Lucky Catch

by Deborah Coonts

  Time to find some.

  Chantal walked boldly. Her presence didn’t attract any attention from the workers, except for a lone wolf whistle, which she ignored. While they might be accustomed to her presence, I doubted mine would go as unnoticed. Timing my moves so as not to attract attention as the workers came and went from the trucks, I worked my way through the shadows. I caught Chantal at the side door, her hand on the knob. With a finger to her lips, she quieted me, which seemed out of place if we were expected. Before I could tell her exactly how I felt and ask what the hell was going on, she opened the door and slipped through, leaving me once again alone and in the dark.

  This had to stop. Taking a deep, bracing breath, I turned the handle and followed her. Blinking against the brightness from the overhead halogens, it took me a moment to get my bearings. Although it looked much larger from the outside, the interior warehouse was actually quite small, partitioned into a dry goods section and a refrigerated area. The sweet aroma of ripening fruit masked the rotten smell underneath. The forklifts must run on electricity, as there was no exhaust to add to the bilious mix.

  My pupils cranked down, bringing a man into focus—Adone Giovanni.

  I scanned the space. “Where is Jean-Charles?”

  He raised the gun he held in his hand, pointing it at my chest. “I’m afraid you’ve been misled.”

  “Apparently.” I flicked my eyes to Chantal, who watched me intently. From her posture and her wide eyes, I got the impression she was trying to tell me something, but what? My eyes drifted back to Adone. “A gun. Really? You expect me to believe all of this was your idea?”

  He bristled and waggled the gun at me. “Always a laugh from you. I really hate you women who think you run the show.”

  “Well, you seem to think you need a gun to even the playing field.”

  He shrugged, not taking the bait. “Expedient.”

  “Getting rid of me will make everything better?” Sarcasm probably wouldn’t improve my situation, either, but I couldn’t help myself. Looking into the pointy end of the gun, I should’ve been scared, but I was just mad.

  “Where is Jean-Charles?” Clenching my fists at my sides, I took a menacing step toward him.

  He raised the gun higher, pointing it at my head. “Stop.”

  The chances of him hitting such a small target were slim, but fresh out of original ideas, I decided to string this along a bit longer.

  Looking smug, Adone opened his arm, inviting Chantal into his embrace.

  She stepped in, allowing him to pull her close. Without shifting his gaze from me, Adone bent and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you, daughter.”

  Daughter? I hadn’t given their relationship any thought. Why, I assumed he was too young to be her father . . . perhaps because he lacked any hint of fatherly affection.

  The girl glanced up at him. “Stepfather,” she corrected, her voice holding a hard edge that caught my attention. When she saw he wasn’t looking, she gave me a stare. Placing her elbow in line with his stomach, she bent that arm and put her fisted hand in the other for leverage, then cocked her eyebrow at me.

  I gave her a subtle nod—no one would’ve noticed if they hadn’t been looking for it. Thankfully, Chantal was paying attention.

  My attention swiveled to Adone when he spoke—he hadn’t noticed my interchange with Chantal. Men, they rarely anticipated the resiliency of women.

  “That’s why I brought you here.” His voice was cold, his eyes dark slits of hate.

  “I don’t know where he . . .” Then the light dawned. “Ah, I’m to be bait.”

  Adone shrugged. “I have not been able to find him. He will come for you.”

  That made me feel both good and terrified. Adone’s tone conveyed his conviction, and his hate, so I tried a different tack, turning my attention to the girl. “Chantal, why are you doing this? You know he’s just using you. He killed Mr. Peccorino.”

  “You do not know this,” Adone mocked.

  “Oh, but I do.” I narrowed my eyes. “When you rushed into the kitchen at Cielo, you mentioned the oven had been set to broil. No one told you that.”

  Adone paused, thinking, then he shrugged. “But you will not be around to remind anyone of that.”

  I turned to the girl. “Why are you helping him? Look at what he has done.”

  Chantal gave a noncommittal head tilt, her eyes holding mine in a steady, angry gaze. “He has been kind to me,” she said without conviction.

