by Lucy Quinn
“Of course.” Scarlet grinned at her. “Now let’s go kick some ass and get your mom back, okay?”
Walking down the hill with her three friends, Cookie actually felt a spark of hope.
Those smugglers wouldn’t know what hit them.
20
“You sure about this?” Hunter asked as they slowed to a stop a block from the Tea Tripper shop. Dylan had dropped them off and was on his way to the dock behind the shop, where Scarlet would stay at Dylan’s boat as promised, so it was just the two of them. “It’s not too late to call in the cavalry,” he pointed out carefully, like someone trying to defuse a bomb without instructions, feeling every inch as carefully as possible. “Sheriff Watkins could be here in minutes.”
Cookie snorted at that. “Yeah, great,” she replied, “and what would that bring to the table exactly? A grandma with a shotgun and one, maybe two deputies who’ve probably never even had to draw down on a real live person, let alone been in a gunfight?” She shook her head. “Better to leave this to the professionals.” Even if I’m not one anymore, she thought but refused to say aloud.
“Well, what about the Bureau, then?” Hunter offered. “If I told Spinner what was going on, he’d have a team in the air in a half hour, tops.” Spinner had been their boss back in Philly, and was still Hunter’s direct superior.
Cookie said, “No. We don’t have that kind of time.
Hunter sighed, resigned. “At least let me go in first,” he said instead. “Draw their fire, take a few of them out.” Cookie didn’t like the fact that he was already assuming it would come to bloodshed, but she couldn’t blame him. In a situation like this, against people like this, they had to prepare for the worst. Except the absolute worst would be that they’d already killed their supposed hostage, and Cookie wasn’t willing to even entertain that notion yet.
She also wasn’t willing to let her former partner get killed… not if she had anything to say about it. Which is why she replied, “It has to be me, remember? You show up in my place, and they’ll start shooting before you can get a word in. I can talk them up a bit, stall, look around, give you and Dylan a chance to get into position.” She grinned as the familiar rush of adrenaline fueled her confidence. “Then we cut them down.”
“Fine,” he agreed, clearly not happy but unable to come up with a better plan. “You ready?”
Cookie pulled out her cell phone and texted Dylan that she was about to go in. Then she called Hunter’s phone, waited until he’d picked up, and then slid the phone back into her pocket, the call still active. Being able to hear what was going on would give him a little extra edge. She hoped. “Ready.”
He reached out and tugged her into a quick hug. “Don’t get dead.” he said, locking eyes with her.
She smiled at that. “You either.” It was what they’d always told each other right before a bust. They bumped fists, and then Cookie turned and walked toward the tea shop. Hunter hung back in case anyone was watching. She knew he’d set his watch to count down five minutes, and that he’d loiter for those minutes trying to look innocuous while staying close enough to barge in when the time was up.
She didn’t look back. There wasn’t any point. Either they’d both make it through this, one of them would, or neither of them would. But hesitating now could be the deciding factor, and not in a good way. She just had to see it through.
When she pushed the front door open, the wind chimes were just as cheerful sounding as they’d been the other day. But the sign on the door had been turned to Closed, and there weren’t any noises inside the shop. “Hello?” she called out as she entered.
“Over here,” a man replied.
Cookie followed the sound of his voice through the cluttered aisles to the sales counter. She frowned as she approached, studying the man. He was a dozen or more years her senior, with rust-colored hair and beard, wearing jeans and a flannel work shirt over a T-shirt. He looked familiar.
“I know you, don’t I?” she asked. He glanced away, embarrassed, and it was that look of shame and guilt that jogged her memory. “You’re the guy from the shed!” she burst out. She recalled the conversation with Rain and Winter right here just the day before. “Anthony.”
He squirmed under her scrutiny. “Yeah, look,” he started, but Cookie cut him off.
“Where is she?” she demanded. “Where’s my mother?”
He still couldn’t meet her eyes. “I—I’m really sorry about all this,” he finally managed to spit out. “I mean, everything, this whole thing… it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was just to make a little extra cash. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.”
