Corruption (26 page)

Of course, the newspapers also said Lucky Lucklighter died in a car wreck, saving another agent. Even the SNB website proclaimed Richmond Eugene
Lucklighter dead. Lucky wasn’t the only one capable of faking a death, and Victor Mangiardi had the clout, connections, and money to do anything
he wanted.

Lucky waited until the paramedic stepped out of earshot to ask, “Check the records for me, will ya? Make sure no one cut a deal. If you can make
Lucky Lucklighter disappear, who’s to say someone didn’t work the same kind of magic for Victor?” He sipped his coffee. Maybe
acting normal would help shake the heebie-jeebies.

“I will, but only to make you feel better. Believe me, if Victor had cut a deal, I’d know.”

Walter didn't know every damned thing. He couldn't know how Victor always had one more trick up his sleeve than even Lucky suspected, and Walter sure as
hell hadn't lived within earshot of that voice. Lucky knew what he'd heard and could prove it. He reached into his pocket and fished out the recorder.
“Listen to this.” He pushed a button and nearly retched coffee.

“You have the wrong man,” a familiar voice said.

Ice water formed in Lucky’s veins.

“I can promise you,” the man continued, “he is no narc.”

“Are you sure?” another voice asked.

“As sure as I’ve ever been about anything. For old time’s sake, take him back where he belongs and let him go. I want to talk
to him later, but not tonight. Now, what have you brought me?”

More mumbled words, then a distinct, “Hello, Lucky.”

Lucky clicked the recorder off. The voice didn’t change on second hearing. “Sounds like Victor Mangiardi to me.”

He snuck a peek at Bo, who stared at his bandaged hand. He had to have heard. What was he thinking? Surely he didn’t believe Lucky would desert
him and run back to Victor. Even if Victor somehow managed to survive, Lucky’s heart had found a new home. He’d tell Bo at the first
opportunity. Until then they had a job to do.

“Boss…”

The color fled Walter’s face, and one meaty hand gripped the ambulance door. The man swayed on his feet. He opened his eyes and stared straight
at Lucky, opening and closing his mouth, but nothing emerged.

Johnson broke the awkward moment. “Who’s Victor Mangiardi?”

Before Lucky could answer, the radio in Walter’s car squawked. Walter wobbled away, relief in his eyes. Oh, no. He wasn’t getting away.
Sooner or later, he’d be answering Lucky’s questions.

Lucky rushed to Walter’s side. “They’ve spotted Reyes’ motorcycle,” Walter said. “Approximately
five miles from here, heading east.”

“Let’s go.” Lucky jumped into the driver’s seat, shouting to Johnson and Bo. “They spotted Reyes.
Let’s move!”

Johnson trotted over to her car while Bo ran to his motorcycle and grabbed his helmet off the seat. “If he goes off road, I can
follow.”

Walter took his place in the passenger seat, and Lucky fired up the engine. The hunt continued.

A few taps on the GPS pointed out Reyes’ location. Ha! So the guy hadn’t found all the trackers. Lucky peeled out of the parking lot,
heading on an intercept course. Bo flew around him a minute later. Johnson’s headlights shone about a quarter mile back.

Lucky tore up the back roads, fast gaining ground. His heart pounded, and he clutched the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. Closer,
closer… He rounded a curve, and his headlights fell on two motorcycles barreling down the straightaway, neck and neck. In the distance sirens
shrieked, approaching from another direction.

A dark shape appeared from nowhere, heading right for the bikes. The darkened car barely missed the first. A wobble left, then right. RPMs roaring, the
Harley straightened.

The car swerved, ramming the second bike. Rider and machine tilted sideways, trailing sparks across the asphalt. Lucky stomped the brakes, folding Walter
over the shoulder harness. The car skidded to a stop nearly on top of smoldering wreck.

Oh, fuck no!

The luckier of the two bikers spun his bike and hauled ass after the fleeing car.

Tires squealed behind him. Johnson spun a one-eighty and hit the gas, chasing the car and motorcycle.

Lucky fumbled open his seatbelt with fingers that didn’t work right. Walter already barked orders through the radio to an emergency dispatcher.

By the light of the car’s headlights, Lucky darted across the road, his heart lodged in his throat. The coppery scent of blood overlaid burnt
rubber. “Oh God, please. Not Bo.”

He hunkered down beside the still biker.

Reyes.

