Corky and Pablo were supposed to take care of the problem. Joey didn’t take care of these types of problems; he didn’t have the stomach for it. And Pablo and Corky had been the ones to let Hunter and his woman friend escape his house in the first place. But would Lorenzo blame Pablo and Corky? Who knew?
Sometimes the boss chose one guy to make an example of, just to keep everyone else on their toes. Joey still remembered Freddy, Lorenzo’s last example, still remembered having to pull his cold, dead body from the trunk and then burying it in a patch of woods. Joey hadn’t really liked the man, but he hadn’t disliked him enough to see him dead. For a week, Joey had puked every time he thought about Freddy and the hole in the back of his head.
Damn, he didn’t want to be the boss’s next example. He didn’t want to be the reason someone else puked their guts out. Not that most of Lorenzo’s hired help would care enough to lose their lunch. Killing was what most of them did.
Not for the first time, Joey regretted accepting Lorenzo’s job offer. But with Joey’s size and his lack of education, he didn’t have a lot of employment opportunities. Being a bouncer had paid his rent, put food on his table and given him dough enough to occasionally take a woman out to dinner. From bouncing jobs he’d gotten a few gigs working as a bodyguard—and that was what he’d signed on to do for Lorenzo. Only, Lorenzo paid a hell of a lot more than anyone else. Sure, Joey knew Lorenzo was dirty, but he’d fooled himself into believing he could work for him without getting involved. And for what? The money. Why the fuck had he thought the money would make a difference? It didn’t.
Joey kicked a tire so hard that he heard the bone in his big toe crack; then he let out another string of curses, words his crackwhore of a mother would have taken a toilet brush to his mouth for saying. His mom had sold her body for ten dollars a pop and then used most of the money to pay for her drug habit, saving her dimes and nickels to buy peanut butter and bread so her two sons wouldn’t starve. Sometimes, when the money was all used up, she’d sent them to the store to steal the peanut butter. Stealing and whoring were okay, but let him or his brother use a four-letter word, and they’d have toilet breath for weeks. To this day Joey didn’t eat peanut butter, and every time he really let loose with bad language he got a bad taste in his mouth.
Jeezus! Why was he thinking of his dead mom and peanut butter? It had to be the accident, getting his brain knocked sideways. He reached up to the goose-egg-size lump on his head. He hadn’t given his mom this much thought in years. Some things were just best forgotten.
A string of curses came from the car. With his toe throbbing, Joey limped around the other side and opened the passenger door.
“I bet you wish you’d worn your seat belt like I told you now.”
Donald spat. Blood oozed down the man’s face and dripped onto his black suit coat. “Why the fuck are some people so hard to kill?”
Donald was talking about Luke Hunter and the redhead, of course. That’s when Joey realized why he’d been thinking about his mom. It was that woman, the one with Hunter. His mom had had red hair, too.
“What the hell happened?” Donald snapped. “How did we wreck?”
“I don’t know.”
Joey let the question run around his addled brain. He remembered Donald shooting at the van and thinking that, if they caught up, he’d either have to help Donald kill the pair or at least witness it. The next thing Joey knew the car had gone into a swerve and started flipping.
Not that he believed he’d done on it purpose. Surely he hadn’t done it on purpose. He wasn’t that stupid, was he? He sure as hell wouldn’t put his own life on the line to help save some woman he didn’t know. Not even a redhead who made him think about his mom. Nah, he wasn’t that good of a person. If he was, he’d have told Freddy about the orders to take him out. The thought sent a gush of acid into Joey’s gut.
He looked at the cut over Donald’s brow. “You’re gonna need stitches.”
“Why? I’m going to get a bullet in the brain if we don’t find that asshole.”
Joey looked closer. “Bet I’ve told you a hundred times to wear your seat belt. Maybe now you’ll listen.”
