Money, Honey

by Susan Sey

  “Put Liz back on,” he said. “I’m not running all over hell and back to get your documentation unless I’m convinced she’s healthy and whole.”

  “As you wish.”

  The phone rustled again and Liz’s voice came over the line. “Patrick?”

  “Liz.” Relief washed through him, smoothed out the jagged edges. “God, Liz, are you all right? Has he hurt you?”

  “Not really. But I didn’t give you enough credit the other night. He has a fist like a wrecking ball.” She gave a shaky laugh and Patrick bit back a bitter curse at the idea of Liz having any idea what Villanueva’s fist felt like.

  “I’ll be there by noon tomorrow,” Patrick told her. “Do whatever it takes to stay safe between now and then.”

  “You, too,” she whispered. He could hear Villanueva’s muffled voice telling her to hang up. “I have to go.”

  “Listen, Liz—” A greasy desperation rolled through him at the thought of breaking this tenuous connection with her.

  “Don’t worry, Patrick. He’s not going to hurt me,” she said.

  Not until you’re here to watch. The words were unspoken, but Patrick heard them all the same. Knew in his heart they were true.

  “Patrick? Are you there?”

  He cleared his throat of the awful emotion. “Yeah.”

  “I love you, Patrick. I do.”

  The phone went dead before he could answer.

  “God. I love you, too.”

  And he did. That was the crazy thing. He’d always loved her but had simply chosen not to ask for her love in return. It was his little sacrifice, he thought with a bitter chuckle. His way of infusing life with some of the balance that the universe habitually failed to provide. Life needed balance, didn’t it? Good guys and bad guys? White hats and black hats? Last time he’d looked, his hat sure wasn’t white and that meant he had no business asking any woman worth loving to share his life.

  But what kind of fucked-up universe pulled this shit? Liz’s childhood could easily have sent any rational person around the bend, but had she fallen apart? No, not Liz. She’d turned it into a platform from which to launch a crusade against abusers. And the fates went ahead and dropped her into the hands of a knife-happy revenge seeker just because she had the very bad luck to be in love with the wrong guy?

  He’d spent his life beating back the chaos, trying to impose some kind of order on a life that wasn’t fair or orderly or rational. He’d denied himself everything he’d ever secretly longed for, from college to love, in an effort to balance scales that were inherently and perpetually unbalanced. It was time to stop fighting.

  He was going to save Liz. But not because it was his job as appointed by fate and his sins to be her bulldog. No, he’d save her for himself this time. And he’d be damned if he let anything—her stubbornness, his unworthiness or a half-demented criminal he’d had the misfortune to piss off years ago—stand in his way.

  He glanced in his rearview mirror, then jerked the wheel to the left. The sporty little two-seater skidded happily into the U-turn. Patrick lifted a casual hand to the startled agents as they went flying past in their ugly unmarked car.

  He punched the accelerator to the floor and sped back toward Grief Creek.

  IT WAS well past five, but Patrick was betting that SAC Bernard was still at the office. He barreled into the lot behind the Grief Creek Resident Agency and smiled grimly at the light glowing from Bernard’s office window. He wasn’t a world-class gambler for nothing, now was he?

  He angled into a parking spot in a shower of flying gravel and was out of the car and into Bernard’s office before most of it hit the ground.

  Bernard looked up from the paperwork on his desk. “Brynn was right,” he said. “We really need to do something about our security.”

  “Villanueva has her,” Patrick said.

  Bernard’s brows shot up in the first display of honest emotion Patrick had ever seen cross the man’s stony face. “What?”

  “I just got the call on my cell. Suffice it to say that I now have a new commitment to seeing the bastard swing. You can have him. I’ll serve him up on a fucking platter.”

  Bernard pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward him and picked up a gold pen. “Talk.”

  “Oh, no,” Patrick said. “You’ll get what you want only after I get what I want.”

  Bernard tapped the pen thoughtfully on the paper and Patrick watched as the mask of cool remoteness dropped back over him. “And what might that be?”

