Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

by Unknown

  Dunn was laughing. “That’s a prayer?”

  “Lawyers commonly pray in nursery rhyme verse,” she told him.

  “Please tell me you didn’t make that up on the spot,” he said. “Because if you did, I may have to rethink my plan to release you as my hostage. You could be useful to have around.”

  “I’m not a hostage. I’m also not an Agency operative. I’m a lawyer. Your lawyer,” she corrected him. “At least until I get that letter of termination.”

  “Give me some paper,” Dunn said. “You must have some in your bag. It’s big enough to hold a full ream. Or maybe even a case.”

  “Ha ha, you are so clever and witty, but no, sorry.” Two could play the bullshit game. “It has to be written on your letterhead, on twenty-pound paper, linen blend with a watermark preferred. It’s the firm’s policy. Size twelve font, by the way. Well okay, we’re a little more flexible about that. We’d accept eleven. Maybe ten if it’s Times New Roman.”

  He glanced at her only briefly as he slowed a bit, moving into the left lane on Clark Road, as if he weren’t quite certain of the turnoff he was about to make and needed to read the street signs. “I like you. You’re funny and you don’t take any shit. But just so we’re clear, I really don’t work for the Agency, or for the CIA or the FBI or even the French Foreign Legion,” he said as he squinted against the glare of the afternoon sun. “I know you want to think I do. Unless, of course, your am I with the Agency question was only intended to throw me off of the fact that you’re with the Agency.”

  “As super whiz-bang cool as that would be,” she said. “I’m not the one making phone calls and being all code one, checkpoint Charlie, queen alpha forty-seven, hike.”

  “It’s Contact Point Charlie,” he corrected her. “And if you really need to know, all of the cloak and dagger, as you called it, is because there are some really bad people out there who want to hurt my family.”

  And … cue the violins.

  According to the research that Phoebe had done, Ian was unmarried, no children, with parents who were both deceased. His one brother, Aaron, was wanted in connection to an unsolved murder—apparently someone had been killed in his apartment—and had probably long since self-deported to South America or Thailand.

  “Your family,” she repeated, allowing her skepticism to ring in her voice.

  She’d used her computer skills to dig into dark, shadowy corners, but had found no records of marriage or even domestic partnership. She’d found no evidence of any business or financial partnerships, either. No cosigners on Dunn’s bank accounts—which were remarkably meager for someone who’d allegedly stolen tens of millions of dollars’ worth of precious jewels and artwork. He owned no property, nor did he currently hold a lease on an apartment. There was a storage space in his name—the smallest one available—in a town just north of Gainesville, but it was paid for yearly, via direct transfer from his bank account.

  Perhaps most importantly, Phoebe had discovered that no one had visited him, not even once, during the nine months he’d spent in prison. Not even this D.A. and Shelly that he seemed so concerned about. Of course he might’ve had phone contact with someone—she hadn’t been able to check those records yet.

  Still, when Dunn glanced at her again and said, “Yup. My family,” she felt a ping of doubt—mostly due to that research she’d done about SEALs and their teams. Ian Dunn may not have had a family according to traditional definitions, but despite his denial, he definitely still had a team.

  He’d also just pulled onto a side street and into a quiet little neighborhood of modest single-story houses, all with postage-stamp-sized, neatly kept yards. It was the perfect place for someone’s perfect little Brady Bunch family to live.

  And, okay. Just because she’d found no public records didn’t mean this man didn’t have a wife and ten kids, all using fake names.

  Dunn took another turn, putting them onto a cul-de-sac called Monteblanc Circle. He then pulled up outside of a lovely little two-level house—the only one with two stories in the neighborhood—that had been painted a rich shade of golden beige which, with the orange-and-pink-streaked barrel-tile roof, made the place look like a tiny Spanish hacienda. Unlike the green-lawned houses that surrounded it, its yard was classic Florida xeriscape—palm trees and just a few flowering plants growing from beds of mulch, surrounded by the gleaming brightness of crushed white shells. The number 24 was displayed in shiny black numerals on the stucco wall next to the front door.

  Maybe Ian Dunn didn’t have a lot of cash in his bank account, because it was all in the account of his common-law spouse. Francine? Or Shelly. Or even D.A.…

  As if he’d read her mind, he said, “Family doesn’t have to be validated by a marriage license, or a birth certificate, or even related by blood. Although in this case, it is.” He sighed as he put her car in park, and then added, “In a perfect world, Pheebs, I would simply get out and let you return to your previously scheduled life. But this is not a perfect world.”

  “Which is just as good,” Phoebe pointed out, “because there’s too much at stake here for me to just wave good-bye and drive away.”

  “You’re really not afraid of me, are you?” He seemed bemused.

  “I am holding my Glock on you, Mr. Dunn.”

  “What kind of Glock?” he asked.

  “A great, big, shiny one,” she told him.

  “Hah!” he said. “Mistake! Glocks aren’t shiny.”

  He was right. Hers was a dull black so that it wouldn’t reflect light.

  “I was using the Joss Whedon–approved use of the word shiny,” Phoebe told him calmly. “It means cool or sweet and not necessarily literally shiny. FYI, I’ve got the girly Glock—the nineteen. It’s slightly smaller and lighter, but still a nine millimeter and very effective, particularly at close range.”