Lucky closed his eyes and huffed out the breath he’d been holding. Reyes. Not Bo. And he hadn’t been wearing leather or a helmet.
Bo’s argument for wearing leather hit home. A mangled mass, bits of denim clinging to flesh, stuck out from under the bike. Two fingers to the
man’s neck didn’t turn up a pulse, and with one side of his head caved in, resuscitation wouldn’t help.

Not Bo, not Bo, not Bo.
Lucky’s eyes burned, and he blinked hard to clear his vision.
Not Bo, not Bo, not Bo. Thank you, dear Lord in Heaven.

Thank God Bo’s not here to see this
. No telling what the grisly visual would do to his PTSD. Blood puddled out from beneath Reyes’ still body.

Within seconds, squad cars descended. Lucky’s long day got longer.

After sunup, an ambulance hauled Reyes away and cleanup crews washed away the evidence before the God-fearing folk of Athens needed that stretch of road to
get to work.

Lucky leaned against the hood of Walter’s car, giving a statement.

A uniformed cop, a rookie by the looks of him, ran up, mumbled to Walter, cast a wary glance to Lucky, and faded into the background after slapping a gun
into Walter’s hand. “I believe this belongs to you?” Walter extended the .38 to Lucky, grip first.

Damn, but Lucky had to stop letting people take his gun. “Thanks, boss man.”

“Don’t mention it. You seem to be making a habit of losing that gun.” Walter gave a weary smile.

“Yeah, well someone took my watch, and I want it back.”

“I’ll make a note on the report.”

“What about the car that hit Reyes?”

“Unfortunately, the driver seemed familiar with local roads. We lost the vehicle somewhere in the Commerce area.”

“Tag?”

“No tag or other identifying markings. Bo couldn’t get close enough to make out the driver.”

Bo. Safe. Hallelujah. And this time he’d get hugged whether he wanted to or not. In fact, once Lucky got his arms around the man, he might never
let go.

Lucky collapsed into the passenger seat of Walter’s car, weary beyond belief. Walter drove him to the garage to retrieve the Malibu.

“Now, Lucky.” Walter straightened to his full impressive height, or as much as the car allowed. “Take care of yourself out
there. Get some sleep. I’ll expect you at the office within the next day or two for a full report.”

“Will do.” Lucky rubbed his tired eyes and made his way to the ugliest Malibu in Georgia, now a welcome sight. After a quick trip to
Starbucks, he headed away from town, cruising along a country road with the windows open to let in the morning breeze.

Soon the bumping, banging, and scratch of low limbs on the roof of the car told him what he needed to know. He was home.

Bo waited for him on the cabin’s front porch.

Lucky ran appraising eyes up and down his partner, pausing long enough to study bumps and bruises acquired during the night.
“Bo…I…” Words failed him.

“I know.” The shimmer in Bo’s eyes said he did too.

The back of Lucky’s throat burned, and he blinked hard to drive the sudden onslaught of moisture from his eyes.

Then his arms were around Bo, and Bo’s around him, and oh damn, how right. He clung, willing Bo to understand how he was needed, how nearly
losing him cut like a knife to the heart. This time, Bo didn’t run away.

They made their way into the cabin and Bo’s room. Piece by piece Lucky stripped off Bo’s clothing, examining each injury. In the middle
of a creaky four-poster bed, he wrapped his body around his lover’s, afraid to let go or Bo might disappear.

Lucky woke often over the next few hours, bolting upright from visions of Bo lying bloody on the pavement, no light shining from his deep brown eyes. A
dream, only a dream. Each time he stayed awake a while, listening to the steady in/out of Bo’s breathing, resting his head on a rising and
falling chest to hear the
thumpa, thumpa
of a strong heartbeat. He held a bit tighter until sleep claimed him again.

Chapter 21

Lucky searched the SNB archive, as he’d done before, for any mention of Victor Mangiardi, though nothing new had been added since his death over
eleven years ago. Lucky closed his eyes, seeing Victor as he’d been in the courtroom, gaunt, disheveled, a man without hope. And he’d
smiled at his betrayer.

But Lucky hadn’t betrayed him, not really. He’d had no hand in Victor’s arrest; he’d merely offered honest answers
to pointed questions during the trial. Chances were the jury would have returned a guilty verdict even without his testimony.

No use dwelling on shoulda, woulda, coulda. It wouldn’t change one damned thing. He clicked on an icon on his laptop, listening to the voice
again, determined to hear something, anything, to prove the words didn’t belong to Victor. Eleven years was a long time, and memories faded.
Maybe he only wanted the unknown voice to belong to Victor. That’s what his prison counselor would have said. Maybe he should go see
Bo’s counselor, convince himself he wasn’t losing his mind.

