* * *
Rush glanced over at Garibaldi’s too-relaxed hands on the steering wheel, his mind slipping repeatedly to Alessandra and to the phone call.
Stop obsessing over it, he ordered silently. If she wasn’t fine, she would’ve found a way to tell you, even with the twenty-second length of the call. And if you don’t stop, Garibaldi’s going to notice. If he hasn’t already.
But it was exceedingly hard to distract himself when he was sure they were headed toward his own execution.
Before the call—God, how he hoped Alessandra had picked up on the fact that he didn’t want her to follow them—he hadn’t been able to figure out what the purpose of their trip was. They’d completed one mundane task after the other. Time wasters, every one of them. First they’d grabbed a to-go coffee from the gas station in town. Then they’d snagged a piece of certified mail from the post office and dropped it off with another of Garibaldi’s lackeys. Finally, they’d checked in on one of the souvenir shops Garibaldi owned, and made small talk with the owner. And even though he’d chatted the entire time, Garibaldi didn’t once bring up their current situation. He didn’t mention the shooter at the cabin, or Alessandra, or where they were ultimately going. Instead, he’d talked about a movie he’d seen recently. About sports. About a job he’d pulled off in his twenties. Hell. He’d even repeated a series of terrible jokes he’d recently read online.
Rush had grumbled about it all, as would be expected. That, at least, there’d been some truth to. Everything else about their meaningless tasks reeked of falsehood. With each passing minute, the deep sense of wrongness in Rush’s gut had grown. It still grew, even though he now knew that the little stops and overzealous chattiness were a deliberate distraction. Not so much a time waster as a time buyer. To give Val a window to accomplish whatever terrible task he’d been assigned. Which was a whole other freshly opened can of concern. The man set Rush’s teeth on edge at the best of times. He was a sadist. A criminal who committed crimes for the sheer pleasure of it. Rush had once seen him grin as he blew through a crosswalk, narrowly missing the three kids using it at that moment. Garibaldi saved Val for the jobs no one else would do. So the thought of him anywhere near Alessandra...
But he failed. Alessandra said so.
Rush was relieved that she was okay. He wished like hell he’d been able to say more to her. Or anything to her, really. But all he’d been able to do was to deliver his pseudo-boss’s cryptic message—which had been abrupt and accompanied by zero explanation—to Val. At least the part about heading for the warehouse appeared to be true. Garibaldi was turning into the industrial complex now, and Rush itched to ask questions.
The other man spoke first. “Recognize this place, Atkinson?”
“Yeah, boss. Why wouldn’t I?” Rush replied.
Garibaldi shrugged. “Thought it might mean something to you. My guys and I have been running merchandise through a unit here for the last few months. Thought you might’ve noticed.”
There was an edge to the comments, and Rush had a sudden urge to grab Garibaldi by the collar and demand that he just say what he meant. Instead, he just grunted.
“Try to mind my own business, boss,” he said.
“Do you now? I’ve been getting the feeling you’ve been champing at the bit to know exactly what this little project is all about.” The edge was still there—a threat under a casual observation.
Rush responded with an equally offhanded tone. “Always trying to go after whatever’s bigger and better.”
Garibaldi said nothing as he slowed the car and pulled up to the only privately gated warehouse in the bunch. He rolled down his window, punched in a code and guided the vehicle through the gate as it slid open. He stayed silent as they rolled over the concrete, and that was just fine with Rush. It gave him a moment to assess his surroundings.
One way in and out. Two armed thugs at the door. No signs. Nothing good about any of this.
“What the hell is this, boss?” he asked, his voice infused with all the curiosity and none of the concern he felt.
Garibaldi brought the car to a halt in a stall directly in front of the warehouse and cut the engine.
“You’ll see,” said the other man, swinging open his door. “Come on.”
Rush rolled his shoulders in a useless attempt to ease some of the tension stiffening them, then climbed out of the car and stared up at the nondescript building. He pretended not to feel the guards’ eyes on him as they stepped up to the door. He couldn’t keep ignoring them, though, when one shot out a hand and grabbed his elbow. The grip was like being squeezed by a slab of meat, and Rush’s immediate inclination—that he just barely managed to rein in—was to deliver a perfectly placed punch to the man’s solar plexus. He settled for a glare.
“What the hell, man?” he said, flickering a narrow-eyed glare toward Garibaldi.
His boss shrugged. “Sorry, Atkinson. Rules are, you’ve gotta turn over your weapon.”
Dread hit him in the gut. “You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly. Unless there’s some reason you think you need your gun when you’re with me.” Garibaldi smiled darkly.
Rush rolled his eyes—deliberately dismissive—and yanked open his coat to reveal the antique revolver. “Should I hand it over myself, or initiate a wrestling match so the Testosterone Twins feel validated?”
The other man’s gaze rested on the weapon. “Interesting choice. New to you?”
“A souvenir,” Rush said. “Belonged to our gray-haired friend at the cabin.”
Garibaldi’s face tipped again up, any disbelief hidden behind a blank stare. “Go ahead and hand it over.”
