcome tears from her cheeks and told herself to stop crying. When that didn’t work, she clenched her hands until her six rings cut painfully into her bruised and swollen skin. She’d been right to wear them all these years, instead of hiding them out of sight. They’d helped in the fight, helped her survive—gifts that kept on giving—but surviving had put her in a spotlight. Quiet waitress, winning a fight with a knife-wielding druggie? That was the headline, and it would go viral. People were looking for her, and this incident would help them find her. Find Millie.
She slipped her iPhone from her uniform’s pocket, and saw it was eleven in the morning. She dialed her little sister. When the line connected, Avery told herself to keep her voice calm.
“Millie, grab the go-bag. Meet me at the bus station, just like we practiced, yeah?”
No arguments, no hysterics, Millie whispered “right” and then hung up. The station was three blocks from their crappy apartment, and she was there within minutes. Millie was already waiting, giving no indication of upset. No tears fell from her green eyes, because a crying child would attract attention. She was ten, sporting a long, blond ponytail hanging down her back, and she held a go-bag filled with thirty thousand dollars, one toothbrush, a package of wipes, a bottle of water, Tylenol, and a few granola bars. Millie had to leave by herself, because if the contract killers came here looking for them, they’d track a pair. Two sisters.
Avery stepped past Millie without comment and entered the convenience store to buy a ticket for the Greyhound bus idling at the curb. Neither she nor Millie asked where it was going. They knew it didn’t matter. What mattered was Millie left this place. Avery handed her the ticket.
“Get off at the first station, and ask for a transfer ticket to Boston’s South Station. Use money from the bag only when necessary, but be careful no one sees what you have. You’re vulnerable, Millie. They’ll try to use that against you.” Millie nodded, looking at the blood on Avery’s uniform. That look—stark terror—had Avery second-guessing herself. Maybe she should risk leaving together, but… Avery couldn’t travel looking like this, and Millie had to leave now. It wasn’t safe here.
Millie touched her hand, drawing her thumb over Avery’s rings. “Maybe you could find a way to make him leave us alone.”
Him. Her ex-husband. “The damage is done. Dante has set something in motion, and now he can’t stop it even if he wanted to.” And she suspected Dante didn’t want to. The man was twisted, brutal, and without conscience. He wanted what he wanted, and Avery was a threat to his power. He wouldn’t stop trying to kill Avery until she was under his control or dead. They had to hide, or kill him, and Avery wasn’t a murderer. She wasn’t. So, that meant running.
She glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was paying attention to them. Jeremy, the college-kid clerk, was oblivious. She handed Millie her ticket and nudged her sister toward the exit. “Remember. Boston’s South Station. My contact, Jason Chadwick, will find you. Remember that name. Give him the bag. Only him, okay? I’ll meet up with you when it’s safe, as soon as possible.”
Millie nodded. “Yes.”
Then Millie stepped on the bus, not looking back. The moment felt final, as if Avery would never see her sister again, and that scared her to death, because this was her fault. Eight years ago, something horrific happened. They’d been helpless, and everything dear and necessary to them was taken in the space of a moment. They couldn’t recover, only react. Avery chose vengeance and was still paying the price. Millie, too. She was paying, too.
Trembling, drying blood made her arms and face itch, as Avery dialed her contact’s number. He was her backup plan, that she’d hoped never to use. When the line connected, she didn’t wait for Jason to say hello. “Millie will be at Boston’s South Station Greyhound terminal in four hours.”
“I’ll be there.” She believed him, because he knew Millie had the money, and he knew Avery would hunt him down otherwise. She hung up without comment, watching Millie’s bus pull away from the curb.
Time to make Patty Whitman disappear.
* * * *
Vincent found Avery by following the trail of people gossiping along Main Street. Apparently, a waitress covered in blood wasn’t a common sight hereabouts…and people noticed. Go figure.
“Patty?” It felt weird to use that name, but she’d never corrected him, so Patty it was. He held the storefront’s door open, more relieved than anything else to find her inside. She was alive, safe. He’d take that as a win.
She had her back to him, buying a bus ticket from the clerk. Vincent saw the blood stains that started at her neck, and ran down her uniform to her legs, covering the white shoes with spatter. After seeing what she’d done to Jim with his knife, Vincent supposed most of the blood wasn’t hers, but it was a small consolation. He felt pangs. Many pangs of guilt that she’d had to fight Jim alone, and that she’d been injured because of it. He told himself there’d been too many guns, too many potential targets to control the situation completely, but there was a niggling of fear that he could have done better by her. Should have. He’d had one mission in that diner, and that was to keep an eye on her. Sure, things went to hell, but Avery had survived that diner disaster without his help. He’d carry that guilt for life.
