All recognizable characters belong to Janet Evanovich, I'm just playing.
Chapter 4
RPOV
The day has been shit. It started early with having to take a couple of the men to the mats for poor performance reviews. I'd barely sat down at my desk when Zero poked his head in my door and nervously told me that one of our oldest clients was the target of a break-in, and our cameras had been disabled and therefore didn't catch squat. The quick visit with Steph at the bond's office didn't go as planned but I figured I could at least fix that one by straightening out our miscommunication at dinner. My contact with ATF wanted to meet so he could hear in person that there wasn't much to report on a massive data breach that had occurred when a laptop with sensitive information went missing while the agent using it was in a mob-owned strip club not far from the capital building. That was all doable until Quinten fucking Ford stepped into my building.
I had thought (hoped?) I'd seen the last of that ass when I finished out my last contract for the government and declined to renew it. As my handler, he wasn't happy about that. Of course, he wasn't; me and the guys made him look good, and while Tank and Bobby had been smart enough to get out several years ago, Les and I had let the money and ego stroking go to our heads. That money essentially got Rangeman off the ground, but at a cost. Our contracts had ended less than a year ago and earlier this afternoon, Ford had shown up at Rangeman with a hard sell to get all four of us to sign new contracts. The money was staggering, but he couldn't quite put a pretty enough bow on it to hide the fact that we were being offered compensation for our families. He would essentially be paying us for suicide missions.
Tank and Bobby were hard and fast nos. Tank suffered both mentally and physically at the hands of an enemy and had no intentions of, or desire to, revisit that part of his life for any amount of money. Bobby had moved on, allowing himself to fall in love with a nurse at Helen Fuld and had a diamond ring burning a hole in his pocket. He'd faced death and now wanted a life fully lived. Lester, the least settled of all of us and the one most willing to chase an adrenaline rush, was willing to hear the offer. Me? I was on the fence. I didn't need the money or the rush, but the feeling of obligation was heavy. Also weighing heavily on me was my association with the delectable Stephanie Plum. We've been growing closer, and I could finally admit that we were in some sort of relationship, but it was one that she was content to run from when things looked like it might get the least bit hard or messy. We were approaching the put up or shut up point, and I needed to make a decision. If she went back to the cop again, then losing myself in an op would at least serve as a distraction and a reason to not be in town to see them together. Again.
It was during a break in those probably pointless negotiations, when I needed to leave the room before I strangled the smug bastard, that Ram had passed along an unusual message from Steph. My call went to voicemail, and I tried to tamp down the feeling of unease at not reaching her. It probably should be telling that just hearing her voice calms me down. That unease made the message I left terser than I intended, but my shit day had ramped up, and now I was also dealing with the vague, prickling sensation that all was not well in the land of Stephanie. That sensation continued to build and gnaw at me each time I sent a call from Morelli to voicemail. We're not currently assisting the TPD in any investigations, so there was no reason to call me, repeatedly, except for something being up with Steph. Added to the multiple calls from the woman in question, my gut told me shit was probably hitting the fan. The fourth time the cop's number popped up on my screen, I cut Ford off and stepped across the hall to my office with no apology, fucks, or explanation given. Let the fucker stew.
"Talk."
"It's Steph. She stepped on some toes again. I got word that someone from one of the Families was after her and she's not answering her phone. I have an address, but no warrant or cause to go in as a cop—"
"Give it to me."
There was no way I would trust him with her safety, not when he'd shown too many times in the past that he'd yell at her for being in danger but let her sit there with a target on her back if it suited him. He rattled off an address and some directions to a place in Pine Barrens and my gut clenched. I was too far away. It didn't even occur to me to stop and think. If Steph was in trouble, she needed me, and I needed to be there. I was in the Cayenne and screeching out of the garage without a second thought or word to anyone, headed to the Barrens within minutes of his call. Another call to Steph's phone went unanswered, making me worry even more.
Morelli's directions were good, and in hindsight, maybe a little too good. I found the cabin with no problem and snuck up to peek in a window, checking for traps along the way. A team would have been a better option, but in my rush to keep her safe, I had done the thing that I always told Steph not to do. I waded into the situation without a plan. The stupidity of that was hammered home when I felt the barbs of a taser hit my shoulder just before the jolt of electricity surged through me.
Now, awareness returns in measures, and I'm not surprised to find myself flexi-cuffed and on the floor, with two wise guys smiling down at me. If I'm not mistaken, they belong to old man Grizolli, which makes no sense. Our paths haven't crossed recently, and I've only made minimal inquiries into his business while trying to ascertain who knew about the missing laptop. If nothing else, this is a pretty good indicator of where I need to send my ATF contact. If I survive this bullshit, that is.