Rush grunted and dragged the weapon free. For the briefest second, he considered whether or not he might be able to shoot all three men in rapid succession and still come out alive. He shoved off the idea almost as soon as it came, though. The revolver wouldn’t fire rapidly enough, and there was a damned likely chance there were other thugs lurking in unseen places, prepared to act under the slightest provocation. So he simply held out the gun, butt end first, and let the other guard—the one not trying to crush his shoulder—take it without protest.
“Good,” said Garibaldi. “Let me show what I’ve been working on.”
Rush nodded wordlessly. The thick concern was still rolling over him like a fog, and it didn’t lessen any as he followed his boss into the building. The interior was dark, the air so dry that Rush had to let out a little cough. But the cough died abruptly when Garibaldi flicked on the lights and the space became illuminated in a yellow glow that revealed the contents of the warehouse. Paintings. Dozens and dozens of them. And Rush recognized them for what they really were—a cleverly disguised means of transporting and distributing an opiate. His partner Harley had been the one to figure it out.
The method was ingenious, really. A specialized paint was mixed with the drug in question. A local “artist” was hired to create the landscapes, and an unknowing art dealer sold them to predetermined buyers. The people who knew what was up were limited. There was Garibaldi himself and the men who created the paint. There were the guys who received the painting and extracted the drugs, and a few select men inside the crew.
And you aren’t supposed to be one of them, Rush reminded himself.
He started to turn and face his boss, feigned ignorance on his lips. He only made it a half a spin before he realized there was no need to pretend. Three men stood around him in a triangle, each with a weapon trained at his head.
Garibaldi nodded. “There’s a chair right there, Atkinson. Why don’t you have a seat? We can have a little chat about how I feel about betrayal.”
And Rush had no choice but to obey.
Chapter 16
Alessandra had stopped the little hatchback in the middle of the road, and now she sat there, tapping her fingers restlessly on the steering wheel. She sucked i
n her bottom lip. Up ahead, she could see the industrial complex. It wasn’t huge, even if the buildings were some of the biggest in town. She’d learned from a sign just a few miles back that among other things, there was a self-storage space and a furniture wholesaler and an ATV rental place. Jesse’s company logo sat on the very top of the sign, and Alessandra was sure that was because he probably owned the whole thing. But there was no clue as to which area he was in now. Or if he was there at all.
He has to be, she assured herself. Rush wouldn’t steer me wrong.
She squinted at the buildings again, searching for a hint. And then she got one. Or she thought she did, anyway. On the back edge of the property was a building that stood out. Sort of. It was the same grayish color as the rest of them, but it had one feature the other didn’t—its own fence. It seemed like the kind of thing Jesse would need. An extra layer of protection for whatever illegal activities he currently had underway.
“Or...” she murmured to herself. “It might not mean anything.”
But as she continued to stare at it for a few more moments, a flash of movement caught her eye. And with no other leads, that was enough to convince her that it was at least a place worth starting. She started to shift her foot from the brake to the gas, then stopped. She couldn’t very well just drive up and park. Someone would undoubtedly recognize the vehicle. It was Val’s, after all. In fact, she was probably lucky that she hadn’t been spotted already.
What I need to do is go in on foot, she thought. In stealth mode.
She glanced from side to side in search of a place to stash the car. The street was more or less empty, so after the briefest look around, she decided simply to pull over and park beside a largish bush at the end of the road. It gave the vehicle enough cover that unless someone was looking for it, they wouldn’t find it. She pulled into the spot, checked to see if anyone was in sight, and when she was sure she was alone, she climbed out and started the trek toward the warehouses.
In spite of the way she worked to stay out of sight, the walk was still almost too quick. In minutes, Alessandra was standing at the nearest warehouse in the industrial complex, her back pressed to the side of the building. Given that it was the middle of the day and the middle of the week, the air was surprisingly quiet. The only thing she could hear as she skulked along was the sound of her own thumping heart, and the feel of its ever-increasing thud did nothing to calm her down. By the time she reached the gap between the first and second buildings, her hands—which clutched the bag that held Rush’s gun—were already sweaty. They ached, too, from her tight grip. But even when she made an effort to loosen them, she couldn’t quite do it. Her feet were heavy, and her mind argued that taking another step would expose her.
Just breathe, she told herself firmly. Rush needs you.
The reminder was enough. She counted off ten inhales and ten exhales, then darted to the next warehouse. This time, she pushed along more quickly, and five breaths sufficed between the second building and the third. Her steps were still cautious, but they were surer, too.
You can do this, she said to herself every few steps.
And when she reached the final warehouse before the singularly fenced one, she actually believed it. Even when she leaned out and spotted the two burly men standing outside the main door, she wasn’t deterred. She just jerked back and flattened herself to the exterior wall, satisfied that their presence affirmed her suspicions. She was in the right spot. All she needed to do was make sure that Rush was inside.
