Chapter Eight
Gabe sat in a chair with two of the bikers standing over him, one with a knife, the other with the bad news end of a .38 pointed at him. The second that .38 made its appearance, their odds plummeted. And with Palermo half-conked out, well the fight turned from a bar brawl to survival. And at the moment, survival meant letting Palermo get his head straight before they took another run at these boys.
Gabe shifted his gaze to Palermo, who faced similar circumstances with Jimmy and another knife. Palermo had taken a pretty good beating. Blood poured from his nose and left eye and streamed down his face.
“Stand ’em up,” Jimmy said. “Search them.”
They were hauled to their feet and held at gunpoint while the two bikers grabbed Gabe’s wallet and phone and set them on the bar next to Palermo’s.
“Fucking cops!” Gus yelled. “You sons of bitches. I told you three weeks ago I was running a legit joint here.”
Then Gabe’s phone buzzed, rattling against the solid surface of the bar. Crap, crap, crap. He shifted his eyes left, prayed it wasn’t Jo calling. If it was, her picture would be stretched across the screen of his phone. Right next to Jimmy, who couldn’t resist looking.
“Whoa,” Jimmy said. “Ain’t she pretty.”
Gabe’s mind exploded. A full-on panic he’d never experienced, even on the job, and something roared inside. He jumped from the chair, felt the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head, and stopped. Halted right in his goddamn spot.
“Sit your ass down,” Smell-boy said.
The gun pressed against his head again and Palermo jerked his thumb, urging Gabe to sit. Probably his best option because losing his shit and getting killed wouldn’t help Jo.
He sat.
For now.
The phone buzzed again and Jimmy picked it up, studying the picture. “Hold up, here.”
Goddamnit.
Then Jimmy burst out laughing, a demented cackling that scraped right up Gabe’s spine.
“What’s funny?” Smell-boy wanted to know.
Jimmy pointed at Jo’s picture then swiped at the screen. “That’s her. Huh. Hang on.” He looked at Gabe, a shit-eating grin tearing across his face. “This your girl?”
Gabe continued his silence.
“That’s okay. I’ll figure it out. Oh,” he said, laughing a little. “Look at this. You texted your mother your hotel and room number. Such a good boy.”
Palermo let out a frustrated grunt. As if Gabe knew their alleged murderer would get hold of his phone.
Jimmy shoved the phone in his pocket, scooped up the boxes of cigarettes and headed for the door. “Gus, you’re closed. Lock up behind me. You boys keep an eye on these two.”
“Wait,” Smell-boy said. “Where you goin’? What are we doing with them?”
“Nothing. Yet. I need to find this blonde and then I’ll take care of them.”
“Hey!” Gus yelled. “You’re not doing this shit in my place!”
Smell-boy turned the weapon on him. “Shut the fuck up.” He nodded at his buddy. “Lock that door and unplug the sign.”
The lackey hustled after Jimmy, flipped the lock and then yanked the plug on the sign while his buddy stood guard over Gabe and Palermo. The odds though, they’d gotten infinitely better. Two bad guys, one armed, the other with a switchblade. And Gus. Who didn’t want any trouble.
“Gus,” Gabe called.
“Shut up!”
The guy with the .38 nudged the gun closer to a still seated Gabe. “What? You’re gonna shoot me? You got two S.W.A.T. guys here. You know the shitstorm that’ll rain down on you?”
“Shut up!”
“Gus? You got a nice place here. I know you’re trying to go legit. These boys killing two S.W.A.T. operators is not gonna make that happen.”
Smell-boy swung his head toward Gus, and Gabe and Palermo, like a choreographed dance, leapt from their chairs, each of them tackling one of the bikers. The gun went off, a bullet whizzing past Gabe’s head and his ear shattered from the pressure, the ringing muffling any other sound. Whoa, close.
Shit, shit, shit. Juicy adrenaline flooded his body and he dove on the biker. They crashed to the ground, the gun flying and Gabe came up swinging, pounding on him, right, left, right, left again until the guy’s face split open on both sides. Beside him, Palermo slammed his guy’s head into the floor then hopped up, kicking the knife away as the biker groaned, his head lolling back and forth.
The tips of cowboy boots—had to be Gus—filled Gabe’s peripheral vision. He rolled Smell-boy to his stomach, glancing up at Gus, who stood there, baseball bat at the ready. Apparently, he’d distracted the bikers with that bat.
