Deep Dirty Truth

by Steph Broadribb

  I remember another of the rules of bounty hunting that JT taught me years ago, back when I was a rookie and he was my mentor: Don’t make assumptions. But in the field you sometimes have to take calculated risks; I’ve learned that from ten years in the business. I figure this is one of those times. I’ll plan for three Feds, one North: three hostiles, and one whose allegiance is unknown. Because, even assuming North wants to escape and get back to the Miami Mob, as the Old Man has told me, there’s nothing to say he’ll believe that I’m taking him there. The last time we met I was a very different woman.

  Sticking my key into the lock of room forty-five, I open the door and step inside. The room’s cool, thanks to the air conditioning that I left cranked up to the max.

  Monroe told me to be on the lookout for some kind of counter-surveillance. While I was talking to the taller Fed, I did a visual check and saw nothing unusual. But this is the FBI – their technology will be small and state-of-the-art, so it’s likely I’d not notice any cameras or motion detectors they’d installed. I still have to operate as if they’re there, though.

  Grabbing another bottle of water from my go bag, I sit on the bed and take a long drink. I’ve got my escape route sorted; next I need to plan how to get North clear of the room. If I break in, guns blazing, it’ll be two or three to one. I’ll be outgunned and taken out. I need something smarter, more stealthy. I need to get them to come out of the room. Then I need to get Carlton North alone.

  But there’s something I have to do first. Pulling my cell from my pocket, I tap out a message to Luciano Bonchese, telling him I’ve found North and will be moving to break him free tonight.

  His reply comes less than a minute later: Address?

  I stare at the screen. Don’t reply. I feel reluctant to tell him. I remember the sneer on his face as he told me to give him North’s location as soon as I had it so he could send his boys to bust him out if I failed.

  I flinch as my cell starts ringing in my hand. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Give me the address.’ Luciano sounds real pissed. ‘You fail and I’ll—’

  ‘Just stop with the threats already. I’m doing what you asked, I’ve found North. Just give me a little time to break him free.’

  ‘You’re running out of time. He’s due in court in the morning.’

  ‘And I’ll have him free before dawn.’

  ‘So shoot me if I don’t totally rely on the bitch who murdered my brother. I’ve got a back-up plan for when you screw up. The address. Now.’

  I grip the cell tighter. Wish I could shoot him right now. Instead, I tell him my location and North’s room number. Ending the call, I toss the handset onto the bed. I clench my fists. Feel grubby.

  Screw up, my ass. One thing’s for sure: I won’t let myself fail.

  I’ll bust Carlton North out and stick it to Luciano Bonchese.

  19

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 21st, 02:37

  Deep night. No moon. Pitch-black outside.

  I wait until it’s almost three to make my move. This is the time of night that drags the longest if you’re on sentry duty. It’s when fatigue is most debilitating, it’s when the lure of sleep makes you slow. In a quiet place like this, on a dark night like tonight, that lure can get real bad. Which is why people oftentimes make mistakes at this hour, even if they’re FBI.

  Moving to the window, I lift the edge of one of the blackout drapes and peer out onto the external walkway, illuminated by the fluorescent lights. It’s empty. There’s no one outside room forty-seven.

  I turn back into my room. I’ve got my tools laid out on the bed. I’ll get one chance at this. Blow it and I’m screwed. Scanning my equipment, I check everything’s all set. Hairdryer and paper: check. Lock picks: check. Go bag packed: check. Concealed body armour on; gun and Taser in my holster; check, check, check.

  I select the torch app on my cellphone and switch it on. Place the cell on the top of my go bag and drop the bag softly onto the carpet beside me. Taking my lock picks off the bed, I thread them into the lock of the connecting door between my room and room forty-six.

  I’m ready.

  Stripping two pillowcases from the pillows on the bed, I double them up and wrap them around the nozzle of the hairdryer, making a muffler. I plug the hairdresser into the socket on the wall between my room and forty-six and switch it onto the lowest setting. This is the risky bit. Will the dryer noise alert the Feds? It’ll be an unfamiliar sound at this time of night.