  “I go in first and I go in alone,” he said. “No wires, no ambush. You’ll get your arrest, but I have a few things I need to make extremely clear to Villanueva as to how our relationship will work henceforth.”

  Bernard brought the pen to his lips. “I see.”

  “In addition, I want Oz released into my custody. As it turns out, Villanueva has a few demands after all, and they mesh quite nicely with Oz’s area of expertise.”

  Quite a few of them, actually, he thought. Not one more legal than another. But he didn’t share that with Bernard. He held the man’s gaze steadily, let him see without a shred of uncertainty that Patrick meant exactly what he said.

  “When and where is the meet?”

  Patrick shrugged and lied without blinking. “Tomorrow, but I don’t know when or where. He said he’d be in touch.”

  After what felt like an eternity, Bernard shifted in his chair, came forward to drill Patrick with a direct look. “Brynn is one of mine,” he said. “I protect what’s mine.”

  “So do I.”

  “Ah.” Bernard leaned back again, considered this. “I was afraid this would happen.”

  Patrick gave him a sour look. “Yeah, so was I.”

  Bernard barked out what might have been a laugh. “You have until noon,” he said. “I want instant notification when you hear from Villanueva, and you don’t so much as think about moving without my okay. You go in first, you go in alone, but you’ll have backup, or I’ll shoot your ass myself.”

  “Done.”

  OZ—HE so didn’t look like a Donald—slouched in the passenger seat of Patrick’s car, exuding surly teenage attitude in big, fat waves. His hair hung down over his jaw in a greasy curtain, hiding everything but the sullen set of his mouth.

  “You’re pretty pissy for a guy who just got sprung from jail,” Patrick said.

  “You’re the guy who put me in there in the first place,” Oz snapped. “What do you want, a parade?”

  “Hey, you put yourself there with the illegal extracurriculars,” Patrick said. “I just happened to be the guy that caught you doing it.”

  “Great, fine.” Oz slouched deeper into the seat. “So this is like your hobby or something? Putting kids in jail, then busting them out again?”

  “No.” Patrick slowed to scan street signs, then jerked the wheel to the right and rocketed into a residential neighborhood. “This is a special occasion.”

  “Yeah?” Oz stuffed a handful of hair behind his ear. “Happy fucking birthday.”

  “Shut up,” Patrick said mildly. “I’m about to do you the biggest favor in the history of the known universe. A little gratitude wouldn’t be amiss.” He shot into a darkened driveway and halted mere inches from the bumper of a government-issue sedan.

  “Cop.” Oz glared at Patrick from the passenger seat. “Nice favor.”

  Patrick sighed and walked around the hood of the car. He opened the passenger door and grabbed Oz by the collar. “Trust me,” he said, yanking him out of the car. “You’re going to like this.”

  He marched Oz up the front steps, then held the doorbell down until the door opened and Goose appeared.

  “For Christ’s sake, what?” she snapped, her hair hanging over one shoulder in a lopsided ponytail and sheet marks on her cheek.

  Patrick gave Goose a grim smile. “You law enforcement types,” he said. “Don’t you ever check the peephole?”

  She shoved a hand into the mess on top of her head, pulled her robe higher on o
ne shoulder and stepped back from the door.

  “What’s happened?” she asked, her eyes already clearing.

  It was a nice counterpoint to Oz’s growing daze. In spite of everything, Patrick nearly grinned. Seventeen was so simple. The sulk on his face faded into slack-jawed wonderment as he took in Goose’s nearly six feet of female charm.

  “Donald Brady, meet Maria di Guzman. Secret Service.”

  “Pleasure,” Oz whispered, awestruck.

  “Likewise.” Goose turned back to him and frowned. “Patrick?”

  “Villanueva has Liz,” he said. “I’m getting her back, but I need your help.”

  God bless her, Goose never blinked. “What can I do?”

  “I need two-point-five million in really good fake bills by noon,” he said. “Along with a few other items.”

  Goose nodded, looked back at Oz. “This is my apprentice?”

  “Consider him an intern. If things go well, he can count the hours toward his community service sentence.”