“Gus,” Palermo said, reaching for his phone. “I’m calling 911. I’ll help you out here, let the PD know you did us a huge large. You got any zip-ties? The big ones?”
“Yeah. In the back.”
“Go get me a handful.”
Gabe watched him go, jammed his knee into the biker’s back and looked up at Palermo. “I gotta call Jo. Get her the hell out of that hotel.”
* * *
After thirty minutes of pacing the hotel room, her phone in hand, the damned thing finally rang. Jo jabbed at the screen. “Wes, for God’s sakes, I’ve been calling Gabe for forty-five minutes.”
“It’s me.”
Gabe’s voice. On Wes’s phone. Thank God. She lowered herself to the couch and ran her palm up her forehead. “I’ve been sick worrying. You could have texted me.”
“As painful as this will be for you, I need you to be quiet and not hit me with a stream of questions. I’ll explain later. You need to leave that hotel room. Now.”
“Where are you?”
“Goddamnit, Jo!”
She inhaled a sharp breath that tore down her throat. Gabe yelling wasn’t uncommon. Him yelling in that growling, aggressive tone? At her?
Definitely uncommon.
Whatever was happening, it was nothing good. She shoved her feet into her loafers. “I’m putting my shoes on. Just tell me while I’m walking.”
“I’m on my way back. Be there in ten. Maybe less. We found Jimmy Jax—Wes and me—and he’s on his way there. He got hold of my phone, saw the hotel and room number from my texts. You need to leave that room. Fast.”
She reached the door and stopped, her pulse pounding so hard it might burst through her skin. “What?”
“I’ll explain later. Just get out of there. And make sure the safe is locked. My weapon is in there.”
The line went dead. Wait. What? She checked the screen. Call ended. He must have lost the signal. The safe. Not wanting to lose time, she ran to the closet where the safe door hung open from when they’d returned to the room earlier. Inside, his giant handgun sat already tucked into the holster. A burst of panic flooded her body. Trembling, she reached in, grabbed the weapon, flexed her fingers around the hard polymer and—holy smokes—the weight of it stunned her. Like solid lead in her palm. Had to be ten pounds. Maybe a little less, but not much. And Gabe walked around with that thing strapped to him all day.
Focus. After fiddling with the holster, she secured it to her waist, practiced sliding the gun out and rushed to the door, checking the peep. Nothing. She inched the door open, peeked as far as she could—still nothing—and stepped into the hall, swinging her gaze left then right. Two doors down a maintenance cart sat in front of a doorway indicating someone might be there. If she screamed they might help. The door bumped her rear—wait. She’d forgotten her key.
Need it. From the far end of the hall, the elevator dinged, and instinctively, she stopped, just halted right in the doorway.
“I’m here,” a man said. “Call you back.”
And, oh no, she might know that voice. Not sure. Forget the key. She had to get out. Now. She flipped the security bolt so the door wouldn’t latch.
But if the man at the elevator was Jimmy Jax, her escape was blocked and he’d be turning that corner any second. She doubled back, sprinting to the room with the maintenance cart, but the door was closed.
Dammit. No time to knock. Hide. Five feet away, a small table was centered in an alcove with a house phone. She ran to it, squeezing her body between the wall and the table, so she’d be out of sight. On the phone, she pressed the button for security. Come on, come on. Answer.
“Security. May I help you?”
“I’m Joanna Pomeroy. Room 1342 and I need help. Come now.”
“What’s—?”
Jo gritted her teeth. “Please. There’s a man coming. I need help.”
She hung up, her elbow bumping Gabe’s giant handgun resting at her hip. All the help she needed might be hooked to her body. But could she do it? Could she fire that weapon?
She sure hoped so.
Jo stayed quiet, listening for any noise in the hallway. She peeked out just as a man with stringy, reddish-blond hair—Jimmy Jax—pushed her hotel room door open.
“Honey,” he called, his voice light and laced with sarcasm. “I’m home.”
Once he discovered the room empty, he’d realize she couldn’t be too far with the door unlocked like that and he’d come looking.
Move. She glanced at the maintenance cart. Get it. Sliding from her hiding spot, she ran back to the cart, latched on, and charged down the hallway, shoving the cart in front of her. The wheels caught on the carpet, lurched, and her stomach crashed into the thick plastic handle. Pain shot clear to her back, but she gave a good shove and the wheels gained traction again. A few more feet and she’d be there.
