Doug’s was quiet this time of day. Too early for dinner, too late for lunch. Only a few people sat at the counter, seeming uninterested in him as he cowered in the back corner booth, nursing his coffee and jumping at every sound. He kept his eyes on them, taking no one for granted. The Slaters were as crafty as they were crooked.
He’d hightailed it out of the city the day before Thomas O’Connell’s death. After hearing through the grapevine that two hits had been ordered, it didn’t take a genius to know that he’d been one of the two. He didn’t bother to question how the Slaters had discovered that he had snitched on them. His only thought had been to get away. It had bothered him that he hadn’t let O’Connell know. Then when he’d heard about the man’s widow losing her baby… That was some bad karma shit. It was too late to save O’Connell, but that didn’t mean the Slaters should be able to get away with murder.
He was taking a big chance on coming back to Houston, but his conscience had made him return. O’Connell hadn’t deserved to die. If Milton hadn’t contacted the man and told him about the papers he’d stolen, none of this would be happening. But when he’d heard from a friend that O’Connell was doing some poking around on the Slaters, he hadn’t been able to resist. And now, look what had happened.
But what was done was done. Main thing was to give the information to someone he could trust and hide till the Slaters got what was coming to them.
The squeaking door alerted him that someone had entered the restaurant. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a hard, uncompromising expression on his face headed toward him. His thick brown hair glistened with rain, water dripped from the black leather jacket covering his large frame. Fear clutched at Milton’s chest, turned his bowels to liquid. Had the Slaters’ hit man found him?
Apparently reading his terrified expression, the big man said, “Relax. I’m Gallagher.”
Breath whooshed from Milton’s body as he slumped back into his chair. “I hope nobody followed you.”
Gallagher sat across from him and seared him with a fierce look. “Like who?”
“If I tell you, you’ll have to offer me the same deal as O’Connell. And protection, too.”
“Tell me what this is about, and we’ll talk about whether I can give you anything.”
Figuring that was the best he could hope for right now, Milton said, “I was a clerk in the offices of McClusky and Hendrix.”
“And they are?”
“The accounting firm that handles the Slater family.”
A dangerous light flared in Gallagher’s eyes. Milton swallowed hard and continued, “One night after everybody was gone and I was working late, I went into Hendrix’s office to see if he had a file I was looking for. I sat down at his desk, and my knee bumped something underneath. I looked down and saw this little cubbyhole with this file sticking out of it. My curiosity got the better of me, so I pulled it out. It was a file detailing some of the Slaters’ dealings.”
“If the accounting firm is used for tax purposes, all those holdings would be legitimate.”
Milton shook his head. “Oh, there’s legit stuff, too. I’ve handled a couple accounts for them. I had no idea any of this other stuff was happening till I came upon that file. From what I could tell, Hendrix is in deep with the Slaters. In cahoots, I guess you could say. The file was full of documented shipments to and from various ports, along with the contents of each shipment.”
“Such as?”
“You name it, they shipped it.”
“In other words, everything illegal.”
“Exactly.”
“You told this to Detective O’Connell?”
Milton nodded. “We met a few days ago. I gave him copies of all the documents. I was even willing to testify, only—” Milton broke off, embarrassed to admit that he’d run like a scalded cat when he’d heard they were on to him.
“But you heard that the Slaters found out you had snitched on them and you ran.”
“Yeah. I don’t know how they found out, but a friend of a friend heard about it and gave me the heads-up. I was gonna call O’Connell and let him know as soon as I got someplace safe. Then I saw on the news about him getting killed. I know it was supposed to be a robbery of some kind, but it seemed too much of a coincidence to me.”
Gallagher’s face had gotten grimmer with each additional detail. Cold eyes roamed over Milton’s face, and he swallowed hard again. Damn. O’Connell had been no pushover, but this guy looked as ruthless as any stone-cold killer the Slaters might hire.
“So what’s in it for you?” Gallagher asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you just trying to be a good citizen or is there an ulterior motive?”
“O’Connell promised me a reward…monetary.”
“Nice try.” Gallagher stood, threw down a dollar for the cup of coffee he hadn’t touched and turned to walk away.
“Wait!” Milton called out, panicked. Okay, so the guy was no dummy. Even if he got nothing for his troubles, he still needed protection. Gallagher was the only man O’Connell had said he trusted. “Can you at least keep me safe?”
The big man turned back to him. “I can do that.”
Milton blew out a long, jagged sigh. So maybe he couldn’t make any money off this deal, at least he’d be alive and his conscience would be clean.
“You still have copies of the information you gave Detective O’Connell?”
“Yeah. It’s in a safe place. I didn’t bring it with me in case you weren’t on the up-and-up.”
Gallagher nodded toward the door. “Then let’s go.”
“You want to follow me?”
“No, we go together. Stay behind me till we get to my car.”
Milton walked out the door behind the detective, sticking to him like he was glued to his back.
“My car’s over there.” Gallagher pointed to a dark sedan only a few feet away.
His head down to avoid the pounding rain and feeling safe for the first time in days, Milton stepped around Gallagher and ran toward the car.
Gallagher shouted, “Wait!”
