Jake blinked, giving himself a quick mental shake. He didn't want to dwell on time spent with any of the women in his past. The only good thing that came out of that closed chapter in his life was knowledge that he'd never spread himself around like that again. He wasn't sure why it mattered so much to him that he convince Angela he wasn't a player, especially when she was in Chicago and he was in L.A. He couldn't be a bounty hunter in Chicago.
But Angela could be a private investigator in L.A.
Jake almost laughed out loud. Instead he grumbled under his breath. He'd had a lifetime of hearing how cocky and arrogant he was. He was absolutely losing it if he thought he'd be able to convince her to give up her life and move to L.A. with him.
He knew he wouldn't regret it if he did convince her to give him a chance.
Once again he reminded himself that now wasn't the time to dwell on Angela. Although he couldn't help worrying about her as this scene played out, he needed to focus on his actions right now. What mattered was grabbing the best proof he could to nail Mandela to the wall.
He snapped another picture when the men started climbing the stairs with the crate to load it on the plane. One of the men in the truck yelled to the others at the plane and began waving his arms when a line of cars appeared at the intersection with the convenience store and started coming toward them.
Jake's gut twisted as adrenaline flooded his system. The cavalry had arrived. He squinted at the cars, watching them come closer, and moved to his hands and knees when two of the cars turned on their lights. Red and white lights flashed across the field, turning the scene into a surreal setting. The five men started shouting at one another in Italian as they hauled ass to their SUVs, not that they had a chance to escape.
Jake pulled his gun, shoving his phone into his back pocket, and started across the field. The moment one of the men spotted him, they pulled their guns. Jake wasn't sure if he fired the first shot, but his aim proved better. One of the men fell to the ground, howling loud enough to wake the dead as the squad cars surrounded the SUVs and moving truck.
Suddenly there were uniforms everywhere. Jake reached the edge of the field, anxious to see for himself what was inside the truck. He needed to find Marianna. The pain on Angela's face when she'd learned her younger half sister was missing had torn at his heart. If he could return Marianna, bring Angela that happiness, it would be worth risking a bullet or two.
It didn't surprise him that the men surrendered easily. When he pulled out his badge, which identified him as a Californian bounty hunter, the local PD wasn't as impressed as he'd hoped.
"Back off, mister," one of the uniforms informed him, pushing Jake in the chest to prevent him from approaching the truck.
"Man, I called this in," he argued, but looked past the uniform and searched for someone in plain clothes. "Where is Detective Ames? I spoke with him on the phone."
More cars showed up and the cop who'd pushed Jake away from the truck turned his attention to his backup as more uniforms flooded the scene.
Jake tried stepping around the cop, his attention on the entrance to the back of the moving truck. He caught a glimpse of more crates, stacked on one another, when the cop who'd pushed him grabbed his arm.
"Look, man," he snapped. "Back off or I'll cuff you, too."
"I tipped off your department," Jake argued, yanking his arm out of the cop's grasp. "Where is Detective Ames?"
"Are you Jake King?" a tall man in a suit asked, adjusting his tie as he made eye contact with Jake. The man said something to the cop that Jake didn't catch, but the uniform seemed more than willing to leave Jake alone with the man in the suit. "Make sure we have every inch of these trucks and SUVs dusted and gone over with a fine-tooth comb," he ordered, and the cop nodded once before trotting off to assist with reading rights to the men who'd barely made it to the SUVs before they were detained.
"I take it you're Detective Ames," Jake said, edging closer to the back of the truck. His stomach twisted with revulsion when another officer flashed his light into the back of the truck. "Son of a bitch," he mumbled under his breath.
"I'm Detective Mike Ames," the suit said, dragging Jake's attention back to him. "Mind if you show me some ID?"
"Not at all." Jake handed over his badge, then stepped around Ames and stood at the back of the truck, staring at the large dog crates that held men and women, all whom appeared to be drugged. They were mostly lying in fetal position, stacked on top of one another, and judging by the smell hadn't been bathed anytime recently. "Good God," Jake uttered, outraged at the sight of the victims who'd almost been hauled off to commit some terroristic act.
"Mind telling me how you knew about this?" Ames asked, handing Jake's badge back to him. "Not to mention what you're doing in our fair city."
"We've been investigating the game for a while," Jake began. He focused on each crate, searching for Marianna.
He glanced toward the road, as did Ames, when a couple more cars approached. Jake shifted his attention to Ames in time to catch his frown turn to a scowl. Ames left Jake standing there and moved around his crew. He walked up alongside one of the two cars as they came to a stop behind the farthest squad car.
With lights flashing and cops around him talking and yelling orders to one another, while others, who apparently spoke Italian, were Mirandizing Mandela's thugs and loading them into the backs of the squad cars, the scene was quickly becoming a distraction. Jake wanted to check out everything before it was tagged and processed in as evidence, but at the same time Ames' behavior grabbed his attention. The detective didn't appear pleased with the arrival of the two unmarked cars.
Jake didn't make a habit of stereotyping people, but the men who climbed out of the cars and joined Ames had FBI written all over them. The way Ames was suddenly upset, then resigned as he shook his head and stepped to the side, allowing the new arrivals to join the crime scene, suggested he'd just lost this case before he even had it.
