Takedown (An Alexandra Poe Thriller) (27 page)

Alex had neglected to get a new room key, so Deuce had to let her in.

“I feel guilty,” she said.
 

Cooper stood near the computer cart, watching as Warlock ran a 3D simulation module based on blueprints and satellite images of the Latham estate.

“Guilty?” Deuce said. “About Favreau? The guy’s murderous scum.”

“No, about Lita, the girl Cooper hired. I can barely stand touching the creep and she got the full treatment.” She took a breath. “At least he passed out. That was a blessing for both of us.”

Cooper looked up from the screen. “That wasn’t an accident. I had her slip him just enough of the Stonewell cocktail to persuade him to sleep.”

“Really? But how did she—”

Cooper held up a hand. “You don’t want to know.”
 

Alex nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry I asked.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I gave her an extra thousand. She left with a smile on her face.”

For the next few minutes, Cooper brought Alex up to speed, mapping out their strategy and filling in the details he and the others had worked out.

Alex listened carefully, but part of her mind was drifting, thinking first about Favreau and Lita, but soon moving on to Thomas Gérard and Eric Hopcroft and the text message she had received from her father.

If it’s too much to ask, I’ll understand.

Was
it too much?

She wouldn’t know until tonight.

A
LEX
AND
F
AVREAU
were picked up by a limousine.

There was a whole line of limos in front of the hotel that evening, where several of the guests—dressed to the nines and babbling happily—waited to be whisked away to Latham’s wonderland. The secret was now out. The party of the year was about to begin, and many of those who had been left in the cold were confronting the hotel’s concierge, wondering how they, too, could join the anointed.

Alex felt as if she was headed to the prom from hell, saddled with an escort who would never have made even her D-list in the real world. She wore a dress that was a bit less revealing than the previous ones—and allowed for more flexibility—but the look of rapture on Favreau’s face the moment he saw her only increased her sense of dread.

 
Thankfully, the look faded by the time they climbed into the limo. Alex knew he must have been thinking about dangerous and shady business associates and double crosses and all the things that could go wrong tonight.

So was she, for that matter. But there was only one thought that held the uppermost spot in her mind.

Her promise to her father.

Consider it done.

As the limo made the turn out of the driveway, Favreau put a hand on her knee and squeezed. “So what do you say, baby? You happy now? Is this what you wanted?”

What she wanted was his hand off her knee. Unfortunately, breaking his fingers wasn’t an option. “Like I told you, these parties are legendary.”

“If they’re so legendary, why haven’t I ever heard of them?”

“Because you’re a guy who likes to spend his entire day in his room, remember?” She gave him a sly smile. “Unless you’ve got business to attend to.”

He slid his hand upward and caressed her thigh. “I’d much rather attend to you.”
 

Resisting the urge to elbow his kidney, she placed her hand over his. “All in due time, darling. All in due time.”

Cooper, Deuce and Warlock hijacked the catering van about a block from the company parking lot.

Thanks to Warlock’s scouring of Leonard Latham’s recent credit transactions, they were able to target Gold Coast Kitchens, the catering service hired to handle ancillary food preparation and additional staffing for Latham’s overworked kitchen help. The driver was running late, the last of several trips to the estate, and an impromptu roadblock using the rented Buick had encouraged him to pull over.

The sight of their weapons sealed the deal.

He raised his hands without argument and Cooper hit him with a tranq dart, knocking him cold in ten seconds flat.

“Nice,” Deuce said. “Another Stonewell cocktail?”

Cooper nodded. “He’s good for a few hours.”

“Poor guy’s just trying to make a living. Probably never hurt a soul.”

“He could be a wife beater for all you know.”

Deuce thought about this. “I think I’ll go with that scenario.”

After dragging the driver out of the vehicle, they checked the ID in his wallet and threw him onto the backseat of the Buick as Warlock waited behind the wheel.

Deuce moved around to the van’s cargo hold, opened the doors, and found a tall metal food rack that carried a couple dozen pies of various persuasions in pink windowed boxes stamped
GCK BAKERY
. The smell that wafted from inside was a little slice of heaven. He was sure he detected cherry-raisin, one of his favorites.

Now if only he had some ice cream.

Cooper was already dressed in an outfit similar to the uniform worn by the Gold Coast catering staff—black pants, white shirt, and black vest. His outfit might not have been an exact match, but they doubted anyone would take much notice.
 

He checked his watch and climbed onto the driver’s seat of the van. “Alex should be there any minute now. We’d better get moving.”

Deuce nodded, then crossed to the Buick, and got in next to Warlock.
 

“Let’s put some wheels on this wagon and ride,” he said.

Without a word, Warlock popped the car into gear and punched the gas.

When Alex saw the dark and shuttered fruit stand less than a block ahead, her gut tensed.
 

They were almost there.

She always got this way right before an op kicked into high gear, like a performer about to go on stage not knowing what kind of an audience to expect.
 

But tonight was on a whole other level. Tonight she was about to walk into a situation with so many variables—not the least of which was her own internal conflict—that she couldn’t be sure she’d walk out again. It was almost like running a raid on a Baghdad bunker with an unknown number of armed insurgents inside.
 