  Adone didn’t seem to notice. His focus remained on me. His smile grew wider as he shrugged. “The girl has impeccable taste. Her mother and her uncle do not.” His face shut down into a hard mask.

  Chantal cuddled in, selling her ruse, but her face remained stern, angry, her eyes cold. Moving her outside foot slightly farther away, she subtly gained leverage, coiling herself to react—at least, that’s what I was counting on. But, a good salesman, she could be selling me . . .

  Turning my attention back to Adone, I tried to buy some time while I thought this through. We were outnumbered. Our only advantage was surprise . . . and the depth of our anger. That should even the odds.

  I swept my arm in a half-circle, focusing attention on the half-dozen men who had paused in their work and now looked at the little farce unfolding. “With all these witnesses?”

  Disinterest reigned as they turned their backs. Moving away, they got back to business. Even better.

  I knew what I had to do.

  With a quick nod, I gave Chantal her cue. Despite her slight frame, she uncoiled on Adone with the full force of a grown woman protecting her own. Her elbow hit him firmly just below the sternum. I launched myself into the fight.

  With a whoosh of breath, Adone collapsed to his knees, clutching his stomach. Chantal fell back. I stepped in like David Beckham readying a shot on goal. With as much force as I dared, I kicked Adone, my instep connecting with his jaw. It only hurt a little, okay, a lot. But Adone dropped like a stone.

  Reaching down, I grabbed Chantal’s hand, pulling her to her feet and propelling her in front of me. I swooped and grabbed the gun Adone had dropped, then limped after her. A nine-millimeter. I popped the clip as I ran. It was full. I slammed it back home, chambered a round, flicked on the safety, then stuck it in the waistband of my jeans at the small of my back.

  The girl glanced over her shoulder, questioning.

  “Into the shelving. Quickly.”

  We raced through rows of dry goods higher than our heads. Finally, I saw what I was looking for: a tight space tucked between fifty-pound bags of flour stacked at least twenty bags high. I grabbed her shirt, stopping her, then pushed her into the space. For once, she did as I said without any lip. I knelt down in front of her as she worked herself backwards, out of sight. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Adone, he has my mother. He told me he would kill me if I didn’t come get you. Had I told you, you might not have come, insisting instead to go to the police. I could not take that risk.” Her voice hitched. “I knew you would help.”

  “Where is your mother?” I wheezed, my breathing accelerated from an adrenaline overload.

  “The office.” She gestured with her chin, her eyes round saucers of hate. “Far corner in the back.”

  I pulled the gun from my waist and thumbed off the safety. “Promise. You will stay here.”

  She wavered for a moment, then gave me a curt nod. Her eyes widened when I growled, “I will dismember you if you defy me.”

  That took the last hint of defiance out of her, at least as far as I could tell.

  Crunching myself into a crouch, I eased down the row to the end. Peeking around, my heart fell.

  Adone was gone.

  Raising myself to my full height, I leaned back against the rows of boxes, my gun held in both hands chest-high, at the ready. I closed my eyes for a moment, steadying myself.

  Chantal had said the office was in the back. Adone would head there—a hostage would give him an advantage. And he h
ad a head start, so I eased my way, taking my time, keeping myself hidden.

  His raised voice stopped me halfway there, shattering the quiet and jangling my nerves. “Lucky. You cannot save them all. Not by yourself.”

  His voice came from behind me, but not close. I pivoted, my gun in front of me. Careful not to make any noise, I retraced my steps back to the end of the row, then eased my head around.

  Once again in the open, Adone faced the other way. He had Desiree. Holding her by the elbow, he kept her close to his side. Though her hands were cuffed behind her, she resisted as much as she could. The gun pressed to her temple probably took a bit of the stuffing out of her as well.

  Christ, another gun. How many did he have?

  “Show yourself,” he demanded. Slowly, he turned in a circle, scanning.

  I didn’t move. Like an anchor, Desiree hung back, forcing Adone to yank her around with each step.

  Scanning the boxes, I had an idea. Quickly, careful to make as little noise as possible, I pried a can from the container closest to me. The box ripped with an audible tear. I froze.

