“Time for me to leave, Mr. Palmer. Please take my lighter,” she said hurriedly, brandishing the lighter with the red lips upon it. “If you should need me, run your tongue along these engraved lips, and I will find you.”
“Seriously?” he said, both delighted and unnerved. “How does that work?”
“A true magician never reveals her secrets,” she said with a smile. “Till then, Chas. Perhaps I will see you at some point in the States. I have consistent work from a client in New Jersey. And thank you.”
“For what?”
“Well,” she replied, “you are all your father promised. And to see one real man alive on this earth, well—this gives me hope. Which is something I have not had for a very long time.”
And with that, she stroked his finger with one cheek and left. Chas was left alone, wondering what sense there was to be made of any of it.
‡‡‡
LUIGI RAISED HIS wristwatch to his lips and blew lightly on the surface. Within moments, his earpiece crackled to life. “Sì, signore?” a husky female voice asked. G. Such a turn-on. Having a woman like this as his boss was enough to make every workday a pleasure and every conversation incite a searing pain in his nether regions. In somewhat low-class Italian attempting to be high-class Italian (his way of impressing G, or so he hoped), Luigi filled G in on Chas Palmer’s activity, receiving the praise he longed for. One time he tried to garner more than praise, and he wound up in the hospital for a week with a scar on his dick that, strangely, looked like the map of Italy. For this reason his colleagues now called him “Lo Stivale,” the Boot.
“You did a fine job, Il Stivale,” G murmured in his earpiece, causing him to harden against his wishes. “Take the rest of the day off. I’m sure Madame de Louvain will be happy to see you again tonight.”
With a click, he was released from duty. He put his hands in his pockets and made a beeline for the local brothel.
‡‡‡
SUSANNAH, LISA BEE, and the Boss sat in the back of the falafel truck, eyes glued to the screens in front of them. Jackson had managed to hook up the hot dog to the surveillance system on one of his breaks and was back to making shawarma. The candied cameras had been more difficult than they had initially appeared. At first the picture was patchy, but adjustment on the transmitter side seemed to solve that problem. Once or twice, the candy was bitten in half, bifurcating the image and sending a split-screen picture to the homing device of both the street view and the view of the customer’s esophagus. But this only happened a couple of times; for the most part they had eyes on the street for the length of time it took for the customers to finish eating their shawarma. By the time the customers got to the candy, Jackson would instantly remove the link to that particular camera and switch to one of the others that were active. It was one of Jackson’s great talents: he was able to make anything work with whatever he had at the ready. The Boss liked to say that Jackson was his own personal MacGyver.
Currently, the screens were filled with various versions of the same image: Chas and the blonde making out. One screen had a close-up of their lips, another had a full-length body shot, and another was a still of Chas’s hand on the blonde’s ass. Susannah choked down the bile rising in her throat. Even though she figured that all she was to Chas Palmer was a quick, easy screw, a brief fascination and nothing more, she still had developed some deeper feelings for him. It had been so very long since she had even wondered about someone, and she was embarrassed both about her own feelings and about how easily he was on to the next girl. She felt stupid for thinking there was some greater possibility here, and even more stupid for feeling so hurt that there wasn’t. She had a lump in her throat and thought there was a strong chance that she might lose her lunch.
Bossman looked at her with concern in his eyes. “You okay, Legs?”
She sighed. “Yeah. I’ll be better as soon as we can stop looking at these pictures. Yuck.”
Lisa Bee cursed. “Fucking men! Goddammit, Legs. You will not allow this prick to get the best of you. He’s an idiot and a player. And a bad, bad man. We’ll get him, honey. We’ll get him if it’s the last thing we do! Hey, Bossman?”
“Yeah, Bee?”
“Can you hop up front with Jackie and close the window? I gotta talk to my girl for a sec.”
“Do we have to do this now?” the Boss asked, a note of tension in his voice. “I really think we’ve got to figure out our next move.”
“You and Jackie can figure it out up front. I need a minute.” Lisa Bee fixed the Boss with a nasty stare, one she only used on ill-behaved children or frat boys during Mardi Gras. “Now.”
