by Misty Evans
Heavy accusations. “Why hasn’t he done it already then?”
“The family is in Alfie’s blood now. He’s got a taste for the power, the killing. He wants to build his own empire, but to do so, he needs to have everything in place so those loyal to Gino and Frankie won’t resist. He needs to have an overwhelming, brutal force to stop any resistance, as well as a stronger network for supply and demand.”
Things began to slip into place. “The Suarez cartel.”
“He managed to get Frankie and the Kings to the bargaining table, mediated the deal, but Silvestre Santos knows he and his squad are part of Barone’s coup to take over. He’s promised them a lucrative part of the new business dealings, that’s the only reason Santos agreed to help. On top of that, Barone wants a working relationship with law enforcement, so they won’t stand in his way. He plans to clean up the cartels he works with, keep their run-ins with the cops minimal, and build an entirely new syndicate. He doesn’t just want LA. He wants the entire West Coast seaboard.”
A working relationship with law enforcement. Did he mean her? “Alfie knows I would never look the other way for him, no matter what.”
What about me? Her dad’s glance conveyed the question, the unsaid words hanging in the air between them like a challenge.
She let the silence engulf her, staring out at the rough surf. The waves seemed to match her emotions.
“I’m not proud of all the things I’ve done in my life,” her dad said, “but I’ve always been proud of you. I know you won’t turn a blind eye to Barone’s illegal dealings. Problem is, that puts you in more danger. When I got wind of this last month, I deliberately pulled some strings to make sure I could get out as soon as possible. I came here to help you.”
“I appreciate the heads up, but I can handle this on my own.”
He gave a dismissive grunt. “So stubborn. You need to understand, Olivia, this isn’t only between you and Alfonso Barone. He’s starting a war, and if you’re on the wrong side of it, he’ll take you out. He’s already working on getting your friend out of the way.”
“My friend? What are you talking about?”
Her phone rang before he answered, and she grabbed it, hoping it was Victor. The number was unknown, but it could be the hospital, so she answered. “Deputy Marshal Fiorelli.”
“Olivia, it’s Roman Walsh. Are you in LA?”
Why was Walsh calling her? A premonition of chills ran over her skin. “Yes.” Sort of. “What’s happened? What can I help you with?”
“I’m at the Wyndham Hotel. Do you know where it is?”
The fancy place that catered to the rich and famous? The extravagant parties held there were famous in their own right, much less the clientele who rented entire floors.
“I’m familiar with the place.”
“Can you meet me there?”
She checked the clock on the dash. The storm had cleared people from the rocky beach, and rush hour was long over. “It’ll be ten minutes or so. What’s going on?”
“I need you here as quickly as possible. I’ve got a situation, and need your backup.”
“A situation? Can you give me more details?”
Before he could answer, she heard yelling and a gunshot. “Just get here as fast as you—”
The connection went dead.
Victor encountered no trouble getting past the front desk, one of the women on duty giving him a bright smile. “Ms. Tyson is expecting you.”
She directed him to the slick, glass elevators and put her key in the penthouse slot, turning it and hitting the button. The doors closed, and as the elevator rose, he watched the large entryway disappear. Once on the top floor, the quiet was only disrupted by the sound of the TV coming from Tracee’s apartment.
Leon, the bodyguard, came to full attention when the elevator doors opened. Leon had been with Tracee for many years, going back to when Victor had been living with her. They exchanged normal pleasantries before the door swung open and Tracee stood there, eyes red, cheeks swollen. She waved him inside.
The marble tile, and the chrome and glass finishes, were the same. There were several new framed movie posters on the walls, and Tracee’s previous obsession with Asian design had been replaced with something more akin to the Greek Isles. Even the fake bamboo in the corner had been changed to a palm tree.
Her hair needed to be brushed and her fingers shook as she swept her bangs out of the way. “You’re here,” she said. “Finally.”
That had been the end of normal. He didn’t even make it to the couch when she burst out crying and ran out of the room.
“Tracee?”
A man dressed in black with a ski mask on pulled her back into the room, one arm around her neck and a gun pointed at her temple.
“What are you doing?” Tracee was near panic. “This wasn’t part of the deal!”
Victor’s hand went to his holster. Deal? Was this the stalker?
“Eh, eh, eh,” Ski Mask said. “I don’t want to kill her, but I will. Lose your weapon—easy does it—and kick it across the floor to me.”
The dead look in his eyes told Victor he had no qualms about killing Tracee, and probably would regardless of Victor’s response.
Hostage situations were the worst. “Take it easy.” Removing his gun slowly from its holster, Victor held it up by the grip and let it dangle as he lowered it to the floor and kicked it to the masked man. “What do you want?”
Tracee whimpered, Ski Mask forcing her forward so he could kick the gun away. “I finally get to meet the man in person, the one I’ve heard so much about. Tracee tells me you’re a real good guy.”
“I’m so sorry, Vic.” Tracee’s eyes pleaded with him, but was she begging for forgiveness for something else? “I had to do it.”
What exactly was it?