“Yeah? Tell that to Jimmy Calder,” Cookie snapped, not about to let him off the hook. “Or my mother. Now. Where. Is. She?”
“She’s in the kitchen,” Anthony answered sheepishly, staring down at his feet. “Back there.” He jerked his head toward the beaded curtain that separated the storefront from the café.
Cookie stomped past him without another word. She couldn’t see Anthony putting up much of a fight against Hunter. But a small, vicious part of her hoped he would, just so he could get the beatdown he clearly deserved.
The café was empty except for two big, burly guys sitting at the centermost table. They had a plate of cookies between them, mugs of what was probably coffee, and they each had a pistol sitting out on the table in easy reach. Neither of them grabbed for their weapon when she entered, but she caught the faint twitch as they each considered it, shifting just a little so they could face her but still be able to grab and shoot in a heartbeat.
These guys really were good.
“Where are the drugs?” one of them demanded. His eyes zeroed in on the duffle bag she had slung over her shoulder, but Cookie clutched the straps to her.
“Where’s my mother?” she replied, staring them down.
For a second she thought the men would insist on seeing the drugs first, but finally the one who’d spoke shrugged. “In the pantry,” he answered, nodding at another beaded curtain, this one set in the side wall near the corner. Neither he nor his companion did anything to stop her when she headed in that direction. Their complacency confirmed her first impression—these were the foot soldiers, not the bosses. He, or she, would presumably be waiting inside.
The kitchen was small but professionally outfitted, and surprisingly tidy for Winter. It had built-in cabinets along the two walls on either side, with a door and a window taking up most of the back.
Two large, well-built men leaned against the center island. Their eyes locked on Cookie the minute she came into view. They’d clearly been waiting for her. Like the men outside, their movements were precise and efficient, like they’d had military training. They both wore dark clothing and sunglasses, and the one on the left was actually in a silk suit. He has to be the boss, Cookie thought.
Two guns lay on the island in front of them along with an almost-empty tray of pastries. Cookie had a brief flash of hope that the baked goods might be similar to her mother’s brownies. Dealing with a bunch of stoned-out-of-their-gourds drug runners would be a whole hell of a lot easier than facing ones who were stone-cold sober. Unfortunately, the men didn’t seem any the worse for wear. Pity.
“Where are my drugs?” the one in the suit asked once Cookie stopped just out of his reach. His gaze flicked to the bag but then back to Cookie’s face, which meant he was well-trained enough not to let himself get distracted. Damn.
“Where’s my mother?” she answered. “She’d better not be hurt.”
The two men laughed at that. “No, but a few of my guys have some nasty bruises on account of her,” the smuggler replied. “She’s a fighter, your ma.” He grinned like that was funny or a high compliment. To him it was probably both.
Cookie didn’t budge or reply, and after a second the smuggler sighed. At his nod, his companion got up, walked around the island, and headed for the door just to the side of Cookie. She moved out into the kitchen proper, pivoting as she did so sh
e could still keep Mr. Smuggler in sight as his henchman pulled the door open.
The narrow, dark pantry was filled with tall, industrial-style shelves. Tied to the nearest shelf were two women who continued to struggle against their ropes, freezing only when they noticed their new audience.
One of the women was Winter. That made sense, and Cookie wished she’d thought of that. Of course Winter would be here. It was the middle of the day. And since the smugglers obviously knew about her connection to Rain, they must have realized she would make an excellent second hostage.
The other woman was Rain. She was wearing only a towel, and there was duct tape covering her mouth, proof that she’d continued her lifelong trend of never knowing when to shut up. She looked scared but also furious, and her eyes went wide when she caught a glimpse of Cookie.
Then the man shut the pantry door again.
“Now,” his boss said quietly and far too calmly for Cookie’s liking. “Are we ready to do business?”
21
“Fine.” Cookie unslung the bag from her shoulder and tossed it so it landed right at his feet. “There are your drugs. Now let them go.”
