“I didn’t trust them.”
Dexter snorted. “Didn’t trust them? There’s a shocker, Garciaparra. Did you hear that? Parker doesn’t trust people.”
Both men kept quiet, which only pissed Dexter off more.
“I assume you trust me, Parker.” Dexter worked hard to make his voice as sarcastic as possible. “Or did you want to give me a once-over and make sure I’m not really Kareem Gregory with a mask and a voice-alteration device like they use in all the Mission: Impossible movies?”
Parker flattened his lips and said nothing.
This continued silence when a fight would be so much more satisfying infuriated Dexter. “It’d be nice if you were smart enough to know who to trust and who not to trust, Parker.”
Parker shrugged and stretched his lips into half of the most insolent smile Dexter had ever seen. “I make it easy on myself and don’t trust anyone.”
“Interesting. So how come you’re glued at the hip now to this Amara Clarke woman? You trust her? Or is she your new adoptive daughter?”
Aha. Pay dirt. Parker flushed an angry red and glared at Dexter with slow murder in his eyes. “I have no reason not to trust her.”
“Wow. Even though you’ve had—what?—two attempts on your life since you laid eyes on this paragon of trustworthiness. You don’t see any possible connections there? Or is it all a giant coinky-dink?”
Parker seemed frozen with rage, but that was just too bad. He could go fuck himself in the corner for all Dexter cared at this moment.
Finally Parker spoke, heaping dry kindling on the smoldering flames of Dexter’s temper. “I know you’re busy, what with pushing papers from one side of your desk to the other all day—”
“Jesus,” Garciaparra muttered to the ceiling.
Parker was a dead man. Dexter was going to call Kareem Gregory and tell him to come get Parker now. Hell. At this point he’d even pay for Gregory’s gas to get over here.
”—and you probably haven’t had time to read one more report and keep yourself up on current events and all,” Parker continued, “but Amara Clarke has been caught in the crossfire of this fuck fest. The contract killer that our good friend Kareem Gregory sent to kill me went to her house looking for me and would have killed her if I hadn’t gotten there in time.”
“That’s really tragic.” Leaning his head back against his tall chair, Dexter yawned, patting his mouth. When he was done with that, he made a show of checking his watch. “Tragic. Really, but—”
Parker went purple.
“—what’s it got to do with the DEA and her staying in the safe house we set up to keep your precious hide safe while you’re in town?”
“Not a goddamn thing,” Parker snarled. “I paid for her flight here and I’ll pay for her groceries. Just think of her as my private bodyguard or spiritual counselor for the duration. Satisfied?”
“Well, I’m sure you see God every time you fuck her, so that makes sense,” Dexter said.
“Dios,” Garciaparra breathed.
Parker was on his feet bracing his hands on the desk to lean down and stare Dexter in the eye with a rabid-dog primitive wildness. “Here’s what Amara Clarke’s got to do with you: the government needs my testimony. I need Amara Clarke to be kept safe. If you can’t let her sit in the safe house, recovering from her gunshot wound and not bothering anybody during the trial, you’re going to find that my memory is going to suffer—”
“What?”
“—and I’m not going to be the most convincing witness in the world. You feel me?”
So much for being a calm, effective leader. Fuck it. He was going to reach down Parker’s throat and rip his lungs out through his mouth.
Jumping up and only vaguely aware of his chair toppling and crashing to the floor behind him, Dexter reached out and grabbed the collar of Parker’s sweater. Parker erupted, trying to break away in a flurry of swinging arms and bared teeth, and it looked like there was going to be a fun time up in the office tonight.
But before things could really get going, Garciaparra dove between them and pulled Parker back, pinning him against the far wall and holding him there with one elbow in a choke hold across the man’s throat. Parker snarled and spluttered but couldn’t break free to kill Dexter as he clearly wanted to do.
Taking advantage of his captive audience, Dexter came around his desk and got right up in Parker’s face. “If you threaten me again, Parker, I’m going to call in my friends from the marshal’s office and have them put you in full lockdown until the trial. Okay? That’s number one.”
