by B. J Daniels
"Cool down…" Zeke said from where he lounged against the wall. Zeke Hartung, known affectionately as Zeke the Freak, was tall and slim with rebel good looks. Landry had never asked how he got the nickname. He didn't want to know.
"We all liked Simon," Zeke continued. "If he was a cop, then I'm a cop and I'm taking you all in."
The men in the room laughed nervously. Landry met Zeke's gaze. Zeke smiled. The bastard loved to bluff.
"If your source says there's a disk, Freddy D., then there's a disk," Zeke continued. "So let's find it. Find out what's on it. Find out where Simon got his information—or if these two morons killed the wrong man."
"Who you calling a moron?" T demanded, going for Zeke.
Freddy D. stopped it with a wave of his hand. "Zeke's right. Once we have the disk, then we'll know who we can trust. So where is this disk and why don't I have it yet?" Freddy D. asked, a knife edge to his voice.
Even Worm looked a little less sure of himself. "Simon said he hid it in a painting in one of those art studios down by the beach."
"You think he's a cop, you think he has information on a disk that will bring down the entire organization or make it possible for some other organization to move in on us, and you trusted him to tell you the truth about where he hid it?" Landry demanded incredulously.
Freddy D. shot Landry a look that dropped his blood temperature to just above freezing before turning that cold stare on T and Worm. "So why didn't you just get the painting and bring it to me?"
Worm swallowed, his Adam apple bobbing up and down. "It's in this art studio. The thing is the shops are all open now. We can't just waltz in and take the painting in broad daylight."
Freddy D. sat up, his weight making the chair groan. "Don't take it, you fool. Buy it. How much money do you need?"
T and Worm exchanged a look. "It's not for sale."
Freddy D. sat back as if Worm had slapped him. "You aren't serious."
"The painting is part of an art show tonight at some gallery called Seaside Seascapes," Worm said. "I just thought I'd go to the show tonight and buy the painting."
Freddy D. groaned. "You? At an art show?"
"Better than sending T," Landry said.
Freddy D. swiveled around in his chair to pin Landry with that corpse-gray gaze again. "You go, Jones. T and Worm will be waiting for you in the alley to make sure there are no problems. You buy the painting, make sure you get it tonight, you hand it over. They'll be watching you the whole time. Have a problem with that?"
"That's assuming T and Worm aren't undercover cops," Landry said sarcastically.
Even Freddy D. laughed at that.
"I don't know. They're dumb enough to be cops," Zeke said.
Both men looked like they could kill Zeke, but were smart enough not to try. At least not right now in front of the boss.
"I don't want those two in the alley," Landry said. He knew the best thing he could do right now was to go along with Freddy D.'s plan. But it was too late in Landry's life to do the best thing. Far from it.
"Think about it, these two hanging out in the alley behind a fancy art gallery?" Landry said. "First off, anyone who sees them is going to call the cops, thinking they're staking out the place. Secondly, if your source is right and Simon was a cop working with the feds and had made a disk he planned to hand over, then the feds are looking for this disk, too."
Freddy D. narrowed his eyes at him, and for a moment Landry thought he might tell T and Worm to kill him. "While not eloquent or wise, you do make a good point. You're saying that Simon might have gotten the feds word where he hid the disk."
Landry doubted it. Otherwise the feds would be busting down the doors right now, guns blazing. "I think it would be a mistake to underestimate Simon. I know if I was him and I spotted these two behind me, guilty or not, I'd do whatever I could to cover my ass."
"I'll cover the alley," Zeke said. "Or better yet, I'll go to the art show and let Landry wait in the sidelines."
"Like you know squat about art," Landry said, then pretended not to care. "Whatever."
Freddy D. raised a hand. "Landry goes in. Zeke, you take the alley. T and Worm won't be far away just in case."
Just in case any of them thought about double-crossing him. "I want that disk," the boss said.
