No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) (49 page)

Figures.

Just Blue Eyes and me.

All alone.

I meandered through two parked cars that had pulled in haphazardly then bravely (or stupidly) turned around. “Could you at least tell me your name?” I asked.

His crystal blue eyes spoke words I didn’t know the definitions for. They blinked old, weary, and the thug quality I’d recognized earlier had surprisingly faded from view. Blue Eyes suddenly appeared as if he despised this assignment. Not the response I would’ve expected from a career criminal.

His shoulders sagged a fraction, even though his gun was now firmly planted dead center in my abdomen. Blinking his eyes slowly, he replied, “I’m Bats Giuseppe.”

“Bats Giuseppe,” I repeated.

Oh, my word.

Not only was this man pictured in the surveillance photographs with Turkey Cardoza, but Giuseppe (along with Bonnano and Carlotto) happened to be written on the backs of the photographs in Lincoln’s “Cardoza” file. Did Giuseppe shove a bomb in that man’s mouth, bludgeon the other, or hang someone in a warehouse like Paddy’s video documented? If he was responsible for just one of those murders, then the best I could hope for was a quick death.

I took a shaky breath. “Were you the man responsible for sending that video to Lincoln’s partner two weeks ago? The video where a man had been torched and hanged, then … um … well, his head fell off?”

“Cardoza,” was the emotionless answer.

“Cardoza sent it, or Cardoza was the perpetrator?”

This answer would reveal a lot. “Cardoza is sick,” he muttered.

So Bats stole it, and Turkey Cardoza had a deranged and demented pastime. That video was leverage for Bats … had to be.

“Bats, I suppose you don’t want anyone to know your real name either, huh?” Bats gave a slow, steady inhale and exhale. “I have a little sister,” I whispered, trying to make a plea. “I always wanted a brother, but when you’re raised by a single dad that dream died years ago. I’m fifteen, almost sixteen, and I’m from Cincinnati. I’ve never had a boyfriend or even kissed anyone. I suck at school, and I know that’s probably considered a bad word, but at times it’s merely the best description. I honestly have a hard time sitting still. Like I’m trying to outrun the reality that’s in front of me. It hurts me that very few understand me, but it’s just,” I paused, “it’s just that I’d rather be doing other things, you know? Like tonight, I helped the police find a little boy … I hope so, at least. I try to…” I stopped, the tears threatening to fall. “I try to right some wrongs, I guess, because no one righted them for me. It haunts me, sir, not having a mother live with me, and I’ve never been good at anything except attracting trouble. I’m sure you understand that, but I’m going to give you a piece of advice. If you have plans to kill me, my father will hunt you down. And he won’t be quick or humane about the way he disposes of you. So you might want to leave the country or buy a one-way ticket to Saturn, but even that might not be far enough away from his temper.”

Bats stared at me as if he knew the ending to my story without even turning the next page. For what seemed like an eternity, he breathed and I breathed. A vertical line deepened between his eyes, and his lips painted into a hard, steely line. He contemplated his next move, but it was a foregone conclusion I was merely stalling.

He looked to the sky, finally saying, “I’m called Bats because I’m a loner and prefer to operate in the dark.”

Okay … progress. “My real name’s Darcy, and it means dark. My parents were idiots because I’m blonde. We’re sort of like family.” I offered a sheepish smile and said, “Would you be my honorary brother?”

I moronically demonstrated the initiation.

Just flapped my chicken wings like a dumb-butt bird.

That proposal sounded a little differently in my brain. You know, he responded, “OMG! Really?! That’s awesome!” then kicked the gravel in bashful embarrassment, and we skipped away hand-in-hand.

Bats lifted his gun to his temple, metaphorically scratching his head in question. His expression saying he thought me the stupidest human being he’d ever run across. Honestly, I agreed. This definitely wouldn’t make my list of
Top Ten Ways To Negotiate Your Way Out of Getting Murdered
but would definitely make the gag reel.

After a few seconds of disbelief, his voice lowered once again. “Walk.”

“Could you at least do me a favor?” I begged. Long pause, and it hit me like a ton of bricks I’d asked a murderer to do the right thing and follow my dying wishes. I fisted my hands at my sides and baited him, lifting a defiant chin. If he thought I’d back down, then he’d be waiting for the Devil to build a snowman in Hell. But should I even take his word? What other recourse did I have? My request meant too much to ignore without giving it a try. “Could you get word to my best friend that I love him?” I choked out. “He’s Lincoln’s grandson, and I just … love him.”

