by Unknown
Yashi shrugged. “And then what?” he asked. “She’s tougher and smarter than both of us, and she’s very good at her job. Most of the time she keeps me safe.”
Martell persisted. “And you’ve never slept with her, not even accidentally?”
That got him another eyebrow. “How exactly would that happen accidentally?”
“I don’t know,” Martell said. “I’ve had some pretty strange accidents happen. You’re with her, twenty-four/seven.”
Yashi just shook his head.
It was clear he wasn’t going to say more, so Martell asked, “So what’s the next phase of this thing? The yacht returns to the dock, Dutch and Hamori get their cell phones back, take that twenty grand, and go home.”
He’d overheard arrangements being made, so he knew that there would be a hired car waiting at the dock, to drive Vanderzee back to his house. Ian didn’t want to drive him—he wanted a little separation. Not just for a chance to breathe air that had no trace of the man’s noxious evil, but because the guy needed to walk away with all that money. It was part of the psychological game of building and reinforcing trust.
It reminded Martell of that stupid saying: If you love something, set it free … Except this had nothing to do with love, and everything to do with greed.
“When Vanderzee gets home, he’s going to check his messages,” Yashi told him, “and find out that Dr. Lusa Vaszko’s name is on the manifest of a flight leaving Miami for Rome.”
“She’s not really,” Martell started.
“Nope. Ian wanted Vanderzee to think that both Dr. Vaszko and the U.S. authorities believe that the kids have already left the country—that they’re already in K-stan,” Yashi said. “The idea is to make Vanderzee believe that he’s under less scrutiny—make him feel like now’s the right time to try to move those kids.”
Which was when Ian—with his hair on fire—would call Vanderzee and announce that he’d just found out that Berto had died from his wounds, and that now Davio would be gunning for him harder than ever. The threat was dire enough for Ian and Phoebe to make immediate plans to leave the country—via their tried-and-true route to Cuba.
So, hey there, Georg-y boy. If you want to ship your friend’s “special cargo” via the Ian Dunn luxury yacht express, it’s now or never, baby.
At that point Ian would take Berto’s giant and safe-seeming truck, and pick up the Dutchman’s crated package from its point of origin, which was probably going to be the K-stani consulate. Ian and his brother would load it into the back of the truck, lock the doors, wave good-bye, and drive it not to the yacht, but to FBI headquarters, where Dr. Mommy was waiting.
Check and mate, motherfucker.
“Dutch is gonna be pretty pissed when the dust settles,” Martell said.
“After we have the proof that he’s involved with this crime,” Yashi said, “i.e., the missing children in his crate, he’ll be deported. Permanently.”
“Not thrown in jail?”
“Can’t have everything,” Yashi said, as they drove into the night.
Phoebe slept through it.
The arrival back at the dock.
Vanderzee’s departure in a car that was waiting to take him home.
The high fives Ian gave to the men in the surveillance van, to Team Martell, to Deb, and to the yacht’s captain for a job well done.
Phoebe had slept through Ian’s shower, too, not even waking up when he brought her breakfast in bed.
It wasn’t until later in the morning—not much later, because it apparently all happened very fast—that Ian woke her with a gentle shake to her shoulder.
She opened her eyes, and there he was, already dressed, her first clue that he’d been up for hours.
“Hey,” he said, from his seat beside her. He was smiling with all of his being, not just his face, his mouth, his eyes.
Phoebe smiled back at him—it was impossible not to. “Hey.” But then she sat up fast. “Oh, no! Vanderzee!” She threw back the sheets, ready to leap into the shower.
“It’s okay,” Ian said, catching her arm. “You’re good. He already left. He sends his thanks for a lovely blah blah blah”—he pitched his voice slightly higher, and more nasal, adding the trace of a northern European accent—“bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.”
She laughed, pulling the covers up and around her as a shield, because he not only made himself sound like the Dutchman, he also somehow made his eyes look like the other man’s. “That was a very good impression of him.”
