CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Four months ago

Sanders glanced around the cluttered office of Special Agent Laura K. Reiss. Her desk towered with papers, mugs, and picture frames. The bulletin board behind her was stuffed with notices.

She handed him a mug of coffee and sighed sympathetically as she took a seat across from him.

“I need your help, Mr. Foxton,” she said, and her voice was deceptively sweet. She was petite and had blond hair that bounced in a ponytail. A Reese Witherspoon lookalike.

“How so?” he asked, forcing his voice to stay steady even as his gut twisted with worry.

“Here’s the thing,” she said, in that soprano voice. “Some of those guns you were transporting were illegally obtained. Which makes you a gunrunner for illegally obtained guns.” She spelled it out like he was five, then lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “That’s kind of a no-no.”

“I didn’t know what I was transporting,” he protested. “I swear to God. I’ve never known. They give me the packages, and I take them from point A to point B.” That was the truth, the full truth, and nothing but the truth. He’d never asked questions.

Laura nodded sympathetically and took a pull of her coffee. “Oddly enough, that’s not really a good answer,” she said with a frown. Then she turned it upside-down, her cheery demeanor returning. “But I believe you. I believe you’re telling the truth.”

He sighed with relief. “Good. Can I get out of here?”

She laughed, then shook her head. “Not so fast.”

“What do you need?”

“We have a few options. I can work up some charges against you for your role in transporting firearms as part of the illegal gun trade in Las Vegas, and you can face time behind bars. Or you can use what’s in here,” she said, tapping her head, “to help me catch some bigger fish.”

“What sort of fish?” he asked skeptically.

“Let’s just say I’m looking into organized crime in Las Vegas. And I would really like to find out if your guns are tied to something a helluva lot bigger.”

“I don’t know, Ms. Reiss. I guess I should think about it.”

She pointed at him playfully and shot him a knowing grin. “Well, you think about it Mr. Foxton. And keep in mind, you’d be doing the city a huge service. Because the more we talk, and the more you share, the better chance I have of putting away the men who are really making Vegas a nasty place. So how about a deal? I keep you out of prison, and you become my informant?”

The only thing he’d ever done was skirt the law. He’d never hurt anyone. Never killed anyone. All he’d wanted was to make a few extra bucks to provide for his family.

He loved his wife, loved his kids, loved his freedom more than anything.

There was really one choice.

* * *

Present day

Goddamn cell phone towers.

As John peeled out of the garage of the federal building, he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, stealing glances at his phone as he waited impatiently for the signal to return.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered as the wheels met the road, heading toward Michael Sloan’s home.

Soon the bars returned, and the second they did he dialed Michael’s number again. He had to warn the guy. Michael’s White Box client had set him up. John was sure of it now. He’d had an inkling this morning that something didn’t add up, but there was no way to know the specifics before Reiss called.

John’s investigation into the murder of Thomas Paige and the fed’s investigation into organized crime had moved on two separate tracks for the last few months. Over the summer, the murder case had been reopened, thanks to the tip-off John received from Jerry Stefano’s ex-girlfriend about other men being involved. Meanwhile, as he’d just learned, Sanders Foxton had been arrested for speeding four months ago, and in return for not going to jail, he’d started sharing all he knew about the operations at what had turned out to be a very shady company.

The same company where Thomas Paige had worked years ago.

A company that had been washed so clean, it raised no flags in the murder, and showed no ties to White Box in the present day, either. There was no paper trail at all to link the drugs and guns to the limo service—or the murder, of course—but it turned out Sanders had overheard a few conversations in his runs, and those clues had been enough for Reiss to tie Charlie, Curtis, and White Box back to West Limo.

Charlie knew how to operate like smoke, hiding his tracks, never leaving a trail. But at least there was evidence now to bring them in.

As he turned a corner, John tried Michael once more. The phone rang and rang and rang.

He kept dialing, but with each non-answer, John’s senses told him something was dead wrong.

His suspicions were confirmed when a crackle came over the radio. Paramedics were hauling ass to the same building that he was. Words like multiple gunshot wounds and critical pierced his ears.

Oh God. He was too late.

When he arrived, an ambulance was racing away, sirens blaring, speeding faster than he swore he’d ever seen one go.