Tracking Shadows (Shadows of Justice 4)

by Black, Regan

  "Have at it. It's all there." He pointed to the computer. "No one else can figure them out."

  "Will do." She nodded, realizing this was the greater cause of Walker's distress. "Next order: Put an eye on your alley twenty-four/seven and keep me informed. I'll set up an instant message link for you." She waved him out as she sank into Dakota's chair and lit up his computer system.

  Trina was good with computers, though she didn't have much formal training. Passwords and accesses and pathways just sort of happened for her. She chalked it up to one more weird way her brain made connections between information points.

  So hacking Dakota's system didn't take long. He was a numbers type and she found enough clues within the office to ferret out the key that unlocked his database. Soon, she was skimming his private emails, while a search feature she programmed combed his files for the codename he'd given to the same project she'd termed 'Kill Micky'.

  As the pieces came together, she felt a familiar hatred stirring in her gut. Nearly all of the fury she'd felt when Slick Micky had been a faceless enemy now zeroed in on Montalbano. A small fraction of that fury she aimed inward, for letting herself be so blatantly used.

  Her only satisfaction came from picturing Montalbano's reaction to the thoroughly incriminating details in Dakota's files. The man gave fresh meaning to 'follow the money'. Trina was almost sorry she'd put a stiletto through his neck. Almost.

  Her fingers twitched over the keyboard. She could alert the authorities right now and watch Montalbano get swallowed by the fraud and tax evasion investigations that would follow. Or she could save tax-paying citizens like herself the ridiculous expense and just handle it.

  Her way meant Micky would be safe sooner and stay safe longer. Sure, someone would fill the void, but it would take time. And most likely that someone wouldn't carry a personal vendetta against Micky.

  Recognizing the swell of emotional reaction was based entirely on her new perspective of Joel becoming Chicago's top smuggler didn't dim her resolve.

  After making two money transfers, she sent an instant message to Walker, who, like a good soldier, responded immediately. He was standing in the doorway moments later. "I'm uploading a shopping list. Consider it your next order. Use the corporate account."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Send a woman along too. Appearances matter."

  Walker nodded, though his brow furrowed as he read the list. "For you?"

  "Yes," she said, loading her voice with plenty of warning. All her new society girl clothes were in the storage center, which only made her wonder why Micky hadn't confiscated that too. But that was a question for later. She intended to work as late as possible, until she absolutely had to leave for the funeral tonight. "What? You thought I'd just leave?"

  "I'd hoped."

  She leaned back in the chair, watched his eyes track the movement as she stroked her fingers over the luxurious leather. "I'll give you the keys to the gold mine, Walker. You just have to be patient. The sooner you're back with those supplies, the sooner you'll be sitting here."

  "Supplies." He snorted at her shopping list. "Right."

  When he was gone, Trina sighed. Her life had become one stunt after another balanced on a damned tightrope. Walker wasn't the patient sort and she'd only added fuel to his inner fire by tossing his world into chaos. She had to fix this and get the hell out of Chicago.

  She returned her attention to the database, looking for the money, contract, hell even an errant email that would connect the dots between the hits ordered for Sis and Micky. Following instinct and Dakota's extensive notes, she committed names of his clients to memory as she played with search terms.

  There had to be something here she could use to safeguard Micky's life and team.

  Chapter Twenty

  Micky had to admit Marion's crew had done a fine job turning the gym into…well into something less gym-like and more chapel-like. They'd found a podium and set up flowers and moved mats to make way for the chairs from the dining hall.

  "Nice," he'd said to Marion. Anything more and he would've embarrassed them both with the emotions clogging his throat. As he listened to the girls share thoughts of Sis, his palms went damp with nerves. He did not want to be here, didn't want to read from his pitiful notes, didn't want to try and compress an invaluable friendship down to a mere five minutes of memories.

  The pressure built and built until he almost gave in to the tantrum churning inside him. What would the team think if their leader threw himself down and pounded fists and feet on the floor until Sis came back?