She eased forward the tiniest bit and searched for a good place to get a look inside. The fence was just a regular chain-link one. Six feet high, with no barbs or spikes or electrical wires at the top. But Alessandra could see that it wasn’t completely devoid of reinforcements. There were a least two cameras attached to the posts, and maybe more that weren’t within her vision. It didn’t take a security genius to figure out that the electronic surveillance was meant to pick up where the human surveillance fell off, and vice versa.
Which isn’t good for me.
She nervously tapped her thigh and scanned the area for an alternative.
There wasn’t much to find. Aside from the other buildings and a couple of vehicles, there was nothing nearby. She paused, her mind working at a crazy idea. If she could get inside the warehouse she was standing outside at that moment, then somehow make her way up onto the roof...
She looked up toward the flat bit sticking out. “That’s a truly insane plan, Alessandra.”
Except she was already mentally mapping it out.
The main door was too risky. But there was a metal door on the side where she stood, and it had zero exposure to Jesse’s building. She knew it was probably locked—the warehouse was too silent and too dark to be occupied—but she was pretty sure she could probably pick it anyway. It was a skill her father had taught her, joking that she never knew when she might need it. She wondered for a second what he would’ve thought about being right, then shook off the sad turn of her mind and moved on to what the next step would be.
Assuming no one was inside, she’d simply have to find a way up. From there, she just needed something she could use as a makeshift bridge. And not even a long one, because by Alessandra’s estimate, there was only about four feet between the two buildings.
Great, she thought. From there, I just have to get down, find a way to look inside, make sure Rush is there, then break in and save him. And not get caught at any point.
“Piece of cake,” she muttered sarcastically.
But that didn’t stop her from moving anyway. She stepped to the side door and put her hand on the knob. A quick twist confirmed that it was locked, so she dropped to a crouch to examine the keyhole. Thankfully, it looked uncomplicated. Just a standard slot.
Alessandra opened her purse wide and dug through until she found two loose bobby pins. She gave them a skeptical look, then closed her eyes and pictured her dad’s slightly devilish face as he explained the steps. It was easy to hear his voice in her head, too—both patient and authoritative as he laid out each bit of what had to be done.
First, you need to bend one of the bobby pins at a ninety-degree angle. You can use your teeth. I promise not to tell the dentist. Or your mom.
Smiling—and with her eyes still shut—Alessandra followed the remembered instruction.
Good work. Now take the second one and flatten it out. It should be as straight as you can make it. Like a ruler.
She did that, too, pleased that it seemed to come easily.
Great. Okay. Keep holding that second one. You need to bend the tip a bit. What you’re trying to do is create a pick.
Alessandra worked to make it happen, then opened her eyes and dropped her gaze to the tools. They looked right. And her dad’s voice in her head prompted her again.
You’re doing awesome, Munchkin. Now what I want you to do is to take that first bobby pin and stick it into the bottom half of the lock. Not so hard that you bend it, but make sure you put it in as far as it’ll go.
With her tongue between her teeth, she inserted the pin until she couldn’t force it any farther.
Fantastic. Now take the other bobby pin and stick the bent bit in just above the first one. And here comes the tough part. You’re using that bent bit to search for some little bits that move up and down.
Alessandra found the first one with relative ease.
Good. Push it up until it clicks. Excellent job, Lessie! You’re a natural, just like your old man. Now you need to do the next four, and you’ll be a real pro.
She worked slowly, sweat forming on her brow as she carefully forced each locking pin into place. It was painstaking. But worth it when she heard the final click, and not one of the pins had dropped back down. As she exhaled and let a small, triumphant smile lift her lips, she could see her father’s responding grin.
You’re amazing. One step left. Tur
n the lever in the same direction as the key would go, and the door will unlock.
She inhaled again, holding her breath as she carefully twisted to right. When she heard the release, she started to breathe out. Then stopped.
What if it’s alarmed?
Her eyes widened at the thought, and she wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her before. Of course it might be alarmed. Maybe not even with the loud, blaring type. Maybe with the silent, trigger-a-call-to-the-cops kind. What would happen if the local police suddenly came tearing in, lights flashing? How would it affect Rush’s safety? Or her own, for that matter? Should she even open it, or should she seek out another way to get a look into Jesse’s warehouse?
But as it turned out, she didn’t get a chance to make the decision. A dark, dangerous voice made it for her.
“Go ahead, sweetheart,” it said. “Let yourself in. You won’t get caught.”
Alessandra let out a startled yelp, and at the same time, she reflexively released the doorknob, which sent the door flying open inward. She tumbled blindly forward into the pitch-black. She started to run, and for a moment she thought she was free. Then a thick hand closed on her shoulder, and when she tried to scream, a second palm sprang to action, cutting off both the noise and her oxygen.
* * *
Rush’s head was spinning. Aching from the last blow delivered by the thug he’d dubbed Meat-Fist. But just a heartbeat earlier, something had cut through the throb. He could swear it was the sound of a half-formed scream. And under the haze of pain that hung over him, he half thought it sounded familiar.
Alessandra.
His head jerked up as her name popped into his mind. He swung his bleary gaze around, afraid of what he might find.
Undercover Refuge Page 17
