Luke picked up the fallen rifle in one swift move, then leaned in to pilfer the radio sticking out of the guard’s pocket. “Take care of him,” he muttered to D.
He was halfway to the back door when he heard the butt of D’s gun cracking down on the guard’s head. There was a thud and a rustling sound as D dragged the unconscious body out of sight.
“Kangaroo out front taken care of,” Sullivan’s voice reported. “We’re going in.”
“So are we,” Luke reported back. He readjusted his grip on the AK in one hand. From the corner of his eye, he noticed D removing a hunting knife from the sheath on his belt. The dude always preferred a blade if given the choice.
“Tango on the roof went down for a nap,” Holden disclosed. “Going in.”
Luke reached the steel door. Abby’s intel said there should be two men behind it.
It was locked, but that wouldn’t be a problem. They’d had an eye on this place since yesterday, and the bullshit secret knock these amateurs had come up with had been easy to figure out. Three fast knuckle punches, two long ones.
“Ready?” he murmured.
D raised his fist to the door. “Always.” He knocked. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap.
A second later, two dead bolts clicked and the door creaked open. Just a crack, but a crack was all they needed.
Luke charged inside, silencing the surprised shout of the huge goon in the doorway by barreling into the guy’s chest and slamming him into the concrete wall. The guard’s rifle crashed to the cement floor. They both dove for it, but Luke reached it first and kicked the weapon away before launching himself at the guard. All it took was a swift karate chop to the neck for the guard’s eyes to roll back in his head, and then he was out cold.
Luke bounced to his feet in time to see D seating himself on the beefy chest of the second guard. D’s shaved head gleamed under the fluorescent light illuminating the corridor, and his eyes burned with satisfaction as he brought his blade up to the goon’s throat and pressed it to his Adam’s apple.
With an angry curse, the guard’s hand shot toward the radio on his belt, but D dug the knife deeper, drawing a line of blood. “Do it,” he said softly. “Reach for the radio again.”
The hand froze. Uneasiness swam in the brown eyes of D’s prey.
“Do it,” D said again. “Please. Just give me a reason.”
Luke’s shoulders tensed. He had no fucking clue why his teammate was suddenly acting like a bloodthirsty savage, but he didn’t fucking like it. Keeping his gaze on D’s knife, he stepped forward and uttered a low warning. “Derek.”
But the guard must have seen the same thing Luke had glimpsed on D’s face, because the hand hovering over the radio flopped onto the floor and the man’s huge body went limp with defeat.
The rush of disappointment that filled D’s eyes troubled the hell out of Luke.
“Coward,” D mumbled before slamming the handle of his knife into the man’s temple.
As D pocketed the radio and got to his feet, Luke’s lips tightened in a thin line. “What the fuck was that?” he demanded.
D glanced from one conked-out guard to the other. “Incapacitate and take out radio contact, no?”
He was ready to call bullshit on that, but D ended the conversation by checking in with the rest of the team. “We handled the two in the back. Status?”
A grunt reverberated in their ears. “One down here. Second fucker . . . is . . . being . . . handled,” Sullivan mumbled between pants.
Gunfire erupted.
At the sound of the shots, Luke all but forgot about the disturbing exchange between D and that guard. With D hot on his heels, he raced down the musty hallway, adrenaline spiking.
They reached a pair of huge swinging doors and rammed through them, emerging into a dark, cavernous space littered with empty pallets stacked up to the ceiling. Shit was happening near the front door, shadowy figures wrestling on the floor. Raising his gun, Luke sprinted across the room just as a sickening crack split the air.
Breathing hard, Sullivan stood up and scowled at the burly man lying dead at his feet.
“You hit?” Luke inquired sharply.
Sullivan wiped his bloody knuckles on the front of his black pants. “Nah. Idiot shot at the ceiling a few times.”
Trevor stepped out of the shadows, holding a confiscated radio. He opened his mouth, but the sound of his voice was drowned out by more gunfire. Two shots, a long pause, and then the unmistakable spray of an AK-47.