  But she wasn't coming back.

  Someone – Atlas – had stolen his friend and business partner. It wasn't fair.

  Micky wiped his damp palms on his slacks when Marion nodded, inviting him up to the podium. His turn. He was the last speaker. If he remembered correctly, there would be some benediction thing and then he could get out of here. He desperately wanted to get out of here.

  His feet were cement blocks as he made the short walk from the front row to the podium. Trying not to look at the frozen image of Sis as he passed the displayed portrait, he couldn't quite meet Marion's eyes. He knew she knew he didn't want to be here.

  But she'd done her part, from initiating, to planning, to running the service. Astounding how the most introverted among them had broken out of her shell for this. He wouldn't let her down. Couldn't.

  Settling his e-screen on the podium, he brought his notes into view. The first line was easy. A simple truth and designed to put everyone at ease. Hopefully him.

  "Sis was my first mule." He got the words out, smiling as the chuckle rolled through the assembled mourners, and he glanced up.

  Stupid, rookie mistake. His breath hitched, panic set in. Sis was there, in every face. She'd been the first, the one who'd understood what he wanted from the beginning. The one who'd helped him refine the system and set the limits that pushed steady success to phenomenal levels.

  Micky was logistics, Sis was personnel. Together they'd been one helluva team.

  He coughed, unable to clear the lump in his throat, wishing for water, liquor, maybe an apocalypse, anything to make this nightmare end. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the podium for dear life.

  How long had he been up here? How long would they stare at him?

  Then he saw her. Trina. Her red hair gleamed like a beacon in the soft light at the back of the room as she stood up. The tender smile on her face was a touchstone in the agonized moment.

  * * *

  "Sis was my first mule."

  Trina chuckled along with everyone else, glad Joel – Micky – could smile at such a time. He coughed and from her place in the back of the room, she thought he might just snap the podium in two.

  The moment seemed frozen as he wrestled with his grief. She could no more contain her compassion than stop the sun from rising in the morning. Her heart was his, had been his, and she couldn't bear the bleak loneliness etched on his face.

  She stood up. At the back of the room, with all eyes on him, she went unnoticed by everyone else. She didn't move, didn't have to. She just stood there, willing all her strength into him. When she felt his eyes on her, she blurred the room for him, easing the pain that blocked the words he needed to say.

  His voice carried, strong and steady as he related everything Sis meant to him. Sweet memories, going back far enough to cover moments even Trina remembered.

  She'd never been jealous, they'd been close as twins, but she'd never truly felt included. Until now. Now, she felt it with him, each ginger step, the tough times, the mistakes, and the victories as they carved out their business.

  He held the audience in thrall, ripples of soft laughter alternating with quiet reflection as they watched their leader lay out his feelings for the woman they'd all lost. When he was talked out, she dropped the illusion, letting the faces filter back into his view. His hands, once relaxed, flexed again before he released the podium. His shoulders and jaw were set as he returned to
his seat. When he settled, Trina ducked out, desperate to return to her suite before the tears broke through. The walls around her heart, so carefully constructed to contain the harsh reality of her skills and solitary life, were crumbling.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid! To be in love with Micky, a man so different from the boy she'd once idolized. A man as out of reach today as the boy had been.

  The snick of the key card unlocking her door was a balm to her battered feelings. Stepping inside, she looked around at the guest quarters that screamed 'welcome'. She flopped onto the couch, gathering a quilt close and marveling at what Micky and Sis had accomplished while her finger traced the stitching.

  From talk among the mules, what Trina considered brainwashed victims seemed to be legitimate loyalty, if not outright hero worship. Micky had a clear code of conduct. He did actually care about the people he invited to be a part of his weird system. He'd found a profitable and relatively safe industry, dealing prohibited, not-quite-dangerous substances, and expanded it to create a safe haven for others.

  He protected people.

  She killed them.

