Assassin (An SOBs Novel Book 2), page 30
“Knock it off,” he growled, then nodded, his oatmeal-toned skin oddly gray under the fluorescent lighting in this concrete room. The man needed to get out in the sun more. He was as pale as Vito, just not as strikingly handsome in the scary, unpredictable, Seranzino way. And in no way, shape, or form was Dane the alpha male that Pagan was.
He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with her fingers clutching him where she could do the most damage. Not that she would. After all, she was—patient. Cunning. More devious than he’d live long enough to understand.
“Since you proved harder to kill than I, umm, anticipated, I’ve changed my a-agenda.” And now he was stuttering. “You’re back on the job. Hermes will have to be content with the job he’s got.”
“B-but boss—” Hermes sputtered.
“Can it,” Dane growled huskily even as his eyelids grew heavy under Vicki’s continued massage. But he wasn’t kidding anyone, and she wasn’t a fool. He was behind her kill order, she damned well knew it. Which meant Senator Sullivan must’ve somehow put the fear of God into this weaselly, conniving little man during the last few hours or days, maybe when he’d refused to hunt down an innocent Mafia assassin—if there were such a thing—just because Dane said so. She had the Sin Boys to thank for that.
Which also meant, despite her tenuous hold on the, umm, situation, Dane Rich was now running scared. The wimpy, wannabe was afraid he’d get caught. Which made him malleable, yet unpredictable.
She could work with that, too. She’d have to proceed cautiously, but yeah. He was after all, just a man with a wimpy hard-on. “What do you mean, you’ve changed your agenda?” she breathed into his face as she released him but continued stroking him through his pants.
He stuck his weak chin at her, his eyes bright. “I just might tell you now that I’ve got you sufficiently collared. What could it hurt?”
As if she didn’t hold his whole world in her hand? It could hurt one hell of a lot. The need to strike back was strong, the need to avenge what Dane had done to Pagan, Paloma, and timid Cherry, fierce, and oh, so tempting. Vicki could end this farce here and now, before it went any further. She could!
She could save Senator Sullivan, Pagan and his brothers, maybe Cherry Goodwin and her hubby, too. Saving Morton Hermes was off the table, but Rich needed to die. One clutch. That was all. Just one strangling tight grip on his testicles, and he’d be the one on the floor on his knees. Wouldn’t that shock Hermes? He’d thought he’d get a front row seat to her humiliation and degradation. He’d thought he could get his rocks off watching her get hers. Wasn’t that—rich?
But before she proceeded with her better plan, Vicki Hex leaned into her handler and whispered, “Please, sir. May I have some more?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Pagan couldn’t drive fast enough to the other hotel his mother had once loved in the rowdy town Carl Sandburg, the American poet, had romanticized all those years ago.
Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders…
He knew only the first few lines of the famous poem because his mother had spouted them often enough, only she’d spoken them with drama and flair. He thought of them now with a fierce determination to not let this wicked, wicked city swallow Paloma down its yawing throat, too.
Until Kruze’s butt pocket buzzed, and with one word, the world turned upside down yet again. Kruze turned and stared wide-eyed at Pagan as he asked, “Julio?”
He nodded, listening instead of asking the questions Pagan threw at him. “Where is he? Where’s he been? Has he heard from Paloma? Does he know where she is? Talk to me, damn it!”
Instead, Kruze told Julio, “Copy that,” and he hung up. He! Hung! Up!
Pagan could barely catch a breath by then. “Speak,” he ordered his older brother.
“Julio’s in town,” Kruze answered even as he thumb-dialed another number and said, “Change of plans, big brother. Can you meet us over at the loading docks?... Yeah. The Iroquois Lakefront Terminal and… That’s right… No, we can’t swing by and pick you up. Take a cab… Ah-huh… We’re already on our way.” He gave Chance an address before he said, “Copy that,” and hung up. Again!
Pagan nearly shrieked, “Where are we going?”
“Calumet Harbor,” Kruze said calmly. “Take a right at the next intersection. Chance will meet us there.”
