by Juno Rushdan
It was a wonder he hadn’t had a stroke.
Edgar had had a gambling problem and been in the hole up to his eyeballs. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Edgar offered to work it off, using everything he knew about accounting, bookkeeping and tax laws. The proposal had possibilities, so Bill had taken him up on it. Recognized Edgar’s true talent for balancing the books and hiding illegitimate activities under legitimate umbrellas without raising any red flags with the feds. Struck a gold mine. Introduced Edgar to some other outfits. Vouched for him as one of Bill’s own. Claimed a sweet finder’s fee. Had a really great thing going for everybody, especially for Edgar.
Then the weasel had got nervous about heat from the feds, jumped the gun and cut a deal.
But the way he’d left tore at Bill’s heart every day... Irene.
The fallout was never-ending. If Edgar had evidence on two outfits, it was reasonable to assume that he had the goods on all of them.
Now every gangster Edgar had dimed out and every mafioso he’d done business with blamed Big Bill big-time. And each one of them wanted their pound of flesh.
Well, no way in hell was it going to come from him. No sirree!
Bill felt the vein in his temple bulge.
Money bought many things. Silence. Loyalty. But there was no amount in the world that’d buy a pardon for Edgar.
Or Bill. He’d tried and lost half of the Windfall. There was only one way out of this mess.
The vultures were circling, particularly Enzo, who wanted the entire casino, and Edgar Plinski would be on the menu.
He ground his back molars together so hard his ears rang. “Tell D and the boys, if they can bring him in alive, I’ll throw in an extra mil.”
“They’re going to love the sound of that.” Tommy clapped his hands, rubbing his palms together. “They expect to have him within the hour.”
Restraining his excitement, Bill simply quirked a brow. “Pretty specific. Pretty damn confident, too.”
“D wasn’t pleased to hear about the bayou boys getting first dibs. Understandably so. But I think he was planning to let them do the hard part, then kill them and still collect the fee all along.”
Nodding, Bill agreed. Sounded exactly like a stunt Devlin would pull. Tommy wasn’t ever going to make it into Mensa, but he was sharp as a tack, had solid street sense.
“He took point on the traitor’s house,” Tommy continued, “to scope out the situation and had the others hang back. Well, those housepainters may have failed, but they set our home team up for success. According to D, the marshals assigned are some tactical special operators. Anyway, one of them is dead as a doornail.”
“Really?” Bill picked up his glass and took a long pull on his beer. A small hum of appreciation slipped out at the creamy mouthfeel, decadent notes of coffee and chocolate, and the roasted malt finish. Delicious.
“That’s not all.” A wicked grin spread across Tommy’s mouth, sort of diabolical, like that of a child tearing wings off flies. Without a doubt, Tommy had torn off wings and done far crueler things as a youngster. “You wanna hear the best part?”
Rather than respond, Bill shot him a scathing scowl. Rhetorical questions irritated him worse than sand in his sensitive parts. His patience was already threadbare, and this situation wasn’t helping his volatile temper. He heaved a calming breath.
Tommy leaned forward, bringing closer a face only a mother could love—God rest Irene’s soul. “The Cajuns caused such a ruckus that the marshals left their vehicle unattended long enough.”
Okay, Bill would bite. “Long enough for what?”
“For D to do what he does best. Set the trap.”
Bill’s appetite flared up something fierce. He draped the napkin across his lap, grabbed the utensils and cut into his steak.
Good old Devlin. One of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse...and Bill’s personal favorite.
War.
Chapter Four
What was so awful about a clean break when the alternative was to turn someone’s life upside down?
Charlie wished Eugene hadn’t felt compelled to talk to Sharon face-to-face and simply decided to leave. It would have been faster, easier and, yes, cleaner for everyone.
Sharon oversaw administration and personnel for the logistics services company her first husband started and ran until he died. The business managed the flow of goods and materials between points of origin and end-use destination, handling shipping, inventory and warehousing.
It also meant the company needed a lot of space at a reasonable price, which explained why it was located in the hills sandwiched between Tierra Santa and Mission Trails Regional Park.
In the middle of nowhere.
The good news was the traffic was sparse, making their travel time less than twenty minutes from the Palisades.
They passed the San Diego River and a few minutes later turned right off Mission Gorge Road into a parking lot. Torres brought the vehicle to a stop horizontally across a handicapped parking spot in front of the double doors that had the name Sullivan Logistics written on them.
“I’ve got this. Keep it running,” Charlie said and hopped out.
She pulled open the front door and marched into the stark air-conditioned lobby up to the receptionist’s desk. “Hello. I’m from the US Marshals Service. I need to speak with Mrs. Sharon Potter. It’s extremely urgent.”
After Charlie held up the badge that was prominently displayed from a chain around her neck, the twentysomething woman said, “FYI, she never changed her name from Sullivan to Potter.”
One more anchor for Sharon.
Charlie’s temperature rose. This trip was only going to eat up precious time.
In the end, Sharon wouldn’t choose Eugene...Edgar Plinski over everything and everyone else in her life.
