Tracking Shadows (Shadows of Justice 4)

by Black, Regan

  "I wish you'd stay."

  Trina glanced at April. "You didn't have to walk me out."

  "It's dangerous out here."

  "And now you'll be walking through all that danger alone."

  Worse, between April and the guy tailing them, Trina wouldn't be able to double back for any recon. She'd hoped to nose around and find a good spot to lie in wait for Slick Micky. She tried to imagine what the man capable of running an operation so extensive would look like. She'd put money on squat and balding with cynical, squinty eyes set too close to a hawkish nose.

  "But I know who's friendly down there." April was chewing on her lip, brows knit with worry. "What if that guy comes back?"

  "Not after what you put him through. And – " she held out a hand to silence April's protest. "If anyone else bugs me now, I'll use that secret weapon move. Thanks again for showing me."

  April frowned, dissatisfied with Trina's decision, but the time to argue evaporated as the station lights flickered, signaling the incoming train.

  She smiled at the younger woman. "Thanks for everything tonight."

  To her shock, April caught her in a fast, warm hug. Trina felt awkward but she did her best, working from memory, to return the kindness. In her line of work people who touched her usually died shortly after.

  April held her at arm's length. "If you need anything – anything at all – find me at the hotel."

  Trina nodded.

  "Promise me, with words."

  "I promise if I need anything – " like another dinner in Slick Micky's lair " – I'll let you know." Trina worried April wouldn't let her go even when the doors whooshed open. "Be careful," she called, boarding the train.

  Trina didn't take a normal breath until the train moved out of the station, half expecting April to try and wrangle her back.

  Alone in her section of the el, she resisted the urge to peel away more than just her wig. The contacts were drying her eyes, but she thought it best to keep her face in character while she considered her next move. She could ride around until she reached the neighborhood Crayland managed for Montalbano. Or she could just take her complaint to Mr. Mobster himself. He'd be shocked if she strolled into his corporate office and knocked him around. The idea held more than a little appeal. A sure sign she should stay away until after she took out Slick Micky.

  The lights flickered as the el moved through another station and she felt the long forgotten chill of self-doubt like a breeze on the back of her neck. She should have stayed, should have used April to take out the bastard and finish the job. Life didn't hand out prime opportunities regularly. Logic said she'd made the best choice and still it stung knowing she'd squandered a chance.

  Even now, her instinct urged her to keep moving away from the neighborhood. The internal debate between instinct and vengeance continued through several more stops, but she didn't get any closer to a working solution.

  People began trickling into her car with each new stop, a sure sign she was getting closer to respectable neighborhoods. As people watching was both a hobby and a professional necessity, she decided to ride it out rather than try and change trains to get back to the hotel or Montalbano.

  Two guys walked into her car, and kept moving slowly toward the next. Dressed casually in jeans and dark jackets against the weather, they fit in with the demographic, but something about them caught Trina's eye.

  She watched them navigate the crowd. The body language was too quiet on the older guy while the younger man looked nervous. The contrast sparked her curiosity. Was one criminal teaching the next generation? When the older guy turned she regretted giving them a second glance. In profile, he bore a striking resemblance to her long-dead best friend and the old pain nipped at her battered heart. It wasn't Joel. Joel was dead. Sure, the jawline and nose were similar, though leaner than Joel's youthful face. Of course Joel hadn't been given a chance to grow into his bone structure. He'd been so beautiful, so strong inside and out. An anchor in her whacked out world.

  In the next heartbeat she heard that dreadful explosion in her mind, watched the car flying apart, felt the heat beating furiously against her face and hands. And the guilt...

  She was almost grateful for the cold fist gripping her heart as she battled with the memories. The icy clutch drew her back into the current isolation she preferred. Leaning her forehead against the cool window, she let the blur of the city lights and the jerk and sway of the train keep her tethered to reality.

  Her palms itched with the need to do something. Anything. Finish the contract or abandon the contract. It didn't matter so long as she left this city behind. Forever.