Shaking my head at the predicament I currently find myself in, I blow out a disgusted breath and work myself into a sitting position. Pain shoots up my side, a sure sign that my hosts got a few kicks in while I was out. After all the shit I've waded through and survived, I can't believe I'm going to get taken out by the fucking mob for a stateside contract that paid peanuts. There's no sign of Steph, and I can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing. The older guy is bitching at me, telling me I should have stayed out of Family business. I'm only half paying attention, splitting my focus between surveying the room and covertly sliding a small flexible saw out of its spot on the underside of the belt of my cargo pants. Steph likes to think I'm magic, but sometimes it's just a matter of having the right tool in a place that no one would think to look for it.
The younger wise guy, who reminds me of a not so smart but very eager puppy, comes out of the backroom carrying an acetylene torch. I try and peer through the open door, hoping to spy a glimpse of Steph if she's back there. A sniff of the air only reveals dust, sweat, and pine, not burning flesh. Thank fuck. I don't like not knowing what's going on where she's concerned, not knowing if she's injured. Morelli said she's stepped on some toes; was she after a skip with ties to the Grizzolis? Had she stumbled on something?
A kick to the face has my head snapping back and I feel a trickle of blood sliding down my cheek. Apparently, the old shit doesn't like being ignored. He's shrugged off his suit coat and is rolling up his shirt sleeves, muttering, "Everyone's so afraid of the mysterious Manoso. Don't seem so tough to me."
Proving just how much Steph has rubbed off on me, a snort escapes at his petulance. That earns me a fist to the temple from the young gun, who's set down the torch and is standing there cracking his knuckles and shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looks eager for a beatdown, and Christ, someone needs to tell him this isn't a fucking movie and to tone down his excitement level. He probably thinks he looks like a badass. He just looks stupid to me.
They both get a couple hits in while I finish sawing through the flexicuffs and assess the situation. I've shifted so I'm between them and the backroom now, between them and Steph, if she's back there. There's a good chance I can disable at least one of them and get to the door and get it shut before the other one can react. I see my utility belt, phone, vest, and weapons on the table behind the old guy. Fuck. It's unlikely that I could get to them before he does, but it's even odds that I can get to the room and get the door shut before he draws on me.
All indicators point to them starting with fists and not the torch. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth or waste time, I lunge at junior and fuck me if he isn't sturdier than he looks. We trade a few punches and hits while the old guy leans against the wall to watch the show. The kid's obviously a brawler and I'm going to be feeling those kidney shots if I don't end up dead. He tackles me and we're grappling on the ground, and my heart is pounding, knowing I'm wasting time that Steph might not have if she's injured. I get one hand on the back of his head, and the other on his chin, giving it a bi-directional snap. I feel nothing as he falls on top of me. Shoving him aside, I'm stopped in my tracks by a bullet hitting the top of my shoulder.
Fuck. The old timer is standing there with my fucking Glock in his hand. Why risk leaving behind a bullet that could lead back to the Family when he can take me out with my own gun? My shoulder is throbbing, but in reality, it's a flesh wound, and I don't have time to worry about it right now.
His hold on the gun is solid, despite his anger. "You shouldn't have done that, asshole. It's not going to change the outcome. Your corpse is still going to end up down on Stark Street, just another unfortunate statistic chalked up to gang violence. Now I'm going to have to shoot you again before having some fun, and that means blood. And blood means a mess to clean up. Since you killed Joey, I'm going to have to be the one to clean it up, and if I have to clean up a mess, I'm going to make it worth my while."
So many things happen at once. He steadies his arm to fire again, and I'm ready to spring up and rush him, more than willing to risk a bullet over a session with a blow torch. Without warning, the front door opens, diverting our attention. Before either of us can react, his arm is jerked to the side and the glint of a blade catches my attention as a small hand swipes a deadly knife across his arm. Shock ripples through me as blood sprays warm, metallic, and unexpected onto me. It's a gruesome injury, and the blood spray makes it immediately clear that whoever did the slicing has managed to cut deep enough to sever the brachial artery. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, the guy doesn't stand a chance of surviving.
He seems shocked for a moment, looking at the blood pooling on the floor below him. As he falters, I get my first look at my guardian angel. I can't place the blond woman at first, but when the man starts to fall, he reaches his good hand over and gets ahold of her hair as she wrenches my gun from his hand. It's hard to say who's more shocked, him or me, when her hair comes off in his hand. He drops the wig and tries to apply pressure to his wound. It won't do him any good; you can bleed out from a severed brachial in less than two minutes. He takes a step before falling less than a foot from me, another pool of blood forming below him almost immediately. My attention returns to the woman now backing away from us, a knife and my gun clenched in her bloody hands. My eyes lock with Steph's just before she lurches sideways and vomits all over the floor next to the table.