The receptionist picked up the phone and dialed. “Mrs. Sullivan, you’re needed up front. A US marshal is here to speak with you. There’s some kind of emergency.” The young woman paused as she listened. “Okay.” Then she hung up and looked at Charlie. “She’s on her way.”
Charlie nodded, stepping away from the desk, and put her hands behind her back. The at-ease position was an old Marine Corps habit that came naturally to her.
After serving eight years as a military police officer, living in the culture of extreme violence of the corps, doing merry-go-round deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan, she’d needed a change. Something different but still inside her wheelhouse. She considered working as a contractor or local law enforcement.
A chance encounter in a nightclub that’d turned into a two-night stand steered her in a new direction.
The guy was interesting, intelligent, noticed things most civilian guys missed, had a killer bod and carried a gun. He was a US marshal. In those earlier days, Charlie wasn’t good with filler small talk after sex. Truth be told, she still wasn’t. Fortunately, the marshal was. He didn’t mind chatting about his job and had given her an inside perspective. She was hooked.
Once he discovered Charlie’s hard-charging attitude and affinity for the grind of the Marines and military police, he’d suggested not only applying to the USMS, but also setting her sights on the Special Operations Group.
Now she had a job she loved.
Charlie glanced at the tactical black SUV, itching to leave. Rather than tap her foot impatiently, she paced around the wide lobby.
The sound of sensible pumps click-clacking across the tile floor snagged her attention.
An elegant, athletic-looking brunette in her early sixties, with bright eyes and gray at the temples, entered the lobby. She wore a silk blouse with a long, fancy scarf tied around her neck and slacks. “Excuse me, I’m Sharon Sullivan. Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Sullivan, I’m Deputy Marshal Killinger. I need you to come with me. Right now.”
They’d
already been attacked at the house. No way were they going to play sitting ducks twice in one day. Any talking would have to happen in the car and at the SSPC.
If Sharon later decided that erasing her past and forging a new life with Eugene wasn’t what she wanted, the marshals would allow her to leave. But that discussion wasn’t going to happen here at Sullivan Logistics out in the boonies.
“What is this about?” Sharon asked.
“Your husband. Eugene.”
Her eyes grew wide and her hand flew to her chest. “Has something happened to him? Is he all right?”
“Mrs. Sullivan, is it okay if I call you Sharon?” The conversation in the car was going to be awkward. Calling her Mrs. Sullivan in front of Eugene would only compound things.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“If you’ll come with me, Sharon, I’ll explain everything in the car.” Charlie extended a hand toward the door, but the older woman stayed planted, as if rooted in shock.
“Please, tell me, what’s going on?”
Charlie put a hand on her shoulder and gently coaxed her to start walking. “As soon as we’re in the car.”
The receptionist stood behind the desk. “Mrs. Sullivan, what should I tell everyone?”
“I’m not really sure,” Sharon said. She stopped and looked from the receptionist to Charlie.
“Tell them there was an emergency. She’ll check in with you later.” Charlie held the door open. “This way, please.”
Sharon walked across the threshold.
Charlie put a hand on her back, shepherded her the ten steps to the vehicle and ushered her into the third row.
“Honey, what’s happening?” Sharon asked, confusion stamped on her face.
Eugene reached for her and helped her sit. “I’m so sorry. I hate that you’re being blindsided like this. I never thought this day would come.”
Charlie climbed into the front seat, since Aiden’s wound was bandaged. Torres whipped the car around into a U-turn and headed out of the lot.
“Blindside me with what?” Sharon asked. “Why are marshals here?”
“Sweetheart.” Eugene kissed her hands. “I don’t know what to say, where to begin.”
“Sharon, your husband is in the federal witness protection program,” Charlie said, cutting to the quick of it. If left up to Eugene, he might hem and haw all the way to the SSPC.
“What is she talking about, honey?” Sharon turned to Eugene. “How could you be in witness protection?”
“It’s come to our attention that his life is in danger,” Charlie continued.
“In danger? Oh, God. This is all so much. I don’t understand. I thought witness protection made people disappear so they couldn’t be found.”
“That’s correct, ma’am,” Aiden said.
“Then how did someone find him?” Sharon asked.
“Yeah, I’d like to know that, too,” Eugene demanded.
A fellow deputy in their field office had compromised the US Marshals Service. He’d accepted a bribe and handed over a classified Department of Justice laptop to the Los Chacales cartel. In turn, the cartel used the laptop to breach the Pacific Coast WITSEC list, along with the personal information of every marshal in California.
The ultimate betrayal of a colleague.
Justice was being served to the traitor, but the ripples of his treason spread far and wide and deep. The cartel was now selling the sensitive information piecemeal.
Edgar Plinski wasn’t the first with a bounty on his head and he wouldn’t be the last. If the truth got out, panic and turmoil would infect every witness in the program like a disease.
Containing the news of the breach was crucial.