  Tilting the dryer upwards, I feed a folded piece of paper into the nozzle. There’s a hiss and it spits flames as the paper catches fire. The acrid smell of burning fills my nostrils and the hairdryer gives a soft pop.

  The power and lights go out. The air conditioning stops.

  I hope my gamble’s paid off. I hope, by making the socket fuse, I’ve caused a power outage that, if I’m right about the circuitry in this place, has cut the power to all the rooms in this block. I move fast to the window; peer out through the gap between the drape and the glass.

  Blackout.

  The fluorescent lights on the walkway have gone out. The moon is hidden behind the clouds.

  Now, I hear raised voices – they’re coming from a couple of rooms along. Shielded by the darkness, I watch as the door of forty-seven opens. The Feds are awake. I have to act fast.

  Hotfooting it to the connecting door, I grab my go bag and use my lock picks to release the mechanism. I can hear voices on the walkway; recognise one as the taller of the two Feds.

  Taking a deep breath, I twist the handle and step into room forty-six.

  The first shot makes me jump. The second has me diving for cover. The window shatters, shards of glass cascading onto the floor a few yards from me. The rapid fire of an automatic weapon blasts into the building. But not into this room. The shots are ahead of me. I’m not the target. It’s the Feds and Carlton North.

  Who the hell is shooting?

  I’m scrambling to my feet as the connecting door between this room and forty-seven opens. A dark-haired man in a leather jacket rushes through, pulling the door closed behind him.

  It’s Carlton North.

  As he turns, our eyes meet. He tilts his head a fraction and I see recognition in his eyes, my old name on his lips.

  Then the external door to room forty-seven crashes open and rapid fire rips through the room he’s just fled. We’re in the danger zone. Need to get out of here fast. The walls are thin and offer little protection from these bullets. We could get dead real easy from a stray.

  I draw my gun. ‘You want to live? Come with me.’

  He nods. ‘I’m with you. Go!’

  We sprint through the connecting door, across my room and out the external door onto the walkway. To my right I see the broken, bullet-hole-ridden bodies of the two Feds sprawled on the floor outside forty-seven. The shooters must still be inside. It won’t be long before they discover Carlton North’s missing and the connecting doors are open. Then they’ll come after us.

  We need to move.

  Too late.

  There’s a shout from one of the rooms. A crash as another door is kicked in. Turning to North, I gesture towards the safety railing. ‘This way.’

  In three strides I’m across the walkway. I vault the railing and drop down onto the dumpster below. Bending my knees to soften the impact, I jump from the dumpster onto the ground. North lands beside me.

  ‘Head for the trees.’ I say, pointing to the start of the Silver Point Trail. ‘There’s a path; follow it. I’ve got a vehicle up there.’

  We sprint stride-for-stride towards the tree line.

  We’re almost there when the first shot ricochets off a tree to our left, sending the bark splintering in our faces. I yell at North to keep running then turn, raising my weapon. There’s a figure on the walkway. I see a muzzle flash from their gun, and feel heat as the bullet just misses my ear. I aim and return fire.

  The figure on the walkway jerks back from the impact then flops forwards ont
o the railing. Gravity takes them over the top, and they land with a bang on the dumpsters. They don’t get up.

  Then, in the gloom, I see movement in the doorway of my room.

  I turn and sprint after North. Don’t wait to see who it is.

  We run over the ridge and through the trees, following the Silver Point Trail. My go bag bounces against my back with every stride, the single shoulder strap not designed for carrying at speed. I pay it no mind. Focus on trying to make out the path in the dimness. The moon has reappeared from behind the veil of clouds, casting a pale light through the canopy. The undergrowth snags against my jeans. Gnarled tree roots try to trip us. North almost falls, but recovers well. I pump my arms harder, determined to stay close on his tail.

  We reach the campsite clearing at Carter Lake breathless. Doubling over beside the Jeep, we catch our breath. The air tastes earthy, the humidity lingering through the night.