“Patty.” She was ignoring him, acting as if she weren’t covered in blood. He suspected she was in shock. He’d seen enough of it to recognize the symptoms. The clerk caught Vincent’s gaze, and then widened his eyes, not hiding his unease that his customer was bloody and seemingly oblivious to the fact. Even the clerk knew her behavior was odd. Why didn’t Avery? Definitely in shock.
She took the ticket and stuffed it into her purse. “Thank you, Jeremy.”
From the looks of Jeremy, he was all of seventeen. Vincent flashed Jeremy his credentials so he wouldn’t have to explain. Avery turned and saw them, and he saw her eyes. They weren’t dilated, so she wasn’t in shock, and his FBI credentials didn’t even warrant a twitch of fear. That meant she wasn’t running from him, and either had nerves of steel or was suffering from amnesia. She had to suspect he was here because of her ex-husband, right? Then he remembered the knife pinning Eric’s hand to the shotgun, and Jim, the junkie, bloody on the floor. So…nerves of steel. Good to know. She was trained and unflappable. Dangerous.
“What are you doing?” He made sure to keep his expression puzzled and worried. The moment their interaction became about controlling her, he had a feeling he’d lose even the small amount of goodwill he’d managed to build between them.
Avery walked passed him. “Who’s asking?”
“Huh?” It wasn’t as if he could pretend he was anything but the FBI Special Agent she’d seen in action at the diner, but he could pretend that his status didn’t matter. After all, Feds went on fishing trips, too. “I was worried about you.” He kept pace with her as they walked down the sidewalk.
“How did you find me?” she said.
“I could say when local law enforcement arrived on scene, I explained the prime witness disappeared, so I went in hot pursuit.”
“But that’s not the real reason?” She seemed to be weighing his words.
“Like I said—” He gave her his version of puppy dog eyes. “I was worried about you.”
That seemed to mollify her, but she didn’t slow her gait. “You still didn’t tell me how you found me.”
She was interrogating him. And wasn’t that just a fine how do you do, he thought.
“A blood-covered waitress meandering through town? You’ve started rumors of a zombie apocalypse.” She kept walking, eyes front. “Stop and talk to me, will you?” She was strung so tightly he feared forcing the issue lest she see it as an attack, and she’d been hurt enough. He didn’t want to upset her more. “I’m worried about you, Patty.” Yeah, he needed to keep her under his thumb, but he wanted her injuries checked out by a doctor, too.
Her expression softened, making him think he was making headway with her. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s sweet. I’m sorry I worried you.”
“But?” He could tell she was exerting herself with her pace, because her cheeks were flushed, and the pulse at her neck was visible and racing.
“But—” She threw him an impatient glance. “I’m sore, I’m upset, I want a shower, to…to… Listen, I want to go home.” Vincent couldn’t allow that. Not until Benton texted him the surveillance cameras were up. He needed a delay tactic.
“First you have to be checked out by a doctor. You could have internal injuries or something.” When he caught her glance of distain, he threw his hands up in the air. “What? I’m not a doctor.”
“No, you’re a Fed.”
“So, you don’t like Feds?”
She pursed her lips. “I like Feds that tell me they are Feds before they try to get in my pants.”
“If I’d told you, you never would have given me a second look. Despite what you might think, working for the FBI does not make me a chick magnet. They always think of their unpaid parking tickets when I want them to be thinking of me.” Her cheek kicked up with a smile, but she didn’t slow down. “Now you might be saying to yourself, but the FBI has nothing to do with parking tickets.”
She glanced at him. “Is your punch line that you date only stupid women or women who illegally park?”
He chuckled. “I’m a gentleman. I’d never say such a thing.”
“Listen, it’s been fun, but, I got to go.” She scanned the street and sidewalk, and walked faster, clenching and unclenching her fists, drawing her thumbs across her rings, as if they irritated. Maybe they’d swelled so much, her rings were cutting off circulation. Her right hand had it the worst; split knuckles, red and purple bruising.
“Patty, let’s have the EMTs look at your hand, at least. Okay? It looks really messed up.” He lifted it so he could get a better look. She winced, and pulled her hand from his grasp, then hid both hands in the pockets of her uniform’s apron.
“I’m fine.” No. She was limping, and the growing bruise on her knee looked angry.
