Corruption (15 page)

Lucky’s phone buzzed, and he hurried across the floor the grab up the device. A text message from an unknown number said, “Merry Xmas.
Love you. C.”

C? Who the hell was C? Ah, shit. Cyrus Cooper. Cy. Bo. Lucky smiled and typed back, “U 2.”

He polished off the rest of the bottle of Boone’s Farm, let the cat in, and shuffled off to bed. Staring at the ceiling, he recalled a Christmas
from long ago. He’d kept his sister’s kids on Christmas Eve while she finished up last minute shopping.

Dressed in footie pajamas, his nephews had climbed into his lap while Lucky told them all he remembered of
‘Twas the Night Before Christmas
. Normally boisterous, they remained wide-eyed and fascinated by Lucky’s clumsy efforts, while
Charlotte’s perfectly decorated tree glittered in the corner. Fat snowflakes drifted by the window, and Lucky’d pulled one of his
mother’s homemade quilts tighter around him and the boys.

In his mind’s eye, the tree and all the trimmings crammed themselves into Lucky’s living room. Lucky held a small child whose face
remained vague, while Bo held the spitting image of Stephanie, the girl who’d entered Lucky’s life only to leave it a few days later.
Bo read from a story book, while the kids “oh’d” and “ah’d.”

Lucky’d never really considered having a family of his own before. At least he’d never entertained such thoughts during his time with
Victor. And he’d only recently finished paying his debt to society. Having a child of his own wasn’t happening, and Bo wanted children.
Could they adopt with Lucky’s criminal record, or had Walter’s magic wand truly erased all traces of Lucky’s past?

The kids in his daydream stared at Bo with adoring eyes as he pulled presents from under the tree. Bo deserved kids. He’d make a wonderful
father, as he’d proved earlier in the year when he’d gone over and above the call of duty to help young cancer victims he
didn’t even know.

Not only did Bo want a family, he hoped one day to have that with Lucky. With all he’d done in his life, Lucky didn’t deserve the
unfailing love Bo sent his way, and he certainly didn’t deserve kids. What kind of father would he make?

“You’re so good with the boys,” Charlotte had told Lucky upon arriving home that long ago Christmas Eve to find her sons
tucked into bed.

Charlotte and Bo obviously saw something in Lucky that Lucky himself didn’t recognize. What if they were right?

***

“Happy fucking New Year,” Lucky groused, glaring down at the packed dance floor. He raked his eyes over the writhing masses. Landry and
Johnson worked the crowd along with a newbie in from Texas for training. They’d managed to make a few small busts, mostly users or small-time
dealers, no one with quantities for sale or with more access to the supply chain than
friend of a friend
. Fuckers. Why waste time locking up casual
users? Why not send the team out into the real action? And if the jerkoff standing next to Lucky with the noise maker tooted the thing one more
time…

Thus far, Lucky’s new job hadn’t pissed him off too badly, and he’d not gotten called into Walter’s office all
week. Of course, with Walter and Mrs. Smith gone visiting for the holidays, he’d caught a break. His phone buzzed, and once more an unknown
number showed. While Lucky appreciated the gesture, and the “Love you, happy NY, C,” the man took chances.

Was Bo spending time in a club for different reasons, or was he sitting at whatever counted as home, alone? Back in Arkansas, he had a brother and an aunt.
Did he miss them, think of them as often as Lucky did his own family?

Movement down below drew Lucky’s attention. Johnson reached up and tugged on her earring, the sign for
I’m gonna go out back and make a buy.
She, Landry, and Newbie worked their way toward the door, a half-dozen young men with shifty eyes
following. Ah, hell. Show time. Lucky sat his full beer bottle on a nearby table and went to work. A few twenty-somethings were going to get a hellacious
start to the new year.

Lucky’s saunter carried a bit more spring in the step as he followed his team out the door. They might be aggravating wet-behind-the-ears
rookies, but they were Lucky’s rookies. That made them the best.

Chapter 12

Three months. Three months without Bo, without even a phone call. Chill temperatures gave way to sunny days, and Bradford pear trees spewing pollen on
Lucky’s Camaro. If Bo didn’t come back soon, Lucky’d be at the doctors for treatment of carpal-tunnel syndrome.
He’d been giving his right wrist one hell of a workout lately.

