Authors: Leslie Esdaile Banks
Shattered Trust (6 page)
Cap chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, that's what they all say.”
By the time the call disconnected, Laura had returned to the kitchen. She was greeted by blank stares of pure disbelief.
“What happened?' she asked quietly.
“Got a call,” James said, standing. “I'll tell you about it while you fix Akhan's fish.”
They all sat around the dining room table, barely picking at the broiled sea bass and steamed vegetables that Laura had prepared in a zombie state. Akhan ate slowly, methodically, as though measuring each bite of food with the slow recount of each witness's words, thinking.
“James and I need to resurface and draw the fire our way,” Laura finally said, taking a careful sip of her herbal, mango tea.
“I don't like the sound of that,” Steve said, shaking his head. “Splitting up the team is too risky.”
“If there's some paperwork, thus money, at the root of this, then most likely it was something I've orchestrated. James is top gun on security. He and I can cover much more ground without risking any family as targets,” Laura argued. “As it is, my sisters and their kids are still in the states. If they came for uncle, they'll eventually go for them in an attempt to smoke me out of hiding.”
“We do this thing as one family, Laura,” Jamal argued.
“Yeah. We're all in this together,” Najira contended, standing to go get a bottle of wine.
James and Akhan had remained strangely silent. The dissenters looked at them. Akhan broke the silence first.
“Let's study the pattern,” he said, slowly pushing his finished plate away from him so that he could make a tent before him with his fingers. “This all began with a transfer of power by the late Donald Haines, correct? What part of that had federal ties?”
Laura nodded. “Yes. You and I gave him a slate of approved programs that he sanctioned. We set up those programs on abandoned old factory lands earmarked for redevelopment. But it was city- and state-owned land, any federal money was sent down from Washington, hit state coffers, and then trickled down to the city. We got our apportionment from state and city budgets.”
“Ah,” Akhan said, nodding. “And we have a dead state senator, and a dead son of a state senator.”
“All right,” James finally said, entering the conversation. “But those boys aren't feds.”
“But they used to go back and forth to Washington all the time,” Laura added, her gaze never leaving Akhan.
“And our dear friend Donald met an untimely demise ... which may have unsettled deals he had to repay those federal connectionsâa scratch-your-back arrangement to make it lucrative for certain monies to be released, so that those who gave up thirty-year land leases at the state level could be renumerated.”
Laura closed her eyes and let out a hard breath. “With Senator Scott getting screwed and losing power, who knows who at the federal level didn't get their itch scratched.” She opened her eyes to Akhan's wise gaze.
“It's always a very delicate balance, Laura,” he said, no emotion or judgment in his tone. “I had oversight, locally, over those program landsâgiven your shutdown of Rainmaker's, Inc. With Scott gone ...”
“There's no way for them to wrest back the leases or get a cut off the program funds,” she said with a groan.
“Precisely,” Akhan said.
She stood and began to pace. “OK, then we have to find out who Scott was dealing with. Who would have stood to benefit in some way in exchange for him funding the city to do the programs?”
“Ashé,” Akhan said quietly, taking up his tea again. “Or, what will most likely happen is, you'll witness an erosion of those programs. Good grassroots organizations discredited for fiscal mismanagement, programs not getting funding the following year, thus the land leases voided, somehow, and the monies redirected to new ventures and new so-called priorities.”
“Damn, that's some crazy shit,” Jamal muttered, shaking his head.
“Indeed, son. Nothing is stable. All of this is built on shifting sands.”
“I'll go with the theory,” James said. “But why a hit? That part of it is personal. They could shake the programs out from under your or Laura's control, and get back whatever money they felt they were owed. However, when bodies start dropping ...”
“It's real personal,” Steve said. “Sending a message.”
Both James and Steve nodded.
“Yeah ...” Laura said slowly. “That's why I need to get stateside with James, do some on-the-street digging, and find out who has a personal axe to grind in relation to the programs that got transferred to Akhan.”