“All right, okay,” the Boss grumbled. “Don’t get your waders all twisted in knots—”
“Don’t talk about my waders unless you want a Cajun kick in the balls, and get a move on.”
“Got it, Bee, got it,” the Boss said, scurrying out the back and making his way to the front, where Jackson stood watching with a grin on his face.
“Oh, how I love a little Southern spark,” Jackson said. “It’s almost like the Fourth of July.” Then he shut the connecting window before Lisa Bee could yell at him too.
‡‡‡
THE SECOND THE WINDOW closed Lisa Bee spun around to look Susannah square in the eye. “Okay,” she said, putting her hands on Susannah’s shoulders. “It’s just us girls. Spill it.”
Though it was the last thing she wanted to do, Susannah burst into tears. She just couldn’t help it. Lisa Bee let out a long melodic sigh. “Yeah. They always get us right where it counts, and just at the wrong time. Here,” she said, offering Susannah a tissue from a girly pink plastic Hello Kitty makeup bag, “go to town.”
Susannah cried quietly for a few minutes, making sure the Boss and Jackson couldn’t hear, and blowing her nose periodically. She was terribly ashamed that all this was coming out in the middle of a stakeout, but she was more embarrassed that her feelings had gone deeper than she thought. The only person she would have felt comfortable letting it all hang out in front of was Lisa Bee.
Lisa Bee rubbed her back as she cried, then gave her a huge hug. “It’s all right, Legs, honey. We all get reeled in sometimes. Guy’s got a lot of promise and some mad skills. But you dodged a bullet on this one, I’m sure of it. And the fun part is that now we get revenge. We’ll take him down, hon. And soon.”
“Yeah,” Susannah said, blowing her nose again. “I know we will. And maybe there’ll be some satisfaction in that. But it doesn’t really help, does it? I mean, I know I’m not supposed to get personally involved and all. . . .”
“Look,” Lisa Bee said, “you can’t help how you feel. What are you gonna do? Close up for the rest of your life and never let anyone in?”
“Well, right,” Susannah replied. “Been there, done that. I don’t want to be one of those people who looks back on life and realize they never let themselves love. Except that it sucks so bad when it doesn’t work out, and it just keeps sucking worse each time. You’d think it’d get better, right? Or easier? But, no. It just gets worse and worse and worse, and this time, I just fucking hoped—”
“Hoped what?” asked Lisa Bee gently.
“That this might be the one. That it was even remotely possible that there might be a one.” Now that she had started, she was unable to stop the outpouring of emotion and anger. “God, I feel like such an idiot saying that! I hoped that there was one man left on this earth strong enough, and smart enough, and ready and willing to take all I have to offer. I don’t know.”
“I get it, Legs. I think this way all the time. I’ve just kind of given up hope. But you—I don’t know. You’re such a tough chick on the outside. I don’t think anyone knows you’re this weepy on the inside. Maybe you just need to show someone—”
“What, Bee? That I’m so weak and vulnerable? That I’m not ‘too much’? That I’m not really as strong as I play?
That’s a bunch of bullshit and you know it. I’m every bit as strong as I play, and I want someone who wants that. I want someone who can meet me eye to eye. I want someone who is as strong and as brave as I am! I mean, god, are there no fucking men anymore? What the fuck!” Looking into Lisa Bee’s sympathetic gaze, she took a breath, then went on. “Here’s the thing: I want what everyone else has. I want to meet my match, and marry him, and love him till the day I die. I just . . .” Her voice choked up with tears again, and Lisa Bee grabbed her hand. “I guess I just hope he exists. Somewhere on this earth.”
“He does, honey,” said Lisa Bee with compassion in her eyes. “I know he does. And you deserve it more than anyone I know. It’s just that you are one in a million. You are. And finding someone special like that, to match someone special like you . . . Well, it doesn’t happen every day, you know?”
At that there was a knock from the connecting window and the Boss slid it open. “Sorry, but I just can’t be trapped up here with Jackson any longer. He’s cutting the shawarma into hearts and handing it out to the ladies.”
