Quicksilver

by Elise Noble

  “A wise guy? La Cosa Nostra?”

  “So they say.”

  “The American Mafia and a Colombian sicario working together?”

  “Possibly not. They caught Mercurio carrying an unconscious girl out of the burning building, and they might even have written him off as a concerned passer-by if it weren’t for the bloody knife they found in his pocket.”

  “He slit the mobster’s throat?”

  “More like sawed it in half. They’re waiting for the DNA results to come back, but yes, it looks that way.”

  “So maybe he wasn’t running from the Garcias at all? Maybe Mercurio was hired for another job, and he flew straight to Florida to do it.”

  “Busy man.”

  “And careless.”

  Very careless. Because now he had Blackwood, the Garcias, and La Cosa Nostra baying for his blood, and there were only so many places he could hide. He undoubtedly had some money stashed away, but did he have connections in the United States?

  “Who was the girl?”

  “The cops don’t know yet. She’s still unconscious. According to my contact, there were a handful of women running around at the scene, but when the chaos died down, they only found one remaining.”

  “Will she make it?” Emmy asked.

  “The doctors couldn’t say. She suffered burns to twenty percent of her body, and Mercurio got treated for smoke inhalation.”

  Emmy’s mouth set into a hard line. “We need to talk to him.”

  “And when you say ‘we,’ you mean me.”

  “No, I mean me.”

  “Diamond, you’re not going near him.”

  “Yes, I am. He’s obviously got a soft spot for women if he risked his own freedom to help one, and both of the girls he screwed around with in Medellín said he was a gentleman. I’m the obvious choice for this.”

  Black sighed, because he knew she was right. But he also knew how impetuous she could be when something knocked her off balance.

  “You’ve been through too much lately.”

  “Eduardo got shot eight days ago. Yes, it upset me, but I’ve had over a week to get my head back in the game, okay? I’m not going to go off on some crazy, half-baked crusade. I just want the name of the man who hired Mercurio to kill Eduardo, and we’re not going to get that unless Mercurio starts talking. And, dude, in the game of good-cop, bad-cop, you’re always going to be the bad cop.”

  True. Black had spent years cultivating his bad-cop persona, and usually, it stood him in good stead. Emmy was right; he had a reputation to uphold.

  “I’ll speak to my contact. But if I get you inside that room, you’re leaving all your weapons at the front desk, capisce?”

  “No weapons. Got it.”

  Fuck. Everything about this screamed “bad idea.” But with the clock ticking on Eduardo’s life, they needed to find out who wanted him dead. And sometimes, just sometimes, bad ideas turned up good results.

  CHAPTER 18 - BLACK

  AFTER A HURRIED stop at a local strip mall, Emmy was dressed appropriately for the occasion in an ill-fitting suit, ugly shoes, and a name badge proclaiming her to be Quenby Broitzman, consultant psychologist. They were staying in Nate and Carmen’s Miami condo, and this morning, they’d made the thirty-mile trip up to Fort Lauderdale in the Porsche Cayenne Bradley had rented for them. It didn’t quite have all the bells and whistles that Black’s Cayenne in Richmond had, but at least he felt at home behind the wheel.

  And now Emmy was sitting in an interview room next to Detective Brent Shelton of the Fort Lauderdale PD, and opposite one pissed-off sicario with his hands cuffed in his lap and an attorney beside him. A public defender who was way out of his depth, judging by the nervous twitch of his mouth. Through the one-way glass that took up most of one wall of the observation room, Black had a better view of Emmy than of the suspect, and today, she wore her poker face. Still. Bland. Unthreatening. A relaxed mouth offset by a touch of ice in her eyes, the frostiness enhanced by a pair of blue contact lenses.

  The only hint of her troubled thoughts was the Montblanc fountain pen she held in one hand. It had been a gift last Christmas from Oliver, their attorney, and when she got stressed, she’d also adopted his habit of twirling it around his fingers. Flip. Flip. Flip.

  Shelton did the talking. “I’ll ask one more time… What’s your name?”