“You may not be able to fix this, Laura,” Akhan warned, taking a way-too-calm sip of his tea. “This may be a wake-up call to simply remove you and anyone else associated with you permanently from the equation, given how dangerous you've been to them in the past.”
“Then that's all the more reason for me and James to go. If I can find out who's been wronged, I can perhaps shield those program directors locally from a media or fiscal beat down, transfer what can be salvaged to some compromise agencies that can absorb the innocent without too much fallout, and then wait for them to try to off me ... and have something waiting for them.”
“Still the Scorpion, I see, my young queen sister.” Akhan set down his tea and smiled a very strained smile. “My concern is that, this time, it may not be that simplistic.”
Chapter 6
“W
e're deeply concerned.”
e're deeply concerned.”
Vladimir Chertoff glanced around at the waning lunchtime political crowd within the Watergate Hotel, and then settled a lethal gaze on the two men before him. The one wearing dark aviator sunglasses with a communications wire discreetly tucked behind his ear troubled him, but not as much as his older contact who kept a blank expression on his alcohol-puffed face as he spoke in a low warning tone.
“There is no cause for worry,” Vladimir grumbled. “It was a slight detour, but I will deliver as promised.”
“Here's our dilemma,” his contact said evenly. “When you lost your bag, local Philadelphia police acquired it.”
“I didn't lose my bag. Junkiesâ”
“You lost your bag,” his contact said quietly, leaning forward and cutting off his explanation. “We pay you well not to lose your bag. You've done work for us in some of the worst ghettos in the world, from Bosnia to the Sudan ... and you've never lost your bag. This concerns those above me who think you may be getting sloppy. A ghetto in North Central Philadelphia cannot be as daunting as those in central Afghanistan, can it?”
Vladimir didn't answer the charge, but simply glared back at the beady blue eyes that challenged his.
“Your target escaped. Period. He knew you were coming, because when the local police got there, a scarecrow had taken your bullet. Which leads us to believe that no mere junkies stole your bag, if someone was prepared to set up a countertrap. It wasn't crackheads, but someone shrewd enough, with enough underground information to set you up. And the local police receiving a gift out of the blue was also a very well-orchestrated move.”
His contact pushed back from the table and sipped his coffee slowly. Vladimir could feel perspiration building in his armpits and between his shoulder blades, making the black silk shirt beneath his suit cling to his body.
“I will address it.”
Neither his contact nor the silent security beside him spoke.
“I said, I will address it,” Vladimir repeated, and then waited for a nod that never came.
He was on his feet in seconds. His contract had been canceled mid-job. The way of his world was very efficient; he was a dead man walking. He tossed down his napkin and rushed out of the restaurant. Bright sunlight blinded him, and he was so momentarily disoriented that he couldn't remember where he'd parked. The humidity of Washington, D.C. was stifling, even at this time of year. Sweat coursed down his temples as he found the open lot where he'd parked away from the hotel, always sure to keep his vehicle separated from him, hidden, lest anyone tamper with it at the scene of the job. Today, he wished it was closer.
He began jogging, relieved to finally see the new rental, and he handed the valet his ticket stub, glancing around quickly. If they'd found it and rigged it, the valet would lose his lifeânot him.
Without incident, the valet brought his car around and stood for a second, waiting for a tip. Vladimir brushed past him, jumped in his vehicle, and turned the air-conditioner on full blast. Several blocks away, he reached in his breast pocket for a cigarette and carefully placed it between his lips. This was a small job, by comparison. An old man and a woman. Who gave a shit if his contract was canceled? There was plenty of global mercenary work to be done. He had the means to disappear. If they fucked with him, he'd hit his contact and the men that hired him as a go-between. Fucking American slime balls. They could do their own dirty work.
Vladimir grabbed a book of matches that had been stashed in the change holder, cupped his hands around the end of the cigarette to keep the air conditioner from extinguishing the flame, and flicked a match with his thumbnail.
