Redemption Key (A Dani Britton Thriller)

by S. G. Redling

  He could have driven. It wasn’t like he was in any hurry. But once he’d had an address, an unfamiliar sense of urgency had flooded his body. He’d searched for flights to the Keys, found one from Nashville that got in at five o’clock in the afternoon. Then he’d found a non-stop from Atlanta that got in before noon.

  He’d driven the three or so hours from Nashville to Atlanta in the middle of the night, telling himself it was an effective plan to shake his employers should they decide to track him. He assured himself that the identity he used to buy the ticket wouldn’t set off any alarms. He told himself that by getting to Florida as quickly as possible, he lessened the chance of being missed.

  What he didn’t tell himself, what he couldn’t tell himself, was that he needed to hurry and find Dani Britton, see her with his own eyes, before he lost his nerve.

  Jinky’s, FL

  10:10am, 96° F

  She managed to get her grin mostly under control by the time the meeting started an hour later. Juan Wheeler had staked out the deck not long after Tucker had left, and Joaquin had joined him at some point when Dani had been packing ice into a cooler for the Australians. Mr. Randolph had finally looked at her when he got the message that the meeting was on.

  “It’s about time.” He poured himself a vodka, resting back against the cash register so Dani and Peg could move around him. “If Vincente had pushed this meeting back one more time, there would have been hell to pay. Bermingham would show up shooting or Joaquin would explode from the heat. Is the room ready?”

  “Yep,” Dani said, grabbing a bar bucket and filling it with ice. “I’ve put some bottles of Mexi-Coke in there for Juan. He wanted to get in and pick his seat. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “No, no, that’s good.” Mr. Randolph nodded. “Keep him happy. Make him feel like a big shot because I know he’s really raw about being disrespected by the Canadian. Ice the liquor, okay? This heat is making everyone edgy. This Bermingham is supposed to be bad news. I wish you didn’t have to be part of this.” Dani looked up when Mr. Randolph’s words faded. He stared at her for a moment and then shook his head, heading out from behind the bar. “Well, you know what to do, don’t you, Dani?”

  It didn’t sound like a question.

  She did know what to do. She’d watch Mr. Randolph cross the short end of the inlet to the cinder block unit and go into the room. Once he closed the door, she’d go back to the bar, gather her bucket, and stay out of sight until she heard the door slam once more. That meant Bermingham and his people were inside. New clients always wanted to come in unseen.

  She’d wait a little longer, let her boss take control of the room and get everyone settled, then she would come in with ice and some better liquor in the bucket and let Mr. Randolph play gracious host. She’d take her cues from him, watching the participants in the meeting, avoiding Joaquin Wheeler’s thick hands, and if anyone on the Canadian’s side let any sort of information hang out of their pockets or on their phones, she’d read what she could. Most importantly, she’d read her boss, watch for any signals from him.

  The door slammed and she waited. She rolled the vodka, rum, and tequila bottles in the ice so the labels could be read, killing time until she felt she’d waited enough. She knew Juan had taken the power seat in the room, sitting on the far side of the small table, facing the door. Mr. Randolph would be on his right, mostly out of sight as the door swung open, so that the newcomers, Bermingham and whoever he brought, would be the first visible when she came through. Dani’s father had called that position “first swing” when he used to sneak her into poker games. It was the most vulnerable position in a room.

  Dani headed down the steps and across the inlet. She took a deep breath to steady herself before she pushed the door open. She wasn’t afraid, not really, but more than once the people in the first swing spot had drawn weapons on her, and it helped to be ready. Dani knew to keep her head down, not looking at anyone until she found Mr. Randolph. Then she’d raise her eyes, get a feel for the temperature in the room, and let him introduce her or not, as he saw fit.

  She pushed the door open. She heard the sudden halt to the conversation and was pretty certain at least one gun was raised. Pushing the door closed, she swung the bucket and looked across the floor for Mr. Randolph’s sandals. When she raised her eyes and saw the expression on his face, she felt a knot of fear punch at her stomach.

  “I think everyone here knows Dani, am I right?”