“The most important thing at the moment, Sharon, is the decision you’re facing,” Charlie said, doing her best to spin their attention in a different direction. “Very dangerous men know where your husband lives and about his current life. Which means they know about you, too. The only way we’re authorized to protect you is if you choose to relocate with him, start over. New name. New history. No further contact with anyone that you know now.”
Sharon gasped.
“We’re taking you both to the Safe Site and Protection Center,” Aiden said, “where you two will be able to talk and think in a safe environment. If you decide not to relocate with your husband, we’ll take you to a relative’s where you can stay, but you need to understand that unless you’re in the program, we can’t protect you.”
Tension edged with fear radiated from the third row. The silence was agonizing because it was temporary. Charlie had never faced this particular scenario, where a witness had to be relocated a second time after marrying someone who had no clue he was in the program, but she guessed that any minute now there’d be weeping or screaming or both.
“What have you gotten me into?” Sharon’s voice was brittle. Pained. “How could you put me in danger?”
“I was supposed to be safe and so were you.” Her husband ran his palms down her arms. “I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
“Oh, Eugene.” Sharon sobbed. “Is that even your real name?” she asked in a sorrowful whisper.
A crease formed between his eyes. He looked down, silent for several seconds. “It feels like my real name, but no, sweetheart.”
“Who are you?”
“Edgar Plinski.”
“Why are you in witness protection? Did you see a murder or some other crime?”
His shoulders slumped. “Something like that.”
“You know how the program works,” Aiden said, turning in his seat and facing the couple. “At the SSPC, the marshals are required to let her read your file. She has to know the truth so she can make an informed decision. That’s how it works. Total honesty about who you really are and the things you did when a spouse is considering relocation. It’s the only way to have a successful transition for all parties, whether you stay together or go down separate paths, where you never see each other again.”
Brutal truth delivered in an environment where witnesses were on strict lockdown in forced proximity sounded like a recipe for murder, in Charlie’s book. But managing the messy emotions of others wasn’t her forte.
She barely dealt with her own. Better to tamp it all down, keep people at a distance.
Even Aiden. The one person in the world she was closest to.
“Eugene, were you some kind of criminal?” Sharon asked. “Or should I call you Edgar?”
“I prefer Eugene.” He raised his head. His throat bobbed on a nervous swallow. “I was an accountant. I didn’t set out to be a criminal. I got roped into a bad situation. One thing led to another and I found myself getting deeper and deeper, until I felt like there was no way out. At least not alive.”
A situation where he was complicit in tax fraud, sex trafficking, drug dealing, racketeering. The sordid laundry list was long, and Sharon would see every dirty detail at the SSPC.
“You lied to me. About everything,” Sharon said. “Were any of the stories you told me about your past even true? Do you love me? Or were you using me to create your new identity?”
Eugene gaped at her and then snapped his mouth closed. He cleared his throat, a strangled noise that sounded as though he was choking on the answers.
Oh, hell. Not that Charlie had sympathy for criminals, but this predicament wasn’t Eugene’s fault. “He had to lie,” Charlie said, throwing him a lifeline, hoping to defuse this inconvenient distraction. “It’s part of the program. He wasn’t allowed to tell you.”
The tension started to deflate, and Charlie swallowed a sigh of relief, turning her focus on the road. No cars ahead in either direction. In the side mirror, the stretch of road behind them was clear to the bend, where she lost visibility farther back.
This full disclosure couple’s session was making it difficult to concent
rate on doing the primary job. Getting them to the SSPC was the priority. Not counseling them through this unmitigated disaster.
There were marshals with specialized training for that.
Sharon turned to her husband. “But I have no idea who you really are, Edgar, who I married.” Her voice was soft and forlorn.
“Yes, you do. You know me, sweetheart,” Edgar pleaded. “We met in church because I became a born-again Christian. We fell in love because we share the same passions. Charity work and dancing and visiting vineyards and trying new wines. I love you. I love your kids. And the grandchildren.”
Sharon burst into tears again. “Oh, the grandbabies. How can I leave them behind? And Cindy. She’s due next month. I’m supposed to be there for them. They mean everything to me,” she said, her voicing breaking. “My children are my life.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
A sudden stab of envy hit a sore spot in Charlie that she kept buried. There was an emptiness in her, a terrible aching void that’d never be filled. She’d never experienced what Sharon offered her family—the unconditional love of a mother.
Charlie’s mom was a heroin addict, loved her next fix more than her children. Charlie and her sister, Britney, were shuffled in and out of foster care. Sometimes placed with different families. Sometimes in group homes.
Growing up that way had left her with a longing, a hunger and a pervasive fear of love.
As soon as Charlie was legal, she’d enlisted in the military branch that’d take her the soonest. She’d never gone back to Roanoke, Virginia. While Britney had never left. She became a stripper and married the first drunk loser to propose.
The only time Charlie heard from Brit was when her ball and chain was fired from another job and they needed money.
“I’m so sorry.” Edgar wrapped his arms around his wife. “If I’d thought it was possible for this to happen...” He dropped his head along with his voice.
