The Suppressor Page 4

  Saunders glanced over, quickly turned back to Jake.

  “I think a storm is gathering.”

  Not exactly the reassurance Jake was hoping Saunders would provide for Charlie.

  But, most likely, quite realistic. Saunders was rarely wrong about these things.

  The butler headed for the next trio of Farone-loyal, a few feet away.

  “Have a good evening, Saunders,” Jake said.

  “Cheers, mate.”

  Jake took a sip of the beer and looked back to the other side of the room, and as he did, Burton glanced up.

  Their eyes met.

  Arms and torsos and glasses of wine and liquor twisted around Burton, but his stare stayed fixed on Jake. A strand of his dark hair fell to the corner of his eye. He didn’t move it, didn’t budge. A smile came to his lips.

  Jake’s mind flashed to New Orleans.

  You screwed me over, Burton’s look seemed to say. And I won’t forget it.

  A staring match. Everything was a power struggle to Burton. Jake didn’t mind giving him the satisfaction.

  He didn’t want to look at the guy anyway.

  So he was the first to break the stare.

  As he turned, he caught a glimpse out the window, across the courtyard to the library. And there was C.C., by the far windows, looking at him, arms crossed over the front of her gray sweater dress.

  He smiled.

  She returned the smile, lifted one arm to flutter her fingers.

  Five-foot-three-inches of prototypical Italian-American beauty—black curly hair, olive skin, ageless face, dark eyes with long lashes, proportions and curves meeting the perfect ideals of Roman sculpture and mathematics.

  Beyond the physical, though, nothing about C.C. was prototypical.

  Jake had tried for the longest time to label her essence, and the best word he’d managed was bohemian.

  She wasn’t of the current ’90s grunge counterculture, nor was she a hippie. She was unique in the most literal sense of the word—not fashionably special, but genuinely different.

  To Cecilia Farone, life was a warm breeze, and she was the vibrant feather drifting on its undulations, dead leaves all around her descending to the cold, dark depths as she rose higher and higher.

  The smile she was giving Jake—from across the courtyard, through two sets of windows—projected a mild current of hesitancy. That was understandable. Her genuine smile would likely not return for some time, not with her life changing as much as it was going to very soon.

  The room quieted, and Jake turned away from the window.

  In walked Sylvester Farone, C.C.’s brother and a contrast to her in nearly every way, an unfortunate-looking man, tall with parted hair, a sloping posture, and a sad mustache. While his suit was on-trend baggy, it was also wrinkled and unkempt, and he wore it as awkwardly as he wore his own body, making it look baggier than the intended style.

  Across the room, Burton’s group turned to face Sylvester, but they did so casually, flippantly, like a classroom of grade-schoolers from whom the teacher had long ago lost trust.

  Burton scooted Christie away with a little smack to the rear end. She went forward a couple steps, stopped, and whipped around, her long, wavy hair flailing. She shot him a devilish look from her almond-shaped eyes, then turned back around and shuffled backward, stopping a foot in front of him, where she put her hands on her knees and stuck her ass out.

  Harder, Jake saw but couldn’t hear her say.

  Burton grinned back at her, smacked her ass again, giving it some oomph this time. The crack carried across the hall.

  Christie sashayed from the room, throwing Burton a flavorful smile over her shoulder.

  “It’s here, buddy boys,” Sylvester said in his nasal voice. “The chance we’ve been waiting for.”

  He paused, watching Christie as she slinked past him. His wet lips quivered, raccoon eyes going wider, twinkling. She smiled salaciously.

  Sylvester cleared his throat, looked back to the others. “We’re taking out the Rojas. Tonight. At 7. I have it on good authority that they’ll be receiving a shipment of coke from their friends in South America. A shit ton of it, a full semi-truck full of Colombian white gold. They gambled their whole fortune, put all their eggs in one basket, so we’re gonna catch them with their pants down at the drop point, intercept the shipment, finish ’em off once and for all, and get all that product as a nice little bonus.”

  He snort-laughed. His face glimmered with gleeful anticipation, like a sweaty-palmed child clutching a video game controller, about to conquer the level that had thwarted him for so long.