  I grab a couple of bottles of water from my go bag and hand one to North. ‘We should get on the road.’

  As he drinks, I unlock the doors and sling my bag onto the back seat. When I turn back towards North he’s looking at me funny. ‘You okay?’

  He nods, but the strange look remains. ‘Long time, no see. Seems you’ve had a career change.’

  ‘I’ve changed a lot of things.’

  ‘Heard about that.’ He smiles, but it looks fake – too toothy. ‘I was sorry to hear about Tommy.’

  I don’t want to get into that now. I’m not sure how much North knows, whether he believes JT was behind Tommy’s death or knows that I killed him. And I don’t know how good friends they were. So I turn away and open the driver’s door. Focus on getting him clear of Missingdon and back to Miami.

  ‘We need to get going.’

  ‘Yeah, about that…’

  As I turn to climb into the Jeep, North lunges for me. His right arm garrottes my neck, his forearm pressing tight into the flesh. His left hand grips my waist, his fingers like claws digging into my hip. He snarls into my ear. ‘Why’d you come here? Who sent you?’

  ‘What the hell, North.’ I’m gasping. Fighting for breath. Jabbing my elbows backwards into his body, trying to get free. ‘I’m here to help you.’

  ‘Helping them kill me, more like. What was your plan – they shoot up the FBI agents and you get my trust by “rescuing” me?’

  I kick back. Feel my heel connect hard against his knee. ‘No.’

  He steps backwards, off balance. But his arm’s still tight around my throat. ‘Don’t lie. I know how you people operate. I’ve seen all your—’

  His words are cut short by a burst of gunfire. The undergrowth a few yards in front of us dances under a hail of bullets, grass and bracken fly into the air.

  North releases me and we both dive for cover behind the Jeep.

  I return fire in the direction I think the attack is coming from but I’m blind; I’ve got no eyes on the shooter. North, weaponless, steps away from me towards the trees.

  ‘North, stay with—’

  Another round of shots cuts into the ground on my right and riddles the Jeep’s trunk with bullets. The rear tyres hiss, and I smell gasoline in the air. But this time I saw the muzzle flash. Raising my gun, I fire into the darkness.

  When I turn back to look for North, he’s already gone.

  Goddamn.

  I crouch behind the hood of the Jeep. Hear footsteps; dry branches cracking underfoot, unnervingly loud against the silence of the forest. I don’t know if the noise is from North or the shooter. I hold fire, and wait for them to make the next move.

  Waiting is a mistake.

  I feel the bullet’s hot bite before I hear the shot. It tears through my T-shirt and then through the flesh of my upper arm. The wound feels volcano hot. My left arm starts shaking but, with the adrenaline, I hardly feel the pain.

  Raising my weapon, I get off another shot, but my aim’s crooked; it goes wide. I pull the trigger again, but there’s an empty click. I’m all out of ammo.

  The shooter volleys back. The first shot ricochets off the Jeep’s hood; the second and third spray straight up into the tree canopy.

  That’s when I glimpse him. In the light of the muzzle flash I see North standing behind the man with the gun. He bellows as North grabs him in a headlock. I see them struggle. Hear the crack as North breaks his neck.

  Hot damn.

  I run towards North. He’s crouching beside the body of the man he’s just killed.

  As I stop beside him, North blinks up at me like he’s coming out of a trance. Shakes his head. ‘It’s been a long while since I had to do something like this.’

  ‘I thought you’re…’ Movement behind North draws my attention. I spot the glint of eyes in the moonlight. Eyes at human head height rather than an animal. Keeping my voice low, I look at North then move my gaze towards the movement. ‘There’s a second. I’m empty.’

  North acts fast. He pulls the Glock from the hand of the dead guy and pivots round. His movement’s smooth, practised. He squeezes the trigger. I hear a shout, a thud.

  North’s up and running towards the fallen man, gun trained on him, ready. I follow. There’s no need for another shot. The bullet hit the guy straight between the eyes; near impossible, in this dark gloom.