I struggle to my feet, making my way to her. For every step I take toward her, she takes one back, putting space between us. Her eyes are wide and the pulse in her throat is too fast. She's in shock, and I know better than to approach her too quickly, especially when she's got a weapon in each hand.
"Babe, look at me."
She's still unseeing, and the blankness in her eyes scares me. I hate this. I hate that she took a life to keep me safe. I stay just out of her reach in case she panics and use the time to take in her appearance. The lipstick is different, and she's wearing CAT boots, but otherwise she's wearing the look from the distraction to grab Pacey. The beauty mark is a nice touch, but I definitely prefer the combination of the red lips with her curly hair. The outfit is now ruined, with a few tears in the skirt and blood saturating the sleeves and front of the blouse. She's still beautiful, though, because she's standing in front of me, alive.
It takes some time to get her to come back to me, and I keep my voice low, recounting the story of the distraction and how we spent the night loving each other afterwards. I know she's coming out of the shock when her hands start shaking. She looks down at the gun, and the knife, frowning, before looking past me to the dead mob enforcer behind me. Taking one more look at the weapons in her bloody hands, she holds them out to me. "I had to do it. I couldn't let him hurt you any more."
"I know, Babe."
She looks at me, sucking in a breath when she sees the blood on my face and shoulder. "I was almost too late. I almost lost you."
"Are you ok?"
She blows out a long breath, steadying herself, and holds my gaze. "As long as you're ok, I'm ok."
I understand the sentiment and need to hold her. Taking the weapons from her and dumping them on the table, I reach out to pull her close. She fights me at first, saying that she's dirty. The hitch in her breathing before she got that last word out tells me that she's meaning more than just the physical blood. I don't care. I draw her into me and wrap my arms around her, holding her tight. She takes a couple deep breaths before bringing her arms up to return the hug. Fuck this day.
We stand like that for a few minutes before I reluctantly step back and check both the men for pulses. Not finding one for either of them, I move back to the table and start strapping on my utility belt.
"Woody might be here soon."
My head comes up at that. "Explain!"
The fact that she almost manages to roll her eyes at me has me relaxing a little. "I kept trying to call you and tell you not to come but I didn't know what you were investigating, so I didn't know who I could actually talk to or if it was safe to leave a full message. Ram asked if I needed back-up and I said to send someone you trusted with your secret stuff to come this way if Bobby, Lester, or Tank couldn't come."
"Babe, I came because Morelli said you were in danger."
She bites her lip, looking down at the dirty cabin floor before back at me and answering. "Morelli is being blackmailed by the Grizzolis and I heard that guy," she points to the dead guy surrounded by a pool of blood, "say that you were asking too many questions and needed to be dealt with. They wanted Joe to do it, but he refused, saying he'd get you out here so they could do it. They were going to kill you and drop your body on Stark Street. Probably blame it on the gangs or something."
Fucking hell. I'm going to have to kill a cop and make it look like an accident. Bad enough he set me up, but no way he gets a pass on putting her in the crosshairs of the mob, even in passing. She wouldn't even be here, with literal blood on her hands and staining her soul, if he wasn't mixed up in some shit with the Grizzolis. She might be snapping out of the shock, but the knowledge of what she did, taking a life, is going to hit her hard when she has time to stop and think about it. She's not like me, not used to the extreme measures that are sometimes necessary to keep innocents like her safe. As happy as I am to be standing here, I never wanted her to bear the burden of taking another life, not for me. I know how much killing Jimmy Alpha and Clyde Cone haunts her. Knowing that she added to that tally to save me is a gut punch.
I try and move around her, but she grabs my arm. "Where are you going?"
"To have a talk with Morelli."
Correctly reading my mood, she doesn't let go, and even moves to stand between me and the door. I can feel my eyes narrow, hating that she's trying to stand between me and that fucker. "Move."
"No. You can't go after him."
"Like hell! Now move!"
"No. You're too angry and you'd probably kill him."
She's not wrong, and I hate that she's protecting him. She'll kill for me, but she won't stand with me. I don't think she even understands the utter ridiculousness of that. When I try and move again, she braces her feet and uses her arms to try and keep me from moving. I look down, seeing her forearms and hands covered in blood again and my anger reaches peak level, and nothing matters more than settling this. Morelli's going to pay for not only setting me up, but for not keeping her safe.
As gently as I can, I move her out of the way but only take a single step before my body lights up with pain. My legs lock up, and I try and prepare myself for how much round two's going to hurt when I hit the ground. Or the wall. Or the wall and then the ground. Instead, Steph does her best to catch me and lower me to the floor, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Her hand is in my hair and even though I want to fight it, it's been a bitch of a day and my world fades to black.