The resulting blast shattered every window in the car.
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Cap sat at his desk in the Philadelphia Police headquarters, listening carefully to what his inside man down in Washington told him. It paid to have friends everywhere, especially those who observed a little local courtesy for the men on the street. He nodded to himself as he hung up, and then looked at his cell phone.
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James stared at the incoming number on his digital cell phone display. Twice in one day ... oh, yeah, this thing was heating up. He took Cap's news stoically, and kept his line of vision on the riveted faces around him.
“Might be coming stateside with Laura for a few, man,” James said, studying the expressions around him. “Any markers you can call in so I can do some digging, up in Philly and down in D.C., would be most appreciated.”
“This is some very foul bullshit,” Cap replied. “I'll make a few entrée calls, from there, you're on your own.”
James closed his cell phone and looked at Akhan. “The guy who was after you just bought it.”
“How?” Akhan said, leaning forward to brace himself against the dining room table.
“Air-conditioning refrigerant had been replaced with the kind that's highly flammable. It was a warm day in D.C., dude was a smoker. Kaboom,” James said calmly. “An accident. I hear tell the media will probably do a special on the subject on the nightly news, a Consumer Report segment about the dangers of low-end, Freon-type replacements. This was very, very smooth. No car bombs, no shots fired from traceable ballistics, just a rental car that might have gotten serviced by a bogus can of refrigerant during the normal P.M. cycle. Like I said, a convenient, very clean accident.”
“Then, if the dude who was looking for Pops just got his contract canceled, maybe they've called off the dogs, feel me?” Jamal said, glancing around. “I say we all lay low, stay here, and ride out the storm. Maybe your man at The Round House in Philly is on the case, it scared them off, and they decided that the bullshit wasn't worth it. Ain't no need for you and Laura to be going to Philly and D.C., kicking up no dust unnecessarily.”
“That's not how it works, dude,” Steve said, worry haunting his eyes. “They canceled his contract, permanently, and will get someone to replace him who isn't as sloppy.”
“We're out. It's real basic. We have to step to them, before they step to us.” James briefly held Jamal's gaze and then looked at Laura.
Akhan simply shook his head and he stood up. “Be safe when you travel,” he said, glancing at Laura and James and dismissing Jamal's argument. “I'm going to go lie down for a while and rest.”
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They were up before dawn, packing under duress. She and James moved around the bedroom in utter silence. It was as though they were doing a quiet, choreographed waltz. The only time they spoke was to say good-bye to the family, who had agreed to stay in Najira's home, since the main targets were Laura and Akhan. But nothing on Grand Cayman was in Akhan's name, especially not real estate.
Try as she might, she couldn't let go of the worry as she and James drove off. The faces of the people who stood in the driveway were the only family she had left in the world, save her sisters and their brood. Laura kept her eyes on them until the vehicle turned the corner, etching every face into her memory, burning it into her psyche like a brand.
“You think they'll be all right?” she finally asked James, already knowing the answer.
“We can only hope so. Got a vet cop in there: Steve. Jamal ain't no slouch. Your uncle is handy with a weapon and doesn't miss much. Najira is as loud as an alarm system. Everybody's got a weapon. That's all we can do.”
His statement, though designed to console, didn't. She couldn't blame him, though. What he'd said was the naked truth. James didn't do platitudes or false promises. That was what she loved about him most. The man was brutally honest to a fault.
“I'd feel better if we had a little heat on us,” she finally admitted.
“Can't get it through airport security. Gotta pick up what we need when we get to Philly, and then drive it down to D.C. with us.”
She knew that. They looked at each other. Her nerves were rubbed so raw, they were showing. James reached over, clasped her hand, and drove with only one of his. That was all that needed to be said.
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“Déjà vu,” Laura remarked flatly, staring at her unopened suitcase on the floor of the Ritz Carlton.
