Corruption (24 page)

While Lucky had always carried a gun when he’d worked for Victor, and considered it a privilege to have one with the SNB, he’d never
actually considered having to shoot someone he knew, not even while taking aim at man-shaped targets at the firing range.

What if the kid died? Bo might never find it in his heart to forgive Lucky. Hell, Lucky might not forgive himself.

He slunk out of the Malibu to enter the hospital and face the music.

***

“How is he?”

Bo sat in the emergency room waiting area, head buried in his hands. “Stable. His mother’s on the way. I suppose we need to get out of
here.”

They shuffled in silence back to the car. “What happens now?” Lucky asked. “Your call.” Lucky voted for getting the
hell out.

“Now, we go back to work and pretend nothing happened, though the guys’ll be even more suspicious after this. You know how it is, all
fun and games until someone gets hurt.” Bo opened the passenger door and got into the car.

Lucky didn’t buy the calm act for a minute. Sooner or later, Bo would explode. He slid behind the wheel, glad to be driving ‘cause it
kept his eyes open and on the road instead of reliving shooting a man.

Bo stayed quiet until they’d made it halfway to Lucky’s house. “What did Walter have to say?”

“That they’re moving things up.”

“Even without the supplier?”

“Yeah, the supply chain’s getting too big. Tomorrow I’m scheduled to bring up my first rig.” A whole damned tractor
trailer load of Corruption. One hell of a lot of drugs. And like the smaller trucks, whoever placed the load in the parking lot would disappear somehow.

Staring out at the night sky, Bo mumbled, “When this is over, I’m going to ask for some time off. I need to get away for a while. Maybe
go hiking.”

For the first time, Bo didn’t include Lucky in his getaway plans. “I didn’t want to shoot him.”

A glance to the right showed Bo’s nod. “I know. It was him or me. Sometimes it’s a fucked-up choice.”

If they didn’t discuss the matter now, they likely never would. “Come home with me?”

“Can’t. Take me back to the garage. I need to clean up the mess and make sure Mateo hears our side of the story. Then I want to go
home.”

At the garage, Bo said, “I need to get my head together, okay?” He didn’t have to add, “See you later,
Ricky.”

“Sure.” How the hell did a man get his head together when he wasn’t himself to begin with? Lucky sat in the car and watched a
near-stranger named Cy stalk away into the night.

It seemed Cy and Bo both agreed on how to handle emotional extremes. When most in need of a hug, they ran away to lick their wounds in private.

Yeah, but what about me? I need a hug too. And about a million years to hold him and make sure he’s okay.

That night Lucky fell asleep. Eighteen different times.

***

He drove an F-150 to Texas, slept overnight in a fleabag motel, and picked up a loaded Peterbilt new enough to be a joy to drive and old enough not to draw
undue attention. All the while he kept his phone close, hoping for word from Bo.

He didn’t dare call and ask about the kid, and couldn’t risk calling Walter for a non-emergency. After far too long spent driving,
Lucky staggered out of the truck at the usual drop-off point.

A handful of men Lucky didn’t know stepped from the shadows, led by Reyes. He scanned for a familiar Harley, but Bo was nowhere in sight. The men
came closer.
Vrroomm…
Bo appeared from behind the building, pulled up in front of Lucky, and tossed him his helmet.
“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get out of here” As they pulled away, Lucky watched in the
bike’s mirrors. Three panel vans pulled up. Damn, that was one hell of a lot of drugs, and a whole hell of a lot of men Lucky hadn’t
known about, chatting in Spanish as they off-loaded cases.

The fact that they no longer hid the goods in a truck’s interior sent up red flags. Reyes knew his business, and his mystery boss
didn’t strike Lucky as stupid or incautious. Money might be crossing palms to ensure safe shipments. He’d be sure to let Walter hear
his suspicions.

He’d hoped to spend the night with Bo, but Bo drove straight to Lucky’s rented house. “Who were those men?” Lucky
asked.

“Mateo’s making some changes. He’s getting nervous.” Bo flipped his helmet visor open so Lucky could see his eyes.
“Ricky… I mean, Lucky, he’s getting crazy and paranoid. We need to end this soon. Watch your back. He’s been
asking a lot of questions about you, like where you’re from, and keeps saying how he’s not a homophobe. Methinks he protests too
much.” Without so much as a kiss, Bo roared away into the summer evening, leaving Lucky all alone once more.

