Chapter 3
Carlee took an unsteady breath, her hand on the doorknob of the three room suite she had shared with Michael, as his wife. In the last two weeks, she had avoided the rooms as much as possible, only coming in to shower and change. Each time she entered, the rooms felt like they were constricting upon her. She couldn't breath, and she had to get out as quickly as possible.
Taking a deep breath, she entered.
There was very little in the livingroom to show that two people had shared a life here. There were a few photos. Some with Michael and her, a few with her and K.I.T.T., a few more with Michael and K.I.T.T., even a couple of all three of them.
In all of the photos, Michael's blue eyes twinkled merrily. In some, he was leaning his six foot three frame comfortably against K.I.T.T. In the ones with her, his sun bronzed skin contrasted nicely with her paler skin tone.
Her favorite was a picture of the two of them, taken on their honeymoon. He was standing behind her, his arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders. His curly dark hair was wind blown, and his face was alight with one of his trademark grins.
Carlee pulled herself back, before she lost herself in the pictures.
Michael had left one of his black jackets, the one with the white piping, draped over the couch. Even though this was the livingroom, she and Michael had done very little living in it, choosing, instead, to spend their time in the garage with K.I.T.T., or in the bedroom, so this was the only clutter in the room.
Now, Carlee picked up the jacket, hugging it to her, and breathing in Michael's lingering scent. She shrugged into the jacket, and wiped a way a couple of stray tears.
She moved off into the bedroom. The bed was still unmade, the way she had left it the day Michael had died. She hadn't slept in it in all that time, preferring to sleep in K.I.T.T.'s comforting presence.
Carlee pulled her duffle bag out of the closet and quickly stuffed in clothes and toiletries for the next week. She also strapped on her shoulder holster and Glock 9 mm.
* * *
As she exited the suite, duffle bag in hand, Carlee's mind turned to the mission.
She didn't know all of the details, but she knew K.I.T.T. could fill in what was missing.
She knew the head of the LAPD anti gang unit had called Devon, asking for F.L.A.G.'s help with a new Columbian mob syndicate that was moving into L.A.
The LAPD had told Devon that the DEA had their own investigation going. When the LAPD had approached them about a joint venture, they were told to mind their own business.
The LAPD needed the leader identified, so he could be apprehended. They'd sent in two undercover officers, but they had both disappeared.
Michael had gone deep undercover for the assignment, even going so far as to leave K.I.T.T. waiting in the wings for his call. He had worked his way up in the organization over the course of several weeks. Slowly building trust, or at least that's what he thought.
Someone inside had suspected Michael, though. The syndicate leader, still unidentified, had a trap set to catch Michael the next time he communicated with "the outside," which was K.I.T.T., in this case.
That was the extent of her knowledge of what had happened. She knew Michael had been shot within feet of the safety of K.I.T.T.'s interior, but K.I.T.T. refused to talk about it. He wouldn't have a choice, now. It could help them find the mob leader and the triggerman.