“Fuck you,” Parker spat.
Dexter decided to ignore this ongoing rudeness. “Number two: if your testimony is anything other than stellar and convincing, I’m going to call in the U.S. attorney and see if we can’t charge you with perjury and/or obstruction—”
Parker gave a mighty heave and nearly came loose, but Garciaparra shifted his hold and squeezed Parker in the hollow between his neck and shoulder and Parker yelped and settled down a little but still strained to get free.
“—but I know it won’t come to that because no one wants Gregory back in prison more than you do. You built the case against this parasite and you’re too much of a professional to blow it now even if you are apparently thinking with your dick.”
“Low blow, man,” Garciaparra muttered as Parker’s renewed outrage gave him a fresh surge of adrenaline and he struggled harder.
Dexter ignored them both. Enough. This was stupid. They were all on the same side and it was time they remembered it. He went back to his desk and sat.
“Here’s what we’re going to do: the woman can stay in the safe house with you for now, and I don’t want to hear a peep out of you or her. The only thing I want to hear about your continued existence is a series of daily reports from the U.S. attorney telling me what a good boy you’re being and how hard you’re working on preparing for your testimony.
“And then, Parker, I want you to get the hell out of Cincinnati and go somewhere where I, hopefully, will never have to lay eyes on you again. We’re working on getting you out of here and finding a new home for you, far, far away. Okay? So keep your bags packed. In the meantime, I don’t have time for this bullshit because we’ve got a dead agent in Sacramento, a shooting in Seattle, nothing that could tie the dead shooter to Gregory, and—”
“I can help you with that,” Parker said.
What the fuck? “Did you need an engraved invitation from the director to tell your story, or were you planning to share this information with me any time this morning?”
“The shooter dropped her weapon at Amara’s house. We can’t tie it to Amara’s shooting, but maybe ballistics can show that the same weapon was used on my boss at the diner and Ray Wolfe and his wife.”
“Where’s this weapon?”
Parker, stubborn and paranoid to the end, squared his jaw. “Do I have your word on Amara Clarke?”
Dexter rolled his eyes. This woman’s shit must be pure magic. Truly. “Yeah, Parker, you’ve got my word.”
“I’ll get it to you,” Parker said.
“Do that. Immediately.”
Dexter set his chair upright, sat, leafed through his paperwork and wondered if taking another Extra Strength Tylenol on top of the four he’d downed in the last hour would be too much. His head was killing him and Kira Gregory’s beautiful image was hovering at the corner of his mind, demanding attention.
“Now get out of my office,” he barked.
Kareem Gregory left his lawyer’s office and met up with his bodyguards, who’d been waiting for him by the SUV in the parking garage. Keeping their eyes open to make sure they weren’t being followed, they drove to meet two of his lieutenants, Yogi Watkins and Kerry Randolph, in the deserted, weed-overgrown parking lot behind some bankrupt piano manufacturer’s deserted warehouse.
Not exactly a well-appointed conference room with hot coffee and pastries, but it was the only place where he was reasonably certain he couldn’t b
e caught on tape, assuming the feds were watching him, which was always a safe bet.
“Stay here,” he told his lazy-ass boys.
They grunted, only too happy to sit inside where it was warm.
Dumb fucks. What was he keeping them around for? Seething, Kareem jumped out of the Land Cruiser, slammed the door and strode past Kerry Randolph, who stood at attention beside his BMW.
“What’s up, man?” Kerry asked.
What? What? Did that bitch just speak to him? Stopping dead—he didn’t have any problems with Kerry at the moment, but it was early yet and that could change—Kareem wheeled around and gave him a look that had the brother turning white with fear.
“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” Kareem told him.
Kerry snapped his jaws shut.
That’s right. Keep quiet. Now to deal with Yogi.