  The powers that be paid well for wet work in Chicago and the expenses were more reasonable here than other metro areas, but the unwelcome memories weren't worth the profit margin.

  With all the years between then and now, she thought she'd perfected living in the present. Yet here she was, feeling like that lost, incompetent girl just because a stranger looked familiar.

  She pretended to sleep until the car went quiet again. Changing trains, she doubled back until she was headed for her hotel. The man she'd come to kill would just have to live another day. Or more.

  The nasty trip down memory lane settled her debate at least. She'd activate a new cell card – free of GPS ala Montalbano – and line up her next job. Somewhere far away. Then she'd take out Slick Micky, leave her dumbass client a message of the permanent variety, and kiss her past good bye. Forever.

  Chapter Six

  On the el Micky gave Ben a quick and dirty lesson on how to protect the warehouse location. He'd only shown him one way in or out so far and it was the most easily defended point, but he didn't want Ben getting the notion that anyone trusted him yet.

  Now, at the edge of the ramshackle town near the docs, he felt the security detail behind him like a pushy shadow. An ornery devil perched on his shoulder kept urging him to lose the team, but he ignored it. The extra security was a pain in the ass, but he'd promised Jim he'd behave. It wasn't as if he had any real privacy since Sis had been dumped out the window. The word on the street was clear enough that someone intended to take the Slick Micky title. As Jim had been quick to point out, if an assassin succeeded, his girls would be devastated.

  Only until after the reading of the will, he thought. Then they'd feel a lot better.

  Shaking off the melancholy, Micky glanced over at Ben, wondering when the kid would start to ask the questions that were surely racing around his brain. "Problem?"

  "You know we're being followed right?"

  Micky nodded once. "Afraid?"

  "Not unless you are."

  Ben bumped up another notch in Micky's estimation. "I'm not. He's back there to protect me. From you."

  The kid's shoulders relaxed. "You're safe enough sir. I know you can't trust me yet, but I'm really through with the Reverend's twisted games."

  It was a good start, but only time would convince Jim, and the rest of Micky's 'family', that Ben was one of them. Once more, Micky thought of Sis and how easily she recruited and incorporated the girls into the fold. At this stage of his career, he hadn't planned on branching into personnel development.

  Walking with Ben toward the docks, he considered Sis's replacement. Several of his mules showed leadership potential, he just wasn't sure yet who he wanted in his back pocket. Whoever took over Sis's role would be privy to more than suppliers, routes and schedules. She'd get a bigger cut of the pie for her increased responsibilities, but she'd have access to more of his secrets.

  His cell card shivered in his coat pocket and he put away the puzzle of personnel as he checked the message. Making a mental note, he tucked the card away.

  "When we arrive, consider yourself mute. The ferrymen tend to get jittery so either keep your eyes down or on me."

  "Got it," Ben muttered under his breath.

  Micky found the panel truck two blocks away from the storage center he owned and operated legally. To his delight and Ben's dismay,
the truck looked as abandoned and useless as ever, huddled at the corner with rusting bumpers and filth scattered about deep enough to suggest the truck never moved.

  But the back panel rolled up silently when Micky pressed the security chip in his sleeve to the lock. He let Ben climb in, smiling when the kid let out a low whistle as the overhead lights came on when the door slid closed behind them.

  "This is one ugly beast."

  If you only looked at the surface, Micky had to agree. "She's got what I need where it counts," he replied thinking of the new, oversized engine Cleveland had rebuilt for him.

  Ben took a visual inventory, his gaze roaming over the narrow racks lining the cargo space from top to bottom. Micky knew how it looked with each rack filled with what appeared to be bricks wrapped in brown paper. What Ben probably assumed were hard drugs was simply excellent, unmodified coffee.

  "When we get there, just pull the boxes off the ferry and slide them here." He motioned to the empty space closest to the cab. "I'll take care of the rest."

  Ben nodded. "Who's driving?"

  "That'd be me."

  Ben jumped back from new voice and the woman who owned it, falling on his ass at Micky's feet.

  "Ben, meet Darlene," Micky said.