A dozen different scenarios played out in Victor’s mind as he tried to figure out what he’d walked into. “How did you get in here?” he asked the man. “You must work for the hotel or security agency to have access to this penthouse. Did Leon let you in?”
Ski Mask seemed to grin behind the black knit material. “I’ve got friends everywhere, kind of like you. They owe me favors. I cashed one in, and now I’m about to cash in another.”
“You’re not stalking Tracee, are you?”
“Ding, ding, ding. Give the director a gold star.”
“If you’re after me, then let Tracee go. She has nothing to do with my work.”
The man rubbed the side of his head against hers, and Tracee began crying softly. “Actually, this is about both of you. Tracee is collateral damage, true, but she brought it on herself, so you can die guilt-free about her impending death.”
Tracee made a hiccup-y scream, too soft for Leon to hear. Victor could only hope Roman was already on his way up. “Will you at least tell me who you are before you kill me? I think I deserve to know. Are you the one who shot my San Diego taskforce leader? The one who put the bomb under another agent’s car?”
Big, fat tears ran down Tracee’s cheeks. “He’s—”
Shouting came from the hallway, followed by the sound of someone kicking at the door. Ski Mask jerked Tracee backward and pointed the gun at Victor, but the distraction was enough to give him the two seconds he needed to dodge out of the way as the gun went off.
Pfft, the silencer on the end of the gun deadened the sound. A porcelain vase exploded behind Victor’s head as he dropped to the floor, using the sofa for cover.
Bam, bam, bam…the kicking continued, accompanied by more shouting. The sound of a gunshot going off on the other side made Tracee scream and then everything seemed to go in slow motion.
Another pfft from Ski Mask’s gun, the sound of a body crashing into a lamp and sending it to the floor not far from Victor’s hiding spot. As the glass shattered, he was horrified to see Tracee’s face hit the wooden floor, eyes wide but empty.
“No!”
The door exploded open, Roman running in, gun raised and ready to f
ire. A woman followed. Victor had seen her before—she was FBI.
“Stop! Homeland Secur—Aw…fuck!” Roman’s words were followed by a gunshot, wood splintering, and more swearing. He disappeared down the hallway, the plainclothes agent on his heels.
Staying low, Victor crawled toward Tracee. Her eyes stared at him for a second longer, then fluttered closed.
Glass crunched under his knees, the distant sensation of a jagged piece cutting through the fabric covering his left. He reached her and felt her neck for a pulse. Do not die on me!
Blood, thick and dark, pooled underneath her, and he visually searched for the wound, but she was laying on her belly and he couldn’t see it.
“Victor?” Roman returned a moment later, dialing his phone. “Are you all right?” He spoke to the operator before Victor could answer. “Get me an ambulance. Now!” He gave the address of the hotel.
Victor felt the slight pump of Tracee’s pulse under his fingers and rolled her over. The blood was extensive and soaked her shirt. He ripped it open and saw the wound at her lower left ribs. “She’s still alive, but barely. Tell me you got the bastard.”
Roman put his phone away. “Sorry, man, I missed the shot.”
Victor grabbed a pillow from the couch and put pressure on Tracee’s wound. “Is he still here?”
“Jumped off the bedroom balcony onto another one below—I would’ve fired at him, but there were people on it. He disappeared inside that suite. Nadia has gone after him. I already locked down the first floor. He won’t get out of the building.”
Victor kept pressure on the pillow and Tracee’s ribs, using his chin to point at a turquoise colored throw on the end of the couch. “Grab that. She’s lost a lot of blood. We need to keep her warm. She’ll go into shock before the ambulance arrives.”
Roman scooped it up and snapped it out to lay over her. “I tried to get here sooner, but I ran into some issues—two Suarez Kings took up residence outside the entrance right after you set foot inside. I had to take care of them before I could get up here.”
“What the hell were they doing?”
“Backing up our mystery man, I assume. I missed some of your conversation with him due to the flying bullets. Did you get any information?”
“It wasn’t so much what he said, but what she did.” He looked down at Tracee. From the street, he heard the approach of sirens. “She said, ‘this wasn’t the deal.’ What the hell does that mean?”
Roman sighed heavily. “That she was working with him to get you here?”
“Yeah, I sort of guessed that. This guy was no member of the Kings, though.”
“Mafia?”
Victor’s head felt like it was going to explode just like Tracee’s door, now barely hanging on its hinges. “He was definitely after me, and planned to kill her too. She must’ve known who he was. He could be our shooter from the park.”
“Why does he have a boner for you?”
Olivia suddenly rushed in, her eyes scanning the destruction when she pulled up short. “Oh my God, Victor.” She rushed to his side, dropping next to him as she surveyed the blood and Tracee’s limp body. “I got here as fast as I could. What the hell happened?”
How had she known he was here? “I came to investigate the stalker and ended up getting Tracee shot.”
“Nope,” Roman argued. “This whole situation is on me. My backup plan failed.”
“The stalker shot her?” Olivia asked.