Jake would be next in line. He held less rank than the detective in a town that wasn't his own and with a rank not acknowledged in this city. Diverting his attention back to the scene, he stepped closer to the back of the truck, leaning into it without touching anything to get a better look at the men and women lying in the cages.
"Mr. King, I need to advise you to back off." One of the men who'd just arrived flashed his credentials in Jake's face.
He didn't bat an eye at the FBI insignia and barely registered the agent's name. Memories of their case in Tijuana and how the feds had stepped in after Jake's mother called in for backup to the police flashed before his eyes. At that time, KFA had helped bring down one of the players in the game but wasn't able to end the game once the FBI stepped in and took over. Obviously the feds were still on the case. Jake wouldn't condemn their agency but at the same time wouldn't see history repeat itself. As much as he hated it, he stepped away from the truck.
"You're welcome for the phone call," he offered, stepping away from the truck and holding out his hands in mock surrender. "Or let me guess, you've been on the trail all along but would have allowed these men and women to be hauled into battle in order to make the bigger bust."
"Where is your car, Mr. King?" the agent asked, sizing Jake up, then straightening and squaring his shoulders, as if puffing himself up to possibly six feet would do any good in trying to intimidate Jake.
Jake didn't ask to be six feet, six inches tall, but because he was and had been since he'd been a teenager no one got under his skin, unless it was to annoy him. This agent would do a good job if Jake spent much longer asking questions and getting no answers.
"I parked in the garage."
"Where are you staying? I'll need your contact information and your departure plans out of the city before you leave." The agent pointed with his thumb to the other agents, who had remained by their cars, still talking to Detective Ames. "If you'd give your information to Special Agent Robinson," he stated, then walked away from Jake without another word, dismissi
ng him and heading over to the squad cars where Mandela's men were being held.
Jake didn't join the detective and other agent. Instead he returned his attention to the back of the truck, counting the crates inside. The men and women in the crates were all dressed, wearing jeans and T-shirts, nothing that would make any of them stand out. There were black and white men and women, one lady who appeared Asian, but Jake didn't see anyone who matched Marianna's physical description or her picture. He continued studying all the victims he could focus on while standing outside the back of the truck.
Whoever had put them in the cages went to some effort to make them as comfortable as possible, considering the fact that they were in dog crates. Jake guessed Mandela didn't want them suffering from body cramps or injuries while they were being shipped out. He would want his army in top shape when they attacked the other player's army. Jake scanned the inside of the truck, not sure what he was looking for but trying to find anything he could before being ordered away from the scene.
Headlights shone in zigzag patterns across the runway and the field. Although direct light didn't flood the back of the truck and Jake didn't have a flashlight, he was able to study the contents of the truck and noticed two small plastic totes just inside. They were to his right, and he hadn't noticed them since his attention was directed upward at the stacks of dog crates. There didn't appear to be locks or any way of locking the plastic totes. Jake glanced around him at the continuing scene of arrests and detectives and FBI men talking. He wouldn't have more than a minute before someone was ordered to scour the truck and document everything inside. More than likely they were waiting for paramedics to arrive before touching the kidnapped victims. Jake banked on that assumption and pulled his shirt up, wrapped his hand inside the edge of it, and lifted the top of one of the totes. He wouldn't get his fingerprints anywhere on the evidence.
There were several notebooks inside the first tote. Jake looked around him again, nervous energy pulsing inside him as his excitement peaked. What he wouldn't do to find clarification of the game, the needed documentation that would allow Angela to nail this case. If he had it in his power, he would get this for her. Angela had come too far, risked her life too many times in the hands of that monster, to have this case yanked out of her hands by the feds.
Jake's fingers were wrapped inside the edge of his shirt, which was damp from his sweat. DNA samples could be picked up and were used too frequently these days. He let go of his shirt, wiping his hands on the outside of it, and frantically searched for something that would help him open the notebooks. He had to see what was inside.
Jake stared at a pair of thick garden-type gloves. "What fucking luck!" The excitement nearly buzzed inside him as he grabbed the gloves and slipped them on. They even fit. And with hands his size that was a small miracle. He opened the first notebook and gawked as he began reading.
Chapter Fourteen
Angela excused herself from the table, finding the interruption as odd as Mario apparently did. He gave her a strange look, and she shrugged, then followed the waiter who'd asked her to come with him to the front lobby. Nerves prickled down her spine. There was a handgun in her purse, which she clutched to her side. She and Mario had just finished their dinner and over an hour of useless small talk, and it struck her as curious that Mario made no effort to join her when the maitre d' came to their table and informed her there was an important phone call waiting for her on the house phone.
"Right this way, madam," the maitre d' said, gesturing when they reached his narrow podium, where he stood and greeted guests.
Angela glanced at the house phone, which was next to the podium. Everything inside her tightened, and the prime rib she'd found exceptionally good suddenly churned in her gut. The expensive wine she'd sipped at throughout their meal began gurgling as her nerves spiked to a dangerous level. The restaurant was well air-conditioned, and throughout the meal she'd been chilly, almost wishing she'd brought a sweater.
