When a Man Loves a Weapon, page 24
part #3 of Bobbie Faye Series
“Point is,” Trevor said, “ASAC Brennan’s hitting a wall, so we’re not going to know if the employees in there are aware of Nina’s status as an agent, if they’re fellow agents, or if they’re purely civilians.”
“But Nina works for the government. And she’s a fucking hostage. Are you telling me they aren’t admitting that?”
“Her cover’s been established for a very long time for some very good reasons. There are other agents’ lives at stake, all over the world. If her employers pop up and suddenly claim her, MacGreggor will know exactly what sort of leverage he’s got.”
“Right now,” Moreau added, “he may think he’s only got your friend.”
Trevor watched as she absorbed that, livid. He wanted to reach for her.
But he stood still, his arms crossed to keep from touching her. Being together had to be her choice—not just because they needed the comfort of each other’s touch.
“Meanwhile, if anyone is even inside, they don’t know we’re coming. There’s a tight security protection on their entrances and exits, which suggests they’re not going to be welcoming. We also don’t know who their clients are, what secrets they may be getting from those clients, and we don’t want to go in there and arouse suspicion that the club is a government front.”
“Why can’t we just call Gilda and say, ‘Hi, remember me, your boss’s best friend? I’m worried about her—I’d like to ask you some questions?’ ”
“Sure we could,” Riles said. “Aside from the fact that they’re not answering their phone, we are not absolutely sure where MacGreggor snatched Nina—so we don’t know if his people left something behind that could hurt us—and we can’t guarantee one-hundred percent they’re not inside the S&M club right this minute, holding the employees hostage. We’re not about to walk into a really fucked-up deal. We have to assume the worst. You know . . . how you generally feel every single time you look in a mirror.”
“You and duct tape, Barnacle, are going to become very good friends after this.”
Moreau’s phone rang, and while he talked, Trevor found what he’d hoped for on the building plans and he angled the phone so everyone could see. “There’s a service elevator, east side. Direct to the employee entrance of the club above.”
“Heavy security on that, I checked—video surveillance and a computerized entry, passcode and thumbprint—and that’s a guess, I couldn’t get close enough,” Riles said.
“Nick’s in custody,” Moreau told them, hanging up the phone. “Lawyered up immediately. How about the stairs?” He leaned in to examine the blueprints with Trevor.
“There are two guards on each set of stairs. We’d have to split up,” Riles said, also looking at the blueprints. “Two on the east side, one and”—he nodded to Bobbie Faye—“a half on the west side.”
“Or I can use my passcode to the employee elevator,” Bobbie Faye suggested.
“You have a passcode to the exclusive floor of an S&M club?” Riles asked. “That explains a lot.”
Lori Ann’s nerves multiplied, folded, multiplied again, and beat a rhythm against her stomach. Three hours ’til game time, and she and Stacey were wandering around beneath the stadium in one of the large parking bays—an area big enough to house visiting team buses and still have plenty of room for other vehicles and storage space for miscellaneous construction crap. They were waiting for Marcel to come back from the last-minute pregame Mike the Tiger check. Right before the game, the big cat would be loaded from his giant pen into the touring cage, right across the little tree-lined street, and then Marcel would pull the cage into this bay. At which point, she would try not to have a heart attack.
They were going to pull Mike the Tiger. Around the football field.
They were going to be a part of history, a part of this place she’d have liked to have attended. Maybe one day—maybe if she could stay sober, one day at a time, and Stacey was in school, maybe.
“Mamma mamma,” Stacey chanted, her pom-poms going overtime, and Lori Ann had to haul her off the piles of concrete blocks someone had stacked up against the back wall of the bay. The wall that supported the stadium seating above it and the noise above them was already a low roar as people filed in to find their seats. Then she had to pull Stacey off the mountain of rebar and the boxes of tools, off the side of the giant generator, and then away from the orange cones tossed into a corner. It was little kid heaven and really, the idiot contractor should have picked a better spot for all of this crap. Of course, if they’d left it outside, it would have taken up precious parking spots—spots LSU charged a fee for, so what did she expect?