“The Port of Chicago? Why? That’s—”
“I know. It’s close to an hour from where we are now, which is why you’re going to hook into I-90 and head south. Hurry.” Kruze’s narrow lips pinched tight. “We may not have a lot of time.”
“Why? What’d Julio say?”
Kruze chin nodded at the heavy traffic snarling the lanes ahead of them. “He said he’s located CIA Agent Dick Card. Will you step on it?”
Pagan floored it. Where Card was, he’d find Paloma. He had to!
*****
Vicki sat across a small round table where Dane Rich sat with Hermes at his right. The big tough guy still hadn’t gotten up the nerve to look Vicki in the eye, but he was walking straighter. Kind of. Timid, mousey Cherry Goodwin sat stiff and darn near comatose at Dane’s left. She looked like she was afraid to breathe, and she hadn’t spared even a quick glance in Vicki’s direction.
Until Vicki asked her handler, “Who’s Dick?”
Bingo. That got Cherry’s attention. “My husband,” she answered even as her eyes scrolled sideways to her boss. Her small white teeth bit down on her quivering bottom lip. This woman was the most pathetic agent Vicki had ever had the misfortune to meet. Dane sure knew how to pick them.
“Is he an agent? For the Agency?”
Cherry’s head bobbed. “Yes, he’s assigned to the San Diego office. The last time I talked with him, he was on his way to Singapore. Something about a bank robbery. International jewel thieves.”
“Where is he now?”
The woman’s throat worked extra-hard as she forced a swallow. “I… I honestly don’t know.”
“Interesting,” Vicki replied to that silly goose answer. “How can a wife not know where her husband is?”
Dane huffed, shaking his head while he stared Vicki down. “Do not play with the mice, Victoria. It’s cruel, even for a cunning bitch like you.”
At least he got that right. She was one bitch of a predator on the prowl. Make that a sleek black jungle cat. A leopard. “It’s Vicki, not Victoria,” she corrected her handler. “You ought to know that by now.”
Ignoring her correction, he flipped open the gray folder lying in front of him. “Ah, yes. Vicki Hex. Not Victoria. Let’s see what else we know about you, shall we? It says here you were trained by the CIA. Several good conduct medals. An overachiever. Doesn’t like to kill federal officials. Hmmm…” His index finger skimmed the comments in her service record. “It says here you only wing police officers, federal agents, and former military. You haven’t killed one yet.” His head came up as he asked, “Why’s that?”
She gave him her chin. “You ought to know. You’re my handler. You tell me.”
Grunting, Dane slapped the file closed. “That professional courtesy ends today, Hex. From now on, you’ll end who I tell you, and you’ll do it when I want. Understood? Now answer me. What are the Sinclairs to you?”
“Nothing,” she lied intelligently. Dane already knew she’d been at the clinic with Pagan, but she doubted he knew much more. “I ran into one of them late last night. The youngest, Pagan, remember? I shot him during that Portland op last year. Never expected to see him again, but there he was.”
Dane’s head bobbed as if he remembered that detail from her previous after-action report. “Why were you there?”
“Because some asshat…” She cast a glare at Hermes. “Hit me over the head, for one. Then, when I died…” She could have slapped herself as her hands came up automatically and performed those ridiculous Morton-esque air quotes. That really had to stop. “I fell and hit my head. Got a concussion. I’d passed out a couple times, so I scoped out the nearest clinic for a few meds. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Who pretended to shoot you?”
“How should I know? I was dead.”
Dane leaned into the table. “Here’s what I think happened. Pagan Sinclair came to town. You two hooked up. By then you knew you were on someone’s hit list. Hell, he probably came to Chicago just to rescue your sorry ass. You stayed at the same hotel his mother used to stay at before she kicked the bucket, right?”
“There’s no need to be coarse,” Vicki said. “Scarlett Sinclair was a rare woman to raise those boys all by herself. She deserves nothing but respect.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Dane kicked back in his chair. “Answer me. You stayed in her personal hotel suite, right?”