She had gone over the blueprints of the estate and Warlock’s 3D simulations, but diagrams and software models couldn’t tell her anything about the human factor.

It didn’t help that she was currently weaponless. They had a plan to remedy this once she was inside, but there were no guarantees the plan would work.

It also didn’t help that Favreau had spent the last twenty minutes trying to paw her at every opportunity. Fending him off without
pissing
him off was a skill she’d had to develop on the fly.

As they got closer to the fruit stand, their car slowed to a crawl and fell in line behind three more limos in the midst of making the turn onto the Latham estate. She craned her neck to see what lay ahead, but the long driveway was bordered by the same jungle of trees that populated the rear of the property.

Following a route lit by a string of solar lamps, the car twisted and turned through the jungle until she saw the house in the distance, dramatically lit by floodlights.

“Holy shit,” Favreau said. “What is this place, the Taj Mahal?”

It wasn’t quite that massive, but it looked a lot larger in person than it had on Warlock’s computer screen. Unlike the hotel, there was nothing Art Deco about this place. As Deuce had mentioned, it looked like an old Southern plantation house, with columns and balconies and large shuttered windows. It was almost offensive in its size, especially when Alex considered the ramshackle houses that surrounded the estate.

The line of limousines rolled through a raised security gate, two armed guards carefully assessing each vehicle as it passed. Not far beyond, they reached the end of the road and turned slightly, circling toward the front of the house, where a phalanx of white-gloved housemen waited with smiles on their faces.

As their vehicle came to a stop, one of the housemen opened their door and Alex and Favreau climbed out.

“I think I’m starting to get it now,” Favreau said, his demeanor having clearly switched from skeptic to true believer. “We might just have to stay for a while.”

A
S
HE
NEARED
the end of the service road, Cooper said, “I’m almost to the rear gate. Are you guys in position?”

“We will be by the time you get to the house,” Deuce told him.

“All right, wish me luck.”

Taking a deep breath, he drove the catering van over the rise and headed toward the guard shack. One of the two guards stationed there stepped out and held up a hand as Cooper neared. Beyond the lowered security arm, the Latham house and grounds were lit up like a parade float, and Cooper could hear the
thump, thump, thump
of a bass beat playing.

He eased on the brake and rolled down his window, painfully aware he didn’t look remotely Bahamian, but hoping St. Cajetan was enough of a melting pot that it didn’t matter.

The guard came up to the window with a clipboard in hand. “Purpose of your visit?”

Cooper stared at him. “Seriously? Read the side of the van.”

The guard nodded and made a note on the clipboard. “Name?”

Cooper used the one he’d found on the driver. “Winston Laroda.”

He was taking the calculated risk that with the constant stream of catering trucks going in and out today, the faces and names of the drivers had become a blur to these guys.

As the guard checked his clipboard, the second guard—who had the demeanor of a man in charge—approached them. “He’s all right, I remember the van. Go open the gate.” He looked at Cooper. “I’ll still need to see what you’ve got in back.”

Cooper gestured. “It’s unlocked. Do whatever you have to.”

The second guard went around, opened the doors, and stared in at the metal rack full of pie boxes.

“Rich or poor, everyone loves pie,” he said, then closed the doors and patted the side of the truck.

As the security arm raised, Cooper rolled up his window, let out a breath, and hit the accelerator, following the road past the rear of the house and around to a delivery ramp at the side. As he backed down the ramp toward a loading dock, the van beeped a warning.

“I’m almost in,” he said. “Warlock, are you in range yet?”

“I believe I am. It’s all up to you now.”

The plan was for Deuce and Warlock to park the Buick in the adjacent neighborhood, make their way toward the estate on foot, then split up—Warlock looking for a place to perch with his laptop while Deuce positioned himself as close to the house as possible with a sniper rifle, just in case they needed a diversion.
 

Or backup firepower.

“What about you, Deuce?”

“I’m looking at you as we speak.”

“See you on the other side,” Cooper said, then came to a stop and cut the engine. He reached down and retrieved a black plastic packet from under the seat, and carried it into the back of the van.
 

He chose one of the pie boxes on the center shelf, pulled it open, and removed the pie—French apple from the looks of it. He laid the packet inside, put the pie on top of it, and closed the windowed lid. It was a tight fit, the crust pressing up against the plastic, and he knew it wouldn’t fool anyone who took too close a look, but the casual observer might not notice anything amiss.

He returned to the front of the van, opened the driver’s door, and climbed out, then went around to the back doors and pulled them open.

Most of the deliveries had been made during the day so the loading area was empty. Cooper unlocked the rack’s wheels and pulled it out onto the dock. He got behind it and rolled the rack through the service doors toward the hallway on his left.

Latham’s mansion may have carried the facade of a Southern plantation house, but according to the blueprints, its three stories and basement were a labyrinth of hallways and interconnected rooms more akin to a medieval castle, and easy to get lost in. The second and third floors held the living quarters, the main floor boasted a full-size ballroom and ancillary staff offices, and the janitorial and kitchen facilities were down in the basement with the loading dock.