Benediction: Diversion Book 9

by Eden Winters

  CHAPTER 19

  The makeup jobs took a little over three hours, plus the hour Cruz wanted to go to his hotel and get ready, putting Lucky at the Embassy Suites at ten. He parked the Escalade at an angle to avoid car doors opening onto the shiny surface, like he thought a good henchman would, and strode inside—or, rather, limped inside. This meeting better pan out to pay Lucky back for his trouble.

  He texted Cruz when he stepped into the lobby. The hotel was open in the center, creating a column of light from the skylight. Balconies lined each floor, overlooking the lobby, with plants hanging over the railings, and an artificial stream wound its way through the space. Nice, but not as nice as some of the places he’d stayed during his time as a drug lord’s plaything.

  Lucky caught sight of Cruz as he left a room on the fourth floor and made his unhurried way to the glass elevator and down to the lobby.

  He emerged and joined Lucky. If Lucky reeked of money, Cruz might as well have it pouring out of his pockets.

  Royal blue shirt, dark patterned tie, and a suit coat thrown lazily over one shoulder, Cruz could’ve stepped off the cover of one of those celebrity gossip magazines Charlotte liked in their younger days. He’d slicked back his dark waves, and his disarming smile and sultry, “Good morning,” had men and women alike staring after him.

  Since meeting Viv, Lucky now understood Cruz’s flirty manner was all for show. Cruz watched her every move with such admiration on his face.

  Besides, if he strayed, she probably knew places to hide a body on at least four different continents.

  If only Bo could be here, Lucky’s own partner. However, while Walter could justify sending Lucky out on a bogus assignment, having what Walter had begun calling his “dream team” leave the office together would definitely cause suspicion.

  As promised, Cruz handed over Lucky’s new driver’s license.

  They visited two banks and an attorney’s office, Lucky sitting in the waiting area of both, and Cruz treating him as invisible. When Cruz exited a building, Lucky trailed behind, acting as driver and bodyguard. His limp grew with each footstep, and once they’d finished for the day, he’d toss those painful-assed shoes out the window.

  Cruz checked his cell phone screen. “Okay. Time to go. We’re meeting in my hotel room. I don’t expect privacy, so watch what you do or say, or even those facial expressions of yours that give away more than you realize.”

  What?

  At least smiling wasn’t a worry. Scowling. Oh, hell yeah. How Lucky hated acting as Cruz’s flunky, though he understood the necessity. He’d run the show for so long, taking a backseat “rubbed his fur the wrong way”, as his mother used to say.

  Cruz did allow a quick trip to Starbucks. “What about food?” Lucky’d gotten used to Bo feeding him on a regular basis. He’d missed two meals today.

  “Later. I suggested a restaurant, but the director can’t afford to be seen with us.” No matter the situation, Cruz appeared totally at ease. Did his heart never hammer?

  Cruz’s room proved to be a suite, with a sitting room, complete with a couch and chair separated by a coffee table, a four-top dining table with chairs, and a small hallway leading to what Lucky supposed was the bedroom. A bathroom separated the two. A mini-fridge, microwave, and a stand holding a coffee maker and supplies took up space in the hallway.

  Nice hotel. Not the Ritz, but the kind a man of means might choose if he didn’t want to draw too much attention. While Lucky checked the place out, Cruz made last minute adjustments to the camera made to look like a smoke detector, and microphones he tucked into the back of the couch and chair.

  Unlike the room in Atlanta where they’d found the gun, Cruz took pains to make the place appear as though someone actually stayed here, with personal effects strewn around the room and a hint of cologne, soap, and shampoo drifting from the bathroom.

  Cruz had scarcely settled on the edge of the chair when a knock sounded on the door. He motioned toward the door with a wave of his hand, then set about positioning his gun at the small of his back. Oh, yeah. Hired minions answered doors.

  Lucky checked his own ankle holster and exposed shoulder holster. He’d be expected to be packing.

  He opened the door. A man in a suit stood in the doorframe, his hair the not-found-in-nature brown many used to hide their gray. Definitely not a professional job.

  Viv would be horrified.

