Holiday Justice

by Adrienne Giordano

  “Handling in your world amounts to you ending up with your ass in trouble and me having to bail you out.”

  Mitch started jogging. The fire escape had to be on the north side. “That’s what I have Caroline for now. You’re off the hook. Beat it.”

  He’d barely rounded the corner, jumping over a torn shopping bag, when he heard the sound of Grey’s footfalls behind him. The man had a heart of gold but worried too much. That would probably be Mitch’s fault too. Whatever.

  He stopped, his breath fogging in front of his face as he pulled up and caught sight of the metal fire escape a few feet away. Grey came to a stop behind him. “I’m just going to do a sneak and peek. You can stay here.”

  He grabbed the cold handrail and hauled himself up to the first step. He started climbing, his wet shoes squeaking slightly on the metal stairs. Slow down or they’ll hear you coming.

  The fire escape shuddered and Mitch looked over his shoulder. Grey was joining him.

  “We’re a team,” Grey said. “We do this together. You fucking pain in my ass.”

  “I love ya, man.” Mitch cracked a grin, leaned back, and held out his fist. Grey bumped it with his own. “Let’s go see what Santa’s up to.”

  The building was a modest three stories. As they passed boarded up windows and eased their way to the top, Mitch kept hearing noises from inside. The low hum of voices or possibly a radio. Maybe it really was just a homeless guy or two, but his gut told him different.

  Before they reached the roofline, he smelled cigarette smoke. He held up a hand to stop Grey. Grey lifted his nose, smelling it too.

  Carefully, Mitch rose enough to peek over the edge. Sure enough, two men, both dressed in Santa suits, stood in the southwest corner of the building, smoking. The back half of the rooftop entrance blocked his sight line, but he saw enough of them.

  “When’s Logan coming?” one of the men said. He had a heavy southern accent. Tennessee, maybe.

  “Around midnight,” the other answered.

  The Santa who sounded like Elvis ground his cigarette butt into the roof with a boot heel. “Would be nice if we were getting a bigger cut.”

  “You’re a greedy son-of-a-bitch, you know that? We get what we get.”

  The second Santa flicked his cigarette off the side of the roof. “Dyson’s a punk kid. It’d be easy to take him out. A little fall off of this roof would do the trick. Only three of us then. Bigger paycheck.”

  Elvis Santa laughed. “Come on, let’s go finish packing up the merchandise. A piece or two of that jewelry might just accidently fall into my pocket. I’ll sell it and split it with you.”

  Mitch ducked down, signaling Grey to keep quiet as the two men went for the rooftop entrance. As soon as the door closed, he hauled himself up over the edge. Grey followed on his heels.

  They looked around. “Well?” Mitch said. “Do you believe me now?”

  “It’s shady, I’ll give you that, but we’ve got no proof there’s anything illegal going on here.”

  “So how do we get inside?”

  Grey shook his head. “We don’t. We call the cops.”

  “You just said we have no proof. If I can get inside, I’ll snap a picture or something. Besides, if the cops show up now, this Logan guy will get away. Sounds like he’s the brains behind this operation. I say we get in, find the proof, and wait until ol’ Logan shows. Then we bust them all.”

  Grey shrugged. “Technically we can’t bust anyone. The Justice Team doesn’t exist and we sure as hell aren’t FBI agents anymore.”

  Fuck the minor details. “I’m going in.”

  “You’re just going to open that door and walk in? Caroline’s right, you are certifiable.”

  A clang behind them made Mitch whirl, ready to jump on whoever was coming up the fire escape. A second later, Sydney’s head popped up over the roof edge. The wind grabbed her coat and blew it open, exposing the deep V of her red dress. “What the hell are you two doing?”

  And that’s when an idea—a terrible, awful idea—formed in Mitch’s head.

  “You want me to what?” Syd half laughed at the insanity Mitch had served her. “I may have posed as an escort once, but I’m no stripper.”

  She’d just climbed a damned rickety fire escape in five-inch stilettos and a dress tight enough to destroy her circulation and Mitch wanted her to do some kind of half-baked undercover assignment. This night was a keeper, a real humdinger in the annals of Sydney Banfield.