  Goose gave Oz a close once-over. “You’d better impress me, kid.”

  Oz nodded quickly, apparently having lost the power of speech in the face of Goose’s beauty.

  Patrick shook his head. “I also need some papers—social security, birth certificate, driver’s license, passport, the works—for Villanueva’s approximate height, weight and coloring.”

  “I’ll wake a few people up,” Goose said. “Let’s get started.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Patrick said. “And I think Oz will be waking up a few people for this one.”

  Chapter 25

  PATRICK LET himself into Mara’s apartment as the sun was rising. He put on a pot of coffee to brew, sat down at the island counter and waited for the aroma to pull his sister out of bed. He resisted the urge to rub at his gritty eyes. He couldn’t afford to be tired.

  Patrick was pouring himself a very large mug of industrial-strength coffee when Mara stumbled into the kitchen ten minutes later. She squinted at him and said, “You’re back.”

  “Looks like.” Patrick poured a second cup and shoved it under her nose. She plunked onto the stool beside him, wrapped both hands around the mug and inhaled greedily.

  “What’s the occasion? You come to your senses?” she asked, eyes closed as she took her first, testing sip. “God, that’s good.”

  He filled her in with short, succinct phrases that got to the point as quickly as possible. No wasted words, no editorial. No wasted time.

  “I need your help, Mara,” he finally said. “If I let the FBI handle this and Villanueva slides, nobody who cares about my sorry ass will ever be safe again. I need the time and space to make him understand exactly how things are going to be between us from here on out. Liz’s boss is making all the right noises, but he doesn’t trust me. He wants to do this his way and he’ll screw me without thinking twice.”

  Mara pushed away from the counter and took the coffee with her as she paced the length of her kitchen. She stopped to stare out the French doors into the lightening sky. “Would you do it differently?” she asked. “If it meant keeping one of your people safe?”

  “Hell, no.” Patrick refilled his own mug, slugged back a scalding mouthful. “That’s exactly what I’m doing in my own way. But I’m not a moron. I’m not planning to tackle the guy without backup. I just need ten, maybe twenty minutes under the radar. Can you give it to me?”

  She turned from the window. “Why are you doing this, Patrick?”

  He shrugged jerkily, unable to summon up even an ounce of the silky assurance that used to be second nature.

  “Liz,” he said simply. “I love her. I love you, too. And I refuse to let that damage either of you.” He glanced over his shoulder down the darkened hallway where Mara’s husband and child were still sleeping. “Or your families.”

  Mara followed his glance and when her eyes returned to his, they were grim, determined. “Bet your ass,” she said. “What do you need?”

  She listened in silence while he explained what he wanted.

  “Bernard’s going to be pissed,” she said when he’d finished.

  “Yeah. I’ll spring for renovations if he trashes the place.”

  She came to him, laid a hand on his cheek. “I’ll hold you to that, you know.”

  Patrick smiled for the first time in what felt like years. “I know you will.”

  He refilled his mug again and headed for the door. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.

  “Better be,” she said. “Hey, and Patrick?”

  “What?”

  “I love you, too. Try not to get killed, hmmm?”

  “Right.”

  IT TOOK a little longer to spot the tail this time. Patrick pulled up at one of Grief Creek’s only stoplights and checked his rear view. Still there. Either Bernard had requested a better caliber of cop this time around or Liz had been giving him a free ride when she’d picked out the last ones. He kind of suspected the latter, and it pained him now to think how he’d taken having a tail at all as ultimate proof of Liz’s distrust.

  After he let them follow him to the bank, the hardware store, and the local pawnshop, Patrick phoned Goose.

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Kid does good work, Patrick. Really, really good work.” She paused. “And he knows some scary people.”

  “You want some free advice? Recruit him. Teach him how to use his powers for good instead of evil. You don’t want this kid on the wrong side of the law when he comes into his own.”

  “Truer words.” Goose sighed. “Where do you want us?”

  “Mara’s. Eleven thirty. Bring bags, but leave the goods at your place.”

  There was a moment of uncomprehending silence, then, “You got it.”

  “And Goose? Make sure they see you coming.”