  “My lawyer is pretty, but very bullshitty, the truth is whatever will fly,” he said. “And I did just make that up.”

  “Well, that’s obvious,” she said scornfully. “Bullshitty is weak.”

  “No worse than weener. I need you out of the car, please,” he said. “With your bag, and whatever arsenal is in there. Including your magic car keys.”

  “So you really don’t want me to drive away,” she clarified. “Although you might want to reconsider the fact that I won’t shoot you while you’re in my new car, for obvious hygienic reasons. But as soon as we’re both out on the street …” She shrugged expansively as she opened the car door. “All bets are off.”

  Dunn opened the driver’s side door, but waited to put a foot out on the ground until she’d done the same. “Not all of them. I’m going to bet that, as my lawyer, you’ll choose not to shoot me. In fact, I’m so confident, I’ll thank you in advance. Thank you.”

  “So now I’m your lawyer again,” Phoebe said as they got out of the car slowly and carefully, with Ian mirroring each of her movements. She looked at him over the roof. She’d almost forgotten how tall he was. “That’s convenient.”

  “Don’t slam the door,” he ordered, but then quickly added, “Please. Close it as quietly as you can.”

  “Who exactly are we sneaking up on?” she asked as she did just that, first pulling the strap of her bag over her head so it crossed her chest, her right hand still inside of it, her finger through the Glock’s trigger guard. Not because she was going to use it—she doubted he’d give her reason to—but because if her hand hadn’t been in her bag, he probably would’ve tried to take the weapon from her. And he definitely would have succeeded. “D.A., because Shelly’s at work?”

  “We’re sneaking up on the very angry people who are going to try to kill me,” he told her quite matter-of-factly as he led the way up the mottled pink brick pavers of the driveway, and around to the side of the house, past the attached single-car garage, where he stopped at the gate of a tall white fence. “The people who got an agitated phone call the nanosecond the paperwork about my release went into the prison system. They d
on’t live here—you’re right. D.A. and Shelly do. But it’s entirely possible that the angry people got here first. Of course, maybe they’re merely on their way.”

  “Do they have names, these angry people?” Phoebe asked as she followed. The fence’s gate was secured with a combination padlock. It was small and inexpensive—the kind she’d had for her bike when she was in middle school.

  “They do,” Dunn said as he opened the lock easily—clearly he knew the combination. He turned to glance down at her, and again she was struck by his height.

  As a tall woman, she wasn’t used to tilting her head up for eye contact during a conversation. It was hard to decide which was more disconcerting—that, or the fact that his eyes were such a bright shade of blue.

  He went through the gate first. It was designed to close automatically, with a powerful spring in the hinges, and he looked back to be sure she had her hand against it before he let go, so she wouldn’t get smacked in the face.

  “Might one of their names be Conrad?” Phoebe asked as she followed him down a path of those same pink pavers. It led around the side of the house, past a pair of pristine trash containers, past the softly purring equipment for the house’s central air, and the louder whirring in-ground pool pump. “Or was that question that you asked back in prison just more code? You say Are you a friend of Conrad’s? And if we answer with The Hot Pocket is in the microwave, you know you can trust us to … what?”

  The same white crushed shells that were in the front yard were on either side of the path, and everything was kept almost ridiculously clean—no spiderwebs or even stray fronds from the palm trees. Whoever lived here—cousin D.A. and his wife Shelly? Lover Shelly and their son D.A.?—was meticulous, if not full-on anal.

  Again, Dunn didn’t bother to answer her. Instead, he put his finger to his lips, then held his hand out in a gesture that said wait.

  So they waited. He was clearly listening—for what, Phoebe had no idea. Maybe for sounds of movement from the backyard or the house, maybe to see if they’d triggered some kind of alarm …

  Whatever the case, they stood there for a long time before Dunn finally moved. He then opened the door to the screened-in pool cage that extended across the entire back of the house, again holding it for her so that she could follow.

  He put his fingers to his lips again, and she complied by making sure the screen door didn’t slap shut.

  It was pretty back there, with more of those pink brick pavers and a massive kidney-shaped pool with sparkling blue water that was deep enough to allow for a diving board. A double lounge chair with comfortable-looking blue cushions and an outdoor dining setup were beneath two umbrellas in matching shades of blue. It was cool and peaceful—and secluded. The screen of the pool cage was completely enclosed by a high white privacy fence that was nearly hidden in some places by the thick, lush vegetation of a tropical garden.

  No one was out there. It was deserted.

  The back wall of the house was made up of a series of huge sliding glass doors. Dunn went down the line, tugging on the handles, but all were securely closed and locked.

  “Or is the name of the dangerous people who want to kill you perchance Dellarosa?” Phoebe whispered as she watched him.

  It was purely a fishing expedition, but before the name had completely left her lips, Dunn had moved. Fast.

  One second he was peering into the house through the glass, hands cupped around his face to cut the glare, and the next he had her up against the stucco-covered wall, his body pressed against her, his left hand down in her bag, his fingers around her wrist, tight enough that she inadvertently released her grip on her Glock.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked, his voice a gruff whisper.