"If it exists," Landry added, and Freddy D. gave him a warning look before turning again to T and Worm.
"What do we know about this artist where Simon said he hid the disk?"
The thugs exchanged confused looks.
"The painting he had on him was signed W. St. Clair," Worm said. "Simon said her name was Willow."
"Or something like that," T said. "He wasn't talking too clearly."
Freddy D. groaned. "What about the artist? Is it possible she's his contact?"
"You hear sirens?" Zeke asked sarcastically. "If the feds had the disk we'd all be facedown and handcuffed."
"Zeke's right," Landry said. "So what does this painting look like? You did get that, right?"
Worm looked like he was itching to punch Landry's ticket. "It's a painting of a sailboat. It had a red and white sail and the boat was blue. The boat is at full sail and there is a blond woman at the wheel. Her hair's blowing back and she's kind of hanging off to the side like she's having a great time."
Landry stared at Worm, amazed they'd gotten that much information out of Simon about the painting but weren't sure about the artist's name. He wanted to believe that Simon had made up every word of it. But Landry had seen T in action and knew that few men could withstand that form of torture. Even Simon.
"I'll find the painting," Landry said.
"I also think it would be wise to find out what the woman knows about Simon," Freddy D. said. "Either way, she's a loose end." Freddy D. was looking straight at him. "You have a way with the ladies, Landry. Take care of her."
Willa St. Clair glanced around the gallery at all her paintings hanging on the walls and could no longer suppress her excitement. She still couldn't believe it. All the hard work, the long hours painting then framing, had finally paid off.
Just when she thought that her life couldn't get any better than this, she saw the handsome dark-haired man standing by the door.
He'd caught her eye several times earlier, lifting his wineglass and giving her a nod. She'd felt herself warm, complimented by his attention.
Now he smiled and she saw that the crowd had thinned. Clearly he was waiting for her. Her heart beat a little faster.
Several of the stragglers came over to congratulate her. Like her first two openings, this one had been an incredible success. She still couldn't believe it. Almost all of the paintings had small red dots on them, indicating they were sold.
Her dream had come true. She tried to calm her runaway heart, took a deep breath and turned to look toward the door.
He was gone.
Her disappointment pierced the helium high she'd been riding on just moments before. She'd taken too long. He'd gotten tired of waiting.
She couldn't help feeling regret. He'd made a point of getting her attention during the show. But each time she hadn't been able to get away to talk to him. She'd hoped he would find a way to talk to her before the evening was over.
"Great show, sweetie," the gallery owner, Evan Charles, said, coming over to give her an air kiss beside each cheek. "Everyone was just raving about your use of color. You're a hit."
She thanked Evan and promised to let him know when she had enough paintings ready for another show. Taking her wrap from the closet by the door, she stepped out into the Florida night air, closed her eyes and breathed it all in as he locked up behind her.
You're not in South Dakota anymore.
She smiled to herself. She would never tire of breathing sea air. She could hear the cry of the gulls and the lull of the surf not a block away. She loved Florida. And Florida, it seemed, loved her.
"Beautiful night," said a male voice as warm and silky as the night air. "Beautiful woman."
She opened her eyes and turned already smiling, knowing it was him. He had waited for her.
"Congratulations," he said. "I was hoping all evening to get a chance to meet you. You were much too popular. And I was much too shy." He grinned and extended his hand. "Landry Jones."
He was anything but shy, she thought as her hand disappeared into his large one. His touch was gentle but there was raw power behind it. She shivered as she looked into his dark eyes, and he grinned as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Amazingly, he was even more striking up close. Not classically handsome. Too rough around the edges for that. He wore khaki chinos and a palm-tree-print short-sleeved shirt and deck shoes. He was tanned and the fingers on his left hand were scraped as if he'd been in a fistfight. He looked like a man who could hold his own in a fight, she thought, as a niggling worry wormed its way into her perfect night.
