by Kris Calvert
The plane landed with a jolt and Polly gripped my hand and gasped. “I think I do better on the water these days.”
I kissed her cheek and quickly unbuckled myself, anxious to get to get to Oscar and Jackson House. I pulled the small bags we’d frantically packed from the seats behind us, slinging them over my shoulder. I’d dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and black blazer. Polly was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans and high tops. We were both wearing our hair up and inside ball caps. I knew Balivino’s men would be watching at the airport for anything suspicious, and for that reason we looked more like a father and son arriving at the airport than a husband and wife. Our flight attendant also agreed to dress in jeans, sweatshirt and ball cap and accompany us into the waiting SUV on the tarmac. I’d tipped her handsomely to not ask questions and we’d agreed to drop her at her car in the lot just outside the airport.
“You ready?” I asked, watching Polly stuff her blonde hair up and into the sides of her Princeton hat. The flight attendant wasn’t as lucky. She had a Cleveland Browns hat on loan from one of the pilots, but didn’t seem to mind. She was able to change out of her usual attire before we landed and was deplaning without looking back, leaving the pilots behind to take care of any necessary paperwork.
“Are you ready?” I asked the flight attendant.
She nodded with a smile. “Yes.”
“Keep your head down and walk straight to the SUV. Get in the back seat. We’ll take you to your car. Do you have everything you need?”
The flight attendant nodded again. A worried look crossed her face.
“It’s fine. This is no big deal,” I assured her.
“I’m trying to avoid the paparazzi, that’s all,” Polly added. “You’re really being a huge help to us.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“Let’s do this,” I said with confidence.
The clamshell door opened and a burst of fresh air filled the cabin. The captain stepped off and down the stairs, waiting for us to deplane. Without hesitation, Polly bounced down the steps and hurried to the waiting SUV, behind her the flight attendant. I was right on their heels, my head on a swivel as I cautiously looked around for any prying eyes.
Too dark to discern much, I didn’t linger on the tarmac, taking direct strides to the car.
I opened the driver’s side door and stared at the young agent. With calm reserve and a steely gaze, I murmured my order. “Get out.”
Without hesitation he obeyed, swinging his feet to the pavement and switching on a dime to the passenger’s side. He wasn’t dressed in the usual suit and tie and he was young enough to look a part of our entourage—whatever that might have been.
With all the doors closed, the young agent spoke. “Sir, we’re going to—”
I shot him a silent stare that said, shut the fuck up I know what I’m doing, without opening my mouth. He smartly retreated.
After dropping the flight attendant off, I drove across the tarmac and out through the employee parking garage, watching and waiting for the tail that never came. We were free and clear.
The secluded warehouse was dark. I was anxious to get inside and yet afraid of what I would find. I parked the SUV behind the building among a series of vans and took a deep breath as I turned off the car. I felt the grip of Polly’s hand on my shoulder over the seat and I captured it, bringing her fingers to my lips for a kiss. Thank God I had her by my side.
“C’mon sweetheart,” she said, slipping away from me to open her car door. “It’s time.”
I joined her outside the car, taking her hand for moral support as we walked to the back entrance of the warehouse. Opening the door, a guard met us, nodding and motioning us in. “Where is he?” I heard my own voice tremble.
Another young agent motioned with his head for me to walk down the dimly lit hallway. The warehouse was filled with bad institutional lighting. Still, we walked to the end and entered the room under the aging red Exit sign that now was only illuminated as it. I considered it a sign. This was it.
Just inside the door was a heavy sheet of clear plastic that led to the open warehouse filled with boxes and pallets. The area seemed like more like a construction zone than a hospital zone. In the back corner was more heavy plastic and bright lighting. Pulling it away, the mood shifted from dirty warehouse to sanitary. A rush of air filled my face and the sounds of life support systems permeated my head.
Polly let out a gasp. I held in my emotion, but felt it deep in my gut all the same. In the back of the makeshift hospital room was Oscar. His once strong body seemed childlike and small now, hooked up to the several machines that were keeping him alive.
I watched the ventilator force air into his lungs, his chest rising with the mocking sound of a mechanical breath, then falling solely on command of the motor. It was more than I could bear. I turned my back on the scene and dropped my head in torment.
“Leo.” Polly whispered into my arm, gripping it and my hand tightly. I squeezed my eyes shut, grazing my thumb and finger across my lids. It was my best attempt at holding in the fury of the emotional storm ravaging my gut and heart. Pulling myself together, I faced him and walked to the bedside. At nearly ninety-four, Oscar had the personality, physical ability and faculties of a man in his early seventies. Now he lay in a hospital bed in the middle of the lower ninth ward in New Orleans, hiding from thugs who so desperately wanted to harm him. And why? Because of me.
“I see you found us.” The middle-aged doctor looked slightly haggard in his green scrubs and white lab coat. “Dr. Leo Xanthus?”
I nodded and offered my hand. “Yes.”
“I’m Dr. Atwood.”
“This is my wife, Polly. How’s he doing?”
Dr. Atwood pulled Oscar’s chart from the side of the bed and shuffled the stack of papers. “Beth, did we get his labs back yet?”