He had her there. “Yes. Pagan intercepted me after I dug myself out of the shallow grave where numbnuts left me. Pagan helped me, okay? That’s all. Is that so bad?”
“What else do you know about Scarlett?”
Vicki paused to reevaluate the decidedly unexpected turn this conversation had taken. For once Dane knew something she didn’t. Maybe it was time to let him talk for a while.
“Have you been following me?” she asked.
“What would it matter if I had?” he shot back at her. “But truthfully, no. Not you. Now tell me, have you ever seen Scarlett Sinclair with Vito or Cabb Seranzino?”
Vicki rolled her eyes. “No. Never,” she said, meaning it. “What on earth do you have against the Sinclairs?”
“I told you it’s not about them.”
“But you want to use them to get at Sullivan.”
Dane’s eyes glittered as if she’d finally understood. “This is what’s going to happen, Hex. You’re going to put on that tramp costume you usually wear, and then you’re going to pay Sullivan a visit. I’ve already made the appointment. No one needs to know you’re there. No one needs to see you. Just get in and get out. Keep it simple. Know what I mean?”
“And then…?”
Dane never flinched. “Kill him. Put one round in his head behind his right ear like you do in a Mafia hit. That’s all. End him, and you’ll end several other problems. Maybe then I’ll bring you in from the field. Wasn’t that what you wanted, to come in?”
She kept her cool, drumming her tender fingertips on the tabletop as if considering her options. Which were nil until she was out on the street. “Why?” she asked finally. “What’s Senator Sullivan ever done to you?”
His lips thinned. “Because everywhere I go, I run into someone connected to him, and I’m sick of it. His people are ruining all my… my plans.”
“His people? The Sinclairs are his people?” It took some restraint, but she conquered her urge to make air quotes. “What plans?”
The light in his eyes went out as if she’d flipped a switch, and suddenly, Vicki was looking at a flat-out psycho. Agent Rich cocked his head, looking at her as if she were a worm on a hook, when he said, “My plan to kill everyone who gets in my way. In case you’re thinking of double-crossing me, think again.” He slid a black and white glossy across the table to her.
Shit. He had a picture of her and Pagan kissing in the dark. Double shit. That impromptu kiss happened the night she’d offed John Wesley Mills in his home. Pagan had come to do the job, not knowing she was already there.
“You had me followed,” she declared.
Dane shook his head. “No, but I’ve been watching the Sinclairs for some time now. They work for Sullivan. I know they do. Just haven’t figured out exactly what they do for him.” He cocked his head at her. “Your choice, Hex. Kill Sullivan or I end that boyfriend of yours. Either way, I win.”
Which meant Dane had Sullivan under surveillance, too. That was how he’d linked Pagan and his brothers to the senator from Texas.
“Sullivan,” she said swiftly, her heart hammering. This would be an unfortunate first. She’d never deleted an honest man before. “When do you want it done?”
“After you honey-up to Vito, so he gets his ass back to work.”
Vicki understood completely then. Dane had gotten involved in something illegal that Vito unknowingly handled, probably drugs, cash, guns, or women. When Vito got ‘his ass back to work’, whatever deal Dane had working on the side would go down smoothly. Which meant someone was also watching Dane, waiting for him to deliver. This nightmare kept getting better and better.
Scoffing as if this kill order were a no-brainer, Vicki pushed back from the table. “Sullivan’ll be no problem. Sure. Yeah, I can do that easy. Where’re my clothes?”
“In your penthouse. Morton will drive you.” Dane slid a brown envelope to her. “Here’s a phone. Call me when it’s done.”
She opened the envelope and a small white appointment card fell out along with the burner. Great. Looked like she really had a date with Sullivan. “He’s meeting me at nine in three days?”
Dane stuck his arrogant chin at her. “Be there.”
Chapter Forty
The sun had barely set when Pagan turned off his headlights and coasted the SUV up to the square concrete warehouse abutting one damned tall loading crane. But winter was coming. The sun set earlier every night. He flipped his collar up and slipped one pistol out of his underarm holster. Already armed and dangerous, Kruze had bailed out of the SUV a block back when they’d spotted Chance waiting beside the road. Pagan now had the two men he trusted implicitly at his back as he faced the breeze blowing off Lake Michigan. Big, fat, wet snowflakes that would turn everything to ice before morning, began to fall.