As he unlocked the door, his phone rang with an unknown number. “Hello?”

“Ricky?” Damn. How did Mateo Reyes get his personal number?

No help for it now. Holding his voice steady, Lucky replied, “Yeah.”

“My friend, I have a job for you.” Oh shit. He’d been afraid of that.

Chapter 18

Crumbling bricks dug into Lucky’s shoulder, and he exhaled into the warm summer air. A blinking neon sign flashed the message
“Vacancy” from a rundown rat trap across the street. He’d not been to this part of Athens for a long, long time, and he was
dead on his feet from driving the rig nonstop from Texas.

Two fucking a.m. Either way too early or way too late to be making connections.

This isn’t my world anymore.
Even so, a steady pulse of excitement thrummed through him, squirming through his veins and urging him to action.

Though he projected outward calm, inside his heart thudded against his ribcage. He’d never cared much for the
meet-face-to-face-in-the-wee-hours-of-morning thing. Back in the day, Victor used to hire lackeys for that kind of work, considering Lucky’s
skills too valuable to risk on a drug deal gone wrong. He’d kept Lucky more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy, but desperate times called for
desperate measures, and staying in Reyes’ good graces meant doing whatever the guy asked.

The prickly fingers of anxiety caressed Lucky’s spine, his nerves jangling on an adrenaline high as they always were when neck deep in drug deals. It
didn’t help that his contact was late and each precious moment ticking away put him further and further in danger. Time was running out. This
deal needed to be over and done by sunrise. Where the fuck was Bo? Not that he dared risk a phone call if this little exercise amounted to some kind of
paranoid test.

He’d tagged himself with a tracker, though, and clued Walter in to his location. He didn’t need a visual. Keith had him under
surveillance. The bastard might be a card-carrying asshole, but he did his job. Somewhere in the big scheme of things, Walter and O’Donoghue
readied the troops.

Lucky finally spotted a coal black sedan easing down the nearly-deserted street, pulling to a stop on the opposite side. Glancing right and left to ensure
he wasn’t being openly observed, Lucky crossed the road against the light. Another quick look-see, and he opened the driver’s door. The
hard thumping of a bass beat elicited a wince as he slid behind the wheel, the former driver having relinquished the driver’s seat in favor of
the passenger side. There was no need to check. The cloying stench of cheap cologne gave away the guy from the garage that Lucky’d growled at
during their last meeting.

The man yelled to be heard over the loud rap music blaring from too many speakers. Lucky fucking hated rap. “Drive up I-85, and cross over to 385
to Spartanburg. I’ve got the GPS programmed. When you get to Church Street, pull into the Krispy Kreme Doughnuts parking lot. Call Mateo, and
he’ll tell you where to go from there.”

Nodding agreement, Lucky stared straight ahead as his contact slipped from the car. Lucky jabbed the button on the disk player, silencing the too loud
music. Ah, blessed silence, though his whole body still vibrated with the memory of the pulsing beat.

He reached into his pocket and turned off the recorder, hoping the sensitive mic hadn’t blown up and had caught the voice even over the
background noise. Technology was his friend. One down, a few more to go. The guy he’d relinquish the car to would be next. Reyes made this job
sound important. If it wasn’t a test, Lucky might get to meet someone higher up the food chain.

He locked the doors and adjusted the seat for his shorter stature. Five foot six wasn’t exactly tiny, but the previous driver was at least
six-five. Fucker. After fastening his seatbelt, Lucky put the car into drive and eased away from the curb into the night. The muscles in his jaw clenched.

Gut wrenching unease persisted, no matter how much he chanted, “Nothing’s wrong, nothing’s wrong.”

Maybe he should throw in the towel on the SNB, since he’d paid his dues. The older he got, the more he cherished life. The thrill of the chase
drove him on, but what would his existence be like in the normal world, coming home to Bo every night, talking about their days? Maybe he’d lost
his nerve. Or maybe he hadn’t lost anything. Instead, he’d gained a reason to keep his miserable hide free of bullet holes, and to keep
his bullet holes out of others. Perhaps the time had come to cut his losses and move on.