  Lucky stepped back, letting the man inside. “Mr. Garrison, how wonderful to see you again.” Cruz let a trace of an accent flavor his words. He rose from his place on the couch. Lucky stood, back to the door and hands clasped before him.

  Garrison shot Lucky a questioning glance, then turned his attention to Cruz. Yup. Invisible hired gun. “Again? Have we met?”

  Cruz nearly pumped the man’s hand off with an over-enthusiastic handshake. “Yes. I accompanied our mutual acquaintance, Nestor Sauceda, when he attended one of your functions. How are your lovely wife and adorable children?”

  Somehow, Cruz’s polite inquiry came out as a thinly veiled threat.

  “They… they’re fine.”

  Cruz waved a hand at the couch. “Where are my manners. Sit, sit.” He took a seat in the chair, facing his guest with his back to Lucky. Garrison sat on the couch. “I had expected Mr. Diaz, as well.”

  A nervous tick caused the man’s eyebrow to jump. Telling. “He had a prior engagement. He sends his apologies.”

  In other words, Director Diaz of the Southwestern Narcotics Bureau sent a sacrificial lamb. When things went to shit, he’d deny all knowledge. Lucky would make sure the asshat didn’t escape unscathed.

  “That is too bad.” Cruz put on one hell of an act of being genuinely disappointed. “We’ve dealt together before, he and I, even before you started with the bureau.”

  “You… have?”

  “Yes, on several occasions,” Cruz said in an offhand manner, “or rather, when Nestor controlled the business. He has since retired and left his business dealings to me.” Cruz’s sinister chuckle might have made Lucky wonder about Nestor’s fate if he hadn’t known for a fact that the man in question now resided in France, married to the former drug lord Lucky once worked for.

  “You requested this meeting. What can we do for you?” Garrison asked, his serious tone matching Cruz’s.

  “Ah, getting right to the point. I like direct.” Cruz reverted back to his previous casual mood. “On Friday, I’m expecting a very important shipment from Valle Hermosa. I want safe passage across the border, and through your jurisdiction.”

  “I see.” How non-committal could one man be?

  “I understand you can also arrange passage through the Southeastern bureau’s territory and up to New York.” Cruz leaned back in his chair, the picture of a man in command of his universe, and fully expecting to get what he wanted. “For a fee.”

  Several times during the conversation, Garrison peered over Cruz’s shoulder at Lucky.

  That’s right motherfucker, I got a bullet with your name on it if you fuck up.

  “At the moment, I can’t guarantee Southeastern’s cooperation. Eventually, but right now we’re still moving our people into place.” The man sat ramrod straight.

  People? Not just “man”, “woman”, or “guy”? Were there more folks involved in the Atlanta office, or did Garrison refer to the suspects in Virginia?

  Cruz leaned forward, resting his clasped hands on his knees. All pretense of friendly demeanor fell. “Mr. Garrison, can I remind you what’s at stake? Not only this shipment, but many more to come. Nestor made his relationship with Southwestern extremely lucrative in the past, and I’ll continue. Doesn’t your recent promotion grant you more authority?”

  “Yes, but… We need some time to guarantee the Southeastern corridor.”

  Cruz unclasped his hands and balled them into fists. “I don’t care what you have to do. On Friday, that cargo crosses the border. Whatever is necessary, do it, but that truck cannot be stopped and searched, do yo
u understand?”

  “But…”

  Cruz leaned over the coffee table, eye to eye with Garrison. “Make. It. Happen.”

  Even with the man sitting across the room, Lucky couldn’t miss his hard swallow.

  Garrison schooled his features. “Yes. What about the other details?”

  “You mean payment for services rendered?” Cruz took on a bored tone, examining his fingernails. “Same as last time. Wire transfer to the account number Diaz gave Nestor. And Garrison?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t let me down.” So much threat in those four little words, and Cruz never even raised his voice.

  After Lucky shut the door on Garrison’s back, Cruz put a finger to his lips and pulled a device out of his briefcase. “No one can hear anything but white noise now, from their side or ours, but…” Cruz shrugged. “I supposed I’ve accelerated things at your home office.” He plucked something off the chair arm where Garrison had rested his hand, and held it up for Lucky’s inspection. A microphone, and not one they’d planted.