“Yes,” the nurse replied, scrambling to add more to the pile.
Dr. Atwood took a few moments to read and I couldn’t help but stare at Oscar’s wan complexion. He was chalky, lifeless. The knot in in my stomach twisted.
“He’s hanging on—for now. He’s got a couple of broken ribs and a concussion, but our main concern is the pulmonary embolism in his left lung. It’s why we have him on the ventilator. He’s heavily sedated so he won’t fight the vent.”
“Pulmonary embolism?” Polly asked, gripping my hand a little tighter.
“A blood clot,” Dr. Atwood explained. “It’s from the blunt force trauma. Frankly, at his age, I don’t know how he’s survived this long.”
“What’s the prognosis?” I asked. “Where do we go from here?”
“We’ve given him as much heparin and warfarin as we can. For now, we need to see if we can dissolve it. He’s not strong enough for surgery.”
“That’s not what I wanted to hear,” I murmured.
“Look,” Dr. Atwood stated plainly. “I think you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that he may not survive this. He is ninety-four years old. Even a younger man in the best of shape would have a hard time with a bruised rib, concussion and a pulmonary embolism.”
I swallowed hard. “You don’t know Oscar.”
Dr. Atwood’s lips thinned to a straight line and he looked away before coming back to me with a nod. “I’ll leave you alone—let you spend some time with him. Let Beth know if you need anything.”
Dr. Atwood nearly made it out of the room before I stopped him. “Atwood.”
He turned without a word.
“I know being a part of this clandestine operation isn’t easy. Thank you.”
Atwood gave me a single nod, then pushed open the only door in the area not covered in plastic, leaving us alone with Oscar.
I took his bruised and battered hand covered in IVs, tape and monitoring attachments in mine and sat in the chair left by his bedside. Dropping my head, I felt helpless to do anything except be there.
“Hello Dr. and Mrs. Xanthus.”
Looking away from Oscar, I watched Colt Dan
iels fight his way through the protective plastic. I stood to greet him with a handshake—he went for the hug.
“You’re a damn sight for sore eyes,” he said, pounding me on the back.
“Good to see you too, Colt. Thanks for showing up.”
Colt’s jaw tightened. “Thanks for showing up? You guys are my responsibility. If you’re coming out, I need to know.”
My reply was quick and to the point. “We’re not.”
Colt traded glances between me and Oscar. “So you’re just in to visit?” His question was quiet—probing.
“Honestly Colt, I don’t know what I’m here to do.”
He slapped me on the back. “You’re going to Jackson House?”
I nodded.
“Security team in place?”
“They’ll be here later tonight. I’ve called in a seasoned crew—a badass group.”
“Speaking of,” Colt said. “Between you, me and the gatepost, I’ve heard the original badass is coming out of deep cover to aid you in your time of need.”
“He is.”
Colt took a deep breath. “Be careful, Leo. He’s tied up in some real serious shi—ah—stuff,” he said glancing at Polly. “Don’t do anything—you know—stupid.”
“I understand. And tell your father I understand. And thank you.”
“You have my secure number. Call me if shit—I mean if it gets real—real fast. I’ll check in on you.”
I shook his hand. “Will do.”
Colt exited and I walked closer to Oscar, alone for the first time. Polly moved in behind me, stroking my back, her hand cool against my sweating skin. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“This is my fault—all of it.”
“How can you say that?”
“I should’ve never taken anything from the safe. When we left Jackson House, I should’ve left everything just as it was.”
“You didn’t know,” Polly whispered. “How could you know?”
“I’m a fucking FBI agent Polly, and a sworn member of the Marcello crime family. I know how they do business. I know how both sides do business. But I was greedy. I was damn greedy. I wanted my grandmother’s ring and I had to take the stupid fucking rug with me. Like it meant something. None of it means anything. And look at us.” I nearly growled the words as they passed my lips with rage. “We’re hiding from these assholes and I’ve got Oscar hanging out in here like a piece of meat.”
“Fine then.”
I dropped my head into my hands. “What?”
Polly walked in front of me and stooped to get in my face. “I said, fine. Now what?”
I stared into the eyes of the woman I loved more than life itself. Nothing and no one was going to take anything else away from me. The monitor let out an ominous tone with each beat of Oscar’s weak heart and I thought of every way I would end the life of Alphonso Balivino and his two thug sons, Angelo and Vito.
“Now,” I said. “I fight.”
6
POLLY
The SUV dropped Leo and me one block away from Third Street and Jackson House. It was dark as pitch as we made our way into the culvert, sloshing in ankle deep water under the roadway and through a jungle of foliage to reach the unknown doorway. It was a hidden passageway used during Kostas Xanthus’s bootlegging days. Leo even used it to get an undesirable reporter off the property when we left New Orleans, faking our deaths.
“Is it open?” I whispered, my voice echoing in the damp chamber.
He keyed in an electronic code. “It’s a combination lock.”
The lock opened with a loud click and a moan that echoed throughout the tunnel. “We’re in,” he whispered. “Welcome home, cher.”
Pushing the door open just enough for us both to slip past, Leo locked it behind us immediately. It was so dark I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face. I knew Leo was familiar with the secret places of Jackson House, but I wasn’t as sure-footed.
