“And the man?”
“He followed her to the campus, then took off. Winters has him in his sights.”
“Where’s Del Vido?”
“Back at her apartment, in case she gets any other visitors.”
Vince slammed his free hand against the desk, sending the computer mouse toppling onto the floor. “Who the fuck is this guy?”
“I don’t know, boss. He looks like a civilian, but moves like military. Not government, though, or at least I don’t think so.”
Vince spoke through clenched teeth. “Deliver him to me.”
“How’re we supposed to do that?”
“I don’t fucking care how you do it. Just get it done.”
Rocko hesitated. “Where do you want us to bring him?”
“The place on Riverside Road. Call me when you have the motherfucker.”
Vince disconnected. He sat there for a moment. Motionless. Unblinking.
Rage twisted his insides into hard knots, and his breathing grew shallow, so shallow that his palms began to tingle. Olivia had invited a man into her apartment.
The bitch had a man in her apartment.
Suddenly his control snapped like a rubber band. With a growl, he swept the stack of paperwork off the desk, sending the papers flying. The computer keyboard was next, smashing onto the floor, a few keys popping out and bouncing around like marbles. Shooting to his feet, he sucked in infuriated breaths, then spun around and raised his fist, prepared to smash it into the wall behind him.
Might be a misunderstanding, a little voice pleaded.
His fist froze. Vince struggled for breath, clinging to any rational thought he might have left.
Olivia wouldn’t betray him. She wouldn’t screw some other man, not after everything they’d been through together. She was a virgin, for Christ’s sake! She wouldn’t betray him. She wouldn’t.
But if she had?
Well, then he’d just have to kill her.
Chapter 18
Trevor and Isabel walked side by side through Central Park, close enough that their arms kept brushing. He was seriously tempted to put his arm around her, but resisted the urge.
“You sure you don’t mind sticking around?” he asked as they dodged a clumsy Rollerblader.
“I won’t leave you guys in the lurch,” she answered. “You need eyes in the club.”
“We can make do if you back out. Seriously, I wouldn’t blame you. The drug business is a nasty one.”
“Seems like every job I take is nasty,” she said with a sigh. “At least I’m not working solo on this.”
That was definitely a plus. The women Noelle employed worked alone, but Trevor didn’t like the idea of Isabel on her own during a mission. She always insisted that she only did undercover work, gathering intel before Noelle or one of the others went in to do their assassin thing, but it still bugged him. He felt fiercely protective of this woman.
They wove their way through the park, which looked especially idyllic with the changing leaves and lush autumn colors. Isabel’s contact had wanted to meet at the Bethesda Fountain, and as they got near, Trevor experienced a flicker of unease. “Are you going to tell me more about these guys other than ‘they’re information dealers’?”
She chuckled. “You don’t trust me?”
“You, I trust. Strangers, I don’t.”
“Fair enough.” She pushed a strand of blond hair off her forehead. “Their names are Oliver and Sean Reilly. I met them when I worked for the bureau.”
“Are they government?”
“Freelance. They were born in Dublin, moved to America in their teens. Their father was—probably still is, actually—involved with the IRA. He trained them, and I think they were mercenaries at one point. Now they deal in information. They’ve got contacts all over the globe, and they can pull information out of thin air.”
“Their intel is good?”
“Always. They wouldn’t be making money hand over fist if it wasn’t.” She laughed. “You’ll like them. Twin brothers, full of themselves, but pretty damn charming.”
Trevor ignored the tight squeeze of jealousy in his chest. Same damn thing had happened last night when Isabel had been laughing with Liam Macgregor.
They reached their destination, and he scoped out their surroundings as they sat on the fountain’s circular edge. The area probably drew more crowds in the summer, but there were still a decent number of people milling around. Reading the paper, eating lunch, chatting in small groups. Trevor didn’t spot anyone that looked like an information dealer. Then again, he had no clue what an information dealer looked like.