He grumbled all the way to work, glaring at the cars whizzing by in the
Peach Pass
lane. Lucky paid taxes for road use. Asking a man to buy a pass
to use the express lane didn’t sit well with him. How could they guarantee that their little electronic whatchamajiggies would only charge for
his own tolls and not someone else’s? So he glared, and he growled, and he seriously considered crashing the privileged assholes’
party. And he would, too, if it wouldn’t have meant another call to Walter. Last time Lucky’d given in to temptation, a trooper had
pulled him over and called the boss, questioning what work emergency led Lucky to break the law. Sometimes flashing a badge hurt more than helped.

He’d no sooner gotten to work when his desk phone rang. “Lucky? Could I see you in my office, please?” Walter
didn’t bother waiting for an answer.

Lucky stepped into Walter’s domain, surprised to find O’Donoghue parked in a chair before the desk, but not the one Lucky’d
claimed long ago for his. “You wanted to see me?”

“Come in, sit down,” Walter invited with a wave of his hand toward the chair.

O’Donoghue’s slit-lidded gaze followed Lucky across the room. Though he reclined in the chair, his ankle crossed over his knee and arm
flung over the padded leather back, he held himself stiffly. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Mr. Harrison, we have a problem.” Nothing
new. Narcotics bureaus and problems seemed to travel hand-in-hand.

Walter sat forward in his chair, lips clamped into a thin line and hands folded into a white-knuckled clench upon his desk. Must be a problem of
shit-hit-the-fan proportions.

Lucky sank down into the chair. “What’s up?”

A cocked brow and shift of Walter’s eyes toward O’Donoghue fielded the question.

“Arthur Patterson’s in the hospital,” O’Donoghue drawled in the Brooklyn accent he switched on and off at will.

Holy shit. Not Art. “Someone tried to take him out?” Lucky might have to find the son-of-a-bitch responsible and settle the score.

“No, thank God. Freak accident. A young woman hauling a bunch of balloons to a birthday party T-boned Patterson’s vehicle when the
balloons impaired her vision.” O’Donoghue bounced his foot on his knee, tapping out a cadence with his fingers on his patent leather
shoe.

Art. Call him Art.
Lucky darted a questioning glance to Walter. He forced his fingers to loosen on the chair arms.
Don’t make me ask.

Walter didn’t. “He’s been admitted to Athens Regional Health in guarded condition. Once his condition stabilizes,
he’ll be transferred to a hospital here in Atlanta.”

Good. Half of Lucky’s unvoiced questions were answered. Now for the rest. Before he could ask about Bo, O’Donoghue added,
“And we lost our informant. The lady slammed into the passenger side of the vehicle, where our man sat. The impact killed him
instantly.”

“What now?” Lucky might not have known the guy, but he wouldn’t wish death on anybody.

“Now we get out the word about a motorcycle accident to stop any questions as to why he was in a car with his leader’s neighbor. Art
never got in close with anyone but our guy. A heart attack is his cover story.”

Fuck. With Art and the informant both gone, where did Bo stand? Lucky chose his words carefully. “What about his assignment?”
What about Bo?

“He’s out of the game,” O’Donoghue replied. Lucky swiveled his chair to the right.

“You mean, B… a rookie’s in there alone?” An hour. Lucky could be in Athens in an hour. Less if forgot his promise
to be a law-abiding citizen and crashed the Peach Pass lane. Lord help any slow shoppers at the Tanger Outlet park where he’d exit I-85 for
Athens.

“For the moment.” O’Donoghue met and held Lucky’s glare, his eyes probing down to Lucky’s soul.
“Reyes’ gang is always on the lookout for drivers. They tend to favor ex-cons, and I understand you have an active commercial
driver’s license and experience driving larger rigs.”

“I do.”
And I meet the ex-con requirement. Thank you for not bringing that up.

“You’re also familiar with routes from Texas to Georgia, among others.”

No telling how many trips between those two states Lucky’d made in his time with Victor. Pick up a load near the border, drive to one of
Victor’s warehouses, and cash in on his share of the take. “I know my way around.”

“Good. Now we need to establish your cover.”

Lucky’s heart skipped a beat.
Going in. I’m going in.

Pivoting squeaked the chair and let Lucky give Walter the hairy eyeball. "What stupid-assed name do I get this time?"

“We’re changing our methods,” Walter said. A muscle at the corner of his mouth jumped. “While I know you eagerly
await your next bizarre moniker, it’s come to our attention that perhaps it’s best to let our agents decide for themselves.”
He shifted the focus back to O’Donoghue with a nod of his head.