  Trina buried her face in the quilt, muffling her frustrated groan. Sitting up, she pushed a hand through her hair and tried to think like an adult.

  Honestly, she wasn't a bit sorry she'd taken out Atlas. He'd caused too much pain for so many good people that she could almost ignore her reasons had been damn close to petty when she'd arranged his 'suicide'. The stunt seemed like forever ago.

  The soft knock on her door wasn't a big surprise and Trina straightened her dress. Smoothing her hand over her face, she tucked away her wild emotions and pasted a bland smile on her face as she opened the door.

  But she couldn't hold herself distant when facing Micky's palpable grief. She let him inside, let him gather her close as soon as the door closed.

  His heart bumped erratically against her own and his lips were warm when he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She slid her arms around his waist, under his suit coat, and waited, terrified to say or do anything that might spoil the moment.

  "Thank you," he rasped, against her ear. "Thank you."

  His hand warmed a trail up and down her spine and her fingers curled into the fine fabric of his shirt. She wanted things she couldn't have, not here, not tonight. Not ever.

  "You gave a beautiful speech," she murmured. Her eyes closed tight as she soaked up his touch, willing it to be enough.

  "It would have been crap without you." His lips brushed her forehead, then he tipped her chin higher and placed his lips gently on hers.

  It couldn't happen, yet it was happening. Her heart tripped and she hesitated. Could she seize this moment? His mouth slanted over hers, those warm, mobile lips taking her deeper where thinking wasn't necessary. On a gasp of pleasure she opened for him, tasting him, savoring his heat. She fisted her hands in his shirt and pressed closer to the comfort and promise his body offered. Her breath shuddered in and out. Her heart hammered against his.

  "Trina."

  His deep voice was her anchor in the torrent of sensation swamping her body. She felt the yearning of so many lonely years dropping away, burning away in this passionate connection. Her eyes open, she met his hooded gaze, stunned by the desire etched on his face. She'd always wanted him, but that look convinced her she was wanted too.

  She gulped air and traced his brows, the curve of his ear, his lower lip with her fingertip. Scarred or not, he was perfect and she might study him for hours if only there was time.

  He caught her finger in his mouth and nibbled, making her smile. His touch left tiny fires under her skin as he traced her jaw, throat, shoulder.

  Time was just another illusion, tomorrow a fluid concept she would contemplate when it arrived. They had now, this moment, and she intended to make the most of it. She pressed a kiss on the strong line of his neck, his freshly shaved jaw, his warm lips.

  Her gentle, seeking kisses spiked Micky's desire, amped up the heat. Surely she could hear his pulse pounding through his veins. She had to know what she was doing to him. He captured her mouth, taking them deeper, showing her how much he needed, exactly what he craved.

  Lips still warring with hers, he tugged at her dress, frustrated when it wouldn't cooperate. His hands raced, wanting to touch her everywhere, needing to be closer, inside her. Inseparable. Her head rolled back, exposing that exquisite pale column of her throat and he feasted. He hitched her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist. With her luxurious body braced between him and the wall he helped himself to everything she offered.

  She had his coat off, his shirt open, and was working furiously at his belt. He nearly lost it when her hot hand closed over his shaft and stroked. He thrust into her touch once and then dragged her hand up to his chest before he embarrassed himself. "Trina," he begged.

  "Hurry." Her palm cruised over his shoulder as she linked her hands behind his neck. She rocked against him. "Oh, hurry."

  He was helpless to deny her. Her skirt bunched at her waist. He laid claim to her mouth as he stroked her lean, trembling thighs. Her skin was hot satin under his touch and she moaned when he slid a finger under the lace of her panties. She was wet, her hips shifting, ready. For him. He tore the lace away and took her in one smooth thrust. Nothing had ever felt so right. For a moment, he held them there, joined intimately, never wanting to move.