Holden’s urgent voice boomed into Luke’s earpiece. “Second floor. Last tango is making a run for it.”
Luke was the first to reach the metal staircase by the far wall. His boots pounded up the stairs, gun drawn. On the landing, he skidded to a stop at the same time a wild-eyed man dressed in black flew out of the corridor. The man took one look at Luke, then snarled and lifted his rifle.
Luke’s bullet hit him between the eyes. The guard went slack. The weapon promptly fell from his hands, his big body going down right along with it.
At the thump of footsteps, Luke swept his gun up, then lowered it when Holden appeared at the end of the hall.
“I found him,” the other man announced.
Shit. That didn’t sound good.
Stepping over the guard’s body, Luke followed Holden down the hall. They came to a stop in front of an open doorway. The room beyond it was bathed in shadows, pitch-black save for the sliver of moonlight slicing through the boarded-up window. A dark lump took residence on the cement floor in the center of the room. A body.
Trevor and the others swiftly appeared. With a resigned look, Trevor removed a flashlight from his belt and clicked it on, shining a shaft of light on the motionless figure.
“Is that Dane?” Sully spoke up.
“Don’t know.”
Holden stayed by the door while the others approached the body. Several more flashlights switched on.
“Two shots to the back of the head,” Trevor said grimly. He knelt, got his hands under the body, and rolled it over.
Everyone grimaced. The dude’s face was beaten to shit, a mangled mess of flesh, blood, and bone. Totally unrecognizable, though the hair matched the color and cut from Carter Dane’s photo. The stiff wore a tattered suit that had once been expensive, which also pointed to Dane, who’d no doubt had to stock up on the Armani once he’d started wooing Angelo and De Luca.
Luke bent down and rummaged inside the dead guy’s jacket. His hand emerged holding a leather wallet, which he flipped open so he could examine the driver’s license in the plastic sheath.
“Kyle Barber,” he said.
“Dane’s alias,” Trevor answered. “I guess De Luca made him.”
Shaking his head, Luke stood up. “It might not be Dane. Look at his face, for fuck’s sake. It’s beaten to a bloody pulp. You don’t do that for fun—you do it to prevent identification.”
“One way to find out.” Trevor went for the stiff’s zipper.
“What the fuck, mate?” Sullivan burst out, looking horrified. “Please don’t tell me you’re into corpses.”
“Why not? He’s still warm.” When Sully groaned in disgust, Trevor rolled his eyes. “Relax, man, it’s all about ID.” He undid the zipper and eased the corpse’s trousers down a few inches, then lifted the body to sneak a peek at the top of Mr. Dead’s ass.
Luke peered closer, instantly spotting the tat. It was a name, done in black cursive with a bunch of doodaddle curlicue shit around it. Mandy.
“Oh, Mandy,” Sullivan murmured. “Well, you came and you gave without taking.”
“Dane had a Mandy?” Luke asked.
“She was his high school sweetheart, died in a DUI before he joined the agency. He got inked on the one-year anniversary of her death. Dane’s file said he worked Mandy into his cover story.” Trevor let the body drop. “It’s him.”
It all felt oddly anticlimactic, but then again, wasn’t this exactly what he’d been expecting? From the start, this job had felt like
morgue duty. Finding Dane beaten and bullet-ridden was really no surprise.
Sullivan shrugged. “Mission accomplished, then.”
“Looks like it.” Trevor called out to Holden. “Contact our guy at the DEA. Tell him to send a cleanup crew.”
* * *
Hours later, Trevor stepped out of the shower in the master bathroom, wrapped a towel around his waist, and strode into the bedroom in search of his phone. He found it on the dresser and headed over to the bed, sinking onto the mattress as he dialed Isabel’s number.
She picked up on the first ring. “Trevor?”
He couldn’t control the spark of pleasure that heated his chest. He loved the sound of her voice. If that made him a pathetic sap, then so be it.
“You get home all right?” he asked gruffly.