  She turned her head slowly. Joaquin grinned at her, his one good eye winking. Next to him, Juan perched on the edge of his chair, scowling. A sandy-haired man in a black T-shirt stood with his muscular arms folded and straining his sleeves. Before she could think how she knew him, her gaze moved to the man sprawled in the chair in front of him.

  Dani felt the handle of the bucket grow damp in her palms as she stared into the smiling brown eyes. He didn’t show any teeth but the dimples wouldn’t be held back.

  “Hey Dani,” Tucker said. “Good to see you again.”

  Not Tucker. Bermingham.

  10:25am, 98° F

  She didn’t even blink. Oren watched and she didn’t even blink. Dani hadn’t ever shown what he would call a wealth of expressiveness, but being face-to-face with proof that she’d kept her knowledge about the Canadian gangster from him when he’d asked her point-blank if she knew the guy, Oren would have hoped for at least a fumble of shame. But he didn’t get it. He got nothing but the usual stone-face.

  Bermingham certainly knew the score. Sprawled out in his chair, the big son of a bitch dwarfed the little table. His thug sidekick kept his piece tucked somewhere in the recess of his meaty armpit, and Bermingham didn’t even seem to be carrying. Oren figured he probably had something ugly stashed in the enormous pockets of his cargo shorts.

  Cargo shorts. And a golf shirt.

  Canadian gangsters.

  If it weren’t so disturbing, Oren would laugh.

  He wanted to listen to what they said to each other, listen through the posturing and the chest-thumping coming from the Wheeler boys. Oren knew them well enough to know that Juan’s temper toed the breaking point and Joaquin could smell it. The bigger Wheeler’s face glistened with the oily sheen of anticipation that Oren knew was often the last thing his victims ever saw. Joaquin wanted this deal to go bad—he always did, because he loved the violence that followed—but Juan was nervous. Whatever this deal was, Juan Wheeler wanted it badly.

  Dani poured Bermingham a shot of tequila and he smiled at her. At least she had the decency to not smile back, and that seemed to amuse the Canadian. He toasted the Wheelers and Oren and threw the shot back with a grimace.

  He sucked on a lemon and squeezed his eyes shut. “Wow I don’t know how you guys do this every day.” He smacked his lips, laughing like they were knocking shots back at a bachelor party. “Give me a rye and ginger ale, eh? Or at least a beer, am I right, Ned? Something brown and serious, you know?”

  It seemed Juan didn’t care for the frat-house act any more than Oren did. The little man kicked his chair back, sweeping the table clean of glasses with one scarred and tattooed arm, the other swinging a Glock up into Bermingham’s face.

  “I don’t give a fuck what you drink, you overgrown piece of—”

  He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Bermingham let Juan get to the creative part of the insult and then lunged from his seat with a speed Oren wouldn’t have expected from a man his size. He slapped the gun aside, grabbing that wrist, and yanking Juan stomach first across the table. He twisted the gun hand at an ugly angle and pressed the muzzle against Juan’s side.

  Joaquin and Ned, Bermingham’s thug, stood with guns drawn on each other, and Oren and Dani backed away. Juan struggled in the arm lock, wheezing for breath with Bermingham’s fist jammed into the small of his back.

  “You feel that, Juan?” He torqued Juan’s wrist, pressing the gun harder into his side. “I’m gonna shoot your brother through your liver. Which one of you do you
think will die first?” He let Juan swear and struggle, his feet useless off the floor. Oren could see that Bermingham’s golf shirt hid an impressive muscular form. Bermingham only looked like a frat boy.

  “Why don’t you relax, you stupid fuck?” Bermingham spoke close to Juan’s ear. “I don’t think Mr. Randolph wants to be cleaning blood up out of these nice carpets, do you? It’s bad enough Dani has to clean up the liquor you just spilled. What kind of fuck wastes good booze? Sheesh.”

  Bermingham straightened up, pulling back from the spinal punch he’d kept on Juan, but keeping his arm in the lock. “Now we’ve got business to do, and Mr. Randolph here was kind enough to let us use his place, so let’s get it done. You’ve got Vincente’s product; I’ve got money; we all win.” He included Oren in his glance. “We all win. Alright? Okay, here we go.”