He didn’t lean down, which was what she’d hoped. Instead he nudged the bag open with his foot just enough so that he could see the packages within. After a second, he nodded.
“Good,” he said, glancing back up at Cookie. “That is an excellent start. Now where’s the rest?”
She frowned at him. “What ‘rest’?” she asked. “That’s all I have. That’s what was in the lobster trap, every kilo of it. I didn’t even open the packages.” Which was true. She hadn’t needed to because she’d known what they contained.
His frown matched her own, but she suspected it looked a whole lot more menacing than hers. “Do not play games,” he warned. “I want the rest of my supply. Then you can have your mother and her friend back.” He smiled, showing way too many teeth for it to be friendly. “If you act quickly, they may even be unharmed. Mostly.” His sidekick laughed at that, a short, ugly bark that suggested he would enjoy hurting the two women far too much for it to be merely business.
Cookie spread her hands. “No games,” she promised. “I don’t have anything else. Just what I found in the lobster trap.”
Mr. Smuggler banged his fist down on the table, causing the cookie tray to jump. “Enough! Calder set up a dozen drop points for us. This was one. I want the rest. You will bring them to me. Now.”
“I don’t have even a trace of a clue what you’re jabbering about,” Cookie insisted, but she had a sinking sensation in her gut that she was actually lying. She flashed back to the map Hunter had found on Calder’s desk, the one that showed a bunch of marked spots in the waters around them. She’d already guessed that those were Jimmy’s lobster trap locations, and if he was using all of his traps to smuggle drugs, each one of those was a potential drug haul. It sounded like she’d been right. Jimmy had taken a full shipment right before he died. But clearly he hadn’t told this guy where each one was placed. He must have farmed out the locations to each intended recipient, one apiece, so he was the only one who knew all of them. Smart. Except now Jimmy was dead and this guy wanted all of his drugs back at once, rather than waiting for each of the designated dealers to find and collect theirs.
And she had a photo of the map with all those locations marked saved on her phone, right there in her pocket. Her first instinct was to confess, to hand over the phone and the photo, collect Rain and Winter, and be done with it. But the part of her that had been FBI knew better. This guy was moving a large quantity of drugs, more than enough to mean a heavy prison sentence if he got caught. Plus, he was working in a business that often resulted in death or torture or both. And he’d already demonstrated that he had no problem kidnapping innocents, or killing people and chopping up their bodies. She knew he wasn’t about to let three witnesses walk out of there alive.
The minute she told him where to find the rest of his drugs, she was dead, and Rain and Winter would be too. Which meant the only thing she could do now was stall for time and hope Dylan and Hunter could take out his men before any innocent people died.
In situations like this, reality blurred and the concept of time seemed to ceased to exist. She felt as if it had been hours since she’d walked in the door, even though she knew it couldn’t be more than five minutes. But she had no idea where she was in that countdown.
All she could do was be ready for whenever it hit zero. “Look—” she started, but a sudden banging interrupted her. Only it wasn’t coming from outside, or the front room. It was coming from the pantry.
As Cookie turned to stare at the pantry door, there was more banging, some muffled screams and shouts, and then a loud crash. She jumped. So did the two men, both of them reflexively grabbing for their guns.
A loud gunshot sounded from outside, somewhere beyond the back door. At the same time, the front door slammed open, and a second later Cookie heard shouting, more shooting, and then the heavy thud of bodies hitting the floor.
The cavalry had arrived.
Relieved, but knowing better than to let her own guard down, she turned her attention back to the two men sharing the kitchen with her. Mr. Smuggler leaned down to snatch the bag off the floor and tossed it onto his shoulder—the shoulder of his empty hand, she noted with a pang of dismay. At the same time, he gestured toward her with his gun.
“You,” he declared, “are coming with us.”
His henchman advanced on her, gun in one hand, the other outstretched to grab her by the arm, a nasty grin spreading across his wide features.