“Just tryin’ to spread the love, Bossman,” Jackson said, sidling up next to the Boss and winking at Lisa Bee. Then he turned to Susannah. “Ready to rock, Legs? I think it’s time to show this joker who’s boss.”
“You got it,” Susannah said with a smile. “I’m ready. What’s our next move? We got an idea or are we brainstorming?”
“Well,” said the Boss, “I do have a plan in mind. . . .”
‡‡‡
CHAS WAS ALMOST back at the meeting when his phone rang. As it was a restricted number, typical of Pierre’s cadre, he answered immediately. After all, his smoke break had been quite a bit longer than planned, and he was sure that Pierre was growing impatient.
“Palmer.” He answered on the second ring.
“You’re a tough man to track, Tex,” said a sultry voice, and he began to harden at the very sound of it.
“Legs? Is that you?”
“Does anyone else call you ‘Tex’? And does anyone else have the privilege of you running out on them after an evening of unmitigated passion?”
He laughed. “I’m sorry about that, sweetheart. I had something important come up.”
“Mmmm . . .” she breathed, “but not the important thing I was hoping would come up.”
Chas smiled. “Well, I’ll be back soon. I’m hoping you made yourself comfortable?”
“Oh, I did. I was very comfortable up until I got on the flight to Paris.”
His smile widened. “I’m so glad the idiots you work for were able to follow the trail I left for them.”
“Well,” she murmured, “at least they were able to get me back to you.”
‡‡‡
BACK IN THE falafel truck, Susannah was patched in through the surveillance system. Though Bossman had known it wasn’t the best plan, he knew Susannah was tough enough to take it on. He figured if she just pretended to come clean and allowed herself to be seduced, she’d be in the ideal position to collect the intel they needed. He told her, biting his lip, that she’d have to play dumb. She seemed to agree without incident, though Lisa Bee took offense, feeling a combination of feminist rage and self-righteous fury, and threw the hot dog port at his crotch. After knocking the wind out of him, Lisa Bee felt better, and also agreed to the plan.
They were all sitting in the back of the truck when Chas made the comment about them being idiots. Lisa Bee’s face turned red, Bossman’s turned steely, and Jackson made an obscene gesture that revealed two things: one, that Chas really had gotten on their bad side; and, two, that Jackson’s package was significantly larger than any of them had previously thought.
They kept quiet while Susannah laughed throatily and subsequently made a plan to meet up with Chas that night. Then she disconnected and threw her earpiece at the wall, using such force that it exploded into smithereens.
“Well,” said the Boss, after a long silence, “that’s earpiece number two wasted on this jackass.”
“JACKASS?” shouted Jackson. “That the best you can do? How about pretentious-motherfucking-self-lovin’-asswipe who doesn’t know enough to know our girl is the best GOD DIGGITY thing that’s ever fucking happened to him?”
“God diggity?” asked Lisa Bee.
“WELL, I DIDN’T WANT TO OFFEND ANYONE.”
“Interesting,” the Boss murmured, “that ‘motherfucking asswipe’ made the cut.”
“Okay, you guys, listen,” said Susannah. “I’m going to be fine. I’m going to get into his hotel room, drug him—Bossman, you have the stuff from Scrubs?—and make my way out. Clean. Easy. And then we’re outta here. And I promise you, I’m really okay. It’s not meant to be more than another box of shit in the evidence locker, that’s all.”
“All right, Legs.” The Boss sighed. “I’m apprehensive, but I trust you. And just so you know, Jackson will be undercover as the hotel concierge, I’ll be here in mission control in the truck, and we’ll have eyes and ears on you the whole time.”
“Yeah,” Jackson said, “I’m gonna bug the shit out of it the second I set foot in the joint. I’ll make sure you’re okay. Always, Legs.”
“Great,” Susannah said. “And what about Lisa Bee?”
“Well,” said Lisa Bee, “if there’s one chick who knows how to play a stupid American tourist . . .”
Susannah laughed. “Okay, guys. So you’ve got my back.”
