ONE LAST CHANCE

by Justine Davis

  Somehow Quisto had become a sort of comfort for her. She told herself that anyone with a family like his couldn't be involved in anything unsavory. Besides, Chance had promised her he wasn't into anything like that, and she believed him. He was only secretive because of whatever kind of work he did for his ever-absent landlord.

  And in the end, she thought, it didn't really matter. She loved him. That was the beginning and the end and everything in the middle. Nothing else mattered. She trusted him, and that was the bottom line.

  Reassured once more, even as she was aware on some deeper level of her mind that she shouldn't have to be reassuring herself at all, she picked up the top sheet of music and went back to work.

  * * *

  Chance stared at the two new additions to the list. De Cortez picked his partners carefully—each one a stellar name in the world of shady money, each one marvelously clean of convictions despite numerous investigations. And each one of them had arrived in Marina del Mar in the four days since Thanksgiving. Spending, no doubt, "gray" money from whatever other laundering sources they had while they inspected their new one.

  "They're busy playing tourist," Quisto said, "going everywhere—by limo, of course—but never at the same time. It's like the whole thing was choreographed so they'd never be seen in the same place at the same time. They're pros all right."

  "But what are they waiting for?" Lieutenant Morgan asked. "The sixth man?"

  Chance nodded. "That's my guess. Six companies on the shareholders list, five men here."

  "That bothers me. Why not all in at once, look things over, and a quick out? Fast and smooth?"

  Chance looked up from the list. "The tourist ploy, maybe. Easier to claim innocence if a couple of thousand people saw you at the local zoo."

  Chance saw Quisto's eyes flick to the much-chastened face of Agent Eaton, who sat in one corner of the room. Because he had set it up, he had been allowed to stay on to complete this operation, but he'd been told to stay out of the way, and been informed he would be recalled to Washington immediately afterward for a "reassessment of his status." All of which did nothing to ease his antipathy toward Chance, who did his best to ignore the man.

  It wasn't hard. It was all he could do to concentrate on the essentials right now. Things were starting to tumble, and he was deathly afraid he and Shea were going to be the first casualties. She had trusted him, sometimes blindly, and only he knew how misplaced that trust was. What he had to do was going to destroy it completely; he could only hope it didn't destroy her.

  He knew she was feeling the strain as much as he was. He saw it in her eyes when she looked at him, wondering, wanting to ask but knowing he wouldn't tell her. He felt it in her touch, when she would reach out to just put her hand on his arm, as if she were afraid he was disappearing before her eyes and she had to reassure herself he was still there.

  But most of all he could sense it when he turned to her at night, could feel it in the eagerness of her kiss as he woke her in the darkness, could see it in the haunted shadows of her eyes as he made fierce, desperate love to her. He knew it, and it was killing him.

  "You gonna make it, man?"

  Chance snapped back to the present to find the room empty of everyone except Quisto. He started to assure him he was fine, but something in the dark eyes made him give him the truth instead.

  "I don't know," he said hoarsely. "I'm hanging on by a thread. And the hell of it is, I'm the one who's got to cut it."

  Quisto's hand came down on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. "Maybe … maybe it'll work out—"

  "Don't. I can't believe in fantasies anymore. She's going to hate me, and have every right to."

  "And what will you do?" Quisto asked softly.

  Blow my brains out. His eyes flashed to Quisto's face. He thought he'd said it out loud, but one look at his partner's face told him he hadn't.

  "I don't know," he said instead.

  That night he made love to Shea for hours in the carved carriage bed of her apartment, sending her on that rapturous flight time and again before he at last sought his own release. She looked at him through pleasure-drugged eyes as if she knew something was dreadfully wrong, as if she knew how close he was to the breaking point, but she was, as he had wanted, too exhausted to ask questions he couldn't answer.

  She slept peacefully in his arms as he lay awake most of the night, watching her, saving up the memories against the time he would no longer have the reality. He'd accepted that, although he hadn't let the pain in yet. Soon there would be room for nothing else.