  And okay. Now she was a little bit scared. Not a lot, because he wasn’t cutting off her air. He didn’t have her by the throat—instead, his forearm was against the upper part of her chest, up around her collarbone, keeping her shoulders securely pressed against the wall. But he was big and powerful, with an intensity that lit his eyes and hardened the planes and angles of his face.

  He had two scars, she noticed, since his face was just a few scant inches from hers. One was up near his left eyebrow, the other on his chin. Neither was big nor particularly noticeable, but they made him seem oddly real. They gave him a sense of history; of life lived well—or at least lived with some amount of abandon or gusto.

  Which was interesting, considering the whole not-cutting-off-her-airway thing.

  This was a man who was always and absolutely in complete control.

  Even when she’d riled him, as she’d done with her mention of the Dellarosas.

  Which made her realize that maybe Martell was right about using the threat from the mob boss as leverage.

  “What do you know about my connection to the Dellarosas?” Dunn asked her. “Can you or someone from your firm contact Manny Dellarosa for me? Or did his brother Davio send you?”

  Aaron returned from the grocery store to find a strange car parked in front of his house.

  It was a nice car. Dark color—not quite black, not quite gray, fuel efficient but capable of getting up to speed when needed. Brand-new model, still had a trace of glue on the back window where the sticker had been.

  He didn’t slow, didn’t falter. He just kept going around the cul-de-sac and went out the way he’d come, into the neighborhood, heading back toward the main road.

  The car had been empty, with no one inside to see him and follow. That was good at least.

  Aaron had also made note of the fact that whoever had been formerly driving that car wasn’t sitting on his front stoop, waiting for him to get home.

  No doubt they’d already overridden the security system and let themselves in through the back.

  He was calm and thinking clearly, even though the world had gone into high-def around him—a sign that his body was creating large amounts of adrenaline. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Rory, who was fast asleep in his car seat, a goofy smile on his sweet little face as he dreamed about something good. Rice cereal or sweet potatoes. They’d yet to give him ice cream. They were taking their time introducing potential allergens, because Shelly had been allergic to everything as a little kid. Food allergies ran in the family.

  Aaron turned right on Clark, realizing that he’d already figured out where to go, what to do. Drop the little man at Shelly’s sister Francine’s apartment, then circle back around on foot, to try to get a look at the owner of that mafia-black vehicle.

  Of course, if Davio Dellarosa or his thugs had found the house where Aaron and Shelly lived, it was possible they’d also found Francie’s apartment, too, so he got out his phone and called her.

  It rang once. Twice.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered. His sister-in-law currently worked nights—legitimate nights, waiting tables at a twenty-four-hour restaurant right off the interstate—but she’d be awake by now, wouldn’t she …?

  “Hello?”

  “France,” he said. “It’s Aaron. Are you okay?” As soon as he asked, he realized why Ian had been such a stickler for what had seemed like clandestine bullshit. How exactly was she going to answer that question with her phone on speaker, some asshole’s gun against her head? No, genius, I’m not okay …?

  Knowing Francie, she’d get herself killed, shouting out the truth, or yelling for him to save himself.

  He quickly spoke over her with Ian’s code, saying, “You still looking to moonlight as a dogsitter, cuz I just met a guy at the gym who’s going out of town.”

  At the exact same time, she was already answering his question with a question, “What’s going on?” And then she realized what he was saying, so she cut him off with, “Yes, I’m supposed to say yes, right? If I’m alone and I’m safe, it’s yes, or shit, maybe it’s what kind of dog does he have, because I don’t do … I forget. Pit bulls, which is stupid because I like pit bulls. They’re misunderstood.”

  “Close enough,”
Aaron said. “I’m pulling into your driveway. Get your ass down here. Bring your bug-out bag.”

  “Fuck!” she said. This was an occasion where Shelly wouldn’t bitch about Francine’s potty mouth, because the word was entirely appropriate. “No way! Not now! It doesn’t make sense, I just—” She cut herself off. Started over. “What happened? What’s going on?”

  Aaron told her about the car parked in front of the house. “Plus I got a phone call hang-up this morning.”

  “God damn it!” She came out of her second-floor apartment, carrying a bag that was barely larger than a school lunchbox, which really shouldn’t have been that big of a surprise. It was Shel whose bug-out bag was the size of Texas, even though it was supposed to be necessities only—something you could grab, and go. “We’re supposed to be safe.”

  “Apparently that was just wishful thinking.” Aaron got out of the car and cut the phone connection as she came down the stairs and moved into normal conversation range.

  She was wearing … What the hell was she wearing? Pink boxers and a nearly transparent tank top, beneath which she wasn’t wearing a bra. At least she wasn’t wearing it in the traditional way. She had one looped around her neck like a doctor’s stethoscope. She also had a pair of jeans and a T-shirt hanging over her arm. She’d managed to put on her socks and sneakers, although the laces flopped about, untied.

  No doubt about it, with those assets, even with her blond hair in a fuzzy braid and no makeup on her almost ridiculously beautiful face, she could have made a fortune in Hollywood.