  “No,” Grey said. “Forget it.”

  Mitch eyed her open coat, let his gaze wander over her body in a detached and strategic analysis. If it had been any other man, she’d have dropped him. Then kicked him in the balls.

  “This’ll work,” he said. “She knocks on the door, says Logan sent her as a Christmas bonus or something. Then she loses the coat, they take one look at her ti…er…assets…and she’s in.”

  And, oh my, Grey’s eyes bugged out. “Hey, Genius! Why not send your girlfriend in there? She’s got assets.”

  She did not even believe this one. In the months she’d known these men she’d heard all kinds of whacky conversations. One thing that had never come up—not in front of her anyway—was the topic of her boobs.

  “Hello.” Syd waved. “I’m standing right here while you idiots debate the usability of my tits.” She turned to Grey, grabbed his hands. “Baby, I can do this. And the faster I do, the faster we get back to our meal and a great evening. You know how he is. He won’t give up.”

  “Yeah,” Mitch said. “She’s right. Thanks, Syd. I think.”

  “You’re welcome. But I’m only doing this because I don’t want my evening ruined by one of your insane schemes. Let’s get this done and over with. I want Caroline watching my back though.”

  At least Caroline was a woman. And as a former FBI agent, she understood the unrest that came with strolling into a room full of potentially seedy men and pretending she was there to strip for them.

  Once again Syd pondered her existence. All she’d wanted was a basically normal life running a shelter, helping battered women escape lives they shouldn’t be living. She’d been doing that. At least until Justice “Grey” Greystone, hunk that he was, entered her life.

  She loved him, no doubt, and one day, if his intense Type A personality didn’t give him a heart attack first, she’d marry him. Maybe pop out some babies. Deal with crazy Monroe, whom she loved like a brother but sometimes wanted to bury alive.

  Bury him later.

  She glanced down at her dress and the killer shoes. A stripper would wear those suckers. Decision made, she spun back, headed for the fire escape again, coat flapping and the cold wind blasting her assets.

  “I’m going. Make sure Caroline has me covered.”

  “Syd?” Grey called.

  She whirled back more than ready to lambaste the two of them. “What?”

  “This is crazy. Please be careful.” His voice, normally so solid and determined, buckled. “Call my cell and keep the phone line open. Just scream if you need me. Give me a code word.”

  And just that fast, her frustration peeled away. Wherever he went, whatever he was doing, he always worried about the people he loved.

  She smiled at him, the wicked one that promised a steamy night. The smile that would send his overactive mind reeling in another direction than his current state of worry. “Cupcake.”

  His eyes narrowed, and even through the cold, she spotted the simmering heat that always charged her body, made her tingle with anticipation because their love of cupcakes didn’t necessarily include eating them. The things they did with cupcakes should, in fact, be illegal.

  “Cupcake,” he said. “Say it and I’ll bust in there.”

  She stepped over the roof’s ledge onto the ladder and looked back at him. “What does a lap dance go for these days, anyway?”

  Chapter Three

  When the Santas had entered the roof door, it had automatically locked behind them, but Grey watched Mitch p
ick the lock with ease. The guy had always loved crappy locks.

  Quietly, they entered and scanned the area. The building’s top floor was truly abandoned and Grey and Mitch made their way silently down the stairs.

  Mitch was itching to go down to the first floor but Grey gave him the signal to hold back. He was listening intently for the sound of…

  Knock, knock, knock…yep, there it was.

  Except Sydney being Sydney, it was more of a bang, bang, bang. He could picture her on the front stoop, stomping her feet and thinking, let’s get this over with, boys. I’m freezing.

  Even though the building was unheated, a fine line of sweat broke out over Grey’s forehead. Here he was, once again, sending Sydney in as bait.

  “What the hell was that?” a low, gruff voice coming from down below asked.

  Grey sat down on the step, leaning forward enough to hear the men without being seen. Mitch sat beside him.

  “I don’t know,” another answered. “Logan’s not due until midnight.”

  A third voice chimed in. The guy with the southern drawl. “Ignore it. Probably some homeless douche bag trying to find a place to stay tonight.”