  In the morning he waited as long as he could, then eased out of bed and dressed. He went to the cozy living room and picked up the phone. He stared at the picture of the lake, knowing that this was as close as he would ever get to the white Christmas she'd promised him.

  Resolutely, his eyes flat and emotionless, he called in as he always did when he spent the night here, out of touch. Quisto answered on the first ring.

  "Romero."

  "It's me."

  "I was about to page you. The sixth man just got here."

  "I'll be there in fifteen."

  So this is it, he thought as he hung up. The fuse was lit, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do except wait for the explosion. Maybe you'll get lucky, Buckner, maybe it'll go down twisted. They'll start shooting and you can manage to get yourself killed. It'd be easier.

  He let out a weary sigh. He'd have to get his gun out of the glove compartment—

  "Chance? You have to go?"

  He turned around to look at her, his heart hammering so hard in his chest he thought she must be able to hear it. She stood in the doorway of the living room, looking at him sleepily, her mouth still swollen from his kisses, the glint of a totally satisfied female still in the gray eyes. She had on the sweater that drove him to distraction, and it bared one shoulder beneath the mane of hair he'd buried his fingers in so many times last night. The soft sweater was barely long enough to cover the delicious curve of her buttocks, and showed the length of gently molded, sleek legs easily.

  Gradually she became aware that he was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before—or thought he would never see her again. She came across the room to him.

  "Chance, what's wrong?"

  He pulled her hard against him and buried his face in the dark silk of her hair.

  "Shea. Oh, God, Shea."

  She pulled back to look up at him, frightened by the desperation in his voice. "Chance, please! Tell me what's wrong! Tell me what I can do!"

  "You can remember," he said fiercely. "Remember I love you, more than I've ever loved anyone or anything. Remember that, Shea, no matter what."

  And then he was gone, leaving Shea sinking down on the couch in a rising cloud of apprehension.

  * * *

  "We've got men at each hotel, one of ours with one of—" Morgan barely glanced at Eaton "—his. Teams are in place at the club and the house. We've got a mobile team standing by if the meet is set up for somewhere else."

  "I still think we should have bugged the cars." It was the first thing Eaton had said in days.

  "Too risky," Morgan said. "They spot them, and the whole thing is blown. The only reason this has worked so far is because they think they're clean."

  "Yeah," Quisto said. "They think we're some little resort-town police department who can't handle anything this size. Probably why de Cortez decided to come here."

  "They would have been right if Chance hadn't spotted that pattern," Morgan said, eyeing the detective in question warily. Anyone could see he was on the edge; Morgan only hoped Chance could hold it together long enough.

  "I've notified FINCEN," Morgan went on, "but I doubt if they'll be able to help us much at this point."

  Chance heard him but didn't react. He'd known the new federal task force had to be notified of any suspected laundering setups, but he also knew that, even with their computer capability of tracking electronic movement of funds, the Financial Crimes Enfo
rcement Network couldn't come up with anything quickly enough. This was unraveling too fast.

  "Since we don't know yet when or where the meeting is to be, we'll have to—" Morgan broke off as the phone rang. Quisto picked it up and he went on.

  "We'll have to be ready for any possibility, including that it may be somewhere out of our jurisdiction. We will have to notify the local agency of course, but—"

  "It's today."

  All eyes swiveled to Quisto as he quietly replaced the phone receiver.

  "Every stakeout reported in that the primaries are moving. Each one called for his car within five minutes of the others."

  "Then we're on." Morgan turned back to talk to Eaton, and Quisto walked over to sit beside Chance, staring at his impassive face.

  "I don't know if it matters anymore," Quisto finally said as he pulled out a piece of paper, "but here are those flight records you wanted."

  Chance took it, stared at it without really seeing it.

  "And those juvenile arrest records you wanted," Quisto added, picking up a folder that had been sitting off to one side. "All prior arrests on both of them are there. Records was pretty thorough for a change." Quisto paused. "I … I checked the names. I think I know now why you…"

  His voice trailed off when Chance didn't answer, but just stared at the folder. Then Chance opened it idly, his numbed brain trying to remember why this had once seemed so important. He lifted a page as if reading it, more to keep Quisto from asking things he had no answers for than because he expected to find anything.

