Tracking Shadows (Shadows of Justice 4)

by Black, Regan

  Sitting back on her heels, she struggled to remember the happy times before the grief and solitude.

  She leaned forward to hands and knees, flexing her spine through cat and cow. Slowly, she pushed back to child's pose and rested until her breathing steadied. Sliding forward into cobra, then once more pressing her body back to downward dog.

  Joel had been as inherently sweet and good as the sugar he'd been sneaking to their classmates.

  Lunge, forward bend, back bend, mountain.

  Trina closed her eyes as she held the standing pose, draping a black curtain over the painful memories. When her mind was calm, she went through the yoga routine twice more.

  Her heart quiet again, she sipped her tea. Slick Micky killed Joel and she'd kill Slick Micky the very moment she found him.

  As she stirred just a smidge of top-shelf honey into her tea she considered the angles once more, and then opened the file she'd been provided when she accepted the contract deposit.

  Rumor had it Slick Micky could get anyone anything at anytime. A smuggler with that kind of influence and reach...well, it was too outrageous to believe the word on the street about the bastard's soft side.

  Fifteen years ago, he'd killed a young man, her best friend, just for running a little sugar in his territory.

  She looked from the dossier to the mirror, working out the obstacles and odds of success.

  Slick Micky was the goal. If he wouldn't come out of hiding to deal with the trouble, she'd take the trouble to him. She just had to find him.

  Changing her clothes, she prepared for step one: find a lead on a sugar fix.

  Dressed to make a contribution to the retailers of the Magnificent Mile, she headed downstairs to the concierge. A woman of means on a shopping mission didn't expect to walk through anything more than the finest store aisles.

  A car, driver, and an assistant were quickly arranged and soon she was striding forward with her plan.

  She could read people – not minds, but the body language – and she intended to put her skills to good use. Surely out here on the most decadent street in the city, she'd find a young woman in a go-nowhere job who dealt a little contraband on the side.

  But surely didn't happen. She bumped into plenty of young collegiate types but no one took the bait when she fussed about needing an afternoon pick me up.

  All her pre-hit intel said Slick Micky had mules in every socioeconomic level in the city. What the hell was wrong? They couldn't all be off the clock today.

  She purchased clothes she didn't need just to keep the assistant and driver busy. She gave the driver a thrill when she invited him to stroll with her through a designer electronics store. Devices of all sizes and for all purposes amused him, giving her cover while she listened to the monitors tuned to media outlets for news of either Dakota's or Atlas's death.

  Still nothing.

  For that matter, her own client had yet to call. She shook her head, pretending she was amused by the latest game on a hand held display.

  His staff would've found him within hours. They could only keep it quiet so long. The man was a fixture in the public eye, despite his known ties to serious crime.

  Annoyed with the non-productive shopping, she rewarded the hotel employees with gift cards and asked them to take her back. They treated her like the royalty she impersonated, carting purchases to her room, fawning over her generosity, and wishing her well when she headed for the hotel bar.

  Two martinis later, the bartender listened attentively to her ode to dessert, bringing her a slice of blackberry pie, and then bringing her the pastry chef when she insisted on making a personal thank you.

  "How do you manage such clear taste without real sugar? My personal chef could use the advice, she's just not the genius you are with these substitutes."

  "Thank you, ma'am."

  Trina beamed her most expectant smile and waited.

  The chef cleared her throat. "You know as a restaurant we are granted a bit more leniency."

  Her tinkling socialite laughter put the bartender and chef at ease. "Of course. I didn't mean to imply anything. But really, don't you miss the easy days?"

  The pastry chef sighed. "Yes. That is..." She shot an apologetic gaze at the bartender. He waved it off and moved off to serve a new customer and she turned back to Trina. "I studied abroad."

  "France?"

  A nod. "It was a dream to create without the strangling regulations."

  "Oh, I'm sure." Trina reached across and patted the woman's hand, using the physical connection to ramp up her psychic skill. "Can you even remember a time when Americans could think for themselves?"

  The chef murmured, echoing the sentiment, though she blinked rapidly as if the dim lights of the bar were suddenly too bright.

  Which meant she was likely seeing just what Trina wanted her to see: a young woman standing in the sunshine holding a bucket of pure white, refined sugar. It couldn't be how the real mule delivered the product, but Trina just needed the chef to follow the prompt.

  "April? Is that you? What'd you do to your hair?" The chef gripped Trina's arm. "Forget it. Thank God you're here." Her head swiveled from side to side. "I'm nearly out," she whispered.

  At last a lead! Trina smiled to herself, pleased her instincts paid off this time. Grateful for the name, she gently wrapped up the conversation and, parting ways with the chef, she headed back to her suite to plan a trap for the sugar toting April.

  Chapter Four

  Ben Trumble was eliminating brain cells at a blistering pace while Micky watched, in stealth mode, from a gloomy corner of the bar. It astounded him how the government justified public intoxication over personal intoxication. A man could get hammered in a bar, but he wasn't allowed to have the same quantity of alcohol in his personal possession. Micky dealt in alcohol and liquor when he needed to, but he preferred the more manageable products. The higher frequency of smaller deals, combined with the more reliable clientele had served him and his team well through the years.