“Coming through,” a man yelled and two EMTs entered with a gurney and med kit. Olivia drew Victor away as Roman filled them in on what happened and they went to work.
The two of them stepped into the large kitchen. Unless Tracee had changed her ways, Victor knew she’d never used it. Outside of making popcorn and pouring herself a glass of wine, she had everything delivered or went out. He rubbed his forehead. “This wasn’t a stalker,” he told Olivia. “I think this guy is tied in with the Fifty-seven Gang.”
Her jaw dropped. “This was a mob hit?”
“Yeah, it was, but unless I can talk to Tracee or we catch this asshole, I have no proof.”
She dug out her phone and held up a picture. “Maybe this will help.”
He stared at it, not quite understanding. “You’re going to have to walk me through this one. What am I looking at?”
“This woman met Alfie in an alley the other night. I think she was buying drugs from him, and he was blackmailing her.”
The obvious answer teased at him, but he didn’t want to believe it. “You don’t know that’s her.”
Olivia pressed her lips into a thin line and swiped at a couple more photos. “It’s not definitive evidence but look at these shoes.”
It was the picture the paparazzi had taken of him and Tracee at the hospital. She wore a pair of purple high heels. They resembled the shoes the woman in the first photo wore. “Go back to the other picture.”
And yup, there it was. The woman in the hood heading into the alley was wearing the same shoes. “Tracee was mixed up with Alfie?”
Roman’s FBI agent walked in, looking equal parts pissed and frustrated. “We can’t find him,” she said. “It’s like he disappeared into thin air.”
“Nadia Fernandez meet Victor Dupé and Olivia Fiorelli.” Roman motioned between them. “Guys, this is Nadia Fernandez, FBI. She’s one of the best.”
I’ve got friends everywhere, kind of like you. The words rang in Victor’s mind. They owe me favors. “I believe our hitman is Alfonso Barone, and he had an escape plan that involved someone inside this hotel helping him. We need to interview everyone, employees and guests, and figure out who did it, and if this guy was indeed him.”
Nadia snapped to attention. “I’m on it.”
“Get Polly and the others here to help,” Roman called after her. “I’m going to talk to hotel security.”
Olivia dialed her phone. “I’m calling Alfie. We have a system, a code. I don’t expect him to call me back, but let’s try it anyway.”
The EMTs hoisted Tracee onto the gurney and began wheeling her toward the door.
“Is she going to make it?” Victor asked.
One of them gave him a doubtful look. “We need to get her to the hospital, stat.”
That was all the answer he was going to get, and it was enough. She was in critical condition.
He turned to Olivia. “I want Alfonso Barone’s head on a platter, and I want it now. You know where he lives, right?”
Her throat constricted as she swallowed hard. “Yes, but…”
“You can’t possibly still want to protect him after this.”
“Of course not.” She looked hurt he would suggest such a thing. “I have no problem going after Alfie. It’s not that.”
He put his hands on his waist, frustration burning in his belly. “Then what the hell is it?”
“It’s me,” a voice said from the doorway.
Victor glanced over to see an older man rocking back on his heels while scanning the disaster in the room.
“Who is that?” Victor asked.
Olivia released an audible sigh. “That,” she said, “is my father.”
15
Once again, Olivia found herself at the hospital with Victor. Tracee was in surgery, the shooter still on the lam. Various law enforcement agencies were claiming territory rights to the crime scene while Tracee fought for her life and Victor burned with guilt.
He paced the waiting room, speaking to different people on his phone. His boss in DC, members of the SCVC Taskforce, Roman, and agents who worked with him in the FBI. He’d already spoken to Tracee’s manager, agent, publicists, and a whole bunch of other people. Surely, he’d be hoarse soon.
They had all these pieces to the puzzle, but none connected the dots enough to get an arrest warrant for Alfie, who was in the wind anyway, it seemed. He’d not returned her call and it appeared no one was at his house. All they had was inconclusive evidence.
On top of that, she was harboring a fugitive
and trying to deal with her feelings about her father who sat next to her in the waiting room reading a Popular Mechanics magazine as if this was a normal occurrence.
“Did you even stop and visit mom?” she murmured under her breath.
He cut his eyes to her for a second before going back to the magazine. “Don’t be a smartass. Of course, and she said you haven’t called in weeks. What’s up with that?”
“All she wants to talk about is my love life, or lack thereof. Can you blame me for not wanting to call her on a daily basis?”
“She’s your mother. She worries.”
Story of my life. “Why are you both so worried about me? I’m a trained federal agent who is quite capable of taking care of herself.”
He made that condescending noise in the back of his throat and turned the page. “You’re thirty years old and haven’t had a serious relationship since God knows when. You call that taking care of yourself?”
“I just turned twenty-nine!” She wanted to toss her hands in the air, but tamped down her emotions instead. “I don’t need a man to take care of me, and my age has nothing to do with it. And, by the way, the reason I haven’t had a serious relationship is because of you.”
“Sure, blame it on your old man.” He flipped another page. “Your dysfunctional relationships are not because of me, and you should stop blaming others and take responsibility like a true adult.”