My dying thoughts I always knew would be of my best friend. Even if we led separate lives, my heart would never cease to yearn for him and how he made me feel like the most special human being in his world. We promised one another to go through everything together, whatever that would bring. Now, I was faced with an overwhelming guilt of leaving him in the lurch of a thing called life.

“You’re brave,” he muttered astonished.

Open to interpretation. “Please,” I begged in a whisper, “tell my best friend. His name is Dylan.”

Bats must’ve seen the determination in my eyes because his breath caught in his chest, and he nodded. He’d given me more than expected but less than conducive to additional conversation. Bats was definitely as dark and twisty as me, and no doubt something happened to fundamentally change who he was … or wanted to be. But the reality was, he happened to be a mean SOB with a history of killing people.

He nudged his pistol firmly into my gut. “Turn back around, Darcy, and walk to the black Benz in the second row of cars.”

Inwardly I sighed, and quickly glanced around. No makeshift weapon lay anywhere that I could attack him with. The way I saw it, this could be my final 6x6 plot of land if I didn’t do something fast. There was only one option—at least one I could think of. I briefly closed my eyes, knowing it was now or never.
Don’t ever get into a car with a stranger
, I heard my father say.
Nothing good will ever come from it
.

Fudge…

My eyeballs popped out, while my sense of survival screamed,
Run for your life!
I knew enough from Murphy that if anyone ever had a gun to your back that you needed to zigzag while running. A moving target was too hard to hit. How he knew that I wasn’t sure, but he said it with such conviction, I filed it away for future use. Another lesson: if you get hit, play dead. I aimed for not getting hit, period.

Be a verb, Darcy
, I told myself.
Be a verb and run your arse straight to Georgia
.

I took off for the last row of cars, running like a drunk thoroughbred.

“Stop!” he shouted.

I staggered and went down on a knee but found my balance and kept moving in a zigzag.

He bellowed another, “Stop!” while the night air suddenly rang with footfalls.

Ducking down in row four, I monkey crawled into row five and took out sideways for row six. “Don’t make me shoot!” he screamed in exasperation.

“Aaah,
you
shoot, and
I’m
going to shoot,” a deep and familiar voice boomed from behind.

Time stood still.

I stayed crouched, heart beating loudly in my chest, waiting for a big bang to split the atmosphere in two. When nothing but quiet stretched between us, I slowly crept my way up the back of a green Honda Accord—one hand after the other—to see who’d joined the party. Sweat dripped down my back as I peered through the rear window and guardedly stood up.

Lincoln.

Looking like a gunfighter.

Standing underneath a security light, the beam haloed over him and cast a long shadow, making him appear larger than anyone else. He held his gun tightly in his left hand, his right cupping it for steady aim.

“Well, well, well,” Lincoln deadpanned, eyes narrowed on the target. “Looks like I’ve bagged the 2-for-1 special.”

Bats immediately stopped running, casting a look of apology in my direction, pivoting around practically looking euphoric. Say what?? Lincoln likewise sported a face of satisfaction. Where his face was hardened before—scrutinizing Bats’ actions—now it appeared more receptive, curious to see what Bats had to offer.

“You got my message, I presume,” Lincoln murmured.

Right when I almost suggested we just hug it out, a man appeared from thin air, weapon drawn, and pointed at Giuseppe’s temple. He stood around six feet tall with orangey-red hair, ruddy features, dressed in commando black. “Look what the divil delivered,” he grunted in an Irish brogue …
Paddy
? “Hawareya, Bats? I’d extend my hand, but you can see the pickle we’re in.”

Two more men materialized from behind rows one and two: dark clothing, black ball caps, and hulking frames, with faces expressionless to the point of being robotic. Knowing Lincoln, these guys probably weren’t even Florida’s finest. They either took the red-eye from out West or were men that did a job and were in-and-out, no questions asked.

Both crouched low to the ground, forming a tight square around Bats. We stood in an isolated perimeter, but my intuition told me more backup existed outside its boundaries.

“I know you’re out there,” Lincoln murmured, and by the gentle tone in his voice, I knew he was addressing me. “Battle found him, dear. Cisco was at her house. He’s fine, but I need you to allow me to take care of business.”