  “Yeah. If what Landry says is true, you’ve given O’Donoghue two days to make his move.” Though Lucky wouldn’t place bets on Landry telling the truth.

  “I realize that’s not a lot of time, but we need to tighten the noose quickly. We have people in place who will document the shipment’s path through customs and up to Virginia. Currently, we have fifteen suspects. Three will face murder charges, and another five, accessory, in addition to corruption, obstruction of justice… Shall I go on?”

  “No. I read the report.” Or Lucky would, once he found time, to know what he faced in the next few days.

  “Good. I trust you and your team will handle matters in Atlanta.”

  “We will.” Knowing Bo and Rett, they’d woven a web to make a spider proud.

  “I wanted you here to witness the transaction firsthand, and how the IDTTF do things undercover.” Cruz gave a sheepish shrug. “Victor and Nestor still want you to join us.”

  That old song and dance? “Not happening. I have a home and a family in Atlanta.” Nice to be wanted, though, especially by an organization like the International Drug Trafficking Task Force.

  For a moment what might have been pain flashed across Cruz’s face. “I understand. I believe they do too, but I’m afraid they won’t stop asking. Your experience would be… useful.”

  What? A compliment? From Cruz?

  “We have what we need, now to tighten the net. Diaz is up to his neck in this, and he’s not getting away, even if he chose to avoid the meeting and send Garrison.” Cruz stepped into the bathroom, leaving the door open.

  “Neither is O’Donoghue.” Lucky spoke louder to be heard over the whoosh of Cruz flushing Garrison’s microphone down the toilet, where it belonged. Lucky spat out the plastic thingy in his mouth, that he hadn’t needed after all, because his didn’t turn out to be a speaking role.

  Hmm… He perused the room. Ah, there. The appliance made a satisfying thunk when it hit the trash can next to the coffee pot.

  “Good. I’m counting on you to stop him. We need you hidden, give your target time to sweat, and keep you out of harm’s way.”

  “How do you propose to do that?” Please let it not involve a safe house. Lucky might lose his ever-loving mind, sitting around doing nothing while others took down O’Donoghue.

  Cruz slapped Lucky on the shoulder. “You, my friend, will drive the truck. Besides, Abuela Graciela wants to see you.”

  Driving a truck. Like old times. And Graciela? At least he might finally get fed.

  CHAPTER 20

  One advantage of driving a shipment from Valle Hermosa was taking a side trip to a certain cantina to sample some of Graciela’s good cooking. Lucky patted his belly. One more tortilla and he’d be unable to walk.

  What a change in Yolanda, happy, much healthier-looking, and more at ease than Lucky’d ever seen her. She smiled at the pictures of Alejandro, told Lucky, via Cruz, about her studies and life with Graciela and a chance for a future. She’d even begun to make friends, and saw a counselor.

  She asked to keep the picture of Bo, Lucky, and Alejandro. “Mi familia,” she said.

  Judging by the hugs, smiles, and rapid-fire Spanish, Vivienne and Graciela knew each other well, and Vivienne spoke at least three languages fluently. Four, if you counted Southern. Cruz stayed out of the way. “Isn’t she something?” he must’ve asked Lucky a thousand times.

  Yes, but still not Bo.

  Viv touched up Lucky’s appearance, refusing to tell embarrassing stories about Cruz. She whispered into Lucky’s ear, “Maybe next time,” and winked. “Now, don’t mess with the makeup until you get to Atlanta. Then you can be you again.”

  Lucky and Cruz video-conferenced Walter and Bo a few times, though no one commented on Lucky’s changed appearance.

  “O’Donoghue’s getting antsy about something,” Bo said.

  God, it was good to see him, if only on a computer screen. Lucky didn’t dare say all he wanted to with Walter and Cruz participating in the call. “He should be antsy. We’re about to take him down.” About damned time too.

  “Now, Lucky. Remember to keep an open mind. Don’t let your preconceptions blind you.” Walter, the voice of wisdom, advised.

  For the next few hours, Asswipe O’Donoghue was the least of his problems. “About time for me to drive a truckful of sorghum across the border.”

  Bo laughed. “Sorghum?”

  Cruz shrugged. “Tell enough people it’s oxycodone, and they start to believe.”

