No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2)

by A. J. Lape

  “You’re brave,” he muttered astonished.

  Open to interpretation. “Please,” I begged in a whisper, “tell my best friend. His name is Dylan.”

  Bats must’ve seen the determination in my eyes because his breath caught in his chest, and he nodded. He’d given me more than expected but less than conducive to additional conversation. Bats was definitely as dark and twisty as me, and no doubt something happened to fundamentally change who he was … or wanted to be. But the reality was, he happened to be a mean SOB with a history of killing people.

  He nudged his pistol firmly into my gut. “Turn back around, Darcy, and walk to the black Benz in the second row of cars.”

  Inwardly I sighed, and quickly glanced around. No makeshift weapon lay anywhere that I could attack him with. The way I saw it, this could be my final 6x6 plot of land if I didn’t do something fast. There was only one option—at least one I could think of. I briefly closed my eyes, knowing it was now or never. Don’t ever get into a car with a stranger, I heard my father say. Nothing good will ever come from it.

  Fudge…

  My eyeballs popped out, while my sense of survival screamed, Run for your life! I knew enough from Murphy that if anyone ever had a gun to your back that you needed to zigzag while running. A moving target was too hard to hit. How he knew that I wasn’t sure, but he said it with such conviction, I filed it away for future use. Another lesson: if you get hit, play dead. I aimed for not getting hit, period.

  Be a verb, Darcy, I told myself. Be a verb and run your arse straight to Georgia.

  I took off for the last row of cars, running like a drunk thoroughbred.

  “Stop!” he shouted.

  I staggered and went down on a knee but found my balance and kept moving in a zigzag.

  He bellowed another, “Stop!” while the night air suddenly rang with footfalls.

  Ducking down in row four, I monkey crawled into row five and took out sideways for row six. “Don’t make me shoot!” he screamed in exasperation.

  “Aaah, you shoot, and I’m going to shoot,” a deep and familiar voice boomed from behind.

  Time stood still.

  I stayed crouched, heart beating loudly in my chest, waiting for a big bang to split the atmosphere in two. When nothing but quiet stretched between us, I slowly crept my way up the back of a green Honda Accord—one hand after the other—to see who’d joined the party. Sweat dripped down my back as I peered through the rear window and guardedly stood up.

  Lincoln.

  Looking like a gunfighter.

  Standing underneath a security light, the beam haloed over him and cast a long shadow, making him appear larger than anyone else. He held his gun tightly in his left hand, his right cupping it for steady aim.

  “Well, well, well,” Lincoln deadpanned, eyes narrowed on the target. “Looks like I’ve bagged the 2-for-1 special.”

  Bats immediately stopped running, casting a look of apology in my direction, pivoting around practically looking euphoric. Say what?? Lincoln likewise sported a face of satisfaction. Where his face was hardened before—scrutinizing Bats’ actions—now it appeared more receptive, curious to see what Bats had to offer.

  “You got my message, I presume,” Lincoln murmured.

  Right when I almost suggested we just hug it out, a man appeared from thin air, weapon drawn, and pointed at Giuseppe’s temple. He stood around six feet tall with orangey-red hair, ruddy features, dressed in commando black. “Look what the divil delivered,” he grunted in an Irish brogue … Paddy? “Hawareya, Bats? I’d extend my hand, but you can see the pickle we’re in.”

  Two more men materialized from behind rows one and two: dark clothing, black ball caps, and hulking frames, with faces expressionless to the point of being robotic. Knowing Lincoln, these guys probably weren’t even Florida’s finest. They either took the red-eye from out West or were men that did a job and were in-and-out, no questions asked.

  Both crouched low to the ground, forming a tight square around Bats. We stood in an isolated perimeter, but my intuition told me more backup existed outside its boundaries.

  “I know you’re out there,” Lincoln murmured, and by the gentle tone in his voice, I knew he was addressing me. “Battle found him, dear. Cisco was at her house. He’s fine, but I need you to allow me to take care of business.”