  “The truck you’re looking for will be a black semi with a green trailer. It’ll have ‘Garrison Power Tools’ in white letters on the side. They’re meeting in the parking lot of that abandoned high school on the west side—Wagner High. Burton has located the perfect intercept point for us.”

  He motioned to Burton, who gave a big, faux-bashful smirk and waved off the compliment. Ah, jeez. You flatter me. It was nothing.

  “An alley between two of the old warehouse buildings,” Sylvester continued. “Across the street from the school. Be there an hour ahead. We’ll have them outnumbered and completely unaware. Do me a favor, buddy boys—make it bloody for ol’ Sylvester, would ya?”

  His gleeful smile quivered. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

  Creep.

  Murmurs from both sides of the great hall.

  Everyone had known coming into this meeting that Sylvester’s announcement would be consequential, but they hadn’t known it would be this significant.

  Jake’s groups slowly dispersed, heading for the doors, but Burton and his cronies resumed their revelry. Shouts and laughter. Clinking tumblers and beer glasses.

  Jake looked through the window again, across the courtyard. He found C.C.’s eyes waiting for him.

  And they still bore that look of concern.

  Chapter Six

  Marvin Tanner slapped a hand against the wall of communications equipment in the back of the van, rocking the entire vehicle.

  “Hell yeah!” he said. “We got ’em now! The Farones and the Rojas. Two for one.”

  Harrison, from his position seated behind a bank of small monitors and gauges and multiplex LCD number displays, scowled up at Tanner’s hand, where it was planted next to a series of switches.

  Harrison was a young guy, black like Tanner, though much lighter skinned, with wild, overgrown hair. He wore an enormous pair of glasses and a blue T-shirt with a logo that Tanner didn’t recognize—some rock band, no doubt.

  Tanner didn’t care for Harrison, and, really, he didn’t care for any of the tech guys. But they held a significant bargaining chip—their esoteric knowledge of specialized and entirely necessary equipment—and they weren’t afraid of flexing that bit of power, as evidenced by the disdainful look Harrison was giving to Tanner’s hand.

  The insolent little shit.

  Tanner removed the hand, but, not to be outdone, he moved it, along with his other hand, to the back of Harrison’s seat.

  Harrison inched away as Tanner leaned forward, getting closer to the round metal speaker cover that sat next to a row of dials.

  “Can we clear up that interference?”

  Harrison shook his head. “It’s, um…” He paused, making a few tweaks to the dials. “It’s rubbing against his shirt, I think. He’s on the move.”

  Tanner looked at the black-and-white video monitor, the one directly linked to the tiny camera on the outside of the van.

  The Farone mansion was an old-fashioned, stone-sided behemoth with lush green lawns. People leaving, going to the brick-paved driveway, walking toward the dozen or so cars parked around the fountain—old, worn-in vehicles that looked terribly out of place.

  Tanner leaned back and turned to Agent Pace, the other man in the back of the van with him and Harrison.

  Pace was a big guy, late thirties, with a square head and dark, parted hair. Tanner knew he was of
Hispanic heritage, but if he hadn’t known, he would have pegged Pace as a Native American.

  “The Rojas are the principle rivals?” Pace said.

  Tanner nodded. “For the last six years or so, yeah. Another lower-level gang like the Farones. Joey Farone was kicked out of New York decades ago when he couldn’t cut it with the big boys. He just didn’t have it in him to sever thumbs and break skulls. But since he fell into rapidly progressive dementia the last couple years, the son runs the show, and he’s just the opposite of his old man. Sylvester loves the bloody stuff, got a real penchant for torture.

  “The Rojas just arrived a few years ago—a splinter of a bigger outfit in of Colombia. They get the heroin shipments from down south, cut it, package it, and ship it. And it’s been putting a cramp in the Farones’ style since they got here. They’ve collided more than once. The powder keg will be tonight.”

  Pace pointed to the monitor. “With your undercover man right in the middle of the explosion. Real nice, Tanner.”