O’Donoghue accepted the tag and stepped back into the ring. “What name did you choose in my class as your ideal alias?”

“Ricky Getsinger.”

“We’ll have ID drawn up as Richard. What’s your occupation?”

Talk about a no brainer. “I finished my sentence in December a year ago. Now I’m unemployed, mostly doing freelance local deliveries.
Which explains my commercial driver’s license.”

“You’ll need a vehicle.”

One deep breath, one slow exhale. Finally, finally, someone asked his opinion. “It needs to be a car I’m familiar with,
right?” Another fact learned in class. Several textbook examples showed cases blown when an agent didn’t know how to work features on
their assigned vehicles.

“That’s always best.”

“Boss? Do we still have that butt-ugly green Malibu?” Vehicles seized during drug busts found their way into a holding pen while
awaiting police auction, but were available to the SNB for use in undercover operations until they sold.
It’s ugly, it’s old, I hate the shit out of it. I also know where to hit to get the glove compartment to open, and how to unlatch
the trunk with a busted lock.

“I’ll call and find out. In the meantime, I believe you’re going to need this.” Walter slid a padded manila mailer
across the desk.

Lucky’s heart thudded hard. He opened the package and reached inside, wrapping his hand around a familiar grip. His gun. They’d gotten
back the gun the felons had stolen from him last year. He fought back a smile. No telling what strings the boss had had to pull to reclaim this piece of
evidence. “Thanks, boss.”

Two hours later, Lucky left Walter’s office, a manila envelope filled with facts tucked under one arm. He stopped by the reception desk long
enough to scoop a set of car keys off the counter. Apparently, the Malibu of Lucky’s nightmares had gone up for auction three times with no
bidders. He checked out the contents of a plain white envelope. New license, an address, and a receipt for a month’s rent in the name of Richard
Getsinger. Dang, but somebody worked fast.

The receptionist glanced up when Lucky cleared his throat. “You’re a friend of Bo’s right?”

She nodded and took a step back. Smart lady. Lucky had no right asking on his own, since he’d not exactly been kind to the woman, but maybe
Bo’s name might soften her up for a favor. “You know where he sits, right?”

Again she nodded. For a normally chatty type, she sure stayed tight-lipped around Lucky, not that he blamed her. “There’s a plant
sitting on the file cabinet behind his desk. Would you water it while I’m away?”

He barely caught her whispered, “Sure.”

Lucky gave what he hoped passed for a grateful smile. Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. He added a, “Thank you,” and braced
to catch her if she suddenly fainted. Heh. This being nice crap might have its uses after all. And the best part? If she told anyone, they
wouldn’t believe her.

In the parking garage, he stopped by his own vehicle, taking out his iPod and the device that channeled his favorite tunes through the Camaro’s
speakers. If allowed, he’d simply take his own car. He ran a hand across the hood. “Don’t worry, old girl. I’ll be
back.”

He locked the door and strolled across the asphalt to the ugliest chicken-shit green Malibu on the planet.

Later in the evening, Cat Lucky curled up next to him on the couch, Lucky studied pictures and profiles, familiarizing himself with the enemy.

The next morning, he dropped the cat and a two month’s supply of tuna off with his landlady and headed down I-85.

***

Buford’s Bar and Grill sat on the farthest outskirts of Athens, yet still managed to attract a decent-sized crowd for a Wednesday afternoon.

Today he’d make his presence known. Nothing flashy, simply a “Hey y’all, I’m your new neighbor” and get
the hell out. Too bad Walter wouldn’t let him play a biker, but Bo’d snagged the only motorcycle currently at their disposal while
awaiting auction, and O’Donoghue claimed, “A biker with a big rig license at the very moment they need one? Too convenient.
They’d get suspicious.”

Lucky wandered into the dimly lit bar shortly after noon, keeping his head down and heading for an empty table. A sign over the bar announced the
day’s specials, though the scent of burgers and fries in the air did a better job of advertising. A grease-splattered menu offered more choices,
few of which would meet with health-conscious Bo’s approval. Oh well. Bo wasn’t here, Lucky was hungry, and when in Rome, or rather,
Athens…

A thin young man in a “At Buford’s We Do It Southern Style” T-shirt approached, pencil and pad in hand. Who the hell used a
pencil these days? A Clemson Tigers’ hat sat backwards on his head, the brilliant orange clashing horribly with the lime green shirt.
Let me get my sunglasses out before you blind me, boy.