  The words took awhile to sink in. It’s as though they smacked me right in the ears and refused to do anything until I understood the depths of their meaning. The “fat lady” just sang. Cisco’s alive. Alive! I rejoiced. The insomnia, nightmares, lectures, and near brushes with death were all suddenly worth it. The instances where people told me to conform—prayed I’d conform—didn’t sting quite as much anymore. My ADHD mind locked onto a target and proved to the world it had been a blessing and not a curse. I wanted a day. Five days. Weeks to celebrate and do the I-told-you-so, but now I had to deal with Bats Giuseppe. If this added twist went into the death spiral, at least I’d die with a smile on my face.

  I stayed put as Lincoln suggested and knew enough to not add another variable to the mix.

  Darcy Walker, beacon of discretion.

  Paddy removed the gun from Bats’ hand, kicking it toward Lincoln. “Circle on in here, boys,” he chuckled sarcastically. “Now, we’re just one big happy family.”

  Lincoln picked up the gun then stalked forward, one deliberate step at a time, smooth and calculating as a cougar ready to strike. “This wasn’t exactly the terms of our meeting, Giuseppe.”

  Terms of their meeting? What the…?

  “Well, they weren’t exactly my terms, either,” Bats protested. “If you’re going to offer me protection, I had to make sure you weren’t selling me out. You were talking to Grizzly not thirty minutes earlier. What business do you have with him? That’s what threw me, man.”

  Piecing that conversation together, Bats must also be the man Paddy had been talking to who wouldn’t take the deal they’d offered. The man Paddy claimed had made all kinds of weird demands. Lincoln’s face went cold, bordering heartless, and I knew he contemplated blasting him on the term sell-out.

  “A different kind of business that involved another leech on society’s ass. Paddy was here to help me find you, Bats. Then you go and kidnap someone that belongs to me, and now I’ve got to pay the redhead overtime. You were sent here to take me out by order of Turkey, right?” Bats didn’t dispute it. “God, I love it when I’m one step ahead,” Lincoln laughed hollowly.

  “Why contact me and not Weasel?” Bats asked.

  More than likely Weasel was the other man seated with Turkey in that surveillance photograph.

  “I refuse to do business with Weasel Bonnano,” Paddy snorted. “Anyone with a forename of Weasel doesn’t exactly give me the warm fuzzies. Besides, he smells like he made love to a tobacco plant.”

  “Give me her name,” Lincoln demanded.

  Bats said nothing. Paddy must’ve delivered unexpected pain because Bats released a sharp yelp that I felt in my bones. “You know, Bats,” Paddy muttered, “my daddy said to beware of the anger of a patient man, and now I’m angry. I flew out here and lost three hours that I’d planned to spend with Mickey Mouse. You’d better answer, or I’m going to show you on a scale of one-to-eat-some-lead how angry I am.”

  “Give me her name,” Lincoln ordered again.

  Immediately, I knew he referred to Pixie. Pixie (who I’d bet my sorry big, white, arse) had somehow contacted Alexandra Taylor. Bats’ voice shook like a glass of water during an earthquake. “Nn-o one knows,” he promised. “I swear it. I don’t hurt females anyway.”

  “Another reason we picked you,” Paddy snorted sarcastically. “Who woulda thought this Irishman would find a wise guy with some scruples?”

  Lincoln rolled his neck, once again with a command. “Turn around.”

  Why?

  Was an execution next?

  Paddy and the others escorted Bats into a darkened portion of the property, past all cars, a
round a group of swaying trees. As soon as traffic sounds picked up, Lincoln steadily raised his gun and took aim. Before I could swallow, three psss-psss-psss sounds ricocheted the night air, followed by a loud whelp as Bats staggered to the pavement. Bats immediately slammed a palm over the wound, trying not to writhe. Lincoln had popped a cap in his left buttocks while a continuous hiss deflated the back tires of a nearby Aston Martin.

  Sweet God in Heaven, he’d just sent Grizzly a message.

  Lincoln shoved his gun into the back of his pants as Paddy and the two men grabbed Bats by the shoulders, dragging him to a black SUV. Although he’d been momentarily incapacitated, I didn’t feel Bats would’ve objected if he could’ve gone on his own accord. Bats wanted what they’d offered—I saw it in his face—more than the pay-off of pain.

  Once Lincoln told them to “Make things look believable,” they shoved him inside.

  “The girl,” Bats moaned loudly. “Darcy … is she all right?”

