by Amy Vansant
Stephanie glanced at the boy. The mole.
She stared, wide-eyed at Georgette.
“You? His mommy is the rival drug lord?”
“I’m the only drug lord.”
“But he had you committed to a home.”
Georgette shrugged. “Eet’s not like I need to stand on the corners myself. And where could I be less conspicuous?” Georgette coughed. “I also own the place and I’m dying of lung cancer, so it isn’t a bad place to be. I’ve grown very good at mahjong.”
“I haven’t learned to play that yet.”
“It’s fun.”
“I’ll check it out.” Stephanie had a thought. “Oh no. I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“The finger wreath...”
Georgette grunted. “Hm. Yes. That was unfortunate. They were some of my best men.”
“Not the one who tried to kill me. He was terrible.”
“True. I underestimated you.”
“Because I’m a girl?”
“Because my idiot son hired you.”
“Ah. Good point. So, where do we stand?”
Georgette sighed. “After I appeared to go legit, I tried to steer Louis away from the, uh...family business. It didn’t work. When I realized the little twit was bound and determined to follow in his father’s footsteps, I hired Pirro to be his second-in-command and keep him out of trouble.”
“Why didn’t you let him work under you?”
“Ee doesn’t listen to me. Plus, ee’d get himself caught and blow my cover. It took me a decade to make eet look like the family had gone straight. Ee’d have destroyed everything in the time eet takes him to finish one level of his stupid video game.”
“Fair enough. So Pirro got power-hungry?”
Georgette nodded. “It was only a matter of time before he killed my boy and me as well. When I heard about you, yes, I tried to have you killed at first—but then I thought you might come in handy, especially after you killed my captain.”
“Again, sorry about that.”
“I meant to approach you before you got to my second captain, but my health took a bit of a bad turn and things happened too fast.”
“Again, I’m so embarrassed. The wreath—”
Georgette waved her away. “Water under zee bridge.”
Stephanie realized the old woman might be able to answer a question she’d had for a while. “Hey, what’s up with Pirro’s hair?”
“His mother told him his father had been a Scottish business man.”
“He is tall for a Columbian.”
“He became obsessed with the Scots. Rumor is heez seen Braveheart over a hundred times. Screams Freedom! every time he’s excited or wants to leave.”
“Huh.”
They fell silent while Georgette dug for a tissue and coughed into it. When she’d caught her breath, Stephanie continued following the old woman’s logic.
“So to earn my million, I need to kill Pirro?”
Georgette nodded. “Yes. But there eez a catch.”
“What’s that?”
“I need you to do it now.”
Stephanie gaped. “Now? I just had my lung inflated.”
“I need to extract Louis from a situation right now and I can’t have Pirro loose. That weasel is headed toward our safe house. He’s without his men and he won’t be expecting you.”
Wincing, Stephanie sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her chest throbbed in time with her heartbeat.
This is going to be difficult, but not impossible.
“Fine. But I want a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar bump.”
“For what?”
“For having the strength and will to pull this off in my condition.”
Georgette laughed. “You wanna talk strength and will?”
The old woman’s voice suddenly sounded very different. Stephanie pushed aside her pain and looked up to find Georgette smiling.
“Girly, I’ll show you strength and will. I’ve been copping this stupid French accent for fifty-five years. I’m from the Bronx.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
As Charlotte drove to the swamp diner she decided it might be a good idea to carry a gun in the future. The deeper she drove into swampland, the more reckless looking for the second pipeline on her own seemed.
I should have asked my boyfriend, Jean Claude-VanDeclan, to join me.
No. He would have tried to talk her out of it. Or insisted she bring an army of police, and she knew the police wouldn’t jump to action based on her hunch about a second pipeline leading to an imaginary safe house. Showing them a map that looked like a first grade project wouldn’t help.
Maybe Frank would have come, but he gets so cranky...
Charlotte stepped out of the car and fished a flashlight from her trunk. She took a deep breath. Mariska had called the building a diner, but it didn’t have a name across the front. Just crime tape. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be a diner and only looked like one from the inside. Maybe it wasn’t all that odd it had no pie. Maybe Mariska had just really wanted pie.
Okay. Let’s go. I’ll be fine.
Charlotte knew there was a phone in the little building—Declan had used it to call the cops after escaping the tunnel. She’d locate the second tunnel, maybe scoot down it to see what was on the other side, and if she had no cell signal there, she’d run back down the tunnel and call the police.
Easy peasy.
She peeled back the tape and found the door unlocked.
Handy.
She poked her head inside.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
So far so good.
If the map was correct—and it had been so far—the pipeline would lead from the right side of the building.
Tables, chairs and a counter top claimed most of the space in the building’s front room. It did look suspiciously like a little diner. The right side of the room had windows though, so she doubted it could be hiding access to the pipeline.
She walked through swinging doors to the back. A barren kitchen occupied the space, sans utensils and grease. More crime tape covered a hole in the far wall. It looked as though someone had opened a door through a thin piece of paneling, which had peeled away and knocked over a stack of orange crates.
Or maybe Declan had karate-chopped through it. Who knew anymore?