“Did you fall?” He pointed to her knee.
She shook her head. “I aimed poorly, and kneed Jim’s belt buckle during the fight. I think I pinched a nerve, but it’s fine.”
“Fine.” He arched his brows, wondering if he should just shut up. Nope. “I think you need to rethink what fine means, because you’re never going to see a picture of a person in your shape listed under a definition of the word fine. But…if you say so.” He shook his head. “Fine or not, the sheriff is waiting for your statement. You shouldn’t have left the crime scene. Don’t you watch Law & Order?”
She glanced at him, and he saw a return of her unease. “I wasn’t thinking.”
She’d run from a crime scene and bought a ticket out of town. Seemed pretty clear-headed, if not premeditated to Vincent. “What about Rizzoli & Isles? Or CSI, or CSI New Orleans, or—”
“Really?” She was out of breath from walking so fast. “Are you going to list all the television shows I haven’t seen?”
“How could you not have seen them?”
“No cable,” she mumbled, not slowing down.
“Not even Netflix?”
“No Internet. No computer. I’m a waitress in a small town. Tips aren’t that great.” If she was telling the truth, did that mean “the files” were in paper form? He found that hard to believe. Not in this data age, but no Internet? He found that hard to believe, too. She had to have them on a flash drive, tucked away in her apartment. “I have my iPhone, of course, but who wants to watch a show on a phone?”
“Well, if you had watched those shows, you’d also know ignorance isn’t a defense. Most of the time, anyway. I think if you come quietly,” he said with a smile, “you know, not give me anymore of a hard time than you already have—”
“What?” She gave him a flirty smile. “You pulling out the thumb screws already?”
He laughed. “Just let the EMTs look at you. Don’t make this a big deal. And yeah, you must give a statement, or the sheriff will come looking for you. Come on.” He tilted his head in the direction of the diner. “They’re all back at the crime scene. Let’s go.”
“I don’t want to.” She shuddered and kept up the fast pace. Her reaction read authentic. The diner upset her, and she was having a hard time processing. Now he felt like a jerk for forcing her to go back there, but he couldn’t risk her seeing the task force wire her street for video. Too much time and energy went into this operation. Vincent’s bleeding heart would have to go into storage.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “it’s nonnegotiable.” Even his ears picked up the regret in his tone, probably because it was real. Yup. He was a jerk, but for a good cause.
She stopped walking, glaring at him. “If I give my statement, will you leave me alone?”
No. “Yes.” He indicated the road that would lead them back to the diner, and after a heavy sigh, Avery pivoted and walked in that direction. “Where’d you learn to throw a knife?” he said.
That got her attention. Her annoyance fled, and her eyes widened as she covered the slice at her neck. When her fingers connected with the seeping injury, she winced a little. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. After Jim dropped the knife, I threw it. I didn’t want him using it on me again.”
Bullshit, but informative. She sliced and diced Jim before throwing it at Eric. No one accidentally threw with that accuracy, or with the strength to pin a man’s hand to the stock of a shotgun. Her denial told him she was still invested in her role as Patty, and that meant she still thought there was a chance that Vincent was an unwitting dupe.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to protect you.” He was sorry. Guilty, too. He’d replay what happened in that diner for many years to come, looking to see how he could have done better, ended it quicker. Less dead.
Avery glanced at him, her brows and pursed lips giving him some indication of her annoyance. “I protected myself. I didn’t need you.” Then she squared her shoulders and winced. Her limping grew more pronounced.
“No,” he said. “You did not.”
She stopped, putting her fists on her hips. “What exactly were you thinking, by the way? Putting your weapon on the floor when so many guns were in play? Yours was the only gun we had on our side, and you put it down.”
He scoffed. “I didn’t put it down. I pretended to—”
“Did you pretend to put our lives at their mercy, too? Because you did. Eric could have pulled the trigger at any moment.” She gave herself a little shake and then started walking again. Vincent couldn’t suppress a little annoyance at being called out like that.
“I had a plan. It worked.”
She scoffed. “They were a bunch of drug addicts. Addicts that had already killed a member of their own group, and… They’d killed Sam. You were going to comply, risking our lives in the hopes they’d be merciful.”
She was working herself into a frenzy. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were flashing. Vincent found he preferred her mad rather than upset, and that made him smile. She noticed and narrowed her eyes, glaring at him.
“I wasn’t going to put it down,” he said. “What I did is what we call in the biz a bait and switch.”
She turned her eyes front, shaking her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“That’s okay.” He didn’t believe a word she said either. “Still true.”