  Tanner clenched his jaw. Damn fed. Pace’s personality had begun to grate Tanner’s nerves within five minutes of meeting him, which made Tanner regret his decision to contact the FBI for a consultant.

  “I’m pulling Rowe out. Tonight. Before the shit hits the fan,” he said through his teeth.

  Pace shrugged off his brown sport coat, folded it over his arm. “If we can get him out. He’s too stuck on that girl.”

  “‘That girl’ is bringing down the Farone family.”

  “Maybe so, Lieutenant,” Pace said. “Or maybe our guy’s in too deep. Maybe Cecilia Farone is playing him. Don’t see him leaving yet, do you?” He pointed at the monitor again.

  Tanner looked.

  The guy was right. Jake was not among those people leaving the mansion.

  Pace shoved his hands in his pockets, jingled his keys. “And Rowe kills the feed every time he talks to her. Do you really trust him?”

  The agent was awfully insistent, awfully pushy for someone who was little more than a glorified temporary assistant.

  More insolence from a younger person.

  Was there any respect left in the world?

  Tanner stared him down. “You’re a consultant on this case, Agent Pace. You’ve been here two weeks. You don’t know Jake Rowe like I do.” He narrowed his gaze. “You’re damn right I trust him.”

  “Isn’t the guy, like, a spaz or something?”

  Now Tanner was really pissed. Few things bothered him more that gossip—particularly misguided, dangerous gossip about the people he cared about.

  Tanner hadn’t taken Jake under his wing simply because of his brilliant—if not tumultuous—mind, one that had detective written all over it. Jake was a good damn dude, too.

  Jake, with his genuine smile. The gym-sculpted physique. His penchant for sharp duds. Unexpected tenacity and grit.

  Tanner wasn’t about to let some dirty fed just breeze in here and disparage the guy.

  “He has some focus issues, but he passed his psych exam with flying colors, for your information. We all have our quirks, shithead.”

  Pace chuckled, not looking away. Nothing bothered the guy.

  A staticky noise from the speaker. Then silence.

  Pace snickered, shook his head. A told-ya-so grin came to his lips.

  Harrison looked up at Tanner. “The feed died.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jake looked down at the small plastic slide switch on top of the device, his finger still resting on it. It sat to the left, the OFF position.

  He sighed and put the device back in its spot at the front of his pants, beneath the elastic of his boxer briefs. He was in a small bathroom off the great hall, and he checked his reflection in the mirror as he straightened his shirt around the device.

  This was going to piss Tanner off, his killing the audio feed. It always did. Jake’s go-to retort was that he was the one putting his life on the line, that if Tanner wanted someone else to go undercover within a notorious crime family, someone who wouldn’t turn off his listening device for occasional moments of brief privacy, then by all means, pull Jake out and bring another guy in.

  Tanner had yet to bring someone else in.

  Jake’s undercover time was drawing to an end anyway. What did it matter now?

  And Tanner trusted him. For some reason, the old fart had seen something in Jake—an older recruit and someone with a background atypical to most new police officers—and put him on a fast-track to a detective slot. That’s why Jake had initially taken this undercover assignment—building credentials at a lightning-fast pace.

  Then the assignment ballooned into something bigger and more time-intensive than anyone had thought it would.

  Now, Jake just needed to survive this meeting with the Rojas. The department would pull him from the undercover position, and he would take C.C. with him as he left the Farones. Then, no more future as a Pensacola detective. Hell, a future in Florida even seemed unlikely. Tanner’s consultant, Agent Pace, was going to put him and C.C. in witness protection.

  And then?

  No clue. The future was opaque. Foggy.

  And he liked it that way.

  C.C.’s bohemian spirit was contagious, and he had embraced the idea of the unknown.

  Jake shook his head at the thought as he regarded his reflection. The eyes looking back were emerald green, not his natural color.

  One thing was for sure—he and C.C. would need to get out of Pensacola. The metropolitan area had a decent population, but it wasn’t huge, and there was a small town vibe to the place. After how long he’d been embedded in the Farones, the removal of his bