Corruption (25 page)

The car hit a bump, jostling Lucky again. Damn, but his head hurt. He closed his eyes and knew no more.

***

The car stopped. Lucky rubbed his head. Whoever’d clobbered him had gotten him good. A car door slammed and he lay still, hoping whoever opened
the trunk might think he was still out cold. They hadn’t killed him outright, but might simply be waiting for the right moment. There had to be
an emergency latch in here somewhere, but he couldn’t escape. No telling what waited for him outside the car.

Hard-soled shoes clicked across concrete, and Lucky squeezed his eyes shut when the trunk lid popped opened. The night grew lighter for a moment, until
shadows darkened it again. Someone leaned into the trunk, close enough to waft breath on Lucky’s ear. Expensive-smelling cologne teased his nose.

A deep chuckle sent a spike of fear plunging through Lucky’s innards. “You have the wrong man,” a cultured voice said.
“I can promise you, he is no narc.” A finger trailed down his cheek and Lucky fought back a flinch. “Keep searching.
You’ll find who you’re looking for.”

Lucky’s heart thudded so hard he feared being heard. Keeping his eyes closed might possibly have been the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“Are you sure?” Rap Man asked from further away.

“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?” The trunk lid slammed shut.

The voices faded, the men moving away from the car. Lucky lay petrified, replaying the last words he’d heard before his dubious savior walked
away. “Hello, Lucky.” He reached into his pocket and clicked off the recorder.

Chapter 19

Lucky lay in the trunk, afraid to move. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t. And yet… The car started moving again, which
helped jolt Lucky from his shock and back into survival mode.

There had to be a logical explanation. Dead men didn’t come back to life. Well, Lucky had, but only because of Walter Smith. He played dead again
when the car stopped and two pairs of hands dragged him from the trunk. He landed in a soft bed of grass. Something hard hit his side, but he held
perfectly still. Something softer grazed his hip.

“If it was up to me, I’d kill you for the hell of it,” a voice spat, a broken nose making it sound like the guy had a cold,
“but the boss has spoken.”

Rap Man had seen the big boss. Interesting, and something Lucky would capitalize on if at all possible. The car sped away into the night, and Lucky patted
the ground for the things that had hit him: his gun and wallet. A passing car’s headlights reflected off his cell phone, lying a few feet away.
The car didn’t stop. His watch. Shit! They’d kept his Christmas present from Bo. Fuckers.

Lucky rolled to his back, staring up at the heavens. Stars twinkled overhead, and in the distance, a bullfrog sent out a plea for a mate. Lucky sure
wouldn’t mind his own mate showing up about now. Crickets chirped and, across the road, a cow lowed. He closed his eyes and breathed in grass,
clover, and wildflowers. For a moment, he imagined himself back at his parents’ farm, on the hill overlooking the tobacco fields, Charlotte
beside him, sharing his dreams.

Ah, to be young again, with his whole life before him. He’d sure as hell make better choices. Choices that didn’t lead him into the
arms and bed of Victor Mangiardi. Victor might still be alive if not for Lucky. Would Charlotte and Bo one day come to regret knowing him, as Victor had?

A red light flashed on his phone, taking him from his thoughts. If he ignored the outside world, he could lay right here, take a breather. But Rap Man and
He-Lucky-Dared-Not-Name were gunning for a possible narc. Bo stood right in their line of fire.

He picked up his phone and stared at the screen at a string of messages, all from Bo. “Where are you?” and “Are you all
right?” and “Damn it! Talk to me.” The last message said, “It’s going down.” Thank
goodness the last incriminating message came through only minutes ago and hadn’t been seen by his abductors.

Wait!
Going down? Now?
Damn. Couldn’t let the party start without him. Lucky rose unsteadily to his feet, one hand on his aching head.
His fingers came away sticky. Oh well. Wasn’t the first time he’d been bashed over the head, and it probably wouldn’t be the
last. He stared at the horizon, surprised to find himself only about a half-mile from the garage. A quick check of his gun showed all rounds in the
chamber. Idiots. Never leave someone you’ve pissed off armed. Checking the safety before tucking the gun into his waistband, he aimed his feet
toward the garage. “Damn leg, you better hold out.” He took off at a trot.

A quarter mile in he met a car, unmistakably an SNB issue. Show time!

Loud voices rang out through the open bay doors, a group of men gathered around, cheering and catcalling. In their midst, two men squared off. Oh shit. Rap
Man and Bo. Clenching his teeth against his leg’s protest, Lucky ran.