  Employing an unnatural speed, Lincoln lunged through the open door so fast it was barely visible to the naked eye. Next thing I knew, Bats screamed in raw agony, futilely thrashing around until his mouth was muzzled. Maybe this was one of those “ignorance is bliss” situations.

  I tasted the coffee I never had, turned, and promptly threw up.

  32. OUT OF SIGHT, OUT OF MIND

  I PLACED BOTH HANDS ON COLTON’S shoulders and steered him back toward his room.

  I’d met him in the hallway, dressed from the waist down, with his brief case in his hand and a ball cap on his head. He said he was batting cleanup while constructing a memo on counterterrorism to the State Department. I’m not sure what that meant, but I wished him good luck and smacked him in the rear.

  Stupid … I was STOOPID.

  This man’s mind floated off to the Great Beyond after two weeks of chaos with me. I’d say I was sorry, but I knew he’d never remember, and I’d always felt those after-the-fact sorrys didn’t mean a whole lot anyway. Sorrys were for accidents, not things so premeditated even a temporary insanity defense was useless.

  After I lied to myself that there were no lasting effects of the trauma, I slowly tiptoed down the darkened hall to my own personal heater. Wearing boxer shorts, Dylan’s discarded shirt, and tube socks in honor of Elmer, I hoisted myself onto the bottom of the bed, crawling up the black silk sheets to the free pillow. Dylan smelled extra yummy, like a cream puff bar that’d made a baby with a marshmallow.

  “Psst,” I whispered, “you smell good. Normally, you smell like dirt, but tonight you’re lip-smacking league.”

  “Why thank you,” he said. Okay, that voice didn’t belong to Dylan. It sounded too feathery and … feminine.

  “Willow?” I giggled.

  Willow rose up, switching on the glass lamp by the side of Dylan’s bed. “The one and only,” she laughed. I stood there bewitched by her presence, looking at a legend in the making. No one, and I mean no one, had ever been created more beautifully than Willow Taylor. She gracefully threw back the covers, and I slid under the sheets next to her. For once, I’d worn my glasses. Willow had on a tiny black t-shirt with a human skull silk-screened on the front. It looked creepy and marvelous at the same time. Wow, I wanted it and would somehow make it mine before I hitched a ride back to the Midwest.

  I rolled onto my side to face her. “When did you get in?”

  “A couple of hours ago,” she answered. “Dylan was writing in his journal as I tiptoed by. I always enjoy talking to my nephew.” She unleashed a sly smile, as if it meant something else. “It appears you can’t get enough of him, either.”

  The thought embarrassed me. Talking to her was like looking at his dead ringer. Dylan and Willow were both photocopies of Colton. The resemblance was freakishly bizarre, only the contours of Willow’s features were softer. “Where is he?” I asked.

  Willow and I both looked around all four corners, seeing only a neat room, not an item out of place. “Last I remember we were deep in conversation,” she shrugged, admitting she’d fallen asleep. “You missed him?”

  I always missed Dylan. “He relaxes me, so when I can’t sleep, I seem to seek him out instinctively. It’s hard to explain.” And frankly, he probably couldn’t explain it, either.

  Willow unveiled a warm, lazy smile. She gazed around his room once more, like she hadn’t been in here for ages and tried to remember the design. I had a feeling things were easier for her that way. Sometimes walking in someone else’s belongings didn’t resurrect the warmth you had for them. All it did was make you miss them more.

  “You don’t need to explain love,” she sighed. “I hear you’ve had quite a bit of excitement this week. Most of it in the last few hours.”

  That certainly was one way to spin a date with death. Let’s face it, folks. My sense of survival was a late bloomer. If it didn’t mature soon, I wouldn’t even be here next year. “I was due.”

  Willow sighed heavily, “Me, too. It’s been a tough week.”

  “What’s wrong? You don’t sound so good.”

  Willow suddenly appeared to have aged a decade, her black eyes sorrowful and sallow. “Henry and I broke up,” she exhaled. “Although I know it’s the right thing, I don’t like hurting anyone, you know?”

  No one should ever come to me to dispense relationship advice. The relationships in my life were with my dead fish and mutilated hermit crabs. I was pretty sure those were an exercise on “what not to do.”

  “I’m sorry, Willow. I’ve never even kissed anyone. I’m not sure I’m qualified to comment.”

  Wow, how embarrassing, but I had a feeling my virginal status was something invisibly tattooed to my forehead. Dylan and I might’ve kissed, but the fact that he acted 100 percent the same caused me to believe that my hormonal imagination manufactured the whole darn thing.

  Willow reached out and tucked my hair behind my ear. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  Good question. I actually didn’t have a legitimate answer that even I’d believe. I guess it boiled down to the fact that I was: one, chicken; and two, well ... there was no two. Chicken trumped everything. Still, there’d been opportunity—mainly by way of her next-door neighbor.

  “Kyd still is…”

  “Kyd,” she interrupted with a laugh.

  “Yeah,” I giggled, “a proposition per breath, but I don’t want to split my time between Dylan and someone else. There are a couple of girls that texted him this week, and it—”

  “Bothers you?” she interrupted softly.

  My groan was a dead giveaway. “I hate them already,” I admitted. Well, hate seemed like a minor word—I wanted them quartered and puked out into the universe, knocked around by a few meteors, never to be seen again. Yeah, that sounded good.

  “Give me the scoop,” she encouraged with a dancing smile. “I love to gossip.”

  Rolling over, I picked up Dylan’s BlackBerry from the nightstand, scrolling to the photographs of whom I referred to as Exhibit A—blonde, and Exhibit B—redhead. Both had two unanswered texts from yesterday, and a quick thumb-through showed he’d responded back to a couple a few days ago. Rather benignly, but still … an answer was an answer. All I knew was that blonde and redhead, et al., needed to G-O.

  Taking it from my hand, Willow narrowed her eyes then looked at them with a snort. “There’s no comparison. The blonde looks like an airhead, and the redhead’s attributes aren’t God-given. They’re plastic.”

  “Do guys care about that?” I asked, because I already struggled with the airhead quality … and God knew I HAD NO BOOBS.

  Willow remained noncommittal. My interpretation was it depended on the guy. “My nephew thinks you’re perfect,” she replied diplomatically, “and I have to agree. Still,” she digressed, “sometimes you have to help things along.”

  Before I could object, with her long, graceful fingers Willow typed a text to Exhibit A that said: Sorry, red is my favorite color. Exhibit B got: Blonde is sorta my thing.

  “Willo
w, he’s gonna die!” I shrieked with a giggle.

  Once again a snort. “He,” she emphasized, “isn’t going to know unless you tell him.” Willow deleted their contact information, messages, and “sent box” replies before returning it to his nightstand. “Having your father as a cop taught me a few things. Remove the evidence of your crime.”

  Well, that might be a temporary fix, but it sure as heck wouldn’t be permanent. “It still isn’t going to remove his in-demand status,” I grumbled.

  “One day and one girl at a time, but he tells me you’re in-demand, too, and I can assure you that might upset him more than it does you. Dylan said you were unbelievably beautiful, but he underestimated his adjective. Frankly, you’re breathtaking.” She leaned over and touched my deltoid muscle. “Do you work out? Yoga? Pilates?”

  “I curl a lot of cookies.”

  Willow laughed so loud it echoed off the tile. “Well, it’s paying off. I could have you working by noon. Maybe even in a spread with me.”

  Cue the dropped jaw. “You’re kidding.”

  Willow donned the business demeanor of her big brother. Eyes narrowed, jaw lifted, like she’d bury anything or anyone that threatened her cash flow. “I don’t joke about those sorts of things, and I certainly wouldn’t take a picture with anyone who’d ruin my reputation.”

  Let’s be real. Unless we were shooting The Farmer’s Almanac, I’d ruin the shot.

  When I gave her a polite, “No thanks,” Willow frowned, talked some more about Henry, then rebounded the conversation back on Dylan and me.

  “I envy the easiness of your relationship,” she sighed. “I’ve had to be an adult for so long, I’d love to find the right man to help me relax. You need to hang onto that, Darcy.”

  I didn’t like to put people on the spot, but here we were, the dead of night, dissecting my non-existent love life and soon-to-be-over best friendship. After all Lincoln had done for me, I felt obligated to lob a few words on his behalf.