Kareem stalked over to where Yogi stood waiting by his Lexus sedan, looking worried with his brow crinkled and shit. The brother needed to be worried because Kareem was pissed. He was cold, tired and fed up with the incompetence that surrounded him on every side. His freedom hung on the line, he had a business to run and, most of all, he had a wife that he wanted to hook up with again, as soon as this trial was behind them and their future was free and clear.
He didn’t have time for this ongoing shit and he didn’t have time for traipsing around the city for secret meetings to crack heads.
“Kareem,” Yogi began, all cautious, like he was tiptoeing through a minefield.
Kareem stared at him, saying nothing.
A semiautomatic handgun was a nice weapon to have in his arsenal, but so was silence. It made the strongest people, like Yogi, shrink and wither like an eighty-year-old’s dick. Made them wonder when Kareem was going to go ape-shit and dole out a severe punishment for a job poorly done. Half the time never had to do any follow-up because the stare was enough.
Follow-up was definitely in order today, though.
Yogi seemed to know it, too. Tall and doughy, nicknamed Yogi because of his unfortunate resemblance to the bear, he was looking nervous and sweaty even though it was gray and icy today and their breath made clouds of white steam.
Yogi’s face screamed bad news. Kareem didn’t want any more bad news.
Ever.
“Don’t Kareem me.” Keeping his voice low and rough, Kareem watched his best man swallow hard and wanted to take him off at the knees for showing fear. “Maybe you can explain why I haven’t heard any news about that project not being completed the other night like I asked.”
As always, Kareem spoke in code.
“Maybe you can explain to me,” he continued, “why I just got finished being questioned about some shooting in Seattle where some special agent was killed, and I didn’t know anything about it. Maybe you can tell me why the feds are now talking about bringing the wrath of God down on me for something I didn’t authorize and had nothing to do with. Maybe you can tell me what the fuck is going on?”
Yogi looked pale but stood his ground. “Our friend out West hasn’t checked in.”
“Hasn’t checked in,” Kareem echoed.
The incompetence was mind-boggling. This punk was too stupid to live and every breath the man took was a waste of the free air. Kareem turned, paced away a few steps and then came back. The wind was on his face, blowing heavy and wet and promising snow, but all he could feel was heat and rage and the desire to damage something, to kill.
“Hasn’t. Checked. In.”
“I’ve been calling—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Kareem roared.
Yogi shut up, damn near shaking like a leaf.
Good. He had plenty of reason to be scared.
Kareem pulled his hands out of the pockets of his wool overcoat and ticked his points off on his black leather-gloved fingers. “So we’ve got an unfinished project. We’ve got a shitload of money paid out with nothing to show for it. We’ve got a missing friend on the West Coast who’s probably hopped a plane to Bali with my funds. And we’ve got my retrial starting in a couple fucking days.”
Yogi kept his yap shut.
“What about that project here at home, since we’re going to need a Plan B? We get that information from Jerome yet? How’s he doing on getting his little suburban druggie to talk?”
Yogi, who had his head hung low like a dog waiting to be kicked, shook his head and confirmed what Kareem already knew. It was no surprise, right? Why should this one thing be going well when everything else was a big pile of steaming elephant shit?
Goddamn it.
All conscious thought left Kareem’s brain until only two things remained: Yogi’s throat and his driving need to wrap his fingers around it.
He lunged. Snarled. Grabbed.
Chapter 16
The next thing Kareem knew, he had Yogi up against the Lexus and the brother was flailing with the effort to escape the beating, his eyes bulging. He didn’t fight back. He knew better than that. All the men knew that raising a hand or a weapon against Kareem was an automatic death sentence.
But car doors were slamming all around them and Yogi’s men were climbing out the other side of the Lexus, and running feet finally penetrated Kareem’s screaming rage as he pummeled his right-hand man.
No one dared touch him, but someone had the balls to speak his name.
“Kareem. You don’t want to do this, man.”
Wrong choice of words. He did want to do this.