“Fuck you,” Donald said, and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed and waited, then: “We’re on Route 5, a couple miles down the road. Get the car here now! Joey fucked up and wrecked the car.” His eyes shot to Joey. “Hunter’s getting away. I don’t care if Corky’s hurt. If he can’t make it, shoot him. Just get here now before they get farther away. And make sure you wipe down the place for prints and leave the package before you go. But hurry, damn it!”
Luke studied the weapon in Kathy’s hands, and then his gaze shot back to her eyes. “Put the gun down,” he said calmly.
“I said pull over!”
Her hands trembled, and he could tell she was in shock or the verge of it. He looked back at the rearview mirror to make sure no one was following. “We really should keep driving in case—”
“I know how to use this,” she snapped, and gave the gun in her hands a little shake.
He let out a frustrated gulp. “I can see that.” He cast another glance at how she held the gun. Someone had taught her well. “I’d be more worried if you didn’t.”
“I said—”
Keeping one eye on the road, he held out his hand. “Give me the gun.”
“I really do know how to use it!” she said again.
“We’ve already established that,” he said. “But we both know you’re not going to shoot me.”
“Are you really positive of that?” Her expression hardened.
Was he? “You won’t do it.” He looked her way again, watched her finger move toward the trigger. He really hoped he was right. Then again, he remembered how she’d taken down that armed gorilla in his bathroom. Most of Lorenzo’s men weighed in at 250 or more. Hire them big and dumb seemed to be the man’s motto. Nevertheless, Kathy had managed to fight the goon off. Damn impressive.
So she wasn’t a wimp, but he still didn’t think she’d shoot him. “I’m not the bad guy here, Kathy.”
“Really? Is that why those people were shooting at you? Good plumbers don’t get shot at!” Her voice trembled. “Wait, don’t tell me. You failed to unclog someone’s toilet and they came after you.”
He almost laughed, but then he saw her eyes glisten with unshed tears.
“Good people don’t have hairy men with guns trying to kill them,” she continued. She blinked several times, and her hands shook as if she was about to lose it.
Luke glanced again at the rearview mirror, assuring himself that no one was following the van. Then, against his better judgment, he pulled off the main highway onto a side road.
“Now, get out!” Kathy snapped as soon as he cut the engine.
He looked at her and tried to decide how much of the truth he could tell her. As little as possible, his training dictated. But weren’t these unusual circumstances?
“Have you ever heard of the Witness Protection Program?”
Her mouth dropped open, and he remembered kissing that mouth—and damn if he didn’t want to do it again.
She closed her eyes for a second. “You’re not a plumber?”
“Not really.” After the last four years of his life, he wasn’t really sure what he was anymore. From the special task force, he’d gone undercover. From undercover, he’d gone into the WitSec program.
He watched her eyes grow round, and then her whole body shook. The fact that she was processing information told him she wasn’t in full-blown shock, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t yet go there. “I’m supposed to testify next week—”
“Your name’s not Stan Bradley?”
“No. It’s not.” He wondered if telling the truth was the right choice. Face it, he’d gotten better at lying.
“Right.” Sarcasm dripped from her words. “Get out.”
His gaze shot back to his gun, which was still aimed at him. “Kathy, think just a minute. Why would I lie to you?�
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“That falls in the ‘don’t know, don’t care’ category. What’s important is why I would believe you.”
“You should believe me because I’m not lying,” he replied.
It looked as if his calm words helped. Her finger moved away from the trigger.
“I’m telling the truth,” he repeated. Relief loosened the knot in his gut—or it did until her finger went back to the trigger. He heard her taking short gulps of air, which was another sign of panic. “Kathy, you need to breathe. Long deep breaths. It will help you.”
She must have heard, because she took a deeper gulp of oxygen. “You’re telling the truth about lying to me. So if I believe you, what I’m believing is that you’re a liar. So if you’re telling the truth, I really shouldn’t believe you, because I know you’re capable of lying.”