  I look at North. ‘You’ve got crazy good aim for a number’s man?’ There’s a question in my tone.

  He grimaces. ‘The numbers I dealt with weren’t the kind you input into spreadsheets.’

  My stomach flips. ‘You’re a killer?’

  He holds my gaze. ‘I’m more like a fixer.’

  I shake my head. Old Man Bonchese hid the truth from me. He knew I’d assume North was his accountant. And he knew rescuing an accountant would give me the druthers a whole lot less than having to bust out his fixer. ‘Goddamn. Why the hell am I surprised?’

  ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Luciano. When he sent you here to kill me?’

  I glare at him. Keep my tone steely. ‘I’m real good at what I do. If I wanted you dead, I’d have done it already.’

  He smiles. It makes him look like a shark wearing veneers. ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘And Luciano didn’t send me. The Old Man did. He wanted you back safe. Didn’t want the Feds holding you and forcing you to testify.’

  ‘I doubt that’s the truth.’ North kneels down beside the dead guy. ‘This man, his name’s Nico. He’s one of Luciano’s guys; inner circle – very loyal.’

  I shake my head. It makes no sense. ‘Luciano knew I was here, that I’d got things handled.’

  ‘Sure he did.’ North pulls down Nico’s T-shirt. In the hollow below his collarbone there’s a tattoo; a stylized double M with a serpent in an L-shape around the letters. ‘This is Luciano’s mark. He likes all his inner circle to have it.’

  North stands and strides back to the body of the first shooter. Yanks down the man’s shirt, revealing an identical tattoo. Then he reaches into pocket of the man’s jacket, takes out his wallet and shows me the name on his driver’s licence: Giovanni Ricci. ‘These men are both Luciano’s.’

  I remember my last conversation with Luciano. ‘Luciano said he was sending his men as back-up; if I failed then they’d bust you out. But why send them in first? Why deliberately sabotage the job the Old Man asked me to do?’

  North says nothing. Just stares back at me.

  Then it hits me.

  Before the shooters started firing, North said to me, I know how you people operate. He wasn’t captive; I’ve been played. Damn. ‘You didn’t want to be rescued, did you? You went to the FBI with information voluntarily.’

  He nods. ‘Man’s got to get a conscience sometime.’

  I look down at the body of the man he’s just killed. ‘Yup. I can see that.’

  North drops the Glock onto the ground. ‘This was self-defence. You point a gun at a man, you’ve got to know he might pull the trigger first. But what I’ve done for the Family, that’s
a different story.’

  I hold his gaze. ‘And how does the story end?’

  ‘Honestly? Now, I’m not so sure.’

  20

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 21st, 04:43

  Bending down, I pick up the Glock that North dropped and point it at his chest. I need us to get away from these bodies fast, before the cops arrive at Hampton Lodge and start tracking us, so we don’t have time for a long conversation. ‘The Old Man tasked me with getting you free and bringing you home to him. I need to deliver.’

  North raises his hands. ‘Even if that’s not what I want?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You were such a sweet kid. What the hell happened to you, Jennifer?’

  Sweet kids finish last, that’s what I learned. Sweet kids get beat on … and murdered. Sweet kids don’t get respect. I glare at him. ‘Don’t ever call me that again. Jennifer died a long time ago. My name’s Lori now.’

  North holds my gaze. Waiting for more of an explanation.

  I don’t owe him anything, but he was kind to me once and that makes me want to oblige. ‘Tommy killed my best friend, Sal, and didn’t care a damn. Jennifer Ford, the victim I used to be, died that same night. I vowed I’d bring him to justice. Toughened up. Trained as a bounty hunter and changed my name – shortening my middle name to Lori and taking one of the most common family names in America: Anderson.’

  North softens his voice. ‘Look, I get that you were in a tight spot. I saw what your husband Tommy did to you, remember?’

  I nod. Sure I remember. I remember every one of the black eyes, busted ribs and broken fingers. The shouting and the hatred, the guilt and the remorse.