Bo wanted a home and a family. Well, maybe Lucky did, too, but he couldn’t see that happening with him and Bo away for weeks at a time, unsure if
they’d ever return. But even a tamer job didn’t offer too much protection. Look at the woman on the SNB memorial page. She’d
been an accountant, taken out by a drunk driver. And Art nearly made the page, thanks to a freak accident and a bunch of birthday balloons. There were no
guarantees, no matter what path Lucky chose.

What of Bo? By his own admission, all was not well in his mind right now. No matter how exciting Lucky found Bo’s newly discovered dangerous
side, if the man adopted a hard-assed attitude for real, he’d lose the qualities that made him who he was. He’d be someone else
entirely. Someone with absolutely no use for a two-bit, ex-con narcotics agent, a white picket fence, kids, and a family dog.

A smiling face appeared in Lucky’s mind, honey and chestnut hair, crooked, shy smile, and dark brown, gold-flecked eyes, irises rimmed in a deep,
deep green. In spite of the tension, he couldn’t help smiling back at the image. Bo. His Bo.

He eased to stop at a red light.
Sccreeeech!
Car tires squealed up the street, a dark blur fast gaining ground. What the hell? Holy shit! His eyes
glued to the rearview mirror, he tucked and covered as the speeding car slammed into him from behind with the unmistakable crunch of metal on metal.
Cheeeeeesh!
A shower of glass fragments rained down, biting into Lucky’s skin. Like a rag doll, Lucky whipped forward, banging his head on
the steering wheel and then back, to pound his head against the headrest. Stars danced before his eyes. His nose stung from the stench of burning rubber.
Despite both feet holding the brake to the floor, the tires groaned in protest as the car behind him pushed him out into the intersection.

More glass shattered and he ducked, a baseball bat smashing the driver’s side window, missing his temple by mere inches. Rough hands grabbed at
him, and he scrambled on his belly across the seat to get away.

“Oh no, you don’t,” came the same sinister bark from before as a hand latched onto his ankle. So, the rap lover
wasn’t as dumb as he looked and had at least figured out that Lucky wasn’t on his side. He flipped onto his back, dislodged the grip
and kicked out, landing a shoe to the nose of his attacker. The man howled and grabbed his face. “Get the li’l faggot!” the
injured man yelled, “he’s getting away.”

At least that solved the mystery of who’d followed Lucky and Bo. Lucky fumbled the passenger door open and barreled toward the sidewalk, fumbling
to start the recorder in his pocket. If he went down, he’d gladly take others with him.

Damn, but his leg still wasn’t up to running, even a year after being injured. He gave it his best shot, his smaller, more agile body ducking and
dodging his larger, ungainly pursuers. Down the road he ran, darting into shadows. Fuck! Why did his leg choose now to start aching? If they’d
found out about him, his cover was blown. He merely played mouse to Reyes’ cat.

Ducking into an alley, he pressed himself flat against the wall, willing his heart and breathing to slow. One man thundered past, but Lucky’d
counted at least three, though Broken Nose might still be incapacitated. Served him right, the bastard. The minutes ticked by, and Lucky strained his ears
for sounds of pursuit. Only the occasional passing of a car or muffled curses from Rap Lover reached his ears. The waiting might kill him, figuratively
speaking, but not waiting would kill him literally.

He barreled blindly down the alley. Hallelujah! An opening at the other end. Running hell-bent-for-leather, he pushed as hard as he could. He easily scaled
the chain link fence barring his way, but once on the other side, the telltale rattling behind him proved he’d been made. Side and ankle
screaming in agony, he continued his mad dash with no idea where he was or where he was going.

Lucky pulled his gun out, ducking between two more buildings and trying to watch both ends of the alley at once.

Energy fading, feet slowing, by the glow of a street lamp he watched in horror as the silhouette of a handgun descended on him. The blow connected. He
loosed a grunt and fell, blackness crowding his vision. Bo appeared in his mind. Oh shit! Had they made Bo too? “I’m sorry,”
he whispered before reality slipped away.

***

Blinding pain, his body jostling. A trunk. Lucky rode in a car trunk. He squeezed his eyes shut and patted his pockets, coming up empty except for the
recorder made to double as a key chain. All gone. His gun, his cell phone, his watch, his wallet, the tracker. With any luck, he’d merely dropped
the tracker and no one found it. Or if they found it, they’d think someone planted the device on him. If they used his work phone, who would
answer? The department all knew the drill, and would pretend to be someone associated with Ricky Getsinger, Walter’s name having been entered
into the memory as Uncle Walter.