  He let go of Juan’s arm, giving him a chummy slap on the shoulder as the little man squirmed off the table. No sooner had his feet hit the ground than Juan again pointed his weapon at Bermingham. The Canadian rolled his eyes and waved it off, settling back into his seat as if nothing had happened. His thug Ned holstered his piece as well, and Oren had to admit the Wheelers looked a little foolish, keyed-up and armed in the face of the Canadian’s nonchalance.

  It took balls to ignore that much sweaty-handed gun-power.

  Bermingham gave the Wheelers a chance to save face, turning to Dani and asking for a fresh drink. And damn it if Dani didn’t take it all in stride. She didn’t flinch; she didn’t hesitate. She just poured and served and stepped around the table to pick up the thrown glasses.

  Dani and Bermingham and that pretty boy at the bar with the stupid name—Oren was being pushed around by an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog.

  Those ridiculous dimples appeared once more as Juan took his seat and pushed Joaquin into his. Bermingham leaned back in his chair, sipping the fresh tequila Dani had poured. “So, twenty-five units. Still good, right?”

  “Prime,” Juan said, struggling to restore his gangster face. “You seen the pictures.”

  “Yeah I did, but that was three days ago. How do I know you’re taking care of my cargo? I mean, this fucking heat, you got it in any kind of climate control?”

  “We got vents on it.”

  “Vents, yeah.” Bermingham scratched his face and leaned across the table. “Because here’s the thing. If I find out you dipshits are storing my product on a boat in this heat before the deal goes down, the money goes bye-bye. I’m buying twenty-five units prime. Not twenty-four, not twenty-three. It’s a bundle deal. Twenty-five units in prime condition. Any of them go bad in this heat, they all go bad, you follow? I’ll let Vincente take the heat for casualties.”

  “Yeah, yeah. We know our shit.”

  “Good.” Bermingham smiled, looking back at Ned, who smiled too. “They know their shit. That’s great, eh? Because here’s how this works.” His smile stayed in place but iced over as he looked at Juan. “I’m going to inspect each unit before I pay. For every one of them that’s damaged, you lose a finger. For every one that’s broken beyond repair, you lose a limb.” He held his hand up, miming counting off on his fingers. “Twenty-five units. That’s a lot of fingers.”

  Oren tried not to sigh when he saw Joaquin ticking off his fingers. He knew Bermingham saw it too.

  “You think this is some kind of fucking joke, you grease bag?” Bermingham said this calmly, conversationally. Joaquin looked up from his counting to Bermingham’s black stare, and blinked. “You and your brother think Vincente can protect you from me?” He was almost whispering now. “If this shipment goes bad, all three of you will be praying to die.”

  10:33am, 98° F

  Dani had to look at her fingertips to be sure she had the glass in hand. It didn’t surprise her. She couldn’t feel her fingertips because her brain was busy. Her thoughts weren’t just lining up into little boxes; they were throwing themselves into cages like frightened gorillas.

  She had no idea what was going on.

  Experience had taught her that until she did, she had to stay calm, stay small, and stay quiet. And to think.

  Somehow this made sense. There was some way she was supposed to assemble the facts before her that would erase the confusion. Cute, clumsy Tucker, who had disarmed her enough to make her chase him onto the deck in hopes of a kiss, was really Bermingham, a bad guy so bad that the insane Wheeler boys feared him. He was making a deal so dangerous that Mr. Randolph was terrified. And Mr. Randolph was looking at her like she somehow played a part in all of this because Mr. Randolph’s best friend was a federal agent who had obviously said something.

  Lining the facts up wasn’t helping.

  She knew she was breathing because she could smell Juan’s fear sweat when she scooped up the spilled ice near his feet. She never thought she’d long for the days when Juan’s regular sour-feet-and-onion funk overpowered everything else. Bermingham kept talking, those broad northern vowels sounding so out of place in the heat.

  “So yeah, I’ll be spending a good bit of time around here until we’re done. That’s not going to be a problem, is it Oren?” Dani didn’t bother to look up to see Mr. Randolph’s nod. What else was he going to do? “Great. I want make myself available while the deal is going down just in case anyone gets nervous. I want to make it really clear that I’ve got everything covered. We’re not having any more changes in plan. You tell Vincente.”