She pulled Stacey back off the concrete blocks, determined to interest the kid in something else besides practicing jumping like the big cheerleaders did. She scanned the room, noting a camera on top of a generator nearby. There was no barricade in sight to prevent someone from accidentally tripping on the construction supplies piled up there; a camera as a preventative safety measure wasn’t really going to cut it, except maybe to show if someone was stealing the stuff. It was amazing how safety-conscious she’d gotten after having a kid—and being on the sidelines of Bobbie Faye disasters. Now, Lori Ann examined everything with the magnifying glass of “how dangerous is it?”—especially with Stacey determinedly taking after her aunt.
She smiled at her daughter, who was coated now with the sticky purple residue of the sno cone Marcel had bought her and, on top of that, the dust from the construction supplies. She was a big ball of sugar high, and Lori Ann was going to have to convince this kid to sit still in Marcel’s truck for the trip around the field.
Yeah, like that was gonna happen.
The mechanic paced around his workshop, its pristine cleanliness a mockery of how he felt. He ran his hands over his close-cropped hair, wondering how the hell he’d not seen this coming. A quick glance at his watch told him the story: it was five minutes after the bombs should have blown. Five whole minutes. Still no GPS. He had not made his warning call to take responsibility. Without a computer uplink, he couldn’t blow the bombs, and he did not know what the hell to do.
And the Irish were not picking up his calls. They’d bought the supplies, they’d left it up to him just how to make the bombs, how to get them into the plant, and he’d taken care of everything. The Irish had their motives, which was fine—they dovetailed with his: take down Poly-Ferosia.
He looked at Chloë’s urn, and wished, for the millionth time, he’d taken her to work that day. He was supposed to drive her, but he’d been sick with a cold, and she’d made him stay home. They were supposed to go out dancing that evening for their anniversary and she didn’t want him to be too sick to go.
A fucking cold.
He squeezed his eyes against the memory of arriving at the wreck after a friend called. Getting there as they’d pulled Chloë from the carnage that used to be her car, her body coated with oil and gas, burned ’til she wasn’t recognizable. He’d reached for her, then. He’d pushed aside the fireman, pushed aside the paramedics, knowing it was too late, and he still reached for her, the oil and the grease coating his hands, burning in his nostrils with the horrid smell of burnt flesh. He smelled it in his sleep. He woke to it, every day.
A “one-car” accident. There had been a definite dent in the fender with yellow paint that he’d known hadn’t been there before. Not enough evidence that she hadn’t just had a fender bender in a parking lot somewhere, the defense attorney said. Not enough evidence for conspiracy that someone had run her off the road. Not enough to put those bastards behind bars, the bastards at Poly-Ferosia who knew she had evidence to nail them for all of their hazardous safety violations. Violations that would kill people if she didn’t stop them.
Violations that would cost Poly-Ferosia millions.
He meant to cost them more. He meant to take this fight to their door. Eleven fucking years and his wrongful death case on Chloë’s behalf was so mired in the court system, nothing was going to happen. Nothing. He could see it, he knew it, and all of that effort wasn’t fucking good enough to nail the bastards for her death.
There was nothing on the news channel on the TV in the corner of the room. Nothing except the casino and the explosion at Bobbie Faye’s house, her photo splashed on every station. There should have been photos of the plant exploding.
He found himself at his sink again, rewashing his hands. He didn’t remember walking over there, starting the burning hot water, using the grit-laden soap again, the kind that scrubs away the oil and the grime, the kind he’d used so many times after Chloë. . . .
He turned off the faucet, grabbed a shop towel, and dried his chapped hands as he watched the news, his heart beating triple time.
The Irish.
The Irish.
He’d forgotten. How the fuck could he forget?