Kareem punched Yogi one last time across the nose and then, because that punch hurt his knuckles and, worse, spurted blood into Kareem’s face and probably got some on his coat and scarf, punched him again. Yogi spluttered, swallowing a cry.
With disgust, Kareem turned him loose.
Coughing and gripping the car for support, Yogi doubled up and gasped for breath.
The men said nothing and concentrated on looking at their shoes in between nervous glances at Kareem and Yogi.
Kareem paced away, flexing his sore fingers and trying to calm down.
Shit. He hated losing control. Hated being reduced to this. Why couldn’t people be professional? Why couldn’t they do their jobs? It wasn’t that hard. Why did they force him to get ugly? Did they think he enjoyed having to enforce discipline?
Several gulps of the frigid air cooled him off and he turned back to the group. Everyone shifted and hung their heads. That made him feel better because they looked sorry and he knew they’d work harder next time.
Running a business was really like being a father. These men were like his children. They just needed occasional guidance and instruction, and, as the saying went, it hurt him worse than it hurt them. But rules were rules and business was business.
Kareem shook his head because the whole scene made him sad.
And he used the silence again to make sure he had everyone’s attention.
He did, but he glanced around the loose circle anyway, taking a long beat to look everyone in the eye and make sure they were all on the same page and all knew what he expected of Yogi and of them.
Then he turned to Yogi, cupped his face in his hands and kissed his cheek because he loved him like a brother and when you doled out the discipline you needed to make sure you did it with kindness and love.
“Why do you have to make me do this, man?” Kareem wondered. “Huh?”
Yogi didn’t answer.
Kareem fished a linen handkerchief out of his breast pocket and passed it to Yogi. “Clean yourself up. And do your job. You feel me?”
“I feel you.”
Yogi’s voice sounded hoarse, but it was loud and clear and Kareem knew the man wouldn’t fail him again, not if he wanted to live.
Good. So they understood each other.
Kareem felt much better. Light and hopeful, with a big weight taken off his shoulders. Yogi was back on the job and would make sure Parker didn’t live to testify against Kareem again. It would all come together. If Parker didn’t testify, Kareem would be acquitted. And once Kareem was acqu
itted, he and Kira could start their marriage over.
It was all connected. Circle of life and all that shit.
The sooner he was found not guilty, the sooner he could get back where he belonged: in bed with a wife who believed in him and looked at him with love and trust shining bright in her eyes.
Jesus. The image damn near made him cry.
Smiling at the men, he jerked his head toward the Land Cruiser and started walking.
“Let’s go. I’ve got a business to run.”
So this was a safe house.
Safe was, Amara supposed, a relative term.
Her house back in Mount Adams was beautiful, with flower boxes in the spring, matching colors and textures, and accent pieces with the furniture, but it was right on the corner of a tiny intersection and had flimsy locks and was not, therefore, safe.
The safe house of her imagination was an impenetrable fortress carved into the side of a mountain that was accessible only by a three-day journey by four-wheel drive SUV and then by helicopter. It had bulletproof windows, security cameras that covered every inch of the house, retinal scans for entrance from one room to the next, massive guards who had all been Navy SEALs in a former life, and roving packs of Dobermans—no, pit bulls—that were trained to kill intruders on sight. That was the ultimate in safety.
This house was … somewhere in between.
No cameras, no dogs, no bulletproof windows. They didn’t look bulletproof, anyway, but what did she know? It was just a plain old house, two-story brick traditional with three bedrooms and two baths, about thirty years old, on about an acre of land at the end of a lane.
That was it.
Well, and the guards. Two inside and two outside. There’d apparently been some discussion of putting two more in a surveillance van down the street, just in case, but they didn’t have the money or manpower to spare for that.
The four guards were DEA agents who’d either drawn the short straw to get put on the safe house protection task force or were on some sort of grievous punishment for past misdeeds. This gig couldn’t be on the list of most coveted assignments for anyone, even the local traffic cop.
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