  Silence.

  “Where are you from? Are you American?”

  Silence.

  Black could have helped them out with that question, but he preferred to operate on a need-to-know basis, and right now, he was of the opinion that the cops didn’t need to know. His Fort Lauderdale contact hadn’t been too keen on letting Emmy into the interview room either, but Black had called in a favour with the FBI and they’d applied a little leverage. Thanks to Blackwood smashing the mother of all paedophile rings a few months back, the agency owed him a lifetime of favours, and Black intended to collect as and when required. As far as the cops were concerned, Mercurio was a person of interest in a burglary at one of the palatial beachfront mansions Blackwood had a monitoring contract for, and Blackwood’s main interest was in recovering stolen property.

  Secrets and lies… Black’s biggest secret was that he enjoyed lying more than telling the truth. Sometimes, he made shit up just because he could. Call it a hobby of sorts. He found lie detector tests genuinely fun because he could beat them every time.

  “Can you speak?” Shelton asked. “Because we can get a sign-language interpreter here if we need to.”

  Unsurprisingly…silence. Then the door to the observation room burst open, and all heads turned as a newcomer strode in.

  “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

  From the captain’s pissed-off expression, the man’s arrival was an unexpected development. Interesting. None of the other cops standing with them seemed to know who he was either.

  “And you are?” the captain asked.

  “Special Agent in Charge Merrick Childs from the Miami Field Office.”

  “Well, Special Agent in Charge Childs, I’m Captain Walsh. Perhaps you’d like to explain why you’ve gatecrashed my interview suite.”

  “And perhaps you’d like to explain why you tried to sabotage a two-year investigation.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Wasn’t this amusing? Black should have brought popcorn.

  “That warehouse you managed to destroy two days ago was the subject of a surveillance operation.”

  “Nobody informed us of that. What kind of operation?”

  “That’s classified. You just blew months’ worth of work.”

  “As I said, nobody told us. Are we meant to be psychic? The place was full of drugs, and kids in our neighbourhoods are dying.”

  “And this case is bigger than one warehouse. If you’d gone through the proper channels—”

  “We filed all the paperwork we needed to. Maybe if you’d been open about your operations in our jurisdiction…”

  Men arguing like boys. Black tuned them out and turned back to the interview. The classified operation piqued his curiosity, but he’d find out the details later.

  “What were you doing in the warehouse?” Shelton asked Mercurio.

  Silence.

  “Right now, we’ve got enough to charge you with murder, and you won’t get bail if we don’t know who you are. Or maybe we’re wrong? Maybe someone else killed Salvatore Favero and you just happened to pick up the knife. You have to help us out here.”

  Silence.

  “What about the girl you saved? Do you know her? We need to contact her parents, and we can’t do that without a name.”

  Shelton slid a small stack of photographs across the table, clipped together at the top. Jane Doe, still lying alone in the ICU. Mercurio picked them up and thumbed through them slowly. Deliberately. Put them down and didn’t say a word.

  What was going through his head? If Black had to guess, Mercurio would rather go to pris
on in the USA than risk extradition to Colombia, because with the number of enemies he’d made, he wouldn’t last five minutes in jail over there. In Florida, he had the option of a life sentence or the death penalty, and if he got life, he’d be eligible for parole after twenty-five years. That would make him, what, fifty?

  The cops could only hold him for seventy-two hours without charge, and Shelton was right; they weren’t about to let him go free.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  “I understand you must be traumatised,” Emmy said, injecting warmth into her voice. They’d been in there for an hour, and she’d played her part well so far. “Perhaps it was self-defence? Are you having trouble remembering what happened?”

  Silence.

  “We could bring a therapist in for you to talk to. Would that help, Mr… Mr… Well, have a think about it.”

  Silence.

  “Let’s take a break,” Shelton said. “Mr. Doe here can consider his options while we get a coffee. Interview terminated at eleven twenty-nine.”

  “Maybe we should cut him loose,” the captain muttered. SAC Childs had stormed out moments earlier. “He’d soon start talking if the mob got their hands on him.”