“Hmm.” Her grimace was ripe with annoyance, and she stayed that way, even when they’d arrived back at the diner, and when he’d arranged for her to step into the witness line leading to the sheriff and his men. Her annoyance, in fact, seemed to occupy the part of her brain that had been devoted to fear. He was glad of it, because she was so delicate-looking, and he felt like he should have protected her better. One good guilt-trip, and he feared being played like a drum. Women did that to Vincent. It was their superpower, so he was always on the lookout, but Avery didn’t seem interested in his sympathy.
The sheriff and his officers took copious notes, but after a half hour, Avery had told her version of the events, and he had no more excuses to keep her occupied. She’d frequently surveilled the road, and milling crowd, during and after her interview. He could see she was antsy, and got the impression she wanted to be gone so badly that if he’d tried to stop her, she’d have lashed out, so Vincent didn’t insist she see the EMT on site. Benton’s text arrived soon thereafter, declaring the cameras installed, and the team gone. By then, Avery was already heading to her apartment.
He watched her walking away as the white surveillance van parked across the street from the diner. Vincent knew the van contained a socialite, an impatient, beat-up team leader, a bruiser, and a fish. They’d want him to back off, dangle her as bait for Coppola’s contract killers, so the cameras could give them probable cause to rush into her apartment and find the files. But Vincent didn’t have the stomach for that anymore, not after what he and Avery had just been through. She was injured. What if Coppola’s men arrived and they got to her before Vincent and the team could? He couldn’t risk it.
Sure, she was a liar. Sure, she’d filleted Jim and stuck Eric. And yeah, she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t, but he hadn’t expected her to be a Girl Scout. She was the ex-wife of a crime lord. He didn’t trust her, but she had something he wanted, and it was in both their interests to keep her safe.
He followed Avery, instead of crossing the street to get in the now open side door of the van. When he’d walked passed the van, the side door slowly closed again as his iPhone vibrated in his pocket. Benton or Deming, most likely, was attempting to micromanage him. Vincent ignored his phone.
When he reached Avery’s side, she rolled her eyes but remained silent. Then there was no conversation, no eye contact, nothing until they reached her front door. It was directly next to a Chinese restaurant, whose aromas made his stomach growl, because fucking Eric ate his cheeseburger.
After a fake smile, the kind that said eat shit, Avery extended her beat-up, cut, and swelling hand for a shake. Intending simply to hold it, he extend his hand, but Avery gripped it hard enough to make her rings bite into his palm. Then she pumped his hand up and down once before releasing him.
“Thanks for the walk home,” she said. “It was like having my own bodyguard, and after what happened at the diner, I’m a little shaken up. It was nice not to have to worry.” He didn’t believe a word she’d said. Her tone was right, but this woman fended off a meth-head with a knife. She didn’t need a bodyguard, and her gaze suggested an impatience to see him walk away. Avery Coppola was about to disappear, if she had anything to say about it. “It’s been nice knowing you.” She unlocked the door and was about to leave him on the sidewalk. Vincent stuck his boot out, stopping her from closing the door in his face.
“Invite me in,” he said. She grimaced.
“I’m tired. I’m gross. I know you’re on vacation, but I’m not.” Rubbing her face, she looked every bit as weary as she’d professed to be. “I’ve got things to do.”
“Please.” He did his best to cajole, lifting his brows, donning a hint of a smile. “Invite me in.” He was coming in whether she wanted him to or not, but he’d prefer she want him inside. It would look better on his report if he tripped over some evidence he wanted to use in court. “I could use a cup of coffee and the company of someone that won’t ask me if I’m okay.” Did he attempt to make her feel bad about not once asking if he was alright? Sure. Hopefully, it would work, but he was coming in one way or another.
She sighed, nodded once, and then turned her back on him, taking the stairs up to her apartment. “Just a cup. Then you have to go.” Two steps later, she was wincing in pain.
Vincent couldn’t handle it. Without a word, he lifted her, cradling her in his arms. With a nudge of his foot, he closed the door behind them, shutting out the daylight and leaving them in mostly darkness. Then the stairwell lights flickered on, and he saw Avery had flipped a switch.
Her arms encircled his neck, and she stared into his eyes, looking puzzled. “Who the hell are you, Special Agent Vincent Modena?”
He met her gaze for a moment, and then shrugged before climbing the stairs quickly. He saw her distrust, but that just meant she was smart. “Still figuring that out, Patty. Still figuring that out.”