“Yeah. Sullivan came to relieve me at Olivia’s building and I went straight home.” He heard her yawn. “I’m dying to go to sleep, but I was waiting for your call.”
Trevor checked the phone display, cringing when he realized it was five o’clock in the morning. The team had spent hours briefing the DEA agents who’d arrived to collect Dane’s body. Guilt skated through him at the knowledge that he’d kept Isabel awake this entire time.
“Shit, I should have called you earlier,” he said in apology. “We got tied up at the warehouse.”
“No worries. So, are we certain the body you found was Dane?”
“Fairly certain. ID matched, and so did the tattoo, but the agency will verify it with DNA since the guy’s face was unrecognizable.”
“When will we know for sure?” Isabel asked.
“Hopefully a day or two, depending on how long the DNA testing takes. Morgan wants us to stick around until we get confirmation, and he wants you to keep working at the club until then.”
Her voice became dry. “I was hoping to put my stripping career behind me.”
“We’ll pull you out soon,” he promised. “But there’s bound to be some fallout from Dane’s body being found. Angelo will want to cover his tracks, so we need you there to keep an eye on things.”
“What about the DEA’s mole situation? Do they still believe someone tipped De Luca and Angelo off about Dane infiltrating the outfit?”
“They’re investigating it at their own end, but frankly, even if they asked us to weed out their mole, I’d say hell no. I’m tired of this city.”
“Me too.” She sounded tired as she added, “I’m not sure why I even keep paying the rent on this apartment. New York offers nothing but sad memories.”
He waited for her to elaborate, but the line went quiet. “Get some sleep,” he finally said. “We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”
After they hung up, Trevor dragged a hand through his hair, feeling on edge. What exactly was he hoping to get from Isabel? Was he even ready to start something up with her? Gina had been gone for nearly two years, but he still dreamed of her, that same heart-wrenching dream where she appeared with a gun and tore into him for not being there to save her. And he still woke up in the middle of the night reaching for her, only to be hit by a wave of sorrow when his hand collided with nothing but emptiness. So, hell, maybe Isabel was right to keep her distance.
He stood abruptly, tired of thinking in circles. This wasn’t the time to be stirring up doubts and uncertainties. All he knew was that Isabel had saved his ass six months ago. She’d given him a second chance at life.
And he’d be a fool to waste that chance by letting old fears and lingering pain stand in his way.
* * *
“It wasn’t supposed to go down like that,” Vince fumed. He stalked across the living room toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. Even at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning, Manhattan was wide-awake and bustling. Bumper-to-bumper traffic on the streets, pedestrians rushing along the sidewalks. He had to wonder how many of those people had also woken up to bad news.
Tearing his gaze away from the flurry of activity below, Vince tightened his grip on the phone and let out a curse. “How did you let this happen?”
His associate sounded unrepentant. “Our men were caught off guard,” Erik Franz snapped. “Did you expect the DEA to storm the place?”
“Goddamn it.” He sat down on the leather couch and slammed his fist against his thigh. “Who knew the location of the warehouse? Who’s the fucking canary who sang to the Feds?”
Franz sounded weary. “I don’t know. Other than you and me, only the men assigned to the warehouse were in the loop. A few of the enforcers in De Luca’s inner circle also knew the location, but I don’t think the boss will take too kindly to us pointing fingers at his trusted soldiers.”
No, De Luca wouldn’t take kindly to that at all.
Hot rage exploded in Vince’s gut, hardening his jaw and making his hands tingle. In his eyes there was nothing more despicable than betrayal, and someone in his organization had just betrayed the fuck out of him. The DEA wasn’t supposed to find the body until Vince let them, and thanks to the rat, the body had been discovered ahead of schedule.
“Are we sure it was DEA?” he demanded.
“Jimmy drove by earlier and the warehouse was crawling with Feds, crime scene tape everywhere. Five of our guys got pinched, and two were killed during the raid.”
“What precinct were they taken to?”
“Seventh.”
“Good. Detective O’Shea is a friend of ours. Someone needs to get into lockup and take care of the five. We can’t have the death in the warehouse leading back to us.”
“Already on it. I sent Dominic.”
“Are we sure our man took out Dane?”
“He called me the second the shit hit the fan. I ordered him to put two bullets in the guy’s head and stayed on the phone while he did it.”
“So Dane’s dead.”
“Dane’s dead.”
“All right. At least that’s one less thing to worry about.” His eyes narrowed as something occurred to him. “We assigned eight men to the warehouse. You said two dead, five locked up. Who and where is the fucking eighth?”
Franz’s heavy breathing echoed on the line. “Bruno. He was on a coffee run when shit went down. Came back, saw the cops, and bolted. He’s at the safe house in Brooklyn. And before you ask, he insists he’s not the rat. I’m inclined to believe him—Bruno’s too damn stupid to betray you. What endgame could that idiot possibly have?”
Vince couldn’t help but concur. Bruno had the IQ of a fucking Kleenex—the oaf lacked both the brains and the savvy to pull off any real attempt at treason. Nevertheless, a message needed to be sent, and Bruno, unlucky bastard that he was, would take the fall for this.
“Send Sal to take care of it,” Vince said brusquely.
There was a beat. “He’s not the rat. In fact, there might not even be a rat. One of those boneheads might have leaked the address out of sheer incompetence.”
“I don’t give a shit. Someone needs to pay for this fuckup. Might as well be Bruno.”
“That’s messed up.”
“It’s convenient,” he snapped. “Those other motherfuckers are in lockup. Bruno isn’t. So tell Sal to deal with it.”
Franz paused again. “You want to give him the rat treatment?”
“Yes.” He grumbled in irritation. “Slit the bastard’s throat, cut his fucking tongue out, and give everyone in the organization a reminder of the consequences for snitching. And then you can keep a closer eye on the men and a tighter rein on this deal so shit like this doesn’t happen again.”
As disgust and residual rage coursed through his veins, he resisted the impulse to strangle someone. Namely Franz. The sole purpose of that body had been so the Feds would be looking the other way while the transaction went down. Vince couldn’t afford a single fucking hiccup when it came to this deal. They were looking at almost a hundred kilograms of heroin, five million dollars of pure, grade-A shit. It was twice the size of the shipments they typically smuggled in, and the first delivery under the ne
w agreement they’d made with the Moreno cartel.
He had brokered the deal himself, which meant that nothing, absolutely nothing, could go wrong. De Luca hadn’t been keen on joining up with the Colombians—the organization already had a solid distribution deal going with the Afghans—but Vince had pushed for this, and if it went smoothly, he’d climb even higher in De Luca’s eyes. If it didn’t . . . well, he refused to even consider that.
“Keep me posted on the situation,” he barked into the phone. “The Moreno rep is supposed to call tomorrow with a status check on the delivery, and the boat should arrive in the Miami port Monday afternoon. Make sure the crew down south is ready.”
“What about the Premiere Roast shipment?” Franz asked.
“Gets in late Monday night. The cargo will be unloaded, but the crew will wait for the Dominican merchandise before loading the truck.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got a fitting with my tailor, but I’ll be at the club later tonight. Take care of those five loose ends. And silence the canary.”
With that, Vince ended the call and swore out loud. How the hell had the DEA caught wind of where they’d been holding that asshole? He didn’t give a damn if he was looking for a snitch or an imbecile—either way, this would not happen again.
It was also clear that he’d given Franz too much rope, and that was something he evidently needed to rectify. Delegating that much responsibility was always a bad idea.
Nothing could go wrong this time. The DEA might have found the body, but Vince would be damned if the Feds screwed up this new venture. Everything was on schedule, and he planned on being there when the merchandise arrived to make sure it all went according to plan. He couldn’t afford any more fuckups. The boss already had doubts about this new partnership with the Moreno organization. If anything went wrong . . .
He banished the thought. Nothing would go wrong. The shipment would arrive safe and sound, the merch would be distributed without a hitch. De Luca would slap him on the shoulder and grudgingly admit that he’d done good.