  Adone paused, cocking his head to listen.

  My hand closed around a can; the heft of it felt good as I tossed it a couple of inches, gauging weight, trajectory, and force. Rearing back, I threw my considerable weight behind my throw, hurling the can. Arcing over the heads of Desiree and Adone, it clattered into the shadows on the far side.

  Adone whirled toward the sound. As he did, Desiree brought the heel of her shoe down on his foot. Leaning into it, she drove the spike down into soft flesh.

  Adone yelped. His gun shifted lower, his attention drawn to Desire. But he was seconds too late.

  Desiree swung around, whipping her leg into his knees from the rear, buckling them. At a dead run, I tucked my gun back in the waistband of my jeans. Several strides, no more than three, and then I launched myself like a pro NFL safety into his back. The collision jarred my teeth. Anger kept me focused. Rolling off him, I propelled myself to my feet. With a look, I held Desiree back as Adone staggered to his feet. Before he regained his balance completely, I stepped into him. This time, I used my elbow.

  His eyes rolled back as he crumpled.

  This time, I made sure he’d be out for a while.

  I kicked his gun into the shadows.

  When I looked around again, I caught movement in the stacks on the far side. I squinted into the shadow.

  Oh, thank God! The Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock, his head on a swivel, taking stock. On his second sweep of the space, I moved just enough to catch his eye. He gave me a jaunty grin.

  The sound of voices, raised slightly to be heard above the whine of electric engines as the forklifts strained, solidified my plan. The workmen. I didn’t need them to join the fight. I pantomimed my thoughts to Jeremy. He frowned his disapproval, but knowing me well, he finally ceded defeat. With a nod, he drifted back, and the shadows swallowed him.

  Desiree stood, bent at the waist, hands on her knees, drawing deep breaths.

  Placing my hand on her back, I leaned over. “Are you okay?”

  With a growl, she raised herself, then took a kick at Adone’s inert body. She connected with his stomach. Air left him in a whoosh, but he didn’t stir.

  Grabbing her arm with both hands, I pulled her away.

  When I was sure she wouldn’t attack him again, I stepped back, taking a deep breath, steadying myself. I couldn’t shake the sense that danger lurked. Turning a full 360 degrees, I couldn’t see anything, but the frisson of fear tickled my nerve endings, telegraphing a feeling someone watched us from the shadows. Someone evil. Someone with nothing to lose. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  With a feral sound, Chantal bolted out of the shadows toward her mother.

  “No,” I shouted, and raised a hand trying to hold her back, make her stop. “There is another . . .” But I was too late.

  I felt her presence before I turned, pulling myself to my full height. I knew this foe. “Chitza. So good of you to join us.”

  I turned, then wilted. My smartass fled.

  Chitza DeStefano held Christophe in one arm, balanced on her hip. In the other, she held a gun.

  Clutching a teddy bear, the boy looked calm, disbelieving, wide-eyed, but only a bit frightened.

  With a low growl, Desiree started toward her nephew. Chitza raised the gun and narrowed her eyes.

  I grabbed Desiree, pulling her back. She and Chantal closed ranks beside me, one on each shoulder. Christophe extended his arms toward us, breaking my heart. Emotions assaulted me. Fear. Anger. My eyes got all slitty. I gave the boy a smile, and with one hand, I motioned for him to be patient.

  Chitza laughed. “Lucky, you of all people, I thought you would be a more worthy opponent. But you are like the others, so easy to manipulate.”

  “When it comes to kids and animals, people with a heart have the disadvantage.”

  “Ah, you think I am cold-hearted. You are wrong. My heart, it is big. But I believe in a life for a life.” She eyed me coldly, but she didn’t look alarmed. She glanced at Adone’s inert form crumpled on the ground.

  “Several lives,” I corrected. Needing time to think, I tried to draw her out.

  “I killed no one. But they are a fitting price for several hearts broken.” Chitza cocked her chin at me.

  “Hearts heal.” Time and healing hearts, an adage with a grain of truth, but not the whole truth. “The hurt leaves us changed, but life goes on.”