James poured himself a Chivas from the courtesy bar and sat down hard in the hotel room chair, sipping it neat. “Yep.” He let his breath out in an audible, disgusted rush and rubbed the tension away from his neck. “Back in Philly, flying in under radar, no home to go home toâain't nothing here the same, yet everything is.”
“We had a year,” she said quietly, making his eyes meet hers. “A good one.”
“You talk like it's over, like we're dying.”
“Feels like I am,” she admitted, and stood to pour herself a rum and coke.
“I've never heard you give up,” he said, watching her intently.
“What you hear is fatigue,” she said, coming toward him and absently clinking her glass against his. “I can't even think anymore.”
“It's called frustrationâthat's what's got you in its grip, baby.”
She sat across from him and nursed her drink. “How did you come to that conclusion?”
“Am I wrong?”
She smiled for the first time since they'd left Grand Cayman. “I don't know. What's your theory, doctor?”
“I think you're beyond pissed off, because somebody set a ball into motion without you. And, be honest, you spent a lifetime setting up a very clean game, moving the pieces around so you and your family could be safe and old vendettas settled. Then you retired, decided to get out of the game, and somebody ain't finished playing yet. They're forcing your hand, unraveling all that you built lovely. Since you've been disconnected from the inner workings, it's like you're a freshman all over again, and have to learn the new game.”
He peered at her as he took a slow sip from his rocks tumbler. “I know my wife that well. It's pissing her off, and being pissed off without a way to vent that energy is wearing her out. Basic math of the way Laura Caldwell's mind works.”
Her smile widened as she took a healthy swig from her glass. “
You're
pissing me off.”
You're
pissing me off.”
“Because I'm right,” he said, chuckling.
“Yes,” she said, and set her glass down hard.
“Good, because I've noticed over the years that, when you're good and angry, you're at your best.”
She arched an eyebrow and gave him a nod of respect. “Thank you.”
“Much obliged.” He grinned and finished his drink. “I also noticed that, after great sex, your mind works wonders, too.”
“Really?” She spun the glass on the table and kept her gaze fixed on him.
“Really,” he said, his smile sliding to a serious expression.
“Must be a Scorpio thing, and you wouldn't understand.”
“How many times have you left my bed, and then gone off to do something crazy?”
She laughed. “A number of times.”
“Not this time,” he said, no mirth in his tone. “It's too dangerous. Even if you have to wake me up and tell me you're going out, I want to be in communication with you at all times. Understood?”
Her broad smile went to a very sly one. “All right ... but is that also an offer for some very good sex this afternoon, so I can develop a plan?”
He tilted his head to the side and just stared at her for a moment. “It can be, if you're gonna do it.”
She stood up and walked over to the king-size bed without a word, and unbuttoned her winter white, crepe wool jacket. Letting the garment hit the floor as she slid it off her shoulders, she watched James's eyes assess her gold silk blouse, gently tugged it out of her slacks, and then pulled it off over her head.
It was a silent, provocative floor show for a man who'd endured much, but still believed in her ... a man that, if things went down wrong, she might never see again. It was a final good-bye, as much as it was a reinforcement of all that was good in her life. Time was to be cherished, especially when it was running out. Sand was pouring through the hourglass faster than she could draw her next breath. It was a visceral knowledge, like watching a car accident occur in slow motion before one's eyes, helpless to intervene. The equation was thus very basic; if she was going to die, then this was the last thing about this ugly world she wanted to remember; if he left her widowed, then she never wanted to look back wondering why she didn't take the time to show him how much she loved him.
Laura unfastened the back of her flesh-toned-and-black lace, Victoria's Secret demi-bra with purpose, and watched her husband's eyes go to half-mast. Her eyes never left his as she slowly unzipped her winter white slacks at the side, and stepped out of her brown leather flats. Using two fingers, she pushed the pants down over the swell of her hips, rewarded by his expression of open desire. He was breathing through his mouth by the time her slacks hit the floor, leaving her exposed and wearing only a lacy, flesh-toned thong.
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