***

Rap Man threw a wild punch, and Bo ducked, coming up fast and slamming a fist into his opponent’s kidney. The man went down to his knees.

“Get up! Get up!” someone shouted.

Too involved in the fight, no one noticed either Lucky creeping up to the door, or the other shadows gaining ground in classic stealth mode.

“Son-of-a-bitching narc!” Bo shrieked, lunging at Rap Man with a roundhouse right. He connected hard. Lucky rubbed his jaw in sympathy.

Another man came at Bo, who jumped back, sizing up his opponent. Damn, but the former rookie had gotten good. He no longer held himself stiffly, using only
his arms to swing. The way he rocked on bended knees, he’d easily deflect or dance away from blows. Heh. Lucky’d taught Bo something
with that first ass-kicking in a boxing ring after all.

A shadowy shape flitted from the building next door and disappeared behind the garage. Lucky divided his attention between the agents getting into place
and the agent creating a distraction in the garage.
Just a few more minutes, Bo.

Dusty Beard raced forward out of nowhere, a tire tool raised high overhead, aimed straight at Bo’s back.
Oh hell the fuck no!
Bellowing
like an angry bull, Lucky elbowed men out of his way, charging toward his partner. Bo glanced up, the relief on his face short-lived.
Crack!
Right
across the back. Bo stood still for a moment, all expression draining from his face. And then he fell.

Lucky grabbed Bo, easing him to the ground, then spun and caught Dusty Beard before the tool came down again. With both hands wrapped around the
man’s wrist, Lucky shoved, gritting his teeth and holding his ground.
Hurry the fuck up!
he mentally ordered his team.

He never thought he’d see the day when he’d be glad to hear, “Hold it right there. Put your hands on your head. All of
you.” Johnson stepped into the light from outside, gun at the ready and a take-no-prisoners attitude. If Lucky ever kissed a woman,
it’d be her.

Dusty Beard dashed toward the back exit, but the door opened ahead of him. A grim faced O’Donoghue barred the way, flanked by two members of the
Athens police department. Lucky froze, discreetly checking Bo out from the corner of his eye. Bo moaned but placed both hands on top of his head.
“You too” came from behind Lucky.

He laced his fingers together, assuming the frisk position. “Try not to enjoy yourself too much.” He glowered at Landry. As soon as he
could, Lucky was gonna take the young pup down to the gym and teach him a valuable lesson: Lucky could kick his ass. In that case, he’d enjoy
the hell out of training, but nobody else had better lay a hand on one of his rookies.

A snarl sent Landry back a step or two, indecision in his eyes. Oh, that’d cost him if Lucky’d been an actual felon. Still a felon.
Officially. Whatever. Johnson took over, kicking Lucky’s feet further apart and patting him down. The gun he’d gotten back ten minutes
ago didn’t survive the search.

Panic seized him when Johnson grabbed his wrists and locked them behind him.
It’s all for show. I’m not going back to jail.
Lucky’s heart didn’t believe him, pounding to beat the band. The only one he wanted cuffing him was Bo. The last thing he saw before
leaving the garage was O’Donoghue sliding back the hidden panel and whistling at the contents within the vault.

“Nice to see you’re still with us,” Lucky told Johnson on his way across the parking lot. He meant it too.

“Seeing your ugly mug again ain’t too traumatizing either,” Johnson shot back, in the same tone she’d used to say,
“You’ve got the right to remain silent” earlier. She manhandled Lucky into the backseat of a car, and Lucky didn’t
put up too much of a fight. Ankle throbbing, smacked over the head, and excitement giving way to exhaustion, he didn’t feel up to the effort.

“Who’d you piss off to draw this detail?” he asked.

“Piss off? Honey, I’ll have you know I had to arm wrestle some jerkoff named Keith for the honor of arresting your ass.”

“You won?” Lucky couldn’t wait to rub Keith’s nose in defeat.

Johnson snorted. “Was there ever any doubt? Southeastern’s gotta get with the program, ‘cause I can whoop everyone here,
‘cept maybe him.” She nodded toward Bo. “I hear he’s one bad motherfucker.”

“And me.” She’d doubtless make Lucky earn his victory.

“Keep dreaming.” After settling Lucky, she slammed the door and stalked away into the night to a soundtrack of crackling police radios
and the flickering of strobe lights. Of all the scary things out there in the dark, he’d just met up with the scariest. Damn, but he was glad she
was on his side.