Apparently the answer to that was hobo, because a moment later a tall man in a beat-up army surplus coat and ratty khaki pants came out of nowhere. He had a black wool hat over a head of blond curls, a lot of scruff on his face, and amused green eyes.
“If it isn’t my favorite former Fed,” the man said in an Irish brogue.
Isabel rose to her feet and leaned in so the man could kiss her cheek.
Trevor’s hands curled into fists.
“Good to see you, Ollie.” She looked past his broad shoulders. “Where’s Sean?”
“Indisposed. He met a lovely brunette at the pub last night and I haven’t seen him since.” Oliver grinned broadly. “The little bird had a friend, but I was saving myself for you, luv.”
Isabel laughed. “Haven’t we already established that I don’t date Irishmen? Your lot is far too devious.”
“You’re right about that. Who’s your friend?”
Trevor gave the other man a long once-over before extending his hand. “Trevor Callaghan.”
Oliver offered a firm shake, then slanted his head in thought. “Callaghan. Callaghan . . . why does that sound so familiar?” He snapped his fingers. “You’re on Jim Morgan’s crew.”
Trevor frowned. “And how is it you know that?”
“I know everything.” There was no arrogance in the man’s voice, just complete and utter confidence. “Knowledge is my business, Trevor boy. Do me a favor and say hello to your boss.”
“You know Morgan?”
“Our paths crossed in Belfast a few years ago. Tell him my ears are still open, but to quote my fellow countryman, I still haven’t found what he’s looking for.”
Trevor wrinkled his forehead.
“He’ll know what I mean,” Oliver said with a wave of his hand. “Now, tell me what you need and let’s see if the Reilly brothers can accommodate you.”
* * *
Luke got hold of Trevor as he drove away from the corner store he’d popped into for cigarettes. Balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder, he unwrapped his smoke pack and said, “Hey, sorry I didn’t answer before. I was buying smokes.”
“You’re not with Olivia?”
“She went to work. I asked Sullivan to cover the club because I figured you’d want me back at the apartment for briefing. How did it go with Isabel’s contacts?”
“Fine. The guy’s making a few calls. He said he’ll be in touch tonight.” Trevor snorted. “He quoted me ten grand for the intel.”
“Steep. But for Morgan, it’s pocket change.” Luke extracted a cigarette from the pack and brought it to his lips, then plucked his lighter from the cup holder.
Just as he was about to light up, the image of Kathleen Taylor’s gaunt face flashed into his mind and his hand froze. As his gaze dropped to the surgeon general’s warning on his smoke pack, a curse popped out of his mouth.
“What’s up?” Trevor said instantly.
He groaned. “I should quit smoking, huh?”
“Fuck yeah. We’ve all been telling you that for years.” There was a pause. “Where’s this coming from?”
“Olivia’s mom has cancer.”
Another pause. “I see.”
Yep, Trevor was a pro at reading between the lines, but thankfully the guy didn’t push the issue, which was a damn good thing. Luke still wasn’t sure what his growing feelings for Olivia
meant, but he did know this thing between them was quickly becoming too important to give up.
Yanking the unlit cigarette from his mouth, he tossed it in the cup holder, then signaled right and changed lanes. When he shot a quick glance in the rearview mirror, he noticed a yellow cab two cars back and frowned. Was that the same cab he’d seen at the NYU campus?
He shrugged away the thought, not bothering to remind his paranoid brain that this city was full of frickin’ yellow taxis.
“Apparently these guys are worth it,” Trevor was saying. “Isabel swears by them.”
Luke immediately picked up on the derision in the other man’s tone. “Is that a hint of jealousy I hear?” When Trevor didn’t answer, he whistled. “I had an inkling last night, but now it’s confirmed. You have a thing for Isabel.”
“What? Of course not.”
“Oh man. You’re totally lying.” He paused. “Does she know?”
“I’m not discussing this with you.”
“Does she feel the same way?”
“Like I said, not discussing it.”
Although he was tempted to keep needling the guy about it, Luke decided to cut Trevor some slack. “Did you tell our friendly information dealer about the timeline?” he asked instead.
“Yeah. Olivia’s sure that Angelo’s big meeting is Tuesday night?”
“She’s sure.” Luke continued to navigate his way through Greenwich Village, growing annoyed. All the streets around here were messed up, curving and changing direction out of nowhere. When the fine hairs on the nape of his neck tingled, he looked in the mirror and saw that the yellow cab had made the same turn. He squinted, taking note of the license plate. Yep, still the same taxi.
“So we only have one day to confirm where and when the shipment will show up. When you get back here, I want you to sit down with Holden and—”
“Shit,” he muttered.
Trevor halted in mid-sentence. “What?”
“I’ve got a tail.” He peered in the rearview and tried to get a look at the cabdriver, but the guy’s sun visor was down, obscuring his face. On a whim, Luke executed a quick left onto a side street, then glanced over his shoulder. Relief trickled through him. Good. The cab was no longer—wait, still there.
“Shit,” he said again. “I need to lose this asshole.”
“Angelo’s man?” Trevor barked.
“I don’t know. The goon who keeps tabs on Olivia was at the campus, but he drives a silver Lexus.”
He approached another side street and made a hard right, then an abrupt left. The cab continued to tail him.
“Are you sure Angelo didn’t post more guards on her?”
Luke battled a jolt of frustration. “I don’t think so, but hell, I don’t know. There’s only been the one guy on her this past week. He parks across the street from the building and watches the entrance. I’ve been going in and out through the back.”
“Could he have changed it up?”
“Nah, man, he was out front this morning when I followed her to school.”
The taxi stayed on him, except now the driver wasn’t even bothering to hide it. As Luke stepped on the gas and blew through a stop sign hoping to thwart the dude, the cab flew right through the intersection, now dangerously close to hugging his bumper.
“This guy is persistent. Trev, I’ll call you back. I need to handle this.”
He shoved the phone in his breast pocket and focused on losing his tail. Fucking hell. The last thing he needed was a goddamn car chase in the streets of New York City, especially when he had no idea where the hell he was. He’d been heading south for the safe house, but now he found himself in a maze of residential streets and narrow side roads—and look at that, half the damn roads were one-way. Wonderful.
Accelerating hard, he sped down a street lined with skinny brownstones and oak trees, whizzing through another intersection and leaving several angry motorists in his wake. The taxi didn’t ease up. It kept barreling toward him, tailgating the shit out of the Range Rover.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
A hard left, an even harder right, and then another one-way hell, this one so narrow he nearly clipped the side mirror of a parked Nissan. The driver behind him was maneuvering like a pro, pulling some real Gran Turismo shit as he pursued the SUV.
Luke yanked on the wheel again, then cursed in frustration when he realized he’d turned into a dead end. As he neared the end of the road, he slammed on the brakes, tires squealing as the car jolted to a hasty stop.
Damn it.
Looked like a confrontation was inevitable.
He was just whipping his gun out of his waistband when he noticed the taxi speeding toward him in the rearview mirror, and then the SUV pitched forward and the shriek of metal colliding with metal split the air.
The airbag exploded in his face.
Dazed, Luke blinked through the onset of stars that assaulted his vision. His ears were ringing like church bells, and the gun fell from his hands, sliding beneath the passenger seat.
“Fucking hell,” he mumbled.
A car door slammed.
Pulse kicking up a notch, Luke pushed the deflating airbag away, unbuckled his seat belt, and shoved his hand under the passenger seat in a mad reach for the Glock. His fingers had barely brushed the gun when his door was thrown open and someone yanked him out of the seat. His ass collided with the hard ground, but he bounced to his feet faster than lightning—only to freeze when he spotted the barrel of a handgun pointed at his face. The man wielding it was no taxi driver. He was six feet, two hundred pounds of thug. And his grip on the weapon was solid. “Don’t make a fucking move,” he said in a cold baritone voice.