  Bang, bang, bang…and then the distant sound of Syd’s voice. “Hey, boys, open up! Logan didn’t send me here to freeze my cha-chas off!”

  Mitch cut his eyes to Grey and grinned, giving him a thumbs-up. Fucking Monroe. It took all of Grey’s willpower not to reach over and break that thumb off.

  Downstairs, there was a shuffling of chairs…footsteps. Grey saw shadows crossing to the entryway. “Who are you?” Gruff Voice demanded through the door.

  “Sexy Cindy,” Syd called. Cindy had been her escort alias when she took on a serial killer. Grey hoped her stripper persona was just as tough as her escort one. “Your Christmas present from Logan. He said you’d all be here and ready to show a girl a good time.”

  “You know it, baby,” Southern Drawl said. “Let her in.”

  “Logan told us never to let anyone in here but him,” Gruff argued.

  The third man rang in with his vote. “Logan sent her, douche bag. How else would she know his name?”

  Gruff Voice hesitated, then Grey heard the snick of locks being flicked opened. The squeak of the door.

  And then Syd’s voice, clearer now. “Hello, boys.” Sexy, alluring. She excelled at that. “Shall we start the party?”

  In Grey’s mind, he saw her standing with her coat open and her assets, in that festive dress, on full display. Her nipples would be hard, poking straight out from the cold air, her cheeks flushed. He wanted to punch every Santa down there for daring to look at her.

  But looking at her was exactly what he needed them to do.

  “Well, well, well,” one of the men said. “Look at this sweet thing.”

  She didn’t wait for an invitation; her high-heels clicked on the floor as she entered. From the shadows, Grey could tell the men were moving back, getting out of her way. He didn’t blame them. Sydney was a force of nature.

  Four subjects, probably armed. He had to keep his focus on the mission. The only good thing was that the Santa suits couldn’t be easy to move in. If he and Monroe had to take the Santas down, they’d be outnumbered.

  But faster.

  Plus, they had the element of surprise.

  Knowing the four men were totally fixated on Syd, Grey eased forward so he could see the group through the stair spindles. If one of them put hands on her—game over—he’d kill ’em. Fast and neat.

  “Who’s got the music?” Syd said. She took off her coat and tossed it at a short, bald guy who looked more like an elf than a Santa. “I need music if I’m stripping out of this dress.”

  Southern Drawl took off for the room on the west side, nearly tripping over himself.

  “Strip?” Gruff Voice said, an older guy with a definite Santa belly.

  “Yeah, strip.” Syd put a hand on her hip. “Sexy Cindy from Dreams Come True, the mobile exotic dancer service. Didn’t Logan tell you I was coming?”

  A smile broke over the man’s bearded face. “Do you need a pole too?”

  She patted his cheek. “How about I use you for my pole? Think you can handle me?”

  Jesus. Did she have to be so…so…Sydney-ish? Grey’s heart stuttered, lurched, then stopped. Yep, Sydney had finally done it. She’d given him a heart attack.

  Southern Drawl rushed back into the foyer with a boom box in hand. “We’ve got music!”

  Syd said something to the men, but Grey’s ears were ringing. He rubbed the spot over his heart.

  The building had once been apartments and the men followed her into one on the east side, across the hall from the one they’d emerged from.

  “Come on,” Monroe whispered, tugging on Grey’s jacket to get him moving. “Focus here. The room they got the boom box from probably has all the goods.”

  Grey followed on automatic pilot, his mind flashing back to Syd. Focus? How the hell was he supposed to focus when she was down there doing a striptease?

  But focus he did. As he and Monroe reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard the music start from the apartment to his left. The door was open, but he dared not look in that direction. If he saw Syd go into a striptease, he’d turn into Hulk and blow this whole op.

  Instead, he kept his eyes diverted and slipped into the apartment opposite Syd and the Santas.

  In front of him, Monroe pulled up short. “Jackpot,” he muttered.

  Skirting his partner, Grey walked to the center of what had once been a living room. The Santas had set up a card table and a couple of oil lamps. Dangerous, that.