Her hotel room’s door closed, clinking against the security latch. Gotcha. In seconds he’d realize the room was empty and he’d come out. Maybe running. One last push and the cart would block the doorway. Perfect.
At worst, it would buy her time. At best, he’d trip over it and give her even more time.
Cart aligned, she stepped sideways and then everything blurred. The door opened, its bottom edge slowly scrapping against the carpeting. Run. But her feet wouldn’t go. Run. Finally her left foot came up as the door slowly peeled back. Her skin caught fire and she sucked a breath, inhaling the pungent air-freshened air that made her stomach roll.
The man’s eyes narrowed, focused in on her and a smile seeped across his face. “Hello, Jo.”
Nuh, nuh, nuh. He set one of his big, meaty hands on the cart and she squared off with him, holding it in place. Her elbow bumped Gabe’s gun—gun!—and she let go of the cart, ripping the weapon from the holster. Hands trembling, she stepped back, pointed the gun straight at his chest. Center mass, Gabe called it, but with the way her hands shook, who knew if she’d hit her target. Or even have the nerve to pull the trigger. Jimmy shoved the cart away, sending it sailing and it tipped over, its contents spilling to the floor as he lunged for her.
“No!”
She pulled her index finger back, missed the trigger and a low cry squeaked in her throat. Again she moved her finger and the trigger rubbed against her skin. Too late. He was on her, shoving her backward, grabbing onto her wrist.
Boom!
The shot ripped into the wall and Jimmy, trying to knock the gun free, spun into her, landed with his back to her, her arm trapped in his grasp as he dragged her into her room.
Control the gun. Short on options, she kicked him in the back of the knee and he howled, but hung on. She kicked again. This time, he let go, spun and slammed that meaty fist into the side of her face. For a second there was numbness and the only sound a slow-motion roar—rowwwwrrrrr—over and over again.
And then pain tore into her cheek, ripped straight up to her hairline as if someone had reached in and wrenched the skin apart. Agonizing, bone-shattering pain. Dear God that hurt. She moaned and stepped back, reaching for her face and clocking herself with Gabe’s ten-pound gun.
God. Help me.
She closed her eyes, resisted the tears, and breathed through the second jolt of crushing pain. Bile backed up in her throat and she swallowed. Don’t throw up. And then she flew backward, slamming into the wall with enough force to bounce her head off of it. Gun. She rebounded off the wall, her body literally springing from it and sailing to the floor, but the gun had skittered away and she spotted it, just a foot from her. Where is he? Head pounding, she swung around, found her attacker just above her, arm cocked back, giant fist ready for round two. From all fours, Jo scrambled for the gun. Please, please, please.
Knees scraping the carpet and fingers digging in—so close—she waited for the blow, anticipated its punishing force, but still reached the gun. Yes.
A thud sounded and she covered her head with her hands, waiting, waiting, waiting but…nothing.
Gun in hand, she rolled right, pointing in the general direction of the thump, finger on the trigger, ready to fire.
Gabe.
“Don’t shoot!” he hollered.
Two feet from her, standing over her attacker, he drove his giant foot into him. Jimmy hitting the floor must have been the thump she’d heard.
He grabbed Jimmy by the shirt and—wham—slammed his fist into his face. Oh, ouch. With the belt she’d just taken, she knew that had to hurt. Easing her finger off the trigger, she got to her feet. The room shifted, the carpet bending this way and that and she swayed.
Jimmy kicked out, knocking Gabe off balance and sending him stumbling back and—nuh-uh—this was not going to happen. She would not let this asshole get to his feet.
She swung the gun right, her hands amazingly steady and aimed. Center mass. “I’ll do it,” she said. “After what you just did to me. I’ll do it.”
The man stared up at her, his eyes locked on, measuring. Before he’d put his hands on her, she’d been afraid. Now?
Not so much.
Now she’d fire.
And wouldn’t miss.
Movement near the door distracted her and she slid her gaze left. A security guard swung into the room, saw a blonde with a gun and halted.
“Stay there!” Gabe shouted.
And the guard started screaming, hollering something about the police and Jo went back to Jimmy, still on the floor, eyeballing her, ready to pounce. The shouting guard grated her last nerve and she breathed in, readied herself for the shot.