“I know.” His smile of delight banished all remnants of evil as he graciously nodded his thanks. “I’m glad you noticed. So many of my talents are overlooked.”
She seriously doubted that, and she laughed again even as she verified, “He’s really gone?” She pulled back the covers again, this time slipping out of bed and heading into the bathroom.
“Yep.” He raised his voice a bit so she could hear him in there. “Drove away. In a car we arranged for, so we’ve also been tracking it. He didn’t stop, didn’t double back. In fact, he’s almost home.”
“Oh, thank God. I was dreading having to be all air kiss, air kiss, except he wouldn’t air kiss, and then I’d have to go take another shower and scour my face with bleach.” She flushed and washed her hands, grabbing her toothbrush as she glanced out at Ian.
He was leaning back on the bed, and she realized that he was relaxed. Not pretend relaxed. Really relaxed. And she realized why, with an equal rush of relief.
“Deb must be in a rockin’ good mood, too,” she continued, moving to stand in the doorway as she brushed her teeth, stopping to add, “Walking around like, Yes, I totally did not have to screw the child molester! FYI, that’s going to continue to freak me out for a while. For years. Probably somewhere between three and five.”
“Me, too.” Ian smiled back at her, his appreciation for her naked rant brimming in his eyes as she went back to the sink to spit and rinse. “But, shh. Don’t tell anyone else. I don’t want to ruin my reputation as a heartless asshole.”
Phoebe put her toothbrush not back on the wall hanger, but into her très chic carrying case—a tired plastic Publix grocery bag. At some point today, they’d have to pack up and leave—so the feds could return the Lady Mysterious to its marine-rental owners.
“So are we in wait mode?” she asked, coming back to join Ian. Now that she was morning-breath-free, she had no qualms about getting in his face. She did just that, straddling his lap and pushing his head and shoulders back onto the bed to kiss him.
His hands slid up her bare back, and he sighed his pleasure as she deepened the kiss, licking her way into his mouth. “Mmm,” she lifted her head to say. “Coffee.”
“I brought you some,” he told her. “It’s on the desk. Because no, sadly, we’re not in wait mode. Vanderzee already called back. We’re go.”
Phoebe sat up. “Seriously?” But she could see from Ian’s eyes that he was dead serious. And relaxed. And relieved. “So this ends today?”
She realized as she said those words that she wasn’t just talking about the impending rescue of those surely traumatized children, for whom this probably wouldn’t ever end. They’d carry the memories of their fear and suffering with them forever.
Likewise, Phoebe would forever carry her memories of this time with Ian.
Which—he was nodding yes—was going to end today.
“I’m going to leave you here,” Ian told her, “with Captain Bob. When you’re ready to go, he’ll get you back to the safe house, where he’ll stay with you for the duration. You know, along with Rory, and Johnny Murray and his kid. Plus, there’ll be FBI outside. Now that we know for sure that we’re not illegally entering the consulate, we’ve got access to even more manpower. You’ll be safe.”
“Oh my God,” she realized, “you’re leaving now.” This was good-bye.
As he nodded, Phoebe was acutely aware that she was completely naked and he was not. And yet she couldn’t seem to move.
; “I wish I didn’t have to,” he told her. “But everything’s moving fast. I have to go pick up the truck and organize the rest of the team—get everyone into place.”
“I want to go in the surveillance van,” she said.
Ian was already shaking his head as he gently extracted himself from beneath her and stood up. “There’s no point,” he said, not unkindly. “There’s nothing for you to do. You’ll only take up space.”
“Vanderzee will expect me to be with you,” Phoebe countered, even as she put back on the clothes she’d been wearing the night before—anything not to have to stand there naked. Vulnerable.
“I’ll tell him you’re still here,” Ian said. “On the yacht. Getting ready to head for Cuba.”