  The man was bullshitting. The cops would never do that because they played by the rules. If Blackwood had gotten to Mercurio first, they wouldn’t be going through this fucking charade. Black sighed. Sometimes, a little pressure was necessary in these situations, but thanks to all the ambulance-chasing attorneys and pesky human-rights advocates, the bad guys often had the upper hand nowadays.

  Shelton and Emmy stood, and a small smile played across Emmy’s lips. A genuine smile, not the humourless mask she’d been wearing for the last week. What was she so pleased about?

  Her gaze dropped to the table, just for a second, and Black followed it. Why had she left her pen behind? That thing cost hundreds of dollars, and she’d carried it with her for months. Mercurio started to get up, and too late, Black realised what was missing from the picture. The paper clip. The fucking paper clip that had been on the stack of photos earlier. Black knew exactly what was about to happen, but stuck on the other side of soundproof, bulletproof glass, he was powerless to stop it.

  Mercurio moved fast, dropping the handcuffs and the paper clip on the floor then grabbing the pen. Before Shelton turned halfway, Mercurio had flipped the cap off and pressed the pointed tip to Emmy’s carotid artery.

  Fuck.

  Put him down, Emmy. You can do that in your sleep.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she half whimpered, half screamed as Mercurio wrapped one arm around her throat and shoved her forward. Was Black nervous? No. Just slightly confused.

  “Open the door,” Mercurio ordered Shelton.

  Those were the first words he’d spoken, and he did so with a strange accent. Mostly Spanish, but with a hint of British underneath. Who was this guy?

  Black moved towards the door to find out, but the beefy captain blocked his way.

  “Stay where you are. We’ll handle this.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Need I remind you that you’re a civilian, and you’re only here as a courtesy, as is your associate, who’s now managed to get herself taken hostage.”

  Okay, so Black had neglected to mention that oh-so-forgetful Ms. Broitzman was actually his wife. Like he said, information on a need-to-know basis only.

  Black shrugged. “It was your man who gave John Doe the paper clip he used to pick his cuffs.”

  Anger flashed across the captain’s face, and Black resisted the urge to laugh. He understood what Emmy was doing now. The best way to convince Mercurio to talk was by getting him outside of the police precinct, and that was exactly where they were headed.

  “Just get out of the way!” Emmy shrieked from the hallway.

  Confusion reigned long enough for her and Mercurio to make it to the parking lot, and Black cursed under his breath when he recalled her offer to put the car keys in her purse when they arrived earlier. The little bitch had planned this all along, hadn’t she? Mercurio pushed her in through the passenger door of the Porsche, then climbed in beside her as she wriggled into the driver’s seat. The engine started with a roar, and she floored it out of the gates.

  Poor bastard. Black almost felt sorry for Mercurio because the man clearly had no idea what sort of trouble he’d just gotten into.

  For a moment, the gaggle of cops just stared at the disappearing car, incredulous. Seemed they’d never had a murder suspect escape from an interview room with a hostage before.

  “Don’t just stand there!” the captain yelled. “Go after them!”

  The first police cruiser peeled out of the lot twenty seconds later, but Black just shook his head. Emmy in a Porsche Cayenne versus a dozen cop cars? He knew who his money was on.

  Instead of panicking, he meandered back inside and poured himself a cup of coffee from the ever-present jug in the now-empty squad room. Checked his watch. Waited five minutes. Pulled out his phone and dialled.

  Emmy’s dulcet tones greeted him. “Leave a message or don’t bother.”

  Hmm. She never turned her red phone off. Was she out of signal range? Black waited two more minutes then tried again, only to get the same result. Dammit. A vein began to throb in his temple as he called Nate. Now he was starting to get a bad, bad feeling about this.

  CHAPTER 19 - BLACK

  “WHERE’S EMMY?” BLACK asked Nate.

  Half a minute passed, and he heard Nate tapping away at his computer in the background.

  “Strange. She’s turned her red phone off. Why would she do that?”

  An excellent question, and one Black wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to.

