Justice for All (11 page)

A firm hand clamped Mitch’s shoulder and a deep raspy voice said, “Talking to yourself, guy?”

“Not anymore.” Mitch rolled his head to the side and squinted up at the wiry figure looming over him. Even in the semi-gloom he recognized the sharply cut profile of Phil E. Pride, one of the members of the Front Street Kings drag troupe. Mitch checked the stage and realized the show was over. Man, he’d been drifting, which was not a good idea while he was working. He straightened in his seat and kicked out a chair. “Sit down. I’ll grab us a couple of fresh beers.”

“Thanks,” Phil said.

Mitch hustled to the bar tucked into one corner and snagged two drafts from the bartender just ahead of the crowd. Holding them high so they didn’t spill as he jostled his way back to the table, he reviewed his cover story in his head. Then he set the beers down and reclaimed his chair. While he’d been gone, Ken Dewar, the leader of the Kings, had joined Phil.

“Sorry, Kenny,” Mitch said to the flat-topped blond with the construction worker’s build. “I didn’t get you a brew.”

“No problem.” Ken swiped Phil’s glass and took a long pull.

“Solo tonight, Mitch?” Phil asked conversationally as he reached across the table and retrieved his beer from Ken.

“Yeah. I’m kind of in between girls, if you know what I mean. So I needed a little peace and quiet.” Mitch sipped his beer and cupped himself for a second to settle his dick more comfortably in his tight black jeans. Somehow the fullness in his palm and the pressure against his crotch felt reassuring. He knew these guys and he liked them, and they seemed to like him too. They never probed into what he did for a living, and he suspected they knew he was more than the bar back and occasional bouncer he let on. The deception bothered him, but he reminded himself that his secrecy was as much for their safety as for the success of his assignment. He knew nothing of their other lives either.

“In between?” Ken laughed. “You mean you’ve got two girls pissed at you instead of one?”

“Something like that,” Mitch said.

“So, uh, Sandy break up with you?” Phil asked.

Mitch tamped down the swift surge of jealousy, but it wasn’t easy. Phil had made his appreciation of Sandy pretty clear when Mitch had introduced them. Since Mitch had been trying to get close to Irina, he’d been forced to let on he wasn’t super serious about Sandy. Considering new developments, he could hardly get territorial now. But Phil was a good-looking guy. Strong shoulders, trim waist, and a nice healthy bulge in his jeans. He was also way confident around women. A lot more confident than Mitch. “Sandy didn’t dump me yet. I’m hoping she’ll cool off and cut me some slack.”

“Well, good luck on that.” Phil slapped Mitch’s back. “But if you need a little help keeping her entertained, you know who to call.”

“Sure, right,” Mitch said, forcing a grin. “Listen, I’m meeting Irina at Ziggie’s later, so in case anyone’s asking, you haven’t seen me.”

Ken let out a long whistle. “Man, you really do like to live dangerously.”

“What’s the point, otherwise?” Mitch drained his beer. “I thought I’d bring her around to the show on Saturday. Introduce her properly to you guys.”

“Sure. Always happy to meet a lady.” Phil eyed Mitch speculatively. “If you need us for anything, just give us a call.”

“Sure, but everything’s cool.” Mitch rose. “I’ve got it all under control.”

As he headed for the door and his meeting with Irina, Mitch hoped to hell he was right.

*

Through the swirling haze of anger, Sloan recognized the dark expanse of water to her left and the twisting road in front of her. West River Drive. The road peeled away beneath her and she took the tight turns fast, leaning hard into the curves, her body knifing through the wind. She was on her motorcycle because Rebecca had borrowed her car earlier and hadn’t returned it yet. Sloan hadn’t given any thought to where she was going when she walked out on Michael. All she’d wanted was to outrun her rage before it spilled over on Michael and contaminated the only good thing in her life.

As the white lines flashed beneath her, the cold wind off the water bit at her face below the visor of her helmet and her mind started to clear. Her focus shifted once more to Avery Clark. It all came down to the feds, the same group that had turned on her. They’d put her in jail and years later, they were still manipulating her life. Only this time, Avery wanted her to risk something far more important than her life. Michael.