Charlotte turned to her right to find a walk-in freezer. She jerked open the door and found it cold but empty inside.
I guess drug dealers don’t sweat their electric bills.
She couldn’t help but think how offended the residents of Pineapple Port would be by this waste of air-conditioning. She’d once heard a lady say the worst part about menopause was the hot flashes, not for the discomfort, but for the extra air-conditioning bills.
Something about the freezer felt wonky. Charlotte stuck her head outside to check around the corner of the unit and then looked inside again.
It was shallow. The freezer didn’t run as deep as the rest of the room.
The pipeline had to be behind the back wall of the freezer.
She tapped on it.
It sounded hollow.
She was about to search for an axe when a large bolt in the center-top of the back panel caught her eye. There were circular scratch marks around it. On a whim she pushed on the metal panel and it swung to the left, just far enough to reveal an opening to a ladder that led down.
Bingo.
Flipping on her flashlight, she climbed onto the rungs leading into the second pipeline. Allowing the door to swing back into place, she saw it was possible to secure it on the opposite side. If someone was on the run they could disappear into the freezer, access the tunnel, and then secure the panel behind them. Then the people chasing them wouldn’t be able to swing the wall aside and follow.
Charlotte walked as fast as she could down the pipeline without breaking into a trot. Just like the tunnel from Jackie’s, this pipeline also possesse
d an escape hatch. She climbed up to take a look out, finding nothing but swamp.
She closed the hatch. A nervous thrill ran through her bones as she bolted it shut. She couldn’t shake the feeling that if she didn’t secure it quickly enough, thugs would throw open the hatch and grab her.
I’m scarred for life.
Luckily, sliding bolts through swamp hatches didn’t come up that often.
She continued until she reached another ladder at the end of the tunnel. She climbed the rungs to a landing with a glowing red button.
This end of the tunnel is high tech.
She calculated the chances of the red button being a trap. It was hard to say. It didn’t have a sign in blinking lights that said PUSH! pointing to it like a cartoon. That would have been suspicious.
She decided anyone using the tunnel to get to the safe house would be moving fast. They didn’t want to fiddle with bolts. The bad guys had spent more money on the safe house door to make it easier to find safety should the need arise.
She took a deep breath.
She pushed the red button.
A clicking noise began to grind and she winced, covering her head with her hands.
The wall slid away.
She peered through her fingers and found herself facing a large, warehouse-like room. A small prop plane sat just inside the open hanger door to the right, and sunlight streamed into the building to reveal the most interesting part of the building.
The three people standing in the center of the room.
Six eyes swiveled in her direction.
Two belonged to Pirro, who held Ryan by the throat, the older man’s head tucked in the crook of the redhead’s arm.
Two, more wild, belonged to poor Ryan.
And two belonged to Stephanie, who stood three feet from the other two, a gun trained on Pirro. She wore light blue hospital scrubs. Her feet were bare.
Charlotte stood still, as if they couldn’t see her unless she moved.
She heard Stephanie groan.
“Oh, girlfriend.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Pirro swiveled his gun, which had been trained on Stephanie, and took a shot at Charlotte.
Somewhere in her locked brain, Charlotte had seen that coming, and had already bolted to the right toward the plane, hoping to hide behind it. At the time, it seemed like a better idea than dropping to the bottom of the tunnel below, but as the sound of a second gun exploded, she began to wonder.
Stephanie had fired. Blood spattered from Pirro’s shoulder, forcing him to release Ryan. Free, Ryan roared, flailing at Pirro’s gun.
Pirro fired again, but Ryan’s interference ruined the thug’s aim and a bullet struck high on the wall above Stephanie’s head. Stephanie rolled away apparently unscathed but still yowling in what sounded like pain.
Pirro’s gun skittered across the cement floor as he backhanded Ryan, connecting his balled fist with the side of the older man’s skull. Ryan’s head snapped back as he spun to the ground.
Pirro turned to locate Stephanie.
Seeing her chance, Charlotte ran toward Pirro’s gun. Like a zombie refusing to die, Ryan bounced to his hands and knees and crawled to the gun at high speed, grabbing it before Charlotte could reach it.
“Everyone freeze!” shouted Ryan.
Nearly upon Ryan, Charlotte stopped and held up her hands, realizing he had no way of knowing whose side she was on.
On the other side of the room, Stephanie stood, gun in one hand, the other gripping the area beneath her left breast. She breathed in short, shallow gasps, her skin pale. Charlotte had never seen her so unraveled. Her hair looked like a raked haystack.
She wished she had a camera.
Pirro stood between Stephanie and Ryan, his hands held waist high, as if holding his hands over his head wouldn’t be cool.
Ryan motioned to Charlotte to move from her position behind him. She accommodated without getting too close to Pirro.
Ryan shook the gun in Charlotte’s direction. “Who are you?”
“My name is Charlotte. Gloria hired me to find you.”
“Gloria?”
Charlotte realized Ryan and Gloria had never exchanged names. “The woman you wore the t-shirts for. The woman bound and gagged at the dry cleaners because she was so determined to find and save you.”