  Darlene completed her exit from the truck's false ceiling and extended her hand to Ben. "Hi."

  "How old are you?"

  "Old enough to scare the shit out of you."

  Micky watched Darlene's baby blue eyes frost over, but he couldn't blame Ben for wondering. The driver was petite, with the gentle beauty artists liked to give angels, until someone pissed her off.

  "Getting crowded in here," she said to Micky.

  Micky ignored her. "Had any trouble?"

  "Nope."

  Micky listened to Darlene rattle off the standard report about the truck's maintenance, the lousy weather, and the cold coffee.

  "Wh-where did you come from?" Ben blurted.

  "Tennessee. How 'bout you, sugar?"

  Micky coughed rather than chuckle at Darlene's cocked a hip and sudden infusion of a sultry southern whiskey drawl.

  "No. That's not –"

  "Guarding the truck goes with driving the truck." Micky cut off further questions with a hard look. "I take care of my own. Caution, planning, and effort keep my operation running for everyone's benefit."

  To Darlene he added, "This pick up may or may not be a regular thing."

  She shrugged one shoulder. "A little quiet's good for the soul."

  "How long has your soul been quiet?"

  "Long enough to make me edgy. What's the route?"

  Micky chuckled, handing over a small electronic device and waiting while Darlene powered up the hologram and memorized the map. Not much challenge in such a small area, but sticking with protocol and routine kept everyone sharp. Her stunning skills behind the wheel and flawless sense of direction made her one of the best in off-road racing, but it was her short fuse more than gender that had killed her career.

  He'd given her a chance with his cargo and never been sorry for it.

  "Hey is that an infinity tattoo?" Ben pointed to the mark as Darlene stuffed her long hair up under a watch cap.

  Micky was about to intervene as Ben was treading on seriously thin ice, but Darlene answered calmly. "For infinite possibilities," she said, slithering back through the small access panel to the cab.

  The truck rumbled to life and Micky showed Ben how the jump seats pulled down and locked into place. "Buckle up," he ordered. "It can get crazy if she runs into trouble." Or if she decided to freak out the new guy, Micky thought.

  Darlene surprised him, getting them to the rendezvous point without any fancy turns or quick stops. She knew a crazy turn or two could attract law enforcement, but she'd been known to take the chance for the sheer entertainment factor.

  "Mute, remember?"

  Ben bobbed his head, following Micky's example and stowing the jump seat.

  He didn't have to check on Darlene, the driver knew her role and would stay behind the wheel where she'd watch his back and the merchandise exchange with the hidden cameras that linked to a screen on her dashboard.

  Another improvement courtesy of Cleveland and Leigh. Micky considered himself lucky to have so many pieces of his disjointed life realign at the right times and places. When Leigh had been hurt, he figured he'd simply lost a good mule. But meeting Cleveland renewed her in unexpected ways and instead of losing Leigh, Micky had gained Cleveland.

  Pushing sentimentality aside, he strolled on down the dock, listening to the weathered wood creaking under his boots and the softer footfalls of Ben behind him. The quiet lake stretched like a black hole swallowing the world beyond the lone boat waiting for his arrival.

  The rhythm of deep, soft spoken voices stilled before he got close enough to pick out the words. The silence only gave him more time to assess his gut reaction to the current situation.

  Everything had run smoothly so far, but there was plenty of room left for error, or even chaos.

  He stopped even with the ferry's bow line and waited for the captain to give the signal. When the stern light blinked twice, Micky called out, "Good night for a fire!"

  "Yes, indeedy. Just as soon as I get off this damned cold water." The captain signaled two men on the deck who slid back the gate and rolled out a gangway. Micky didn't signal Ben to move until he saw his crates emerge from the shadows of the wheel house.

  As far as the ferrymen knew, Micky was just one more cog in a smuggler's chain. Through the years of expanding his business and territory, he'd found hiding in plain sight almost as useful as hiding in the stealth suit.

  Micky motioned Ben forward to accept the stack of crates stamped with the official seal of Canada's bureau of Tobacco and Alcohol.