The phone on his desk rang and he snatched up the receiver. “Harrison.”

“Lucky, could I see you in my office, please?” Walter’s matter-of-fact delivery gave away nothing.

“I’ll be right there.” Lucky guzzled the last of his coffee and made his way to his boss’ office, grateful
O’Donoghue wasn’t sitting in front of Walter’s desk. With what they had to discuss, he didn’t need anyone else
knowing the details about the time he’d spent as a drug lord’s boy toy.

“You wanted to see me?” His chair squeaked as he settled into its padded depths.

“We’ve analyzed the recording you gave us, but unfortunately, media wasn’t allowed at Victor’s trial, and
comparisons with any other recordings are inconclusive.”

Fuck. And here Lucky’d hoped for a return to normalcy.

“However, Victor Mangiardi hanged himself in his cell. I’ve received copies of the coroner’s report. The man you suspected
might be Victor didn’t know you were with the SNB?”

“You heard him. His exact words were, ‘I can promise you, he is no narc.’”

“He mentioned wanting to talk to you at a later date.” A furrow appeared between Walter’s fluffy gray brows.

“That’s what he said.” Lucky could recite every word on the recording by heart.

Walter leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin. “Ricky Getsinger and Cyrus Cooper are about to escape justice on a technicality. Chances are,
whoever’s behind this operation will want to rebuild.” Lucky noticed he didn’t invoke Victor’s name. “Who
better to help him than an old friend?”

What the fuck? Oh, hell no. “Boss, I don’t know if I can.” What if Victor still lived? Or maybe someone who’d
associated with Victor? What if they found out about the SNB connection, or worse, what if they found out about Bo? If they wanted to talk to Lucky, Bo
would make damned good leverage. Then again, no matter who the mystery man was, if he dealt drugs on Lucky’s turf, he’d have to go
down.

Victor. His heart clenched. Another face pushed aside Victor’s in his mind. Bo. He needed Bo.

“Lucky?”

Lucky snapped to attention. “Sorry, boss.” He rubbed a hand over his aching head. “I’m getting over a nasty pistol
whipping, you know.”

“The paramedic said you’d be fine. Now, I want you and Bo to lay low but stay where we can find you, and V… and whoever too.
Any contact, and you call me.”

Ah. So unlike Walter to slip up and nearly speak the name.

“Stay together as much as possible. You’ve both dodged a bullet, so it won’t be out of character to team up in
defense.” Lucky could practically see the wheels turning in Walter’s mind, spinning out a viable scenario. “A condition of
your release is that you not leave Georgia. If someone wants to find you, they will.”

Lucky swallowed hard. “And if they want to kill us?”

“I’ll have full surveillance on the cabin. Move your things out there. Like I said, it’s not uncommon in your circumstances
to combine forces.”

Full surveillance. Oh shit. Looking, but not touching, minding every word.

“Outside,” Walter clarified. “I trust you to record what needs recording, but I’ll not invade your privacy any more
than absolutely necessary. I don’t expect you to live on one of those damnable reality shows where the world pries into your every
move.” Lucky watched as one shaggy eyebrow rose slightly before snapping back into place.

“What about the kid?”
The one I shot.

“Jerry Wilkerson should make a full recovery, and is now in protective custody. He claims to have dealt with no one higher than Reyes, and
we’ve about exhausted his usefulness, though he’s come in handy for identifying gang members and translating coded distribution records
on Reyes’ iPad.”

Lucky chewed his lower lip while mulling over Walter’s words. “With me and Bo gone for months, where does that leave the
department?”

“You’ll be happy to hear that Art’s made a full recovery and has assumed your role of training supervisor for the foreseeable
future. We’ve retained Owen Landry for the time being, and Loretta Johnson is transferring from Southwestern. Seems she’s quite taken
with Atlanta.”

Loretta, huh? Maybe Lucky shouldn’t keep calling her Johnson.

“And the guys that tossed me in a trunk?”

“Have added kidnapping to their extortion, trafficking, and money laundering charges. However, none will corroborate your story about our mystery
man. We can’t reveal the existence of the recording without compromising your position. ”

“After what happened to Reyes to keep him from talking, do you blame them for shutting down?” No way in hell would a man like Mateo
Reyes have cut a deal, but someone hadn’t taken any chances. They’d not found hide nor hair of whoever’d assured his
silence.