Just then the back door slammed open and Dylan came charging into the room. He collided with Mr. Smuggler before he could turn and raise his gun, and the two of them hit the floor so hard that Cookie felt the vibration under her feet. Luckily, the drug dealer took the brunt of the impact.
The henchman stopped and twisted around, clearly trying to decide if he should continue going after Cookie or help his boss.
Cookie solved that dilemma by kicking him in the crotch as hard as she could. He doubled over, his gun clattering to the floor as he clutched at his privates, howling in pain. Hunter was there in a flash and punched the guy in the jaw, temporarily ending his pain by knocking him unconscious.
“You okay?” he asked her, breathing heavily. He had his gun out and looked like he’d been in a fight, but he didn’t appear to be harmed.
“I’m fine,” Cookie assured both him and Dylan, who had now risen to his feet as well. Mr. Smuggler was still on the ground, out cold, and Dylan appeared uninjured. Now that Cookie had reassured herself about the two of them, her thoughts flew to the loud noises that had echoed from the pantry. “Mom!” she cried, darting for the door.
She yanked it open, and then froze, staring at the sight within. Two chalk-white figures lay on the floor, blinking up at her amid a pile of wrecked shelving, canisters, boxes, and other cooking paraphernalia. Both of them made muted gasping sounds when they saw her.
“Are you okay?” Cookie asked, bending down to free them. Jars, bottles, and boxes lay everywhere, and she had to be careful not to kneel on any of the scattered broken glass. She could already see what must have happened. After the henchman had closed the door on them, Rain and Winter must have started trying to break free again. Instead, their efforts had apparently pulled the entire shelf over, dumping all of its contents on them and the floor around them. That had included a large, open bag of flour—hence the whiteout. They didn’t look hurt, though, just a bit stunned.
When Cookie finally managed to free Rain’s hands, her mother sat up without any problem, wiping flour off her face. As Cookie turned to help Winter, her mother yanked the duct tape from her own mouth.
Then she screamed.
At first Cookie thought it was just a reaction to the pain, until Rain gasped out, “Cookie, look out!”
Spinning while still in a crouch, Cookie found herself staring at Mr. Smuggler. He’d apparently recovered enoug
h to grab his gun again.
And he had it pointed straight at her.
22
Time seemed to slow down.
“No!” Cookie heard Hunter shout. But he was too far away to do anything. So was Dylan. There wasn’t anyone between her and the drug smuggler.
Fortunately, Cookie wasn’t the type of girl who needed anyone’s protection. She reached out, snagging the closest fallen item, realizing only after the fact that it was a jar of homemade preserves, and hurled it at the drug boss’s head, fastball-style.
When she’d been a kid, Cookie had been on the neighborhood softball team. She’d been a backup pitcher, and a pinch hitter. The reason she hadn’t been the team’s main pitcher? She had a tendency to throw at the batters, rather than over the plate.
Apparently she hadn’t lost her skill, because the jar flew through the air, slamming full-force into the man’s head with a loud crack. He jerked from the impact, his aim going wide as he collapsed on the floor. But his finger still squeezed the trigger, and the echo of the gunshot in the small kitchen was deafening.
Through the noise, Cookie heard a second sound of glass exploding, and felt something splash across her lower torso. Glancing down, she saw that a large, dark red splotch now covered most of her stomach. The overwhelming aroma of raspberries assailed her.
“Charlie!” Hunter threw himself at her, sinking to his knees and grabbing her shoulders. “Hang on!”
“Hang on?” she frowned at him, her brain still catching up with events as her perception of time once again returned to normal. Then she registered his wide eyes and panicked expression and realized what was going on. “Oh! No, I’m fine.” She lifted her shirt to show the undamaged skin beneath. “See? It’s jam. Raspberry. Raspberry jam.”
“What?” For half a second he frowned at her, as if she’d pulled some really mean joke on him. Then his face cleared. And the next thing Cookie knew, she was in his arms.