He stared at that channel, where Bobbie Faye’s house burned, and he knew. He knew what they were going to do. It had to be the same Irish, the ones who’d been in the paper, who’d been after Bobbie Faye back in June, which was two months before they’d contacted him. He’d just gotten the word from his attorney that his latest effort had stalled on appeal, that it was going to take another round, another year.
Some perfect fucking timing.
He should have seen this. With his military training, he should have asked more about their motives.
Oh, dear God. He pulled Chloë’s rosary from his jeans, and his hands flashed over the beads, second nature. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t let the Irish hijack his bombs.
He felt Chloë’s disapproval. Felt it as if Chloë were standing in the room, her hands on her slim hips, her blue eyes flaring, feet apart in that fighting stance she’d get whenever she’d taken him to task, the same sort of fighting stance she got whenever she dealt with people who wanted to play fast and loose with the law for their own benefit.
Lucidity. He felt, for the first time in years, lucid. Really fucking clear, and holy hell, Chloë would kill him. She’d refuse to sit by him in their forever that he’d fantasized. He’d lost her, and he was going to lose her all over again, the part of her he’d kept in his heart, that he’d hung onto for years, because there was no way she’d have loved him through this.
He had no idea how to stop the Irish. Were the bombs even in Poly-Ferosia?
He dialed the Irish again, planning on a confrontation with the man, planning on getting him to slip up, to give a hint as to just what the hell they were up to. Threaten to go to the police. Threaten whatever he could.
The phone chirped that the number was no longer in service.
“Bobbie Faye will have no comment until we have time to review the entire indictment.”
—Kathy Sweeney, Counsel to Bobbie Faye
Twenty-two
“Izzy,” Trevor said into his phone, “I need a ninety-second burst. Mark: 4:35. Can you do it?” Bobbie Faye watched him frown. “We are not talking about Mom now. No. Izzy, give me the fucking burst.” He hung up the phone.
“Izzy?” she asked him. “Isn’t she the sister who runs the family business?”
She needed something to think about, instead of the dead panic she felt over Nina being held, with the seconds ticking away.
They had set up in a perimeter around the building—Riles taking the east stairs, Cam the west, and she and Trevor taking the employee elevator. The poor security guards would be napping awhile—and would probably have a headache later from where Trevor and Riles had knocked them out. Trevor had noticed their check-in pattern with the head of security and planned an entry during a quiet interlude, hoping to buy them a few minutes before anyone in that clubhouse knew something was wrong. All of the access points, though, had security cameras, and Trevor wanted some sort of satellite doohickey to do something impressive that was going to take them down for a minute-and-a-half.
“An electronics business?” she added, remembering he hadn’t given her a lot of details about the family business; she had assumed it was some sort of mom-and-pop store.
His eyes stayed glued to his watch, counting down to 4:35. “It’s a pretty big electronics business.”
He was annoyed—clearly not wanting to talk about something that focused back on his wealth, and from the anger simmering in his voice, she had a niggly feeling that “electronics business” should mean more than . . . She stared at the brand logo on his phone and sweet fucking pink and yellow unicorns, she just realized. “You’re kidding me. Cormi-Co Telecommunications?” They were one of the largest, fastest-growing telecoms and had taken over her cell phone provider.
A multibillion-dollar company.
“I have absolutely nothing to do with running the company, Sundance. Or with the hundred other things my sisters and my parents run—that’s their thing. This is mine.” He watched the time and said, “Go,” and they sprinted to the service elevator security box. As Bobbie Faye plugged in the code Nina had given her over a year ago, Trevor stood near her—but not near enough. Not the way he’d have been standing the day before. His arms were folded, his hands weren’t reaching out to touch her; it was as if he had completely withdrawn until he knew what she wanted—until she knew for sure and drew the line.
He wanted words. In the middle of this, Trevor wanted words.