“If I were getting ready to leave on a major trip,” she countered, “I’d be packing our things from wherever it was we were staying. In Miami. Where Davio’s allegedly looking for us. And FYI, if Davio really was looking for us, you would not leave me alone. Not in the house, not on the yacht, not with a fox, not in a box. I’d be in the van, Sam-I-am—he knows we have a surveillance van. And that’s where I’d be—where he’d expect me to be. Close enough for you to reach me, if you needed to protect me. If you really loved me.” Her voice broke on that last part, and she knew she was screwed. While he’d been running a con, she’d gone and stupidly fallen in love.
She could see in his eyes that he knew damn well she was right about the van, and she turned away to gather up the rest of their things, just scooping and stuffing into the leather bag that was monogrammed with his initials: IJD.
As she saw that, it occurred to her, inanely, that Ian’s middle name was John. She’d seen it in his file, and only now realized that his name was, essentially, John John Dunn, since Ian was the Scottish version of John.
“Look, I just want you to be safe,” he told her as she went into the bathroom to sweep their toiletries into her grocery bag and then stuff it into the leather case. “And I know you will be safe with—”
“If I’m in the van,” Phoebe told him, dropping the leather case onto the floor at her feet, as she brushed her hair back into a ponytail, “I can wave to him from the window. Give him a thumbs-up. If he asks where I am. If he doesn’t, great, but if he does … we’re ready to give him a visual.”
“A visual,” he said. “You don’t, under any circumstances, get out of the van.” He laughed as he said it. His relaxed and relieved demeanor was gone, replaced by frustration, vexation, and ire. “Who the fuck am I kidding?”
“I promise I’ll stay in the van,” Phoebe said. “I did the right thing at the warehouse, didn’t I? I’m not an idiot. I’ve learned. A lot. From you. And I’m good at this. I am, and you know it. There’s not nothing for me to do. I can help Shel on the computers. I want to be on the headset, listening in, in case there’s a detail that we’ve overlooked. I want to see this through.”
* * *
Aaron had to go in the truck with Ian, to collect the Dutchman’s cargo.
He knew that his brother didn’t like that—that he’d prefer Aaron stay safely in the surveillance van with Deb and Yashi and Phoebe.
But there was really no one else who could help Ian move the heavy crate.
They were close to certain that they were picking the thing up from the K-stani consulate, and neither of the FBI agents could be seen near the place. They had to stay well outside the grounds due to fear of a dreaded international incident, which was limiting.
And since Ian had supposedly left Francine, his usual second-in-command, back in Faux-Cuba with Martell, neither of them could suddenly appear here with Ian in Miami. Even with a heavy disguise, that would’ve been too risky.
So that left Aaron.
Who was actually glad for some alone time with his big brother.
The plan was to go to Vanderzee’s residence and connect with his bodyguard Hamori, who would lead them to the cargo’s location—which had yet to be disclosed. Vanderzee was keeping that info close to his vest—although, again, they all believed the pickup point was the K-stani consulate.
After the cargo was in the truck, Hamori would then follow them to the yacht—see that it got loaded safely on board. Vanderzee would meet them there, at the dock, and they’d all set sail for Cuba.
Except for the part where Hamori would be overpowered and arrested as teams of FBI agents took possession of the truck and its cargo, freeing those children and reuniting them with their mother. And the part where Vanderzee showed up at the deserted, yachtless dock, getting the ugly-ass surprise that he’d been stung before he, too, was descended upon and taken into custody by another team of FBI agents.
Aaron hoped someone would be wearing a helmet-cam, so that he could see the stunned expression on the Dutchman’s face.
But that was yet to come.
Ian was tightly wound as he climbed into the truck next to Aaron and he put the thing into gear.
“You sure I don’t need a disguise?” Aaron asked as the big rig groaned and moved forward. “A baseball cap with a sewn-in mullet, and an I love pussy T-shirt?”
Ian didn’t crack a smile. “No,” he said shortly. “He knows you work for me, and that I trust you, and because of that, he trusts you, too.”
“How progressive of him,” Aaron said. “Speaking of progress, I couldn’t help but notice how both you and Pheebs decided to wear your matching sets of grim today. It’s adorable.”