The side of Ryan’s lips curled into a smile. “Gloria,” he repeated. The name seemed to please him. “She’s okay?”
Charlotte nodded. “Just shaken up. She’s very worried about you.”
He nodded and turned his attention to Stephanie. “And you’re here for Pirro. Why?”
Stephanie took a moment to compose herself, running her free hand through her hair. “He’s been recalled by his employer.”
“Recalled?”
Stephanie stared back at Ryan. Charlotte could feel the weight of that gaze.
“You’re here to kill him,” said Charlotte.
Ryan perked. “Is that true?”
Stephanie didn’t answer.
Ryan trained his gun on Pirro. “That’s why I’m here, too. He killed my son.”
Pirro glowered. “Kid was in the wrong place. Nothing personal.”
Ryan’s hand shook as he held his weapon on his son’s murderer. Charlotte had the impression he hadn’t fired a gun before. Stephanie, who was standing almost directly behind Pirro, moved a few steps to the right to give Ryan a clear shot.
“Let me call the police,” said Charlotte. “You don’t have to kill him.”
Ryan’s jaw clenched, his index finger twitching on the trigger. “I don’t know—I can’t—”
Pirro huffed a laugh. “You haven’t got the guts, old man.”
Charlotte watched Ryan’s hand tense.
“Ryan—”
“Let me take him,” offered Stephanie.
Ryan’s eyes shifted in her direction. “I should do it. He was my son.”
Stephanie shook her head. “You have done it. You found him. You got your answers. You don’t have to pull the trigger. You’re the scales of justice, not the executioner.”
Charlotte blinked at Stephanie.
That sounded almost poetic.
Ryan swallowed, head nodding, building momentum.
“Take him,” he said.
Stephanie pointed her weapon at Pirro, walking towards him without hesitation.
Charlotte balled her fists. “No. I’m not going to stand here while you murder that man. I’ll call the police.”
She reached for her phone and Ryan trained his gun on her.
Charlotte lifted her hands back into the air. “Ryan—”
“She’s taking him,” he said.
“But whoever she’s taking him to will kill him.”
Ryan looked at Stephanie. “You’re just taking him to be punished, right? He’ll end up in jail?”
Stephanie smiled. “Sure. Jail.”
She winked.
Charlotte’s hands flopped to her sides. “Oh come on, Ryan, you know she’s going to kill him. She’s—she’s a Honey Badger!”
Ryan sniffed. “She’s the Rubia.”
Stephanie shoved Pirro in the back with her gun. “Move it.”
Pirro snarled and started forward.
“You’re both dead,” he said, running his finger across his own throat.
Stephanie shoved him again and they walked out of the hanger.
Charlotte looked at Ryan. “What’s to keep me from telling everyone? Are you going to kill me?”
Ryan watched Stephanie disappear from view and lowered his gun.
“I’m not going to kill you. Are you going to send me to jail for letting my son’s killer walk out of here with a pretty girl?”
A car engine roared to life and the two of them watched Stephanie’s red viper appear at the entrance to the hanger. Stephanie’s window lowered. She waved.
The sound of a muffled voice drifted from the vicinity of her trunk.
“FREEDOM!”
E
pilogue
“I see you’re wearing your big pink yes,” said Charlotte, holding up her cocktail in cheers.
Gloria had invited everyone to her beach house to celebrate finding Ryan. She’d worn her answer t-shirt, the word Yes spelled out in pink marker across her chest. Ryan stood beaming at her side. They made a beautiful couple.
Gloria beamed. “It was the least I could do. You did an amazing job finding Ryan and saving my life.”
“She saved mine, too,” added Ryan, holding up his glass.
Charlotte and Ryan exchanged a knowing glance. Though she’d been determined to tell the police about Stephanie and Pirro, in the end Ryan refused to support her story. If he denied seeing Stephanie at the hanger, she’d sound like a loon. The idea of putting a grieving father in jail for aiding the assassin who rid the world of his son’s killer, didn’t warm her heart either.
She’d decided to take her win with Gloria and worry about Stephanie’s nefarious secret life another day.
Gloria swept her hand to the left, her giant gold frog ring sparkling. “Charlotte, have you met my friend, Georgette Beaumont?”
A pretty, older woman in a wheelchair looked up at the sound of her name.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Beaumont,” said Charlotte.
Georgette shook her hand. “Please, call me Georgette. Theeze is my son, Louis.”
Charlotte surveyed the man standing behind Georgette’s chair. He looked up from where he’d been staring at his own feet and nodded, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his khaki shorts. He was handsome by the numbers, but looked as though the air had been let out of him.
His mother flung back her hand, catching him in the abdomen.
“Say hello like a man,” she snapped.
Louis rolled his eyes. “Hello.”
Charlotte nodded. “Hello.”
The sensational story of how a man named Domingo “Pirro” Rodríguez, with deep ties to a Columbian drug cartel, had forced Louis Beaumont to use his late father’s reputation in the drug world, had been all over the news the last week.
Charlotte had to believe there was some truth to the stories. Louis didn’t look like a drug lord. He looked like a miserable child who’d been dragged to an adult party by his mother.