  The name leaped out at him, jarring blunted synapses into action. He sat up in the chair, reached for the piece of paper Quisto had given him and looked at the dates again. Forgetting to breathe, he dug through the pile of reports, pulling out the two he'd fastened together, staring at the dates. And then he dropped back in the chair, shivering under the force of the unexpected, unwanted revelation.

  "Chance? What the hell's wrong?"

  Morgan added his query to Quisto's. "Something we should know?"

  "No," Chance answered softly. "It's nothing that matters right now."

  Quisto opened his mouth and shut it again as the phone rang once more. The lieutenant answered it, listened, then hung up without a word. When he turned back to them, his eyes were on Chance.

  "It's at the club. They're all headed there, and de Cortez just put up a Closed sign for tonight. 'Private party,' it says."

  Chance went pale beneath his tan. Quisto snorted. "I'll bet it's a private party."

  "My office, Chance."

  Chance followed Morgan numbly, terrified at the thought of Shea being in the middle of this. It had never occurred to him that de Cortez would be arrogant enough to do it on his home ground, but now that it was happening, he realized he should have known. It fit perfectly with the man's mentality.

  "We haven't got time for discussion on this, Chance. We've got to move fast or we'll lose it all. So I have only one question, and I need a straight answer, emotions aside." Chance nodded, not at all sure what was coming.

  "Is she involved?"

  His answer was unhesitating and definite. "No."

  "If you're wrong—"

  "If I'm wrong, you won't have to ask for my badge. I'll give it to you."

  Morgan glanced at his watch. "Twenty minutes, Chance. That's all I can give you."

  Chance stared at his boss.

  "This could go to hell on us. Go get her out of there. But if you can't, you get out, because we'll have to come in anyway."

  Chance didn't waste time on thanks; he realized Jim Morgan knew him well enough to see it in his face. He barreled out the door, barely aware that the man he brushed roughly out of the way was Eaton. In his haste it didn't occur to him to wonder what the man was doing there, hovering near the open door. The only thing on his mind was getting to Shea. No matter how she would feel about him later, right now he had to get her out of a possible line of fire. She would hate him, but he didn't care, not as long as she was alive to do it.

  * * *

  The door in from the alley was locked, but he'd expected that. De Cortez would have every entrance and exit locked or guarded. It took him a moment to disconnect the alarm without tripping it, but mere seconds to get the door open.

  The hallway was deserted, but he could hear voices from the main room. He crept down the darkened passage in a crouch, risking only a glance into the room apparently being set up for the meeting. Even if he got caught, he figured he still had a good chance of bluffing his way out. They thought he was only Shea's slightly crazy boyfriend. And at the moment, he wished to hell they were right.

  She whirled around the moment he opened the door, happiness sparkling in her eyes when she saw him.

  "Chance! How did you know I was trying to reach you? I was going to tell you I was going to be singing for Paul's party, but that we could—"

  "Shea, let's go."

  "Go? Where?"

  "It doesn't matter. But we've got to go now." Her brows furrowed. "I can't leave. Paul—"

  "To hell with Paul!" She stopped, staring. "Now."

  "But—"

  "No questions. And no telling anybody."

  He had grabbed her arm tightly, too tightly. She cried out and pulled it free, backing away as she stared at him.

  "What is wrong with you?" All the fears and worry of the past few days were in her voice and face. "For God's sake, Chance, tell me! What you said this morning—"

  "We don't have time, damn it!"

  "Well, you'd better find time! I can't stand this secrecy anymore, Chance! If you don't trust me—"

  "Shea, please! We'll talk about this later—"

  "It's always later, and later never comes! You scare me to death when you're like this, and lately that's been all the time. I'm not going—"

  "You are." He glanced at his watch; he was down to seven minutes. "Now. We don't have time to argue."