  A poker game had been left in progress on the table and a cooler sat on the floor by the old fireplace with cheap beer stashed in it.

  Around the edges of the room was a plethora of electronics, most in boxes, some still wrapped in Christmas paper. On one side of the room there appeared to be a discard pile. Wrapping paper, clothes with the tags still on, even toys lay in a chaotic heap.

  Bastards. They’d taken whatever they could haul off, ruining many a Christmas for innocent kids and their families, but all they were really interested in was the high-priced items.

  His jaw clenched. From the other side of the hall, he heard catcalls.

  “Come on, girl. Let’s see those titties!” one of the men yelled and Grey nearly pissed himself.

  He caught Monroe’s attention and used his phone to make a filming motion.

  Monroe nodded and went to work, pulling out his phone and videoing the cache. Grey texted Caroline. Call 911. Santa theft ring is here.

  Her response was immediate. Copy that.

  Grey watched Monroe videoing the stolen goods while wondering how much of Syd’s dress was off. There wasn’t much dress to begin with, so her options were limited. He was probably going to have to create a distraction…like marching over there and kicking the ass of every one of those assholes. Definitely going on the naughty list this year.

  He was about to do just that when his phone buzzed with another text from Caroline.

  Incoming! You have a visitor!

  Before Grey could signal Monroe, Sydney yelled, “Cupcake!” and the front door burst open.

  A man in a suit with a black overcoat strode inside, a light dusting of snow on his shoulders and menace in his eyes.

  His gaze snapped to Grey’s and his hand went inside his coat. “Who the hell are you?”

  Grey’s reaction time was fast. Mitch’s was faster. He pocketed his phone, blew past Grey, and on his way to play defensive end, said under his breath, “I’ve got this. Go get Syd.”

  Then he stepped in front of the hulking suit and got in his face, distracting him from Grey who, for once, did as Mitch suggested and took off for the opposite apartment where the door was still open. “We’re the new landlords and we’re cleaning up this dump. Who the fuck are you?”

  Sydney was still screaming “Cupcake! Cupcake!” as if the hounds of hell were after her, but then came the
glorious sound of flesh hitting flesh and a couple of cries from the Santas.

  Score one for Justice.

  Her screams distracted the man for a split second, his brows lowering into a frown. Mitch had seen a lot of bad guys in his time, many dressed in nice suits like the guy in front of him. Suit or not, Mitch’s gut vibrated like it always did when facing a criminal.

  Logan. Had to be. The man in charge of the Santa theft ring. The man who let the lowlifes do the dirty work while he took in the profit and kept his nose clean.

  Well, not this time.

  Mitch’s gut twinged again, and sure enough, the asshole went for something in his coat. What little light came from the outside street lamp bounced off black metal. A peashooter.

  “I’m so glad you did that,” Mitch said, seeing the man’s hand shake as he pointed it at Mitch’s nose. “Now I can add assault and battery with intent to harm to your list of offenses. And, gee, is that weapon registered? Legally obtained? Hmmm…”

  Before the guy could retort—or pull the trigger—Mitch feinted right and slammed his fist into the guy’s lower belly. Logan grunted, the gun went off, and plaster rained down.

  On the heels of the gunshot, Syd screamed. Grey unleashed an impressive array of swear words followed by another crash. A heavy thud told Mitch one more Santa was down for the count.

  Justice Greystone: 2. Santas: 0

  Logan must have done the math as well. In an instant, he pivoted and bolted for the door. Mitch gave chase, taking the guy down in a meager pile of shoveled snow on the sidewalk, but the guy rolled and slid out from under him, Mitch’s knees hitting the icy sidewalk hard enough to rattle his teeth. His face went nose first into the snow.

  When he came up, sputtering and wiping his face, he was holding nothing but Logan’s expensive wool overcoat.

  Slick dick.

  Caroline was probably laughing her ass off.

  Mitch swung his gaze left, then right, and spotted the guy hoofing it, heading for a black Mercedes. He sat back, drew out his phone and texted Caroline. Now would be a good time to put those expert marksman skills of yours to work, honey.