He got dizzy trying to follow her logic. “I have no idea what you just said,” he admitted. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“It does to me,” she snapped.
“I’m not the bad guy.”
“Really?” She stared at him. “Okay, prove it.”
“How?” he asked.
“Call the police,” she answered. “My purse is in the backseat, and my cell phone is in it.”
He glanced back and saw her purse. He could pretend to reach for it and snag the gun, but that could get him killed. Probably it was best to reason with her. But to reason with her, he needed to explain why calling the police was a bad idea.
He cleared his throat. “I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
He could probably come up with some half-truth. Half-truths had become a constant in his life these past few years. But without really understanding why, he decided to stay honest. “Because until I talk to my contact, I don’t know who I can trust.”
She shook her head, and her hair danced around her shoulders. In spite of the situation, he remembered how it had felt to run his fingers through that hair, and he ached to touch her again.
Her hands trembled, and her finger moved away from the trigger. “I’m not much on police, either,” she said. “But everything about this screams to call them.”
“The people I’m testifying against have ties to the police departments in more than thirty states,” he related.
“So you’re not going to call?”
Had she not heard? “I already told you, I have a contact I need to get in touch with, and as soon as I talk to him I’ll figure out how to get us out of this.”
“Get out of my van!”
Kathy’s finger was back on the trigger, but everything he knew about her said she wouldn’t shoot. He held out his hands, palms up, hoping to soothe her. Whether she believed him or not, he wished walking away was an option, but it wasn’t. Not now. Not when her name and her florist’s were printed in bright pink letters on the side of her van. Lorenzo’s men would stop at nothing to find him, and thanks to her being at his place today, Kathy Callahan was now a means to get to him. They wouldn’t care what they had to do to get her to talk. It wouldn’t even matter if she didn’t have anything to tell them.
Fury backed with determination had him stiffening his spine. He’d gotten her into this, albeit indirectly; he was getting her out of it. No way in hell was he going to let her get hurt because of him. But figuring out how to convince her of that was another problem.
“Okay, let’s say I get out. What are you planning on doing?” He ran a hand over his face and flinched when his palm passed over his bruised eye and jaw. “Don’t you understand that you can’t go home?”
“Why?” she asked.
He tried to remain calm. She needed calm. But a car turned down the road and his calm took a backseat to the adrenaline shooting through his veins. He froze. His gaze shot to the side mirror…and his gut unknotted when he saw an old man behind the wheel of a beige Saturn.
He held his breath and waited for the car to pass. Luckily, they’d taken only three or four bullets, most to the bumper, as their pursuers attempted to shoot out the tires. He didn’t think the damage would call too much attention, but then again…His shoulders relaxed as the old man drove past.
“Why?” she asked again, her voice firmer this time.
“Because they’ll come after you now. These aren’t people who will care if—”
“I’m not involved in this. Whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, I’m not involved,” she said.
He thought he heard another car, and his gaze shot to the side mirror again. Nothing. Not this time. But Lorenzo’s men, the ones he’d left at his place, could be right on their tail. They wouldn’t give up. It wasn’t just out of loyalty, either. Lorenzo’s men would die trying to complete a job because they knew they would die if they failed.
He kept glancing from Kathy to the rearview mirror. “They won’t care if you’re involved or not.”
“They don’t know who I am.”
Was she blind? “Your damn name and address are painted on the van!” And that’s when it hit him: It wasn’t just her he had to worry about. “Fuck! Where’s Tommy?” How could he have forgotten Tommy? He turned the engine on and floored the gas pedal. “Where’s Tommy?” he yelled.
She sat there, eyes wide, gun still aimed at his bare chest.
“Goddamn it, Kathy! Tell me he’s not at your place!”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because we’ve got to get him before they do! Where is he?” He slammed his hand against the steering wheel and made the turn back onto the highway, back the way they’d come, straight back toward Lorenzo’s men. Men with serious motivation to see them dead. But his mind created an image of a little freckle-faced kid kneeling beside him, watching him fix a leaky pipe, and for Luke facing the men didn’t seem so much to ask.