  She stared at him. This was a Chance she'd never seen—cold, ordering, intimidating. She backed up another step.

  "No," she whispered. "Not when you're like this." He swore harshly and grabbed her. With an unexpected burst of strength she wriggled out of his grasp.

  "God, Shea, you don't understand—"

  "You're right, I don't. I don't understand why you're acting like this, I don't understand who you've turned into."

  It was over. He knew it, and as they had before when the burden was too much, his emotions shut down. He stood back from her, raised dull, dead eyes to her face and fired the fatal round at her.

  "I'm a cop."

  The delicate brows furrowed even as the gray eyes widened in confusion. "What?"

  "I'm a cop. So is Quisto. You've got to get out because they're about to take down your brother."

  Confusion changed to bewilderment. "What has Paul got to do with anything?"

  "He was a drug dealer in Miami, and he's cleaning dirty money here. That's why the club's closed, and why they're setting up for a meeting here."

  "That's crazy! It's just a private party! Paul would never do anything—"

  "Paolo Mendez would do anything. He's dealt drugs, ordered murders, and now he's expanded into laundering money. That's what this whole operation is set up for."

  "No," she whispered, but his use of Paul's old name had shaken her. "No, he wouldn't."

  He glanced at his watch again; they had less than five minutes now. He reached for her again.

  "I'll show you all the proof you want," he said wearily, "but now we've got to get out of here before all hell breaks loose."

  In a state of shock, Shea let him pull her a few steps, but before they reached the door it burst open with a resounding crack.

  "Well, well," Paul de Cortez sneered, "if it isn't my sweet little sister and her charming boyfriend."

  "Paul," Shea cried, "tell him—"

  "I'll tell him nothing!" de Cortez spat out. "I don't talk to cops!"

  Chance tensed, but Shea was too close, he didn't da
re risk it. And then the bookends were there, each carrying Uzis close to their bodies, stocks collapsed for use as a pistol. He didn't know how they'd made him, but it didn't really matter now, not with a combined sixty-four rounds of 9 mm ammunition staring him in the face.

  "You knew!" de Cortez snarled; he'd been watching Shea's face. "You knew he was a cop!"

  Shea didn't bother to say she'd only now found out, she just stared at her brother.

  "You brought him in here, and you knew he was a cop!" He took a step toward her, hand raised to deliver a blow. Chance reacted without thought for the deadly weapons trained on him; he launched himself at de Cortez. They went careening to the floor. Chance rolled, taking them both purposely up against the sofa. He heard de Cortez's grunt of pain as he jammed him against it.

  He came up over the struggling man, digging his knee into soft belly to drive out air. With one hand he made a grab for his ankle holster. He didn't want any shooting, not with Shea in the room, but his only hope to control the bookends was to get the drop on their boss.

  He felt the smooth wood of the grips under his fingertips, but de Cortez was still struggling as the bookends tried to get a clear shot. Then he had it, the little two-inch revolver sliding into his hand as he tugged it free of the holster.

  He never got the chance to use it. Searing pain ripped up his arm as one of the bookends took his hand full force with a well-aimed kick. The little gun went clattering off into a corner. It was the last thing he heard before a bright white light ripped through his head, pain rang in his ears, and he slumped to all fours. That blow was followed by others, feet and fists, raining down on him until he couldn't stop the gasp of pain that ripped from him. He heard Shea screaming, but he couldn't understand what. Then the sound condensed into words.

  "Stop it, Paul! What are you doing? Have you gone crazy?"

  "Shut up, you stupid little bitch! You bring a cop in here, endanger my entire operation, and you think I'll listen to you?" He turned to the bookends. "Tie him up."

  Mercifully the blows stopped, but as he shook his head to clear the mists of pain, Chance felt his hands yanked behind him and tied with something that felt absurdly silky. A scarf, he thought, then wondered why he cared when he was obviously in much deeper trouble. Slowly he lifted his head and sat back on his heels, barely aware of his shirt hanging torn and bloody, and the screaming of his battered body.