A pop-pop-pop sounded. Milton whirled. Gallagher was lying faceup on the wet sidewalk. Blood mixed with rainwater swirled around his head.
Survival instinct kicked in… Milton took a running step. Too late. A blinding, piercing agony exploded in his head. And then nothing.
Kennedy gripped the phone. Nick wasn’t answering his cellphone. She had considered calling him at work, but Thomas had said trust no one. What if someone heard him talking on the phone call? She couldn’t take the chance.
The only thing she could do was leave a vague voice mail. “Nick, it’s Kennedy. I need to talk to you.”
The man behind her muttered something. She bit her lip and continued with her message, “I’ll call you back.”
She turned to the little old man staring up at her with worried eyes. Everett Meacham was the first man on Thomas’s contact list. He was apparently going to get her started on a new identity.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Meacham. I didn’t hear what you said.”
“I’m just wondering if you’re sure you’re doing the right thing. I mean…um…are you sure you’re thinking…um…rationally?”
Rationally? No, she couldn’t say with any degree of confidence that her thinking was remotely rational. In the span of just over a week, she’d lost her husband, her baby, and the happy life she treasured. She had just learned that her husband’s death had been a hit, and now she was on the run from people she didn’t even know. So, hell no, she wasn’t thinking rationally. She was acting on instinct and a whole lot of fear. Both were telling her to hide. But something else transcended her need to run and hide—full-blown fury.
“All I know is what Thomas told me to do. He said you could help me. Was he wrong?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. Thomas O’Connell was a good man. He helped get my boy on the straight and narrow. I’d do anything for him.”
“This is what Thomas
wanted.”
Nodding, he said, “That’s good enough for me.” An amazing change came over the man’s craggy face. He might not have felt comfortable consoling a grieving widow, but he was in his element when it came to his expertise—helping people disappear.
His eyes targeted the object in her hand. “You need to get rid of that right quick.”
She gripped her phone…the last link to what was dear and familiar. It contained texts, emails and voice mails from Thomas. And it had all of her contacts.
“Give it here.”
“But I still need to call a couple of people.”
With one hand, he snatched the phone from her grasp, and with the other hand, he plunked a small plastic bag holding three phones onto his desk. “Use these. They’re burner phones. Can’t trace ’em…usually. To be on the safe side, make the calls short. No more than thirty seconds. And as soon as you finish with a call, do this.”
Pulling a wooden mallet from his desk, he whacked her cellphone, obliterating it. He then gave her a narrow-eyed glare, as if waiting for her objections.
She blew out a fragile, shaky breath. There was no point in protesting what was already done.
“What do I need to do?”
“You got a place to stay?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“You got cash?”
“Yes.” After driving around the city for an hour, making sure she wasn’t being followed, she’d stopped at an ATM and withdrew the maximum allowable amount for a single transaction. Her shaking hands pulled the wad of bills from her coat pocket and shoved them toward the man.
“I don’t want your money, darlin’. Thomas O’Connell done paid with what he did for me and mine years ago. I just wanted to make sure you got cash. No more credit cards.”
Yes, she knew that much, but there was one slight problem. Thomas’s life insurance company had been amazingly quick in paying, and she’d deposited the money into her savings account. “How can I get into my savings? I’m going to need it to live.”
“You got your account number?”
She nodded and withdrew the card from her wallet. It never occurred to her not to give it to him. Thomas had trusted him—she had no choice but to do the same.
“I got a man who can get it for you. Don’t ask how. He’ll want payment, though. And he ain’t cheap.”
Negotiating a price for doing something that was most likely illegal was beyond her knowledge and expertise. “I’ll pay him.”
“You go on now and get you a good night’s sleep. Come back tomorrow night. I should have what you need.”
“Thank you, Mr. Meacham.” Feeling as though she’d lived a thousand lives in the last few hours, Kennedy returned to her car and took a moment to think. First, she had to try Nick again, to explain what was going on. He had most likely dropped by the house to check on her. There was no telling what he was thinking.
She took one of the phones from the plastic bag and tapped in Nick’s cell number. After three rings, his voice mail came on again. Why wasn’t he answering? She left another message, once again telling him that she would call back in a few hours.
She had one more call to make. One she dreaded. She’d been told to keep it short, but how do you tell your best friend that you’re disappearing and might never see her again? She could explain nothing.
Julie answered on the first ring. The thick huskiness of her voice made Kennedy wonder if her friend was coming down with a cold.
“Julie, it’s me. I—”
“Kennedy, where the hell are you? I’ve been calling you for hours.”
“I’m sorry. I had to turn my phone off because I—”
“Then you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Nick’s been shot. It’s been all over the news.”
If she hadn’t been sitting down, she would have fallen. “What happened?” she asked faintly.
“There are almost no details. He was getting into his car. There was another man shot, too. That man was killed.”
“And Nick?”
“He’s hanging on…but it’s not looking good. He’s in coma. You need to come to the hospital. We’re all here in the ICU waiting room on the third floor.”
A sob built up in her chest, waiting to explode. Nick. Did this have anything to do with the Slaters? Had he been targeted, too? He was the one person Thomas had trusted. Had Thomas told him something and had Nick been shot because of it? Or had they just assumed he knew something?