“Leo,” I whispered, my voice now muffled by the insulation and sound-proofing inside the tunnel.
“I’m right here,” he replied, reaching out for me. When he finally found my body, he worked his way down to my hand, sliding past me in the narrow passageway. “Hold my hand and follow me. This would be easier with a flashlight.”
“Ya think?”
“I can do without the sarcasm, Mrs. X. What I was going to say is, I’ve navigated this tunnel plenty of times in the dark as a teenager sneaking out or coming in late. I know my way. It’s fifty-two steps. Only fifty-two.”
“How many have we taken?”
He paused.
“You haven’t been counting.”
“You’re throwing me off my game.”
“Unbelievable,” I said with a chuckle. “You’re blaming me because you can’t keep count?”
“I can’t concentrate on anything when you’re around. Why would this be any different? Just stick close.”
Gripping our laced fingers in one hand and the tail of his shirt in the other, I was on his heels until he hit a dead end with a thud, causing me to jump. I took a deep breath, keenly aware I needed to take it down a notch.
Leo turned loose of my hand and I watched yet another keypad illuminate in the darkness. Punching in a code, the door unlocked with a hiss, the hinges groaning. It was obvious no one had used the safe room in the nearly two years we’d been gone.
Leo ushered me into the house and flipped the light switch inside the doorway. He leaned into the darkened doorframe and let all the air out of his lungs with a heavy sigh, his sexy lips curling into a smile. “We made it.”
He took off the baseball hat, tossing it across the room before grabbing the bill of mine to do the same. Leaning in, Leo sealed his lips over my mouth. His strong hands flexing at my hipbones, I pushed my fingers into his soft, dark waves. It was the first sign of life in him since we’d heard about Oscar and left Greece.
“Look, I don’t know what’s in store for us. But I promise you—”
“Leo,” I whispered. “After seeing Oscar tonight, I know you’re not going to let anything happen to us.”
He bit down on his full lip and nodded. He was holding it all together by a thread but it didn’t matter. He was Leo Xanthus and nothing would stop this man until he had what he wanted—until he was satisfied justice had been served. He was the strongest person I’d ever known—mentally and physically.
We climbed the steps to the top of the safe room and I watched him punch in the final code that would open the hidden door under the grand staircase of Jackson House.
Pushing our way into the backside of the imposing hallway, the house was dark save for a single lamp that cast a yellow glow into the main entrance. The arched curves of the entryways leading to the various parlors on the first floor were darkened but were no less beautiful. Jackson House was eleven thousand square feet of one hundred and fifty-year brick and mortar and Corinthian columns. It was the only real home Leo had ever known, and the word spectacular would never do it justice.
Cautiously, we rounded the massive curling staircase that had taken my breath away upon my first visit to Leo’s home. Making our way into the main entrance, above our heads hung a mammoth crystal chandelier, its true beauty hidden like the rest of the home in the obscurity of the night. The ancient mahogany floor settled with a pop under the weight of a steady footstep in an adjoining room. Leo held his hand in the air, silently telling me not to make another move.
He reached for the gun in his waistband, pulling back the slide. The flash of irritation on his face told me he’d made more noise than he intended. Shooing me behind his body, he shielded me and crept into the room, angling himself against the wall.
Turning the corner, I watched him crouch in a shooter’s stance, taking aim at whatever was waiting for us, ready to pull the trigger. I gasped audibly at the possibility of what could happen in the moment, covering my mouth.
“What the fuck?
Is that you, Leo?”
Leo dropped his head back and the Glock to his side. “Jesus Christ, Tristan. How in the hell did you get in here?”
Rushing to Leo’s side, I watched the blond haired, blue eyed man hit the bank of lights on the wall with his balled fist, turning on every light in the front parlor. Dressed in dark jeans, a tight black T-shirt and black leather jacket, he looked more like he was running with a local motorcycle gang than someone Leo would know. But then again, Leo knew lots of people you’d think he had no business knowing.
“I suppose someone gave me a code.”
Leo nodded, relaxing his shoulders and taking a full breath. I sidled up beside him, threading my fingers through his and waited for an introduction. “Tristan Bleu, this is my wife, Polly Benson Xanthus. Polly, this is Special Agent Tristan Bleu. He doesn’t look like much, and he sure as hell doesn’t say much, but he’s the best damn ghost I’ve ever known or worked with.”
I stared at the blue eyed man with a mess of blond hair that hadn’t been groomed, but was perfect all the same. He was rugged and handsome in a devil-may-care way that showed me he was the type of guy who was confident in his appearance, but honestly unconcerned. It was the type of metrosexual look many men tried to accomplish but couldn’t master. Tristan Bleu nailed it by not giving a single damn. “Tristan? As in Tristan and Isolde?” I asked.
He stared through me, sans smile or acknowledgement. It was more of an examination of my soul. I couldn’t tell if I was bothering him by simply speaking, or if he was just that cool and I was caught up in my awkwardness. He blinked with a slow and deliberate awareness that made me feel silly for asking the question, then presented his hand for me to shake. “Just Tristan.”