  Fortunately, no one understood quite how he ran things, and very few people knew precisely who ran things. It was just part of the business, living with a target on his back. The major players in Chicago's underworld shared a grudging respect for one another. Usually. Attempting a power play was one thing, but assassination was permanent.

  The thought brought him crashing back to the situation in front of him. Turning the kid away from the Reverend would require careful handling. He'd have to find the right catalyst, the thing the kid needed most, and deliver it.

  Deciding to start with the physical benefits, he'd called in an old friend. The right backup for this situation was worth the favor he'd owe her. Once Ben sobered up, they could work on business options. Money would factor, as would security, but Micky was ready to lay odds Ben would respond best to a simple show of respect. And a new neighborhood.

  Micky's old friend Leigh walked in, looking nothing like the battered, broken caffeine mule she'd been six months ago. He chalked up the healthy glow and confidence to her new man, Cleveland, and the street kids they'd recently adopted. She was the poster child for the power of family, he thought as Leigh deftly ushered the unsteady Ben out of the bar and into the car waiting at the curb.

  Micky smiled. So she'd learned to drive the 1957 Chevy behemoth Cleveland called a classic. As good a testament to her new-found bravery as coming out this way to do him a favor.

  With Ben safe, and by default ensuring his own safety, Micky made his way out of the neighborhood before the streets clogged with people looking for the darker diversions offered by the Reverend's various establishments.

  Taking his time, enjoying the anonymity of the stealth suit, he strolled through town, eventually reaching one of the private entrances to his warehouse. Sneaking up to his apartment, he shed the stealth suit and secured Ben's gun before he alerted security that he'd returned.

  "I'm back, Jim," he said when the head of security picked up. "Anything I need to know?"

&n
bsp; "All clear, boss. Even your guests are checked out."

  "That's fine." He knew Jaden would settle up with him later, though he regretted not making time to speak with the supposedly telekinetic guy in the infirmary. That conversation might have proven profitable on several levels if Mr. Mind Power had been receptive. "All the girls are home?"

  "And the product too. Keeping things quiet as ordered."

  "Good."

  He disconnected to deal with the light flashing on the computer he kept off his primary business grid. Personally, he wasn't in much mood to deal with urgent, high end, or hard core smuggling, but professionally, Slick Micky didn't have the luxury of moods.

  He tapped the screen to light up the text box and keyed in a simple: "Awake."

  "Need two cases of Canadian Whiskey."

  Micky groaned at a bad memory of that swill. Business first, judgment second. With the speed of experience, he factored his connections, trade-offs, and risks. He'd neutralized a would-be assassin – for the moment – but Ben hadn't pushed Sis out of that window. He was too green and possibly too squeamish to kill anyone. "Have to pass this time. Try Dakota."

  He pushed his chair back from the monitor, ready to look through the personnel files for a replacement for Sis when the damned messenger alert chimed again.

  "Can't. He's dead."

  Micky was grateful he never enabled the camera or voice chat on this set up. That was something he should've known – would've known – if he'd kept his girls on schedule.

  "When?"

  "A few hours ago. Can you come through with the whiskey?"

  Absolutely not. But he'd be damned before he sent business to the creepy Reverend. Or worse, Montalbano. That entitled Italian mob prince had his fingers in every sort of pie. Micky might straddle the line between legal and not-so-legal, but Montalbano ignored it entirely.

  "Wait one." He turned to a different computer, locked and protected on the internal system with state of the art encryption. The system came as a favor from one of his military tech contacts for keeping the guy's sister out of jail after a club bust.

  God, it was good to be connected.

  According to his log of trades and favors, there was a small pub owner in Gary, Indiana who might be willing to pad his inventory reports for a bigger share of real coffee over the holidays.

  Micky negotiated for the alcohol, haggling more over exchange times and sites than the actual value.

  When the details were locked down, he put his computer avatar to sleep. The rest of Chicago would have to wait for all the restricted things they wanted until he had his world secure again. Until whoever murdered Sis paid an equally terminal price.

  * * *

  "I'm not paying you for a fucking spree. Hit the target as ordered. I'm cutting your pay in half every day he lives."

  Trina rolled her eyes at the read out marching across the miniature screen of her cell phone in a repeating loop. It wasn't a surprise. She researched all her clients and knew he liked to intimidate with his volatile, dangerous Mobster tactics whenever he could. As crime boss or client, Montalbano didn't scare her. He, like everyone else, assumed she killed for the joy or the money. But this particular hit wasn't about the money and as for her chosen profession, Montalbano could issue an elimination order, but they both knew if he had someone good enough, he wouldn't need her to take out Slick Micky.

  Men.

  It was just another irritating fact that most of her business came through the dummy male identity she'd set up to gain the jobs people thought only a man could handle. Montalbano was probably already calling her male persona, effectively hiring her to take out herself. It was funny if she took the time to think about it.

  Minutes passed and the message changed. "Contact me immediately."

  'Immediately' was open for interpretation, in Trina's opinion. She turned off the device and slid it into the pocket secreted in the lining of her coat. She'd contact him when she had a lead on Micky and make them both happy.