Landry Jones wasn't the type of man a woman met at an art showing. Especially not hers.
"So, you're interested in Florida landscapes?" she asked, cocking her head to one side. "You don't seem the type."
He feigned hurt, laughed and gave her a sheepish grin. "Actually I'm more interested in the artist, although I find both intriguing."
She felt her cheeks heat under his compliment as well as his dark piercing gaze. If he was trying to charm her, he was doing a darned good job. "Thank you." She wanted to pinch herself. This night was just too good to be true.
"Any chance I could buy you a cup of coffee?" he asked. "Now that we've officially met? There's a coffee shop I know that's still open not far from here. Or if you'd like something stronger…"
If only this night never had to end. And Landry Jones was like the topping on the cake. And maybe the ice cream, as well.
So what if he wasn't the type to frequent art shows? For tonight he could be her type, she thought with a thrill.
"Coffee would be great." She couldn't trust herself with anything stronger, not while feeling as exhilarated as she was already.
"Coffee it is then," he said, his smile mesmerizing. "This night calls for a celebration. If you're feeling adventurous, we could even have a piece of key lime pie."
She was feeling adventurous, all right.
"My car is just over here." He pointed down the dark street and suddenly she wasn't so sure.
She knew she was being silly. But suddenly the reality of the situation hit her. This wasn't South Dakota and she didn't know this man from Adam.
The idea of getting into a car with a complete stranger was totally alien to her—and suddenly seemed more than a little dangerous.
Odd as it might seem, she knew everyone back in her small hometown in South Dakota and never dated anyone she didn't. Now she was about to get into a car with a stranger she'd met just moments before.
While she could hear traffic a few streets over, there was no longer anyone around, all the shops and galleries were now closed and she was feeling a little vulnerable.
She turned, hoping Evan was still inside closing up.
Even the gallery lights were out. She hadn't seen Evan leave, but then all her attention had been on Landry Jones, hadn't it?
Landry must have seen her indecision and the way her feet were rooted to the sidewalk. "Wait here. I'll get the car." He flashed a reassuring smile, then turned and keyed his remote. A set of headlights flashed down the street. She watched him walk toward a newer-model blue BMW, telling herself she was being very foolish.
Yes, she was taking a chance, but hadn't she had to take a chance when she'd left South Dakota to come to Florida? And look how that had worked out. Sometimes you had to take a chance.
Especially with a handsome man on one of the most exciting nights of her life.
She groaned as she took a few steps down the street away from the gallery—and Landry Jones. With her luck, the man would turn out to be a serial killer ax murderer. Otherwise, it was almost as if he was too perfect.
At the car, Landry climbed in and pulled out his cell. He punched speed dial as he watched Willa St. Clair.
"The painting wasn't in the show," he said the moment the line was answered. He could see Willa St. Clair waiting for him. "But don't worry. I'll find it. I have the artist in my crosshairs right now, so to speak. Tell Zeke I won't be needing him. I'll call when I have the disk." He snapped his cell shut before Freddy D. could argue.
With a start, he saw that Willa St. Clair was walking down the block toward the alley behind the gallery.
He swore as he noticed the change in her. She'd looked a little leery earlier when he'd asked her out. But now she appeared scared and, unless he missed his guess, about to change her mind.
She hadn't been what he'd expected. One look at her and he'd known he'd have to handle her with kid gloves. At least until he got her in the car.
Now he had to move fast. Once he had her under his control, he told himself, it would be smooth sailing. He grimaced at his own inside joke.
Where the hell was this sailboat painting that Simon had told T and Worm he'd hid the disk in? Landry had come to believe it existed. Simon was smart enough to know that by telling T and Worm, he would also be telling the rest of them. That could explain the intricate description Simon had given the two goons.
But as Landry's luck would have it, the painting T and Worm described wasn't in the gallery show.
So where was it?