He met Kathy’s eyes. “Where is he?”
“France.” Her reply was barely more than a whisper.
“France?” The word danced around his panicked brain.
“With his dad,” she added. “On vacation.”
Luke took his foot off the gas and fought the alarm pulsing through his veins. The kid wasn’t at home. Lorenzo’s goons weren’t at this minute doing something horrible to the boy. Realizing he needed to put some miles between him and Lorenzo’s hit squad, he moved the van into the center lane, took only one second to exhale the fear from his lungs, and started to turn the van around.
Then again, maybe they would expect him to make a run for it. Lorenzo would have men watching for this van on all the major roads of the county. He needed to do just opposite.
Looking at Kathy, his gun still clutched in her hands, he did what he should have done in the beginning. He simply reached over and took it.
She didn’t fight. As a matter of fact, she hardly reacted. Which told him just how submerged in panic she really was. Facing what she had back at his place couldn’t have been easy. He wished he had the time to pull over and hold her, to console her. Not that consoling her would be all he’d want to do. As inappropriate as it was, the memory of her on his lap, of his hand holding the sweet weight of her breast in his palms crowded into his mind.
Realizing where those inappropriate thoughts were taking him—a place where his jeans would feel way too tight—he pushed them away. “Listen to me,” he said, shoving the gun under the seat and away from her reach. “I totally get that you’re scared.” He looked to the road, then back at her. “However, you’ve got to believe me. I’m the good guy. The men we left back there are the bad guys. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you get out of this without one gorgeous red hair on your head harmed. But you’ve got to trust me right now. Can you do that?”
Could she? The question Stan—or whatever his name was—had asked bounced around Kathy’s addled brain for the next few minutes. Trust had never been her strong point. Add having to defend herself with a toilet tank lid and having men shooting at her, and the idea of trusting this man seemed ludicrous. Oh, and that wasn’t even considering he’d had her
hide in the bathroom because his girlfriend had shown up while they were dry humping in a kitchen chair!
Then she remembered the look of sheer panic on his beat-up face when he’d asked about Tommy. She recalled he’d turned the van around, headed straight back toward the men—men who’d been shooting at him—when he thought Tommy was at her place. She couldn’t deny that Not-Stan, whoever this man was, cared about her son. He had placed her son’s well-being before his own.
And of course there was the scene at Lacy’s. Her gaze shifted to his black eye. The swelling had gone down some, but the bruising had gotten worse, going from bluish to purple. He’d been defending her when the fight broke out. But did that make him trustworthy? Maybe? A little? But not hardly enough.
She shook her head, trying to clear the fuzzy, lightheaded sensation buzzing through her. “My two girlfriends are married to cops. If I call them—”
“No.” His jaw clenched. “You’re not listening to me, Kathy. These people have cops in their pockets. Until I talk to—”
“I don’t trust cops either, but Jason and Chase aren’t like that.”
He inhaled. “I’m not saying they’re dirty. What I’m saying is that as soon as they report in, if someone in their department is dirty, they will have access to everything you tell them.”
“Then I’ll tell them to be careful who they—”
“And if they don’t listen?” he snapped.
“I trust them,” she insisted.
His jaw clenched again. “I don’t.”
Her mind reeled. “Fine. Then you do your thing, but let me do mine.” She went for her phone.
He caught her hand and held it. “Aren’t both your friends pregnant?”
Kathy blinked. “What does that have to do—?”
“I’m telling you that these people don’t care who they hurt. If you get your friends involved, you could bring these people down on them. Do you really want to take that chance?”
His words flew from her ears to her brain to her heart. The thought of either Lacy or Sue being hurt made the trembling in her stomach return full force.
Divorced, Desperate and Deceived Page 5