The doors opened, they stepped inside, and he leaned against one wall, staring somewhere off into space, somewhere light years away from her, and she hated it. Hated this place between them.
“Your family—they have—”
“I don’t want it.” The elevator jerked upward as he met her gaze, flint shearing off him. “I have everything I want in this elevator.”
“You’d just walk away from all of that—”
“I already did. Many years ago. I’ve got my life. They don’t like it, and there’s a lot of pressure for me to participate, but I’m not going to. Izzy wants it; I hate it. And all I want is right here.”
Her body heated to Inferno with just the sweep of his gaze, and still he held back. He didn’t touch her, and it was wrong and empty and it made her angry, all over again.
He had not trusted her.
Still didn’t. Not really.
She started to tell him just exactly what she thought about his stupidity when he put a hand up . . . the elevator stopped and the doors slid open.
“Thirty-two seconds ’til we have cameras again,” he said, and eased out of the elevator into a beautiful kitchen area, his gun drawn, keeping her behind him.
They scanned the room—glancing into open doorways and pantries—and it appeared they’d interrupted meal prep. An Italian sauce simmered on the professional chef’s stove and pasta boiled in a magnificent pot. Bobbie Faye noted clean dishes set out for a dinner—it was getting late in the afternoon—and there were six plates. She touched Trevor on the arm to direct his attention to the dining table, and with just her hand on his bicep, the electricity between them jumped and hummed low in her body.
He nodded, all business, moving away from her and purposefully toward a hallway. According to the blueprints, there was a large living room in the center of this penthouse “club.” As he toed open the door, he hesitated at first, then he reached behind and slid his hand along her arm, tucking her closer behind him as if he needed the reassurance that she was there and safe. There were complete layers to the man that she couldn’t fathom. The room they entered seemed empty and the whole place felt hushed—too quiet where there ought to be normal noises of people going about their day. Whoever had been cooking in the kitchen ought to be somewhere nearby, and the fact that the place seemed empty meant someone in the S&M club had seen them enter.
Trevor motioned her to follow and eased into the living space. From across the room, Bobbie Faye saw Cam and Riles enter from two different hallways, both shaking their heads—the hallways had been empty.
Trevor tapped his watch and motioned to his eyes—the cameras were back up. There was one last area of the club to search, and as the four of them eased from the living room into what Bobbie Faye would have loosely described as the “work quarter,” Trevor took point.
The door was locked. Definitely the pasta-cookers’ refuge. Trevor backed off, taking one side of the door with her while Cam and Riles took the other. Trevor glanced at Cam, and they nodded: ready.
“Police,” Cam shouted. “Come out. Hands up!”
Bobbie Faye jumped at the visceral, barking order—so definite, it made her want to put her own hands up.
An intercom snapped static into the room, and their eyes went to the panel next to the door, where a computer screen displayed a small, very young woman in an expensive suit leaning toward the camera projecting her image; her face was bowl-shaped and distorted.
“ID please?” she asked.
Cam held up his shield.
“Okay, we’re coming out. We are not armed. And you’ve just violated more laws than I can count, so you stand still.”
The door opened and a tiny wisp of a girl emerged. Bobbie Faye had a hard time thinking she could be more than twelve, but she wore an expensive business suit and carried herself with a rigid comportment that made Bobbie Faye wonder if the stitches had healed yet from the stick up her ass. It was the five women behind her which made Bobbie Faye bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning, though she noticed Riles did not have any such reluctance. They were all decked out in S&M gear—Amazon women in their high platform heels and leather outfits that had more . . . accesses . . . than actual coverage.
“Ohmygoodness,” the small woman said as soon as she made eye contact with Bobbie Faye. “I can’t believe we almost shot you! Nina would have kicked my ass.” She saw Riles then, and practically started to drool. “Oh. Wow. You’re. Wow. You’re Mr. Rilestone. Wow. So great to meet you, sir.”
If the twit genuflected, Bobbie Faye was going to bean her.