  “Is there any way you can track it?”

  “Not when she’s taken the battery out.”

  “What about Ana?”

  Another pause. “Her phone’s turned off too. What’s going on?”

  Black tossed the remains of his coffee into the trash, cursed in his head, and lowered his voice.

  “Would you believe Emmy’s kidnapped a sicario?” He held the phone away from his ear until Nate had finished laughing. “It’s not fucking funny.”

  “Buddy, it’s hilarious. Are you serious? Hey, guys! Emmy’s kidnapped a hitman.”

  “Just shut up and find her. Can you track my rental car instead?”

  “Yeah, I can track the rental car. Give me ten minutes.”

  Black went outside to get some fresh air while he waited for Nate to work his magic. Dammit, he should have guessed Emmy planned to pull a stupid stunt after she insisted on going for a run along the beach with Ana this morning. Right now, he didn’t know whether to be absolutely pissed or applaud her ingenuity. In the end, he settled for phoning Bradley and requesting he organise another vehicle, stat.

  “You want it delivered to the precinct in Fort Lauderdale? That’s gonna take half an hour at least,” his assistant told him.

  “I don’t have half an hour.”

  “What happened to the first one?”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know. Just get me a fucking car.”

  Bradley tsk-tsk-tsked at him. “And what happened to ‘please’?”

  “Please get me a fucking car.”

  “Fine, I’ll sort something out. Take a chill pill.”

  Thankfully, Bradley hung up before Black cracked a tooth. Why did he do this shit? He was a fucking billionaire—he should have been cruising the Caribbean on a yacht or cavorting with half-naked models in a Jacuzzi filled with Veuve Clicquot.

  But unfortunately, he’d made some poor choices in life.

  Where the hell had Emmy gone with Mercurio? They had a condo in the Keys they never used, but no way would she have taken him there. Too busy. Black called the agent who managed his real estate and got a list of the empty properties they owned within a hundred-mile radius. There were six, but he ruled out the two apartments. Dragging a presumably unconscious murder suspect past a concierge and into an elevator m
ight raise a few eyebrows.

  That left four houses to check, but honestly, Black’s instincts told him she’d avoid them all. Too obvious. She’d clearly thought this through, and since he’d spent the last sixteen years teaching her how to evade and escape, he’d be almost disappointed if she took such an easy option. Ana had few connections in the US, at least that Black knew of, so where else would Emmy turn? Not Dan or Mack—they were good friends of Emmy’s, but also of Black’s, and neither of them would split their loyalties like that. Ditto for Nick. Xavier was on vacation in Europe for three more days. Jed? Black called him, but he was at his desk in Langley. Next, he tried Sofia, but Leo, her boyfriend, picked up instead.

  “Is Sofia there?”

  “Sorry. She went away for a few days and left her phone behind. Didn’t Emmy mention the trip? I thought they were going together.”

  “It must have slipped her mind.”

  “They’ve gone to Florida. Fia said something about water sports, which is great, isn’t it? I mean, when you think she wouldn’t even go in a pool a year and a half ago.”

  Water sports? Waterboarding, more like. “Fantastic. Emmy said they were planning a trip, but I didn’t realise it was this weekend. Must have got my dates mixed up.”

  “Don’t worry—those girls can look after themselves.”

  “Yes. Yes, they can.”

  An ancient Mercedes sedan drove into the parking lot and shuddered to a stop in front of him. The window wound down, and a dreadlock-crowned head popped out.

  “Mr. Black?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Mahmoud, your Uber driver.”

  His what? Bradley had sent a fucking Uber? That was it—when Black got home, he was cancelling Bradley’s credit cards, and his ridiculous Lamborghini could go in the crusher.

  For a moment, Black contemplated borrowing one of the police cruisers parked nearby, but that would only cause more problems later. He was about to toss Mahmoud a hundred-dollar bill for his trouble and phone Bradley again when Nate called back.

  “The Porsche is in a parking garage six miles from you. I’ll send a map.” He laughed again. “A fuckin’ sicario.”