  So nice to have friends in the North. The new supplier had promised the good stuff, but the stamp on the sealed crates implied better quality than Micky expected.

  "Hang on," he muttered to Ben. "I'd better double check or the boss'll have my ass." He glanced at the captain. "Gotta crow bar?"

  "What's that?" The Captain stepped forward. "You got cold feet or something?"

  "Look, I got orders same as you." He bumped his fist against the top of the crate. "I'm sure it's all good, but if it ain't you won't be the one takin' the heat."

  "True enough."

  Micky felt the sweet rush he'd met at thirteen, when he was making his first pickup with his granddad. That had been a lonely stretch of road out west and the product a bit different, but the lessons were eternal: always verify the product.

  He wanted Ben to learn that same lesson, and how and when to walk away if something didn't add up. When the lid was pried up, Ben held it while Micky aimed a flashlight at the contents. Pushing aside the layer of shredded packing material, he smiled at the neat rows of cigarette cartons. Not his place to judge how a government chose to package a product, but based solely on scarcity, he'd have to say the pictures of diseased lungs and the long list of names of those who'd died as a result of smoking wasn't deterring anyone in Canada.

  Just like the zero-tolerance smoking ban wasn't deterring anyone in America. It had only opened up a new market for designer smoke eaters, air purifiers, and bogus quality cigarettes. Hell, if the government ever reversed the ban on nicotine, he'd lose a third of his business. Not ideal, but Micky understood the rather fickle nature of opportunity and planned accordingly.

  "Looks good," he said, dropping the lid back in place. He jerked his chin for Ben to load it up, and moved to check the next crates in line. Only four in this trip and Ben had them tucked away in minutes.

  "From the boss. A little extra for your trouble and your crew." Micky tossed a brick of his finest coffee beans to the captain.

  The captain frowned as he peeled back the plain wrapper, then a slow smile creased his weathered face. "Tell your boss it was a pleasure doing business."

  "Will do." He unhitched the bowline and watched the ferry slide away from
the dock until it was lost to the darkness of the lake and the only evidence of the visit was a soft ripple on the water and the fading sound of the puttering motor.

  When he reached the truck and pulled down the door, Darlene gave the all clear and turned the heat on low as she drove back to the storage center.

  "It's really cigarettes?"

  Micky smirked at Ben. "What were you expecting?

  "From what I've seen this is one sexy kind of set up. Seems a lot for just cigarettes?"

  "Nicotine is contraband."

  "I know but –"

  "You'd rather I risked my life and everyone else for the hard stuff? It's not all we do, Ben." Not even close. By running the light stuff, he kept his girls clean and safe. By dealing the products most people resented being controlled, he kept the Slick Micky reputation influential on both sides of the law. Or at least on both edges of the darker side of the law.

  And of course the profit margin didn't hurt.

  * * *

  Trina paced the confines of her hotel room, massaging away the aches of the disguise, and muttering insults to herself once more. She should've stayed with April, should've gotten close enough to strike down Slick Micky.

  Should have, should have, should have.

  It boiled down to going soft. She'd left because she liked April. Aw, hell. While it was definitely new and unexpected to feel an affinity for anyone, lying to herself wasn't helping. She did like April, but that wouldn't have kept her from the kill. It was the rest of it, the persistent little details that didn't match up with Slick Micky's ruthless reputation.

  Trina called herself another slew of unflattering names. None of the inconsistencies should matter. She was a professional with a contract and she'd banked the deposit. Fifteen years ago, she'd been an eyewitness to the smuggler's violent determination to protect his bottom line and stay on top of the criminal heap. She knew what needed to be done. She was more than qualified, she was determined.

  Fed up with her uncharacteristic waffling in the field, Trina settled at her computer and started searching for reminders of why Slick Micky had to die. Her fingers flew across the keyboard and she let her eyes roam headlines past and present as she skimmed phrases and bits of news, cutting and pasting the information into an impromptu scrapbook of criminal endeavors.