My Biker Bodyguard (15 page)

crap out of a creepoid like that."
"Creepoid?" She raised a brow and sat up, still breathing
deep, still shaky, but feeling more like herself.
He shrugged. "I wouldn't want to burn your innocent ears
with worse, sweetheart."
"Oh, you mean like son-of-a-bitch, bastard, asshole?"
"Oh," he gasped, covering his heart and rolling to his
back, as if brought low by her filthy words. "Be still my
beating heart. I think I'm in love."
She laughed out loud. Inside, she wished that was true.

"Who hired you?" Agent Davis asked the bruised,
bleeding, and handcuffed man seated in the interrogation room
at FBI headquarters.

Mitch watched with Mordstrom behind the two-way
mirror. They'd been decent enough to him since the troops had
shown up to take Mike to the hospital and get Mitch and Jess
off the side of the road. The man they'd caught still hadn't said
one word–not his own name, not who'd hired him, nothing. He
was going to be a hard nut to crack.

Flexing his fingers, Mitch winced at the crackle of bones.
He'd powerhoused that guy a good one and it had been thirty
minutes before the creepoid came around. He repressed a grin
at the name. The EMT's had almost insisted he be taken to the
hospital, but the agents had proven to be more insistent that
they take him into custody. Now that Mitch thought about it,
the agents might actually be halfway decent.