  About show time. Lucky took one more look at Bo.

  Bo kept his voice professional, but a little something extra hid in his words. “Be careful, Lucky.”

  Yeah, I love you too.

  Lucky waited in line at customs, six A.M. on Friday, on his way across the Mexican border. He’d slept in the back of a van while someone else drove the truck, so he’d be able to drive eleven hours non-stop—the limit. They changed drivers two miles from the border.

  “Good luck, hermano!” Cruz slapped him on the back and climbed back into the van.

  Lucky expected to be pulled over and the vehicle searched. Instead, a custom’s official took one look at the truck, checked out the tag, and waved him through.

  “Smile, asshole. I got your picture,” Lucky grumbled under his breath. Good thing they hadn’t stopped him—they might have wanted a share of the tamales Graciela packed him for the road.

  No one bothered him until he got to the state line. Just before he left Texas, Brrrrpt! Lucky found a spot to pull over, a highway patrolman right behind him.

  Lucky handed a worn leather folder containing his bogus license and registration—and a microphone—out the window while polishing off his last tamale. Almost made him want to head back south.

  The officer checked both documents. “Sir, where are you heading?”

  Lucky dredged up his best good ole boy accent. “Way up there in New York.”

  The officer strode back to his car and climbed in. The moment he entered the tag number and Lucky’s license, he’d set off the trail of dominos. Now to see if anyone took the bait.

  He stayed in his car a long, long time. Lucky couldn’t wait to hear the conversation between the dispatcher and the patrolman.

  After a million years—or maybe twenty minutes—the officer returned, face an angry red. “Everything checked out. You’re free to go.” More quietly he said, “It pisses me off that you get a free pass, but unless I want to wind up face down in a ditch, I’ll do as I’m told.” He stalked back to his car. Interesting. This officer might have something to add to their case, like a few more names for their suspects’ list.

  Lucky called the boss on the burner phone he’d gotten from Cruz. Walter picked up on the first ring. “Walter Smith.”

  “Boss, it’s Lucky.”

  Walter’s harsh breath carried over the phone. “I’ve had the devil’s own time keeping O’Donoghue at bay. He’s determined to find out wha
t assignment you’ve been given. Right now, he’s tracking your cellphone.”

  “Where is it?”

  The boss chuckled. “Charlotte FedExed it to North Carolina. I believe your mother tied it to a goat, unless that’s another quaint Southern figure of speech. I’m told your signal is even now roaming through a pasture on the family farm.”

  Sounded like Charlotte. And Mom. Let the bastard sweat. “Where is he now?”

  “Under surveillance. In his office for the moment. I told him in no uncertain terms that he was not moving into my office until after my retirement, the date of which I haven’t yet announced.” Walter gave a dry laugh. “His squirming is quite fascinating, and telling. While I take Owen Landry’s word with a grain of salt, O’Donoghue’s actions are not those of an innocent man.”

  “Just don’t push him too hard. Remember what happened last time.” Last time, Boss nearly wound up dead. Of course, Lucky blamed Landry back then. In hindsight, Landry wasn’t smart enough to plan and carry out a plot with so wide a range. “I’m leaving Texas now. I got pulled over, but the highway patrol was told to let me pass, and no one stopped me at the border.” If only things had been this easy when Lucky transported drugs for Victor.

  “Be prepared. You’ll be stopped ten miles outside Atlanta. We’ll see what happens then. If nothing else, I’m sure O’Donoghue will be alerted.” So much for Walter’s former defense of the DEA man gone wrong.

  “Sure thing, boss.” Never before had Lucky tried so hard to draw police attention.

  The next few hours passed uneventfully, with Lucky singing along to the radio. Good thing they’d checked the truck for bugs. If anyone had listened in, they’d probably be ready to stab their eardrums. Then again, his crucifix held a microphone, conveniently located close to his mouth.

  He stopped for lunch at a barbeque place guaranteed to harden his arteries.

  Cops pulled him over again. Instead of an officer getting out, the cruiser’s back door opened and one of Cruz’s guys emerged. One Lucky vaguely remembered from the Chastain case. Lucky crawled into the back of the sleeper cab and let his relief take over driving duties.