“We’ve got it all, Legs,” the Boss replied. “Back, front, and middle. We promise. No harm will come to you.”
“Well, then,” she replied, tossing the tissues aside, “game on.”
‡‡‡
THE MEETING WAS just wrapping up when Pierre called Chas aside. “Hot date tonight?”
Chas quirked a smile. “Well, Pierre, you know I need to let off a bit of steam berfore a big job. Can’t a man mix a little pleasure with business?”
Pierre returned the smile. “Yes. I was told she is quite pretty. Blonde, tall, and beautiful lips.”
Chas was taken aback and swallowed deeply. “You had me followed?”
“I just wanted to make sure my asset was protected. But it seems you were protecting assets of your own.”
Shit. Chas felt deeply uncomfortable. If they had him followed, and someone recognized Tyka, it could be the end of them both. She was the missing link between him and his father, between his secret plan and his father’s betrayal, and if she was outed, he would be killed, she would be silenced, and everything he worked for would be shot to bits. Including him. He had to think, and think quick.
“Actually, Pierre,” he said, thinking quickly, “it’s not what you think.”
“Really?” Pierre queried. “I thought you loved fucking beautiful women.”
“Oh, I do,” Chas responded quickly. “But this is about something more. I didn’t want to involve you, that’s all.”
Pierre looked intrigued and somewhat amused. “Whatever do you mean, Monsieur Palmer?”
Chas paused. He realized at that moment that he had very few choices and that he had been stupid. That he had lost control. He ought to have known Pierre would have him followed; after all, Pierre was possessive and believed that Chas belonged to him. He believed Chas was his secret weapon, no more, no less. That was how Chas had gotten so close to the inner workings of his organization. So now what could Chas do? If he let them track or investigate Tyka, her ability to hunt the Italian was compromised, and his ability to take down Pierre and his henchmen was also compromised. Could he let it lie, pretend that she was just some chick he hooked up with to take the edge off? Maybe, but that left too much to chance. His only hope of throwing them off was to convince Pierre he was with someone else entirely. But who?
His mind flashed to Susannah. She and Tyka were about the same height, and from a distance they could be confused. Was it possibl
e to give Pierre her name but not put her in danger? The truth of the matter was that he wanted Susannah as far away from these men as possible. She was an undercover operative who specialized in white-collar crime; from what he could dig up, every one of FTP’s cases was about a lot of money and high-end thievery, and none of them involved death, murder, or terrorist activity. Pierre and Bruni were the opposite: for them rape, murder, and dallying with the sleazy underbelly of society were their lingua franca. If he blew Susannah’s cover, Chas reasoned, he could get her back to the States, and fast. He could get her out of this racket before she’d really gotten into it. He could spare the woman who had somehow crept inside him the indignity of living a life on the run.
If he only blew her cover.
Chas swallowed and then took a breath. He realized this was a coward’s choice. And that he was about to ruin the life of the only woman who had come close to breaking down the walls that guarded his heart. But he also realized that it was the only answer: Pierre was a bloodhound, and the only way to throw him off the scent of fresh meat was to throw fresher meat in his path.
“She was wearing a wig,” Chas said in a rush. “She’s a redhead, actually. An American. She’s been tracking me, but I blew her cover a couple of days ago. Now I’d like to blow it further, so she has no hopes of undermining our operation. And you’re right, I’m only keeping her around for one reason. . . .” He swallowed the acid rising in his throat. “She’s an extraordinary fuck.”
Pierre laughed. It was a sound that could peel wallpaper, a sound sure to pierce the keen ears of a dog. And he loved stories of sexual conquest: likely to live vicariously. Pierre was a rat who attracted only the most vile gutter trash to share his cold and death-like bed.
“What is her name, Monsieur Palmer? We will be happy to take care of whatever you may need.”
“First of all,” Chas said, barely able to get the words out, “I’ll take care of it. You are not to lay a hand on her, Pierre. She’s mine. Got it?”
“But of course, monsieur,” Pierre said with a sneer. “I know how you like to be in control of your . . . work.”
Game On (The Bod Squad Series Book 1) Page 7