"That way?" Angela paused in the lobby, ignoring the handful of couples who apparently didn't rate being seated right away. She frowned at the maitre d', who turned to face her, his expression masked from years of training.
"Forgive me, madam," he said in a low, calm voice. "If you please. There is a private room through these doors."
"And there is a phone right there." She pointed at his podium and dug her heels in. Clutching her purse, she ignored the trickles of perspiration that beaded along her spine. Her heart thumped too hard inside her chest. She prayed her expression matched the maitre d's, one of cool, calm confidence. "Is there someone waiting for me in that room?" she asked, staring the maitre d' in the eye.
Which was the only way she spotted the flicker of hesitation that flashed there. "Madam, I'm simply following orders."
Angela stepped closer to the gentleman, who was probably somewhere around the same age as her father. "Who is waiting for me in that room?" she whispered, staring at his face.
"I was simply asked to bring you to them." The maitre d' faltered, shifting his weight and tugging on his tie. "They asked that I not say who they were with in order to offer you protection." He was whispering now, too. "But madam, they have badges."
Badges? Criminals didn't usually carry badges, unless they were forged. Angela swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded once at the maitre d', adjusting her handbag under her arm but unzipping it. She wasn't sure how quickly she could pull her gun out of it, but she'd be damned if she'd made it this far only to take a few knocks backward. They were on the edge of discovery. She could feel it sizzling in the air.
Mario had spoken openly on his phone when it rang, ignoring her from across the table and growing angrier by the minute as he spoke with the person on the other end of the line. Angela was positive Mario was being told that while they were moving his army someone had passed by his house and started trailing them. When the person talking to Mario called in the tag, it came back as a rental. Mario didn't bat an eye at a tag being called in. Apparently he had some damn good connections, not that learning that surprised Angela. She'd thought of excusing herself to powder her nose but worried her timing might be off. So she'd sat across from Mario, digging into her purse and pulling out her compact, then powdered her nose, or made a show of doing so, while staring into the small mirror and ignoring him. When she'd put the compact back, she'd slipped her phone onto her lap. Angela was able to text Jake while keeping her attention on Mario. After Mario got off the phone, it was as if he struggled to make conversation. Angela repeatedly got the uncanny sensation that he was killing time. It crossed her mind more than once that he was establishing an alibi, using her, so that his kidnapped victims could be moved and, if caught, the cops wouldn't be able to tie him in on the bust. He would have been at dinner with her.
Angela stepped around the maitre d', but he hurried to follow her and opened the door he'd indicated for her. Then moving to the side, he offered a gallant bow when she entered a small meeting room. The door closed silently behind her with a click that almost made Angela jump. She stared at two men, both in dress shirts and black slacks. They had the Bureau written all over them.
"Are you Angela Torres?" one of them asked, stepping forward as he reached for his badge that was clipped to his belt. "I'm Special Agent Terry Baldwin and this is Special Agent Richard Peel."
Angela managed to nod as she stared at the badges both men produced. For the moment, she remained silent about them calling her Torres and not Huxtable. All it told her was they were connecting her to Mario. Her fear shifted to anger fast enough that she almost teetered. Straightening, she relaxed her grip on her purse but kept it under her arm. It would be the worst nightmare if the FBI stepped in, took over after all she'd done, and removed her from this case. If she showed her frustration, something told her the inevitable would happen faster. She straightened, maintaining her cool.
"This is rather odd," she said, and flashed them both a toothy smile. "Why are you asking to meet me in this room
?"
"You're dining with Mario Mandela." Special Agent Baldwin didn't make it a question.
"Is that a crime?" she asked.
"You're going to return to your table, inform Mandela that you have a family emergency and need to leave immediately." Baldwin sounded calm, although he ignored her question. His eyes were a bright blue, which made him appear friendly in spite of his closely trimmed haircut and nondescript gray suit that spoke of distance and mystery.
"Now why would I tell him that?" She adjusted her purse, hugging it against her stomach when she crossed her arms and tapped her open-toed high-heeled sandal on the plush carpet. "What's going on here?" she demanded.
"We know you're working undercover," Baldwin explained. "I don't know what information you might have gathered at this point, but we'll debrief you later. Right now, you will tell Mandela you must leave."
There wasn't any point in playing these two. But she still hesitated. "May I see your badges again, please?" she asked, holding on to her smile as she looked from Baldwin to Peel. Peel's gaze had traveled down her but shot to her face when she raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Please," she repeated, deciding she could make a few demands here, too.
This time she took the badges from both men, who relinquished them reluctantly. There were a few things she'd learned over the years. One of them was how to distinguish fake badges from real ones. She studied the insignia behind each of their names.
"Do you two have additional IDs?"
"Ma'am, this matter can't take much time," Baldwin stressed.
"You're right. Your driver's licenses, please?" she asked, adjusting the strap on her purse and shifting it to her shoulder. She held their badges in one hand and held her other out, letting her smile fade as she waited for them to confirm they were who they said they were.
Bounty Hunters: 03 Stay Hungry Page 26