The faint scent of Old Spice tickled his nose, signaling the boss’s presence in the front seat. “Hello, Walter.”

“Hello, Lucky.” Walter’s greeting came out a yawn. It’d been a long day for everyone. “My apologies, but
the local Starbucks isn’t open at this hour.”

“You can owe me.” Lucky’s love of Starbucks brew was legendary, although he stopped wearing his
Will Work for Starbucks Coffee
T-shirt to the office when one of the accountants suggested taking him up on the offer.

Lucky struggled into a more comfortable position, or as comfortable as he could get with his hands locked behind him. He stared out the window at the
flashing lights and cops leading men away. Hey, what did you know? Even the DEA sent a car. But with all the manpower focused here…
“How about the barn and the customers?”

“The gentleman who took the rigs was arrested an hour ago, and DEA agents secured the barn. Four other Cruiser chapters are being raided as we
speak. Arrests are being made from Atlanta to Athens. Most larger cities in the South Carolina pipeline are rounding up suspects: Clemson, Greenville,
Anderson, Spartanburg, as well as a few smaller busts, and I’ve yet to hear from North Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia. At last count,
we’ve captured seventy-five suspects, which puts this operation as one of the largest in the South in recent history.”

Looked like another one of Lucky’s cases might make headlines. “Did you get Reyes?”

“Not yet. He fled. Local officers are in pursuit.”

Lucky took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “We may have a bigger problem.” He really didn’t want to say the words, as
though speaking evil might somehow manifest the boogeyman.

“Oh? How so?”

“Someone thought I had ‘narc’ written on me and tossed me into a trunk. I might have met the man pulling Reyes’
strings.”

Walter turned as much as the confining front seat allowed. “Keith lost you, and we’d wondered where you’d gotten
to.”

“Nearest I can tell, I was in a warehouse, but I’m not sure where. I had a recorder, but lost the tracker somewhere while getting
away.”

“Was this man anyone you recognized?”

“I didn’t actually see him, I only heard his voice. And yes, I believe I know him
.” Please let me be wrong, please let me be wrong.

In his best kind-old-uncle-you-can-tell-anything-to voice, Walter asked, “Who, Lucky?”

“Victor Mangiardi.”

Chapter 20

“Are you sure?” Walter stared hard at Lucky, making him squirm.

“I’d been hit over the head, and I was out of it, but, yeah. Sounded like him.”

Part of Lucky wanted so badly to believe Victor Mangiardi still lived and breathed, if only to remove his own guilt for the man’s death. However, the
“works for the SNB” part of him said the world was better off without Victor. What a fucked up life.

The last of the cars marked
Athens Police Department
pulled away, leaving only an ambulance and two SNB vehicles.

“You’re bleeding,” Walter said. “You can tell me the rest after the paramedics check you over.”

A few minutes later, Lucky sat in the back of the ambulance, cuffs removed and sipping coffee someone had gotten from somewhere while a paramedic dabbed
stinging shit on his head. It wasn’t Starbucks, and it wasn’t decaf, but Lucky needed all the help he could get to stay awake.
It’s not like his head could possibly hurt worse without splitting in two.

Bo stood a few feet away with Johnson, one hand covered in gauze while a uniformed man examined his shoulder. Damn, but that tire tool left the bruise from
hell. Thank God Bo caught the blow too high to crack ribs and too low to bust his skull.

Lucky’s scalp stung, snapping him back to the here and now. “Ow, damn it.”

“Now, Lucky.” Walter sighed. “Don’t take your frustrations out on the innocent.”

“Hey, dude. You innocent?” Lucky asked Tall, Dark, and Ham-handed. Anything to keep his mind off his partner. Why weren’t
they loading Bo into the ambulance and rushing him to the hospital? He needed attention.

“Depends on who’s asking,” the guy responded.

“I’ll take that as a no, you careless…”

“Lucky!”

No one snatched Lucky’s leash faster than Walter Smith.

“Don’t blame me, blame the head injury.” Truth was, here Lucky sat, being treated like he’d lost his mind, while
out there a man he’d once loved, who now gave him nightmares, might roam free. There was no way in hell the Feds had faked Victor’s
death, was there? Lucky’d seen the medical reports and papers himself. Victor hanged himself following his sentencing, after Lucky’s
testimony helped to cement a guilty verdict.