  “Not always.” Chitza took a ragged breath as she seemed to turn inward. “My mother, she died from a broken heart.” In her voice, I heard the lingering whisper of an old pain.

  “I am sorry. And I am sure Jean-Charles is sorry, too. He very nearly died as well. The boy saved him.”

  “Perhaps the boy could have saved my mother, too. But his father . . .” Chitza spat the last words. With renewed fire, she waggled the gun at me and shifted Christophe higher on her hip.

  “You were quite clever, I will admit.” With a hidden tug on the women flanking me, I pulled Desiree and Chantal closer until they pressed in tight next to me. “Knowing that eventually, the Bouclets would gather and give you an opportunity.”

  Desiree vibrated with anger. “What is she talking about?” she hissed at me out of the side of her mouth.

  I kept my left hand on her arm, holding tight. “Stay calm,” I hissed in reply. It took all the willpower I had left to move slowly, to keep my voice calm, appropriately angry. I didn’t want to admit just how long it had taken to see through her plot. “It was all there, just took me a while to see it.”

  “Really?” Chitza shifted Christophe—holding fifty pounds of unwilling boy sapped arm strength. That much I knew.

  Leaving my arms hanging at my sides, I shielded any movement with the women on either side as I talked. “Fiona came to you. She needed an entry into the high-end distribution business—she needed someone who could make the introductions necessary to get her supply chain in order. That would’ve been you.”

  “Me?” Chitza looked askance. “I’m just a middle-grade chef working my way up. Who would I know?”

  “Everyone. Through your family in Venezuela—your mother and father moved back after you left home. They aren’t just farmers, they control much of the agricultural production out of a large part of South America. You would be the perfect point man for Fiona Richards, wouldn’t you?”

  “But why would I make those introductions?” When Chitza looked at me, her eyes shone. With interest or with madness, I couldn’t tell.

  “Because you needed her.”

  She gave a derisive laugh. “For what?”

  “Revenge. That’s what we’ve been talking about, isn’t it?” Desiree glanced sideways at me. I didn’t look at her.

  “If Fiona was helping me, why would I kill her?” As Chitza’s arm tired, Christophe sagged lower, the space between their bodies growing. With the gun in the other hand and three women ready to pounce, she couldn’t r
isk lowering the gun to move Christophe.

  Time worked in my favor.

  Adone twitched, showing the first signs of coming to.

  Okay, time might be on my side, but it was running short.

  The voices of the workmen had quieted. I assumed Jeremy had something to do with that.

  “The distribution business is hard work, the relationships can take a lifetime to fully cultivate. Fiona wasn’t a hard-work kind of gal. She wanted more, and she wanted it fast, so she started taking some of the shipments, lining her own pockets.” I had Chitza’s attention, so I kept going. “Then she discovered you had started tagging all the shipments. She knew the gig was up. I don’t know how she forced your hand, or if you just convinced Adone that you needed to be rid of her—either way, the result was the same. You tried to put the blame on Jean-Charles.” I marveled at her coldness, the cool, unflustered thinking of a natural predator. “You knew you had a bit of time, as you had Mr. Peccorino doctor the chips so they couldn’t be read by a normal reader.”

  Chitza leveled her gaze. “Anything else?” she asked with murder in her tone.

  “No, other than that you killed him, too.”

  “Adone. The poor boy, I tried to stop him, you see. But he is so in love with me, he would do anything.” She seemed nonplussed.

  That wasn’t a good sign—once a person had nothing to lose, they became even more dangerous.

  “Oh, it wasn’t Adone. It was you. You drove this whole sick scheme. And just to see Jean-Charles suffer.”

  “Why would I care about Jean-Charles?” She grimaced as she shifted the boy’s weight. He was getting heavy.

  I kept my face blank, my voice calm. “You blame him for the death of your sister.”

  Chitza reared back with a sharp intake of breath. Desiree’s head swiveled in my direction. I kept my eyes on Chitza while I worked my right arm slightly behind me, using Chantal as cover.

  Desiree whirled back to Chitza. “Is this true?”