She pulled into a turnoff that was empty save for one pickup truck at the far opposite end. Cutting the engine, she settled her feet on either side of her Harley and unzipped her jacket. Her body was hot and the cold air blowing off the water chilled the sweat against her skin. She wasn’t afraid for herself. She
wanted
to get close to the men at the top. She wanted the man who had ordered the execution of two cops, and who had sent someone to run her down in the street outside her own home. Except she hadn’t been the victim, Michael had.

The man responsible for that attack had to be out there, and there was no reason to think he wouldn’t try again. Nothing had changed. In fact, the closer the team got to exposing the criminal conspiracies, the more likely the men pulling the strings were to take drastic action. She wasn’t afraid on her own account. She’d spent enough time doing covert work in Southeast Asia to know how to protect herself. Professional assassins in that part of the world put American wiseguys to shame. But Michael didn’t have that kind of skill, and Sloan didn’t know how to protect her.

Her options were few. She could quit the team—she wasn’t a cop or a federal agent anymore. But if she did, there was no guarantee the threat would disappear. She could find whoever had tried to kill her and force them to tell her who gave the order. She’d never been an assassin, but she would kill to protect Michael, and she knew it wouldn’t bother her.

*

When the buzzer rang, Michael jumped up from the sofa, excitement overriding her worry. Then disappointment struck her hard. It wouldn’t be Sloan. Taking a steadying breath, she checked the small monitor set into the wall beside the elevator. Then she flicked the intercom. Sandy’s voice greeted her.

“Hi. Sorry to bother you. I know it’s late. Is Dell there?”

“No. No one’s here. Want to come up?”

Sandy looked up and down the street, her uncertainty and unhappiness clear even in the small black-and-white image.

“I’m not having a very good night either,” Michael said. “You don’t have to talk about anything.”

“Okay. Sure. Why not.”

Michael disengaged the lock on the front door and watched the monitor until Sandy was inside. Then she went into the kitchen to make tea. A moment later, the tall double doors enclosing the elevator slid back almost soundlessly. She called over her shoulder, “Come on out to the kitchen. Are you hungry?”

“No,” Sandy said, climbing up onto one of the stools. “Mind if I have a beer instead of tea?”

“One of those nights, huh?”

Sandy snorted. “For sure.”

“So,” Michael said, joining her at the breakfast bar. She handed her a bottle of one of Sloan’s microbrews and set her own tea aside to cool. “Dell wasn’t happy about the job offer?”

“Oh, she was. She can’t wait to stick me behind a desk.”

Michael couldn’t help but smile, considering that was how she spent almost all her time. But she understood what Sandy meant. “A little overprotective?”

Sandy rolled her eyes. “Like working in an office is going to erase the last two years of my life.”

“Is that what you think she wants?” Michael asked quietly.

“Don’t you? After all, would you want a whore for a girlfriend?”

Michael cradled the steaming teacup while she give that some thought. “I would absolutely hate anyone to use someone I loved, physically or in any other way. I think I’d be jealous too. Of someone touching her, even though I know that’s not what it’s about. And of course, I’d be afraid of her being hurt.”

Sandy leaned her elbow on the smooth granite surface, cupped her chin in her hand, and stared at Michael. “What about being ashamed or grossed out. You left that part out.”

“If I loved someone the way I know Dell loves you, I wouldn’t feel that way about what she needed to do.”

“You know she went to West Point, right? That she’s really smart? I mean, they’re all smart—even Watts.” Sandy sighed. “You didn’t meet her sister, Erica. She’s an uptight version of Dell, and she definitely didn’t think I was good enough for her.”

“I can’t see Dell caring.”

“She says she doesn’t. Now.”

“You know,” Michael said carefully, “you could get your GED if you wanted.”

“Maybe. Someday.” Sandy picked at the corner of the label on her beer bottle with her thumb. “I want to take the job you offered. I don’t want Dell to support me, so I need to be able to make money without doing guys for it. Besides, I’m sick of faking it.”