Luke sighed. “What’s this about, man?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Now get on your knees.”
Gritting his teeth, he did as he was told. He eyed the goon, assessing, working over his options. He could take the guy, so long as he disarmed him first, but apparently the big man wasn’t trolling for a fight. With one smooth motion, the man slammed the butt of his gun into Luke’s temple.
Black spots danced in front of his eyes. Fucking hell.
He staggered forward, fighting to stay conscious, but those black spots were damn persistent. With a jolt of defeat, Luke brought his hand to the watch strapped on his wrist and pressed a button—just as the goon’s arm whipped down a second time and knocked him the fuck out.
* * *
“Son of a bitch!”
Trevor shot up from the armchair when he heard Holden’s shout. He immediately took off in the direction of the back room, bumping into D in the hallway. Together, they burst into Holden’s Command Central in time to see the guy stumbling out of his computer chair, a worried expression on his face.
“What’s going on?” Trevor demanded.
“Luke triggered his SOS.”
Trevor’s back went ramrod straight. Shit. That wasn’t good. The SOS meant last resort, as in I’m royally screwed and need help big-time. Last time they got one, it came from Ethan when the rookie had gotten himself captured by an arms dealer in Mexico after deciding it would be a good idea to check out the guy’s lair—alone. Luke was no rookie, though, and this was his first alarm in all the years Trevor had known him.
“I’ve been waiting for him to check in,” he said, unable to control his growing concern. “He was trying to lose a tail. He thought it was Angelo.”
“Where is he?” D demanded.
Holden peered at the monitor, which displayed a map and an unmoving green dot. “Riverside Road. Let me see what’s around there.” He moved to the next computer, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “Little Italy, low-income area.” He paused. “Wait. This sounds familiar. I know this place.”
“Come on, man, put that photographic memory to use,” Trevor said impatiently.
Holden snapped his fingers. “Angelo’s childhood home was around there. Hold up. Let me find the address.” He typed a few commands. “Yep, Riversi
de Road. Deed is under Angelo’s old man’s name.”
“Let’s go.” D was already heading for the door.
Trevor didn’t miss the irony of D’s haste. Yesterday the guy had been clocking Luke in the jaw; today he was racing to rescue him. But since Trevor had given up on attempting to understand Derek Pratt, he decided not to question the about-face. He also decided not to mention the fact that D had a plane to catch. The surly bastard was scheduled to return to the compound this afternoon, but at the moment Trevor welcomed D’s presence. Because who knew what they’d find when they tracked down Luke?
Popping into the master bedroom, Trevor quickly gathered up his gear. Kevlar vest, shoulder holster, knives in their sheaths and backup revolver in his boot. He shoved a few extra magazines in his jacket pocket, then met up with D and Holden in the main room.
“Get Macgregor to meet us there,” Trevor ordered. “Sully’s on Olivia, so we might need another body, depending on what we find.”
As Holden got Liam Macgregor on the line, they bounded into the elevator and Trevor punched the button for the parking level.
D’s lips quirked in a cynical smile. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s go save his Cajun ass.”
* * *
When Luke regained consciousness, he found himself in a small room with lime green walls. He blinked a few times. The bright paint on the walls hurt his eyes, and when a wave of dizziness washed through him, he wondered if he had a concussion.
From what he could tell, this had to be a house, but no artwork or photographs graced the walls, no furniture save for the metal chair he was tied to. The bindings were damn problematic—his captors must have used three rolls of duct tape to secure him to the chair. They’d also gagged him, tying a piece of cloth around his jaw and jamming it in his mouth.
Damn it. This was beyond embarrassing, and he knew he’d never live it down. When the guys found him, he’d have some serious explaining to do. He’d triggered the SOS on his watch, and the goon who’d jumped him hadn’t tossed his phone; he could feel it in his shirt pocket, which meant that he was transmitting not one, but two signals, loud and clear. He just hoped his boys showed up before Angelo did.