Again, nothing.
They drove in silence for a while before Aaron said, “What’d ya do, freak yourself out because now that Manny’s dead, there’s really no good reason to go back to jail, so suddenly you’ve got to find another excuse to break up with her?”
The look Ian shot him was practically audible and just short of a physical skull duster. A brain-rattling one. But Aaron kept going, because it had to be said.
“Shel and I figured out why you were in jail,” he told his brother. “You made a deal with Manny to serve time for some bullshit crime that Vince committed—getting into a bar fight and trashing most of the cars in some roadhouse parking lot. Yeah, I really believe you were out getting ’faced that night with your buddy Vincent Dellarosa. Hmmm. What’s wrong with that picture? Let’s start with the fact that you don’t drink.”
“It was a simple deal,” Ian admitted. One thing about Ian was that once he was busted, he copped to the truth. “If I pled guilty to the charges against Vince, Manny would keep Davio away from you.”
“But you only did it because you knew the Dellarosas had a solid-gold reputation of protecting the people who went to jail for them. Families are taken care of. Money’s paid. And mouths stay shut,” Aaron said. “So there you were, working for Manny, knowing that we were safe, because if we weren’t, word would get out that they’d reneged on their deal, and their whole system would crumble. And that’s how you were going to take them down. You were going to, what? Find someone else inside the prison, and flip them? Get them to turn state’s evidence against Manny and Davio?”
Ian glanced at him, and this time Aaron knew that it was only because Manny had died, that he admitted it. “Yes.”
Aaron nodded. “I wish you’d told me,” he said.
“Yeah,” Ian said on a sigh. “I know. I gotta work on that. On treating you like an adult.”
And there was an admission he’d never thought he’d hear.
“So what now?” Aaron asked. “With Manny dead?”
“I don’t know,” Ian said, and Aaron called him on his bullshit.
“The answer to What now, with Manny dead, is easy: Find Davio, and kill him.” Aaron looked at his brother. “Of course, you do that, you risk going back to jail, this time forever, and this time for something you really did do. And that is definitely not something you want to tie Phoebe to.” And there it was. One of the reasons for Ian’s case of grim. “You break up with her yet? For her own good, of course. Jesus, you’re an idiot.”
“Just … stop,” Ian said, pulling the truck in
to a still-attractive but aging residential development that had been built on a former citrus grove.
Aaron didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this Brady Bunch ideal of normal.
“Turn on your headset,” Ian ordered as he did the same. “Ian here, testing.”
“I’m here, too,” Aaron chimed in.
“Read you both loud and clear from the surveillance van,” Yashi’s voice came back as Ian pulled the truck up in front of one of the houses.
“Same from car one.” Shel’s voice came through clearly, too. He and Francine and Martell were following them in Martell’s car, which Shel and Francine had jerry-rigged with some of the equipment from poor deceased van number one. Since there was only one way into this upscaleish neighborhood, they were hanging back, out by the main road.
“I’m going up to the house,” Ian said, telling Aaron, “Keep the truck running. This shouldn’t take long.”
The place certainly didn’t look like an evil overlord’s dominion. It was large, but not ostentatious, with a circular driveway that branched off to lead around behind the house to what looked like an additional detached garage. There were two cars parked in front of the house. Both large and dark.
Phoebe’s voice came through their headsets, saying what they were all thinking: “Ian, be careful.”
“Always am,” Ian said, telling what Aaron knew to be another in his vast collection of bald-faced lies.
* * *
It started out innocuously enough.
The Dutchman greeted Ian expansively, graciously, gracefully even. Niceties and pleasantries and condolences were exchanged—all of which Phoebe heard loudly and clearly in the surveillance van, courtesy of Ian’s headset microphone.
“So sorry to hear about Berto,” Vanderzee said, seemingly sincerely. “If there’s anything you need done locally while you’re away …”
Ian cut to the chase. “No, we just need to get out of town. So if your guy is ready, I’d really like to get moving—pick up that package.”