  “That’s Mr. Vincente to you,” Juan said.

  “I’ll call him my fucking prom date if I want to, okay? Great. Now you two boys catch a ride back to Miami, load my nice, cool cargo carefully into the Pied Piper and sail that baby gently to the inlet here. You bring her to shore no earlier than dawn, no later than nine in the morning. You don’t take my boat or my cargo out in this fucking heat, or it will be the last mistake you ever make. If one goes bad, they all go bad, remember? I inspect the cargo and, if it’s all sound, I transfer the money to Vincente’s account before the banks close in Zürich. Everyone gets what they want before the weekend.”

  He turned to smile at Dani. “And we all want to have a good weekend, don’t we?”

  Chairs moved, people moved, Dani put bottles and empty glasses into the bucket. The Wheelers left first; without even looking, she could feel the heat of the glare Juan gave Mr. Randolph. When she did look, Mr. Randolph didn’t look at her. She hauled the bucket toward the door, past Bermingham’s long legs still stretched out in front of his chair, and stopped where her boss had no choice but to see her.

  “Is it okay if I go for a run before my shift?”

  “Sure.” His voice sounded odd. “You can take the day off if you want. I’d say you’ve put in a full day.” He looked into her eyes, really looked into them for the first time since Caldwell’s visit. He looked at her like he wanted her to say something very specific, but before she could figure out what that was, Bermingham spoke up.

  “Hey, Dani, hang on a minute, will you?”

  She didn’t.

  He caught up with her before she made it to the steps up to Jinky’s deck. If she hadn’t just seen him shoving a gun into Juan’s liver, she might have been more moved by the puppy-dog eyes he gave her.

  “You’re pissed, aren’t you?”

  She watched Mr. Randolph pass behind him along the path to the front of the bait shop. Bermingham didn’t stand too close to her but since he stood more than a foot taller than she did, she understood the power structure at play.

  “I’m a little surprised. Tucker.”

  “What? That’s my first name. You didn’t think to ask about my name.” She nodded. “I didn’t tell you my last name because I didn’t know how much you were going to be involved in your boss’s business. I wanted to know what you were like before you knew who I was. And I like to know everyone I’m doing business with.”

  He leaned in closer as he spoke and Dani stared into the placket of his golf shirt. The nearness of him, the size of him, convinced the secretary in her brain to line her t
houghts up in a particular order.

  Most people don’t know what it’s like to be small, especially men. To live your life at shoulder height to the majority of the population gives a person a keen sense of physical dynamics. Bermingham’s suitcase probably weighed more than she did, and even with all the working out she had done, Dani knew she had few physical advantages.

  But she had one.

  Looking up from beneath her lashes, Dani let the corners of her mouth twist up into an almost smile. “You were afraid I’d like you for your reputation and not your boyish charms.”

  She saw him relax as he put his hand on the railing beside her. She wanted to duck under it and run as fast as she could. Instead she brought her fingers up and wrapped them loosely around his wrist, tracing patterns on the soft skin of his pulse point.

  “And what makes you think,” she whispered in a sing-song, “that I would prefer boyish charms to a bad reputation?”

  “Gee,” Bermingham leaned in closer, his breath warm on her face, “maybe I wanted to stand out. Your boss has a lot of bad men doing business in his bar. I plan on being a part of that in the future. Maybe I’d like to find out if I have an ally in this place. Maybe I just wanted to get the lay of the land.”

  Dani made herself giggle. “So to speak.” Bermingham brushed his lips against hers and she shoved him playfully. “Well, you may be a big shot but I’m still a housekeeper and a bartender and I’ve got to hustle for my money, so spin-the-bottle is going to have to wait until my shift is done.”

  “I thought he just gave you the day off.”

  Shit. She stuck to the truth. “He did, but I’ve got to get my run in.” She dropped the bucket on the steps and slipped under Bermingham’s arm. He made no move to stop her, just smiled as she passed. “I’ve got to keep my ass this size. I can’t afford new clothes.”