  “Right. High profile.”

  “Thanks.”

  SAC GRAYSON Bernard watched from a surveillance van in Brightwater’s side lot as an undercover agent in a Softee Loaf Bread Company shirt hefted a pallet of dinner rolls onto his shoulder and disappeared into the service entrance of the restaurant.

  “I have a visual on Agent di Guzman,” the agent muttered into a concealed microphone in his collar. “She’s making contact with a white male—black hair, six feet, maybe one-eighty.”

  O’Connor. Bernard checked his watch. The guy had all of twelve minutes left before his noon deadline for making contact with the FBI, but Bernard had no intention of waiting for O’Connor to come to him. One of his agents’ lives hung in the balance. Now wasn’t the time for trust.

  The service doors opened again, and the agent wheeled his now empty dolly back toward the bread truck. “Conversation between di Guzman and subject indicates that a meeting will take place in Brightwater’s restaurant at noon sharp. Agent di Guzman passed subject a briefcase and stated her desire to meet with the subject afterward.”

  Bernard’s hand tightened on the radio. That was what he’d been waiting for. Confirmation of what his gut had always known: O’Connor had no intention of working with the FBI on Brynn’s rescue. He’d officially screwed them. The only surprise was that di Guzman appeared to be screwing them, too.

  Bernard keyed the main frequency, spoke to all the agents scattered in and around the restaurant. “O’Connor is in the building. Who has a visual?”

  “Got him,” one of the agents buzzed back. “I think. My angle’s for crap, but I have a white male taking a seat in the rear corner of the restaurant. No visual on the face, but he’s approximately six feet tall, dark hair, briefcase in hand.”

  “Is the rest of the table visible?” Bernard asked.

  “Yeah, I got a real nice look at the empty seat across from him.”

  “Anybody joins him, I want to hear it,” Bernard said. “Agents on the ready. Go on my signal.” The blood began to pump now. It was close. He could feel it. He was going to take down Villanueva and O’Connor the way they should’ve been taken down six years ago: toge
ther.

  He cinched down the straps on his flak jacket and pulled on the FBI windbreaker. He checked his watch. Four minutes.

  “White male sitting down at O’Connor’s table, maybe six feet, dark coloring, possibly Hispanic.”

  “Go.” Bernard gave the order, then came out of the van in time to see his agents surging toward the casino restaurant like a swarm of hornets, converging on windows and doors, covering all the angles. Pride warred with caution as Bernard drew his weapon and followed the first wave through the door.

  He was just in time to see his agents take down Jonas Brightwater and Donald Brady.

  Bernard holstered his weapon and closed his eyes for a brief moment. He was going to have O’Connor’s ass over this.

  When he opened his eyes, Agent di Guzman was on her feet, badge out, murmuring something soothing to the adrenaline-charged agent still holding his weapon on Patrick O’Connor’s brother-in-law. Who happened to be, Bernard noticed for the first time, approximately O’Connor’s height, build and coloring. Except for the fact that O’Connor was a blue-eyed Irishman while Jonas Brightwater was at least partly Native American and had a furious wife who was busily berating the agent who’d taken him down.

  “To the best of my knowledge, having coffee with a counterfeiter isn’t a federal crime,” Mara Brightwater spat at the flustered agent. “Now get your fucking knee out of my husband’s back.”

  The young agent’s face went deeply red and he looked around uncertainly. He’d taken down a six-foot, well-muscled man without blinking, but five feet nothing of furious temper wrapped in a huge white apron was like kryptonite, apparently. Bernard shook his head. Lapse of training. He’d have to address that.

  “Stand down, Agent Jacoby,” Bernard said, striding into the melee. “You have the wrong man.”

  The agent released Brightwater immediately, and the man stood.

  “Well,” Brightwater said. “Been a while since I’ve had that particular pleasure. I was just having a professional chat with Donald here. I thought he could provide some advice on how to better protect my operation from counterfeiters. Agent di Guzman set up the meeting and provided samples of his work.” He offered a broadly innocent smile. “Is there a problem with that?”