  Her legs flexed around him, her fingers spiked through his hair. She shifted again, insistent, eager. He gripped her hips and she caught his rhythm, riding it as they both raced breathlessly for release. He was king of the world when the orgasm took her over the edge. And she owned him, body and soul, as she dragged him with her.

  * * *

  Trina stirred, recognizing the low hum of her cell card as it vibrated an instant message alert. The thing had been tucked into her bra, but she'd lost that when Micky...

  Oh, god!

  Turning her head, she saw him, his scarred face gentled by sleep. She twitched her toes, bumping against his calf. Oh, no. His arm was a warm weight across her belly. Oh...Yes?

  It hadn't been the best dream of her life. It had been her oldest fantasy coming true in ways she'd never been able to imagine effectively.

  She wasn't sure what or how she felt about it. Could only catalog the obvious, physical situation. Her body was completely content and feeling no urgency to respond to what could only be an instant message from Walker.

  But responsibility didn't niggle, it demanded her attention. She'd worked her ass off yesterday to get enough leverage to lead the Dakota gang. She could hardly blow him off now.

  Carefully, she extricated herself from Micky's warm, long body to look for the stupid cell card.

  She found it and scrolled through the message, clapping a hand to her mouth at the picture that punctuated the report. Putting Crayland in a suit didn't soften his rough street edge. No, the incongruity made it more obvious.

  Regardless, the report proved Montalbano was already moving in on the clientele Dakota served. Probably introducing the loaded pot. Though why he was doing it still baffled her.

  Not her problem. Her problem was preventing him from gaining access to the influential types on Dakota's client list. She'd opened the door for Montalbano when she'd removed Dakota. She had an obligation to close that door.

  She showered and dressed with speed and silence, amazed her wish that Micky sleep through it was granted. A sparkle of feminine pride for wearing him out warmed her and memories of their mutual enjoyment stayed with her as she left the warehouse.

  Her energy and confidence high, she jogged to the el platform, knowing the only watchers in this neighborhood were on Micky's team. Let them think the best or the worst of her. If she succeeded, she'd come back and see if there was any hope of staying with Micky. If she failed…well, if she failed Micky would have bigger problems to deal with.

  * * *

  Micky buried his face in the pillow, inhaling Trina's sultry scent as he reached for her supple body. H
e sighed and opened his eyes. He wasn't surprised the sheets were cold, but he sure as hell wasn't happy about it.

  She'd given him such a gift last night at the memorial and he wanted to thank her personally, with words rather than sex this time. Fine, he confessed. Words then sex.

  He sat up, listening for sounds of movement in the bathroom or kitchen, but he knew she'd left. It was a distinct, uncomfortable relief to see her things remained, though the woman had managed to sneak away. He wanted to believe she'd simply gone down to breakfast, but he wasn't so naïve.

  Resigned, he helped himself to her ion shower and felt a kick of hope just under his sternum when he found the fresh pot of coffee in her kitchen. It was better than any note and twice as thoughtful after their very late night. And their early morning. He smiled, remembering every vivid detail.

  Pouring the hot brew into the mug she'd set out, he inhaled deeply and thought about the next step. He wanted her to stay, but more, he wanted her to want to stay. With him. Thoughts of together, of how his life would improve with her by his side, perked him up more than his famous full-caff coffee.

  He knew himself well enough to understand it was more than physical desire, bigger than gallantry. Sure he recognized the deep-seated need to keep her safe from the military investigation as well as whoever had hired her to mess with his business, but with Trina his feelings had always been more complex.

  He let the caffeine work on his system, wondering what called her away. Was it business? And why hadn't she opened up about that yet? He refilled his mug. Probably for the same reason he hadn't told her serious people were looking for Atlas's killer. For her.

  Talking hadn't been a priority last night, which made it such a shock to realize that's what he'd anticipated this morning. Sure he'd hoped for at least a quick tumble before they started the day, but he'd anticipated conversation. Acknowledgment of the mutual attraction. Hell, at least an exchange of information to underscore the exchange of body fluids.