The words took awhile to sink in. It’s as though they smacked me right in the ears and refused to do anything until I understood the depths of their meaning. The “fat lady” just sang. Cisco’s alive.
Alive!
I rejoiced. The insomnia, nightmares, lectures, and near brushes with death were all suddenly worth it. The instances where people told me to conform—prayed I’d conform—didn’t sting quite as much anymore. My ADHD mind locked onto a target and proved to the world it had been a blessing and not a curse. I wanted a day. Five days. Weeks to celebrate and do the I-told-you-so, but now I had to deal with Bats Giuseppe. If this added twist went into the death spiral, at least I’d die with a smile on my face.

I stayed put as Lincoln suggested and knew enough to not add another variable to the mix.

Darcy Walker, beacon of discretion.

Paddy removed the gun from Bats’ hand, kicking it toward Lincoln. “Circle on in here, boys,” he chuckled sarcastically. “Now, we’re just one big happy family.”

Lincoln picked up the gun then stalked forward, one deliberate step at a time, smooth and calculating as a cougar ready to strike. “This wasn’t exactly the terms of our meeting, Giuseppe.”

Terms of their meeting? What the…?

“Well, they weren’t exactly my terms, either,” Bats protested. “If you’re going to offer me protection, I had to make sure you weren’t selling me out. You were talking to Grizzly not thirty minutes earlier. What business do you have with him? That’s what threw me, man.”

Piecing that conversation together, Bats must also be the man Paddy had been talking to who wouldn’t take the deal they’d offered. The man Paddy claimed had made all kinds of weird demands. Lincoln’s face went cold, bordering heartless, and I knew he contemplated blasting him on the term sell-out.

“A different kind of business that involved another leech on society’s ass. Paddy was here to help me find
you
, Bats. Then you go and kidnap someone that belongs to me, and now I’ve got to pay the redhead overtime. You were sent here to take me out by order of Turkey, right?” Bats didn’t dispute it. “God, I love it when I’m one step ahead,” Lincoln laughed hollowly.

“Why contact me and not Weasel?” Bats asked.

More than likely Weasel was the other man seated with Turkey in that surveillance photograph.

“I refuse to do business with Weasel Bonnano,” Paddy snorted. “Anyone with a forename of Weasel doesn’t exactly give me the warm fuzzies. Besides, he smells like he made love to a tobacco plant.”

“Give me her name,” Lincoln demanded.

Bats said nothing. Paddy must’ve delivered unexpected pain because Bats released a sharp yelp that I felt in my bones. “You know, Bats,” Paddy muttered, “my daddy said to beware of the anger of a patient man, and now I’m angry. I flew out here and lost three hours that I’d planned to spend with Mickey Mouse. You’d better answer, or I’m going to show you on a scale of one-to-eat-some-lead how angry I am.”

“Give me her name,” Lincoln ordered again.

Immediately, I knew he referred to Pixie. Pixie (who I’d bet my sorry big, white, arse) had somehow contacted Alexandra Taylor. Bats’ voice shook like a glass of water during an earthquake. “Nn-o one knows,” he promised. “I swear it. I don’t hurt females anyway.”

“Another reason we picked you,” Paddy snorted sarcastically. “Who woulda thought this Irishman would find a wise guy with some scruples?”

Lincoln rolled his neck, once again with a command. “Turn around.”

Why?

Was an execution next?

Paddy and the others escorted Bats into a darkened portion of the property, past all cars, around a group of swaying trees. As soon as traffic sounds picked up, Lincoln steadily raised his gun and took aim. Before I could swallow, three
psss-psss-psss
sounds ricocheted the night air, followed by a loud whelp as Bats staggered to the pavement. Bats immediately slammed a palm over the wound, trying not to writhe. Lincoln had popped a cap in his left buttocks while a continuous hiss deflated the back tires of a nearby Aston Martin.

Sweet God in Heaven, he’d just sent Grizzly a message.

Lincoln shoved his gun into the back of his pants as Paddy and the two men grabbed Bats by the shoulders, dragging him to a black SUV. Although he’d been momentarily incapacitated, I didn’t feel Bats would’ve objected if he could’ve gone on his own accord. Bats wanted what they’d offered—I saw it in his face—more than the pay-off of pain.