But then Gabe was beside her, placing his hand over hers, his warm skin, as usual, gentle on hers as he eased her hand back, taking control of the gun.
“Step away, Jo,” he whispered, his calm voice penetrating the panicked roar in her head.
She slid behind him, resting the untouched side of her face against his shoulder. “I’m so happy to see you.”
He reached one arm back while still holding the gun on his moaning prisoner. “That makes two of us.” He let out a soft laugh. “Damn, Jo. You finally listen to me and stay put and still wind up nearly giving me a heart attack. I swear you’re going to put me in an early grave.”
* * *
Jimmy sat up and leaned against the wall. Gabe had minutes, if that, before the cops showed up. Minutes to convince this guy he was cooked.
“Hands where I can see them,” Gabe said. “Because listen up, Jimmy. Your life just got worse. We can we put you in that shop when those people were murdered.”
“Bullshit.”
“Call it whatever you want, but you’re cooked. After that show you put on in Gus’s bar, detectives are on the way here to pick you up. And when they arrive, I’ll tell them to search your car where they’ll find counterfeit cigarettes.”
Jimmy shrugged.
“You know, the LAPD has a task force cracking down on trafficking counterfeit items. Even if you don’t wanna talk about this murder charge, they’ll wanna know who your supplier is on those cigarettes. You’re definitely doing time on those bogus cigs. Bet on it. They’ll find every charge possible. Hell, they’ll probably get you twenty years on those cigarettes alone. Right, Jo? By the way, Jimmy, Jo here, the one you just assaulted, is a lawyer. She’s working with the PD. You’re fucked all around, pal.”
“Ah, Christ,” Jimmy said.
Still standing behind Gabe, Jo inched sideways. “That’s right. The tax revenue lost on counterfeit goods is in the hundreds of millions. Then there’s the lost jobs. This city doesn’t take that lightly.”
“Whatever,” Jimmy said. “I’ll pay a fine,”
The guy had assaulted two police officers plus Jo and he thought he’d walk? Good luck. Even if the DA couldn’t get that murder charge to stick because, technically, Jo hadn’t seen Jimmy pull the trigger, he’d still be in a shitload of trouble.
But Jimmy didn’t appear to be the brilliant sort, and more than anything, Gabe wanted Jo not to have to testify against him.
Which meant, when the detectives questioned him, Jimmy had to confess.
On it.
“Let me tell you how this works,” Gabe said. “First thing they’ll do is search your house. There’s probably a warrant happening for that right now. If they find any counterfeits in your residence, they’ll seize your house and everything in it because that property was used in connection with distributing illegal goods. Oh, and your car, too. That’s gone. And if you’re married, they might even be able to snag your wife’s car. Then you’re looking at conspiracy charges. If they find you moved these bogus cigs across state lines or had them shipped in from a foreign country, they’ll nail your ass on that.”
“Yes,” Jo said. “Transporting illegal goods across state and international lines is huge. You could get five to ten years in prison. Minimum. Then, well, there are fines. Those could be half a million dollars.”
Jo snapped her fingers, really getting into it now. “And you know what? If the manufacturer wants to bring a civil suit against you for trademark infringement, that’s another issue. But you won’t have to worry about that lawsuit from prison. That’ll be your wife’s problem, right?”
Gabe whistled. “Damn, that’s poetic.”
“Bullshit!” Jimmy Jax yelled.
“If you say so,” Gabe said. “You got kids, Jimmy? You wanna risk it? Making your kids homeless?”
“Fuck you! Don’t talk to me about my kids.”
Flashpoint. Got him.
Obviously inspired, Jo circled her hand. “Let’s get down to it here. I’m not your lawyer, but I’ll tell you what I think will happen. The DA will make a case on the cigarettes and you’ll take a plea. That’s easy. But this murder charge will stay. If you don’t give them anything on that, you’ll go to trial. Or you can save everyone a lot of time and aggravation, not to mention tax payer money, by admitting what you did. If you do that, maybe they’ll cut you a deal so you won’t die in prison. Your kids might appreciate you getting out of prison before you die.”
Two officers, weapons drawn, swung into the room. “Freeze!”
Game over. And they were just getting warmed up. Gabe lowered his weapon. “Think about what we said, Jimmy, and maybe you won’t die in prison.”