“Good.”

“But I’m doing something important already. With Frye.” Sandy met Michael’s gaze. “What I do for Frye makes a difference, just like what Sloan and Dell and the rest of them are doing. I don’t want to stop, and Dell wants me to.”

“Aha.”

“Yeah.” Sandy looked around the loft. “Where is everybody?”

“I don’t know. Something’s happening, but I’m not sure what it is.” Michael sighed. “Sloan didn’t tell me, but from the way she’s wound up already, it’s something big.”

“Oh boy,” Sandy said.

“Yes.” Michael squeezed Sandy’s hand. “So, Monday at ten?”

Sandy finished her beer, slid down from the stool, and placed the empty bottle on the counter next to the sink. “Okay. You’ll be there, right?”

“I will. You’re welcome to stay here. I have a feeling Sloan won’t be back for a while.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll hit a few places before I head home. Look up some friends.”

Michael slid her arm around Sandy’s shoulder and walked her to the elevator. “You will be careful, won’t you?”

“Sure. I know what I’m doing.” Sandy kissed her on the cheek. “No worries.”

For the second time that night, Michael listened to the elevator descend before turning back to her empty apartment.

*

“Yeah,” one of Gregor Zamora’s men said as he answered his cell, turning his wrist to check his watch at the same time.11:15. He’d been sitting in the same position behind the wheel in the cramped front seat of the Dodge sedan for so long his ass was numb.

“See the skinny little blonde headed away down the street?”

“The one that just came out of the building? Yeah, I see her.”

“Follow her.”

“You sure? I can’t see her being any kind of trouble.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

The line went dead.

“Prick,” the man muttered as he pocketed his keys and slid out of the car. Fucking footwork. At least she had a nice ass, which he kept in his sights as he started after her.

*

“Funny how a slicked-back haircut and getting rid of the tits makes such a big difference,” Watts held forth between slurps of coffee. “Hell, he even walks different than Mitchell. Must be the package he’s carrying between his legs.”

“Sure. That must be it.” Rebecca checked her rearview mirror, then scanned the street in front of them.

Ziggie’s was a strip joint in the middle of a block of abandoned factories, a darkened Mobil station on the corner, and very little in the way of foot traffic. They’d been in position for two hours, and during that time a dozen cars had parked, disgorging passengers, all men, who straggled alone or in groups into the club. The girls who danced in the dank, cavernous space or performed sexual favors in the airless rooms in the back would use the rear entrance. They hadn’t seen Irina.

“The boy better keep his head on straight,” Watts said.

“Mitch can handle it.” Rebecca knew Watts was partly concerned that Mitch would run into trouble and they’d be too far away to help, and partly jealous that Mitch was point man even though he was still green. But they couldn’t do anything to change either thing, so she focused on something they could affect. “If Clark’s people are here somewhere, I can’t see them.”

“Bet your ass they’re around somewhere,” Watts grunted, crushing the paper cup and dropping it on the floor between his legs. “Clark can pretend he doesn’t have enough manpower to run his own operation, but you can bet he’s got enough to fuck things up for us.”

Rebecca tended to agree. Clark’s modus operandi was to let her people do the dangerous or the boring work while he watched from a distance until something shook loose. Then all of a sudden he and his agents were right in the middle of it. She often wondered whether, if she had the power of his position, she would do the same. She didn’t like to think so.

“Let’s hope Irina shows, and that Clark is right about her,” Rebecca said.

“She could be playing him, you know,” Watts said. “Hell, if my choice was being shipped back to some gulag or pretending to work for the feds, I’d volunteer to rat out my fellow sleazeballs too. Doesn’t mean that once she’s out from under Clark’s thumb, she’s really going to do it.”

“I know.” Running a double agent was always a risk, because if they were informing on their one-time friends, they could just as easily turn the tables and betray you. If Irina was double-crossing them, she’d need information to convince the Zamoras and the Russians that she was still on their side. And she’d need to get that information from Mitch. Rebecca didn’t see that they had any choice except to go forward and hope that Mitch would be able to tell if Irina was stringing him along.