“Kennedy, you there? What’s going on?”
“I can’t come to the hospital right now, Julie. I—I’m not even in town. I left a few hours ago.”
“What? Where? Why?”
“I just needed to get away. I’ve got to go. I’m sorry.”
“What? No, wait… I—”
She ended the call before she lost it completely. Dear, wonderful Nick. The one man she could count on and trust was fighting for his life.
Kennedy’s forehead pressed into the steering wheel. Her fingers gripping the leather with a punishing force, she whispered softly, “Oh, Thomas, what have you done to us?”
Hours later, a slender, shadowy figure crept up the stairway to the third floor. Dressed in navy sweats and a dark hoodie that covered her hair and most of her face, she was unidentifiable. A lone nurse sat at the main desk, staring at a computer screen. Silent as a whisper, Kennedy slipped into the supply room and five minutes later, emerged wearing scrubs and a surgical cap. Clipboard in hand, she walked with an air of confidence toward the intensive care unit. Stopping at another supply closet not far from the locked ICU door, she stepped inside and waited. Five, ten…fifteen minutes. She didn’t care how long it took. She had to see him. At last, two nurses emerged from the unit. Deep in conversation with each other, they never glanced her way as she caught the door they’d exited before it could close.
She peeked into several rooms before she found the right one. The sight that met her eyes caused a small cry to slip out. Prone and lifeless on the bed, Nick looked paler than death. Half of his face was covered in bandages. Had he been shot in the head, his face? Machines beeped, oxygen pumped air into his lungs, and tubes filled with life-sustaining fluids were attached to both of his arms.
Swallowing a sob, she drew closer. The last time she had stood beside a hospital bed and seen someone so seriously injured, she had been ten years old and her daddy had been barely clinging to life. He had never woken up. Would that be Nick’s fate, too?
Nick had always treated her with affection and respect. He had been a part of her life almost as long as Thomas. The last few days she hadn’t been sure she would have survived without him. Her heart breaking, she uttered a small, fervent prayer for his recovery.
Knowing she could be caught at any moment, Kennedy leaned over and whispered a promise in his ear, “I’m going to get whoever killed Thomas. And if they hurt you, too, I’ll make them pay double. I swear I will, Nick.” She pressed a kiss to his unbandaged cheek and then a soft kiss to his firm, masculine lips.
She then turned with a new determination. She had made a promise, and she would keep it. The Slaters had messed with the wrong people. And they would pay.
Chapter Eight
Twenty months later
Nick steered his car toward home, his thoughts as grim and bleak as the flat, barren landscape. He’d seen a lot of shit in his life. A person didn’t grow up in one of the most dangerous areas of Houston and not see his share. But he’d had the kind of mother who could turn the sorriest piece of news into something good. And though he couldn’t say he had inherited her optimism, for the most part he had always felt some kind of hope for a better day. All of that had gone to hell. He had felt nothing positive in months and didn’t see a change in attitude coming his way anytime soon.
His recovery had been a long and arduous journey. After waking from a five-day, drug-induced coma, he’d barely known his own name, much less what had happened. It’d taken mo
re than a week to remember. When the memories had rolled in, a tidal wave of panic had followed.
Kennedy was in danger. He was sure of it. When he had demanded to see her, he’d learned just how much was being kept from him. She had disappeared. No one knew where the hell she was—not even Julie, her best friend.
The panic had morphed into something else. With a howl of fury, he’d ripped tubes and wires from his body and flung himself out of bed. Three steps from the doorway, all hell had broken loose inside his body. He’d keeled over, unconscious. He’d learned later that he had been rushed to the operating room for another seven hours of surgery.
When he’d finally been coherent again, he’d asked for news. There had been nothing.
The first few weeks after his release from the hospital, in between rehab, Nick had spent hours trying to track Kennedy down and again, found nothing.
When he’d been able to return to work, he had been deskbound for months. That hadn’t stopped him from demanding a thorough investigation into Thomas’s death. Most everyone, including his captain, had looked at him as if he was crazy. There’d been talk of brain damage, PTSD, hallucinations. He hadn’t given a shit what people thought. He had insisted and finally got grudging approval to move forward. Of course, implicating the Slaters hadn’t made him popular or appear any less crazed. The top brass especially hadn’t been thrilled with the target of his investigation, but they had allowed him leeway. Wasn’t long before Nick figured out why. He couldn’t find one damn thing.
Whatever evidence Milton Ward had possessed was long gone. Nick had tracked down the man’s last known address, an apartment on the south side of the city. The three-room apartment had been tossed, not even a scrap of paper could be found.
The accounting firm, McClusky and Hendrix, did confirm that Ward was a former employee but they claimed he was let go because of poor job performance. When Nick had asked questions about the Slater account, he’d been met with a stony silence. With nothing and no one to back him up, he’d had no choice but to walk away.
The lack of information and cooperation was infuriating but did help him understand Thomas’s secrecy. Hell, there had been nothing to tell. The evidence that Milton Ward had provided had probably felt like answered prayers. Unfortunately, it had gotten both Ward and Thomas killed.
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