Climbing out of the vehicle, he hunkered into the wind and stayed in the stark black shadow the crane had created. Industrial halogen lights lit the loading platform ahead. Beyond the crane at his left, rows upon rows of containers stood stacked for transport, either waiting on semi-trucks to come get them, or waiting on ships. The Port of Chicago at Calumet Harbor handled tons of deliverables and consisted of several major facilities, one of them abandoned and directly in front of Pagan. Off to the side of that building, a long pier jutted out into the murky whitecaps of Lake Michigan. The tethered ships alongside the pier bobbed like giant corks in the choppy water.
This particular terminal hosted several transit sheds that were more like monstrous, mile-long warehouses built to accommodate both big ship and wide barge berthing. The storage facilities down the pier had the capacity to store the hundreds of metric tons of grain transported across the lake daily. Busy place, this side of Chicago. Must be why Carl Sandburg named it the City of the Big Shoulders. Only the place wasn’t so husky or brawling tonight. Stormy, yeah. But quiet. Might be because of the winter storm moving in. But it might not.
Pagan kept walking, his firearm drawn, his footsteps muffled. There he was, hunting for Dick Card when he’d rather be searching for Paloma. If Julio were here, he had yet to make himself known. All Kruze knew was that Julio said come, so they came.
The softest rustle caught his attention as a door up ahead opened and a wide, shadowy, male figure in a trench coat stepped into view. A slighter figure without a jacket came out of that door next, her head down as the wind whipped her long dark hair.
Paloma?
Pagan froze where he stood, watching. Waiting. Hoping.
He had to allow those people to get close enough before he confronted them. Before he got Paloma hurt. All at once, the big guy at her side cocked his arm back. Before Pagan could shout a warning, she took the guy down with one lightning swift roundhouse kick, then climbed on top of his fluffy gut, her nose in his face. Pagan fast-tracked close enough to hear her order the guy, “Give me one reason not to cut your throat, Morton.”
“Answer her,” Pagan growled, his pistol levered at this fool’s forehead.
“Pagan!” she squealed as she jumped to her feet and barreled into him. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Ah, the warmth that spread through his heart just holding her again. He could barely speak. “Yeah, well, you shouldn’t be here either,” he said as he kept his weapon aimed at the sputtering fool on his back. “What’s going on? Why’d you leave? Why aren’t you wearing my jacket?”
Tossing her head, she shoved him back. “Leave. Now! This is none of your business. Go!”
He cocked his head, not understanding. Her hair looked wet and her lips were bruised and swollen. More mottled bruises darkened one eye. Her poor nose was swollen, and her left eyebrow was cut. His inner caveman roared to life. “I’m not going anywhere!”
Damned if she didn’t pull a pistol from those black pajamas of hers and point it at him.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she snapped, her heretofore tender eyes now gone hard as diamonds.
He played along. “Vicki? I… I thought we were friends.”
Her lips pinched. “Were, Baby Brother. Good word, were. Now beat it. Not sure why you’re here, but I’ve got work to do, and you need to take off.”
“I’m following a lead on some gunrunners,” he said, intent on maintaining her cover in case she needed it. “What are you doing here?”
By then the guy she’d kicked was up on one knee and pushing to his feet. Breathing hard he pulled his badge as he wheezed, “CIA Agent Morton Hermes. Clear the area, Mr. Sinclair. Scram before you fuck this operation up, too.”
What did that mean? Pagan cocked his head at the guy he’d never met but who knew his name. He swallowed hard and nodded, about to do the hardest thing he’d done in a while. He tipped two fingers in respect to Paloma, even as his heart screamed, ‘Run to her. Hold her. Protect her. Never let her go.’
Her eyes glistened, probably from the biting cold. But it could’ve been the emotions playing across her beautiful, battered face. As slight as she was, she looked sadder than ever before. Lost.