T. and Worm had said that some blond woman had been working at the back of the art studio last night when Simon had gone in. Their description of her matched the artist's—Willa St. Clair.
She was the key to finding the painting—and ultimately the disk. And Willa St. Clair was going to tell him. One way or another, Landry would have that disk before the night was over.
As he reached to start the car engine and go after her, he heard a soft tap on his side window. He turned and glanced up, only half surprised to see Zeke standing next to his car.
"What the hell do you want?" he asked as he powered down his side window. "Didn't Freddy D. tell you to call it a night?"
Zeke smiled. "Change of plans, old buddy."
Willa knew she would hate herself in the morning if she didn't go out with Landry Jones. For the rest of her life, she would think of him, actually building him up in her memory—if that were possible—and always wonder what might have been.
She stopped walking up the block and turned, blinking as she looked back. The BMW hadn't moved but she could hear the purr of the engine. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she saw that a man was standing beside the driver's side talking to Landry.
Now was her chance to just disappear. Take the coward's way out. Run!
Funny, but that's exactly what her instincts told her to do.
Pop! Pop! The sound took her by surprise. She stared, unable to move even when she saw the glint of a gun through the windshield, saw the flash as Landry Jones fired two more shots.
The man next to the car staggered back, slammed into the wall and slid slowly down, his head dropping to his chest.
Poleaxed, she stared at the dead man—her first dead man—her mind screaming: Landry shot him! He shot him!
She felt Landry shift his gaze to her and suddenly she was moving, kicking off her high heels and running for her life. She could hear the roar of the BMW engine as he came after her, the headlights washing over her.
A main street was only two blocks away. She could see the lights of the traffic. There would be people around. She could get away, get help. But she knew she would never reach it. The BMW was bearing down on her.
She glanced back and blinded by the headlights didn't see the man with two dogs on leashes appear out of the darkness off to her right.
The man avoided crashing into her, but she got caught up in the dogs' leashes and went down hard.
"Are you all right? I'm sorry I didn't see you," the man said, sounding distraught as he knelt beside her.
"Help me," she cried, not yet feeling the pain. "H
e's going to kill me."
"Who?" the man asked, glancing around.
She managed to sit up, vaguely aware that her hands and knees were scraped raw from hitting the sidewalk. The street was dark. No BMW. No Landry Jones.
Three sets of eyes stared at her at ground level, only one set human. The dogs were big and wonderfully muttlike. The man knelt next to her, looking scared and upset.
Willa began to cry. "That car that was chasing me…"
"It went on past," the man said.
Her hands and knees began to ache and she saw that her dress that she'd bought especially for the showing was ruined. Her new shoes were back down the street where she'd kicked them off.
"Are you sure the car was chasing you?"
One of the dogs licked her in the face. She put her arm around its neck, hugging it tightly for a moment before she dug her cell phone out of her purse and punched in 911.
Chapter Three
Landry couldn't believe how badly things had gone. What a nightmare. Simon was dead. So was Zeke. Zeke.
He put his head in his hands. What the hell had happened?
Unfortunately, he knew the answer to that, he thought as he gingerly touched his side. He'd been lucky. Although the wound had bled like hell, it hadn't been life threatening. Still, he'd had a hell of a time finding a doctor to stitch him up and make sure it didn't get infected. It wasn't like he could just walk into an emergency room. By law, doctors were required to report gunshot wounds.
He'd had to find a doctor he could trust not to turn him in. He couldn't chance using Freddy D.'s or any of the ones the cops knew about.
The wound, though, had turned out to be the least of his problems. Since that night, he'd been a hunted man. Willa St. Clair's eyewitness testimony that he'd shot Zeke Hartung down in cold blood had every cop on the force and the feds after him—not to mention Freddy D. and his boys.
For days Landry had been on the run, keeping his head down, but he'd known from the get-go that he couldn't keep this up. He had to find that damned disk. The proof he needed was on it. Without the disk, he was a dead man.