"We got word," a blue-suit leaned through the door, "your
limo driver guy–he's got a concussion, but he's gonna be okay."
"Thanks." Mitch nodded, relieved.
When they were alone, Agent Mordstrom crossed his arms
and cleared his throat. "You did good out there, keeping her
safe."
Mitch shrugged. "It's my job, same as yours."
"That it is," Mordstrom nodded.
"And," Mitch grinned ruefully, "I had one wild woman to
help me out. Those knots on his head are from her."
Mordstrom chuckled. "She did good too, then."
"That she did." Mitch recalled thinking she'd been hit,
that he'd failed her, those agonizing moments spent searching
for an entry wound–and didn't smile.
"We'll make him talk if it takes all night," Mordstrom said,
likely mistaking Mitch's scowl for worry. "But he'll talk."
He wondered if over-confidence was a requirement for the
FBI, or if they doused it on themselves every morning before
they left for work to hide the stink of being fallible.
He returned to studying the gunman, who repeatedly
pulled back his lips and sneered at him whenever Davis asked a
question, revealing two very yellowed canines in a mouth full
of comparatively whiter teeth. Mitch smiled. "I'd say it won't
take nearly that long."
Mordstrom raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How do you
know?"
"Look at his teeth."
The agent leaned closer to the glass, then turned his own
grin back to Mitch. "He's a smoker."
"You want I should go in there and give him a goose?"
"You got some on you?"
Mitch shook his head. "Quit years ago, but I could
stomach one right about now. You know anyone who might
have a pack?"
"I'll see what I can dig up." He started around Mitch, then
turned before he got to the door. "Just smoke, no questions."
Mitch nodded. He'd be able to freak the guy out more if
he just stood, shoulders hunched, begging for the man to make
his move, so he could give him another taste of the Conner
Knock-Out, smoking to his heart's content, or his lung's
punishment.
Mordstrom came back with a pack of Marlboro's and a
book of matches. "Finally got a name on him. He's Patrick
'Punch' Maldonado. Fitting, huh?"
"Yep." Mitch smiled, wriggling his sore knuckles.
"You sure you wanna risk it?" Mordstrom asked, holding
out the cigarettes and matches.
Mitch took both and grinned. "Hell yeah."
Davis and the thug looked up as Mitch came into the
room. Mordstrom followed, motioned Davis over to them, and
whispered in his ear, and then retreated.
"Don't mind me," Mitch said as he leaned against the wall
by the door. The thug glared at him and spat on the table. The
wad was pinkish, showing he still bled somewhere in his
mouth.
"Don't be such a pig." Davis told the thug. He sat down
across from him at the table. "Now, let's go back to the
beginning, Punch."
At the sound of his name, the thug shrank in his chair.
Mitch tapped out a cigarette and overtly sniffed the whitewrapped tobacco, exhaling with great pleasure he didn't have to
fake. Smelled just too damn good.
The thug eyed the cigarette. Mitch grinned, raised an
eyebrow. He stuck the filter between his lips and struck a
match, sucking in the harsh, dark taste of sin. Glorious. The
plume he expelled floated over Davis's head to hang above the
center of the table. The thug straightened, his eyes never
leaving Mitch.
"If you give us a name, we'll go easy on you." Davis
continued, ignoring Mitch. "We don't want you, you're small
potatoes. We want the man who hired you."
Punch still refused to speak. Mitch dragged on the
cigarette again, experimenting with different sized smoke rings.
They drifted in halos through the room. The thug's leg battered
the underside of the table with staccato nerves.
"What have you got to lose?" Davis urged. "You give us a
name, and we cut you a deal. No one's been injured here, you
didn't kill anyone. All you got to do is come clean."
Desperation flickered in Punch's gaze.
Man, this is too fun
. Mitch gave up the fancy tricks and
concentrated on filling the room with as much smoke as he
could. The nicotine made him dizzy, but with his back to the
wall, he had no fear it showed.
"Give me a cigarette." The thug finally said.
"Why?" Davis asked. Even though Mitch couldn't see the
agent's face, he could hear the smile in Davis' voice. "You
haven't given us a damn thing. Tell me why I should make any
concessions for you."
"I know what you're doing." Punch rocked back on his
chair, tilting the front legs off the floor. "It's not gonna work."
Mitch exhaled the largest plume of smoke yet and silently
stared through the cloud at Punch.
Resist that
.
"No?" Davis asked. "Have it your way." The agent stood
and turned to Mitch. He winked at him through the smoke, his
back to Punch. "You ready?"
Mitch nodded, looked for a place where he could stub out
the last of the smoke, and finding nothing promising, lifted his
foot. He ground it out on the sole of his shoe, cupping the dead
butt in his hand. "Ready."
"Wait." Punch rocked forward, crashing the chair back
onto all fours. "Give me a smoke and I'll give you a name."
Mitch raised his eyebrows at Davis. He hadn't really
expected it to work so well, or so fast. Punch was a career
killer, he had to be made of sterner stuff than this. He wanted
to urge Davis not to trust Punch's sudden cooperation, but
couldn't utter precautions in front the thug. He'd have to hope
that Davis was smarter than that.
Davis turned around and sat again. "Name first, smoke
second."
"No deal." Punch's eyes glittered desperately. "I know
how this works. I give you a name first and I'm SOL."
Davis waved Mitch forward. "Give him one."
Mitch tapped out a second smoke and tossed it on the
table. It landed precariously close to the wad of spit and began
to roll. Punch snatched it up quickly before it could get wet
and squinted at Mitch. "Now a light."
Mitch looked at Davis.
The agent shook his head. "No dice. The name first. Or
I'll have Mr. Conner take it back."
Punch eyed them both. "You gonna cut me a deal right?"
Davis nodded.
"Then I gotta see it in writing first." Punch grinned,
twirling the cigarette in two jittering fingers.
Agent Davis sighed and sat back. "I figured you for
smarter than that Punch. It's gonna be hours before we get
something typed up. Don't forget that we've got this
conversation taped and that the tapes are evidence in any court
proceedings that follow. Our deal is on record."
"What exactly is our deal?"
Davis shrugged. "How about disrupting the peace and
assault? We could prosecute on murder one, if you want to
continue to play hardball."
"No," Punch said quickly, putting the cigarette in his
mouth. "I'll take the deal. My lawyer'll have me out by
morning."
Mitch stifled a snort. No way in hell this loser would get a
break that easy. Not here, not with the record he had.
Optimistic was too mild a word for the jerk.
"Give us a name."