  Watching the hotel's kitchen door for three straight days was boring as hell, but it was her best bet. Restaurants had to report recipes and submit to ingredient audits, though all the players knew how to game the system, and how to pad the flavors of legal, synthetic ingredients with the genuine product.

  For three days, she'd watched the pastry chef peek into the alley and carry out more trash than the dishwashers and busboys. For three days she'd fought down her natural impatience and the memories of a life snuffed too early.

  Everything had changed the day Joel died, taking her heart with him to the grave. Her fragile plans had gone up in flames along with his car and suddenly the world felt harsh and abrasive without her best friend and the emotional shelter he'd provided.

  Just as her mind started cartwheeling through the heat and devastating blast, the kitchen door opened again. Thank God for distractions!

  This time the pastry chef was speaking to a young woman dressed as a hotel maid. The girl extracted a small package from her oversized coat and the pastry chef's smile bloomed.

  Micky was very slick indeed, if his standard protocol meant planting mules in ideal places for repeat business.

  Trina stayed hidden as the girl passed by, held steady a beat longer before following her onto the street. There, she became just another worn out employee as she trailed April toward the el station.

  Keeping up with her on the train, without raising suspicion, was trickier, but she managed until Crayland, one of Montalbano's goons materialized in front of her seat. She ignored him. He couldn't know who she was. With dark contacts and inserts to modify her cheekbones and jaw line, she couldn't possibly match any photo he might have. She used her illusion skills or physical disguises for business transactions as a matter of professional pride and security.

  Crayland shuffled, checked something in his hand and turned to her again.

  Oh, crap. It had to be a GPS tracker. Trina was furious Montalbano had managed to tag her, but temper had to wait. She pulsed out a hallucination, but Crayland just blinked and shook his head.

  "Huh." He looked from his device to her. "You? Huh. Well, you're not much, but you've been a bad girl," he said with a snarl that revealed a gold plated prosthetic incisor.

  She tried to look away, but it was impossible. Did he think it was appealing?

  "Boss wants to see you." He reached and grabbed her by the coat, hauling her up against his broad chest. "Now."

  Any other day, any other moment she would've kicked his ass just for looking at her. To do it here would only make her stand out – and worse, it would spook April.

  Her temper simmered and she let a smidge show in the glare she shot him. He braced, but when she didn't move, he gave her a jarring shake. It was humiliating to let this guy think he'd won, to let the whole damn train car think she was bully bait, but she stuck to her bigger plan.

  Suddenly Crayland was howling in pain. As he dropped to the floor, she saw April.

  The girl reached over Crayland's crumpled form and tugged Trina's sleeve. "Come on. Come with me."

  Surprised, and more than a little amused, Trina obeyed. She cracked the compromised cell phone in half as they rushed through a few sparsely populated cars until they found enough of a crowd to buy them a few moments of breathing room.

  The phone was the only way Montalbano could have tagged her, though she'd checked it thoroughly when it had arrived with the first payment and found no standard GPS tags. He must've put a code in the programming to go off when he sent a specific message. Clever. In other circumstances she'd keep it for closer examination and possible reverse engineering, but for now she settled for scattering the pieces as the crowd jostled along with the shifting of the train.

  "I can help you," April said when they stopped again. "At least temporarily. If you want."

  "How?" Trina made a show of watching for Crayland. "What did you do to him?"

  "Just a little self defense move I learned. I could show you."

  T
rina thought it might be a good idea. "Yes, please."

  "Well, not here," she said, blushing a little. Then she smiled. "I'm April."

  "Nice to meet you. And thanks again." They stood facing each other, hands on the safety pole while they chatted about nothing in particular, each of them keeping an eye out, scanning the shifting crowds behind the other. It was a good system and it made Trina wonder if it was April's natural survival instinct or if she'd been taught.

  "Come on." April dragged Trina through the automated doors when the train stopped at the next station. "Do you need a place to stay? To hide?"

  Trina shook her head, not trusting her voice or her luck that April might lead her straight to her quarry. According to Montalbano and her own research, no one but Slick Micky bothered to deal sugar in Chicago.

  "I can see you're in trouble." The girl hesitated another moment. "That jackass might come after you." Her chin came up, and her shoulders rolled back. Clearly she'd made her choice. "Just follow me. This way."

  Trina didn't try to converse, memorizing the route offered enough of a challenge. They caught the next train going in the original direction, but only stayed for another two stops. Then it was across the bridge and down the steps to the street below.

  A street in a frightening state of urban decline. She forced her feet to keep pace with April into that hard canyon framed by crumbling buildings with dark, vacant eyes where windows might have sparkled in decades long gone.

  Even Trina, years removed from Chicago, knew the buddy system wouldn't deter any of the criminal types hovering at the edges of the street, lurking in the shadows. Except no one advanced, no one even called out anything remotely lewd, threatening, or insulting.

  Were they too drugged out? "Weird neighborhood," she murmured.

  "More like the best neighborhood," April replied with a quirky grin.

  The lack of street signs or building numbers wasn't a surprise, but something didn't add up.