"I only got one name." The cigarette bobbed between his
lips as he spoke. "Grady."
Mitch eyed Davis. This confirmed what they'd thought all
along. They had their man now. Punch wouldn't even know
Grady existed unless he'd contracted him to do in Jess and her
mother.
Davis nodded Mitch forward. Matches in hand, he
stepped close, tore one from the book, and scratched it into fire.
The smell of sulfur singed the room. Punch sucked the flame
into the end of the cigarette and leaned back in the chair,
floating in the ecstasy of a craving fulfilled.
Mitch shook out the match and grimaced. This man
shouldn't have one ounce of pleasure in his life.
Davis seemed to sense his change in temperament,
because he abruptly stood and placed a hand on Mitch's
shoulder. "Let's get the rest of his story."
Mitch nodded and backed toward the door. He suddenly
needed to be away from the stink and stench of cigarette fumes,
away from the filth of Punch. There was a time in New York
when he could have taken a different road and ended up being
the thug sitting at the table, a time when he'd been on his way
there. It left a bad taste in his mouth that didn't solely come
from burnt tobacco.
Outside the interrogation room, he passed the Marlboros
and the matches back to Mordstrom. "Worked like a charm."
"Good job."
"Nothin' to it." Mitch kept going. "I'll be back. Gonna
grab something to drink and eat, get the taste out of my mouth.
I want to tell Jess the good news."
Mordstrom might have said something else, but Mitch
didn't wait to hear it. He left the agent standing by the two-way
mirror. In the hall, the sound of people busy at work, the
ringing of phones, and the scent of smoldering popcorn
overwhelmed him.
He headed down to the first floor and out into the street,
gulped fresh air and wished for a stick of gum, a linty bit of
breath mint from his pocket, anything to combat the heady taste
in his mouth.
Jess waited upstairs for word. He wanted to get to her as
quickly as possible. He wished he could have beaten the name
out of the thug instead of dipping back into a bad habit to get
the job done. Sure, he understood that battery made any
confession inadmissible, but in this case, he cared less about
convicting the guy they had, and more about protecting Jess
from the one they couldn't find.
* * *
Jess held the phone to her ear and grinned. "We got a
lead, Dad."
"That's terrific kiddo." He sounded relieved. She wished
he was there, in person, so she could see his face and know if
he was really all right.
"Yeah, they're talkin' to…a guy right now, someone who
knows who hired the hits."
"What kinda guy?"
Sure, he would ask that question. She didn't want to
worry him, didn't want him to get all riled up after the fact.
There wasn't any sense in that. "Just a guy the FBI hauled in.
I'm actually calling from their headquarters. Mitch is down
with the agents now, interrogating the man."
"Why aren't you there?" He sounded ready to dash in and
demand they baby-sit her.
"Because I don't need to be. I don't want to…." How
could she tell him she didn't want to complicate things for
Mitch, that he might just feel enough for her to distract him
from doing the right thing? "I don't need to be there Dad.
They'll tell me what happens when they're done. I'm sure of
it."
"I wouldn't trust them. They ain't been real good about
telling you the truth so far."
"What do you mean?"
He didn't answer right away and she heard what sounded
like J.D. in the background shouting Trash's name. Her father
said, "I mean, you can't trust people like that."
She could say that he hadn't told her the truth about her
mother either, but she kept her lips sealed on that subject.
Reminding him would only further his pain and complicate
everything. She sighed heavily. "Dad, this is good news."
Again, a pause and the sound of something crashing. "I
know honey, and I'm sorry to bring you down."
"How's things going on your end?" Jess wondered how
much of the house was getting destroyed while she was away.
"Oh, everything's fine, just fine. Hold on a sec," her father
tried to muffle his next words, but she heard them anyway.
"You guys knock it off! It's Jess." Then he was back on the
line, silence in the background. "Sorry about that, they just
broke that damned elephant stand."
"Don't worry about it Dad. No big deal." Jess grinned.
She'd hated that thing since Trash had brought it back from
dumpster-diving last summer. Her grin fell though, as a
sudden wave of homesickness washed over her. "Are they still
keeping you guys under surveillance?"
"Sure, and they're way too damned obvious about it. The
whole neighborhood knows they're here."
"Bet things are real quiet now."
He chuckled. "You'd think this was the 'burbs."
"Enjoy it while it lasts." She smiled at the thought of their
decent neighbors finally getting some peace and quiet. "If
nothing else, at least you guys get a break until they leave."
"That's true. I just wish they'd park their damned van in a
driveway or something. Or at least pick out something a little
less…brand new."
She frowned. "They're not really expecting someone to
show up, are they?"
No answer from the end. She twisted her legs from
beneath her, knees popping and feet tingling, and extended
them over the side of the sofa. "Dad?"
"Yeah. I'm here." He sighed. "Truth is, I think they're
more interested in what I'm doing."
She wrapped the phone cord around one finger as she
thought of a way to help him see the bright side of being a
suspect, which didn't come easy. Before today, they'd thought
she and Mitch were possibly behind the whole thing. "At least
you're safe, Dad."
"Guess so." He sounded angry now. She decided it would
be best to end the conversation.
"I'll call you when I hear more." She smiled to soften her
words. "I love you."
"Love you too, hon. Hurry home." Now he sounded near
tears. She would
not
break down, no matter how much her
chest ached.
"I will."
They hung up, but her hand stayed on the receiver, pulling
the warmth from the hard plastic as if it could hold onto her
father for just a few minutes longer. He was there and she was
here, and she was powerless to do anything about that, not
while the threat still remained.
Powerless. The very word straightened her back. God,
she hoped it would all be over soon.
The door opened unexpectedly and she jumped to her feet.
Mitch stepped inside and closed the door behind him. In one
hand, he held a container of mints. "We got him, babe. It's
Grady all right. They're sending the go ahead for his arrest."
The mints clacked against his teeth.
She ran to him without thought, throwing her arms around
his neck and uttered a relieved chuckle. "This is great!"
He squeezed her. "This will all be over soon."
She landed back on her feet, but she didn't take her hand
from his shoulder. "Thank God you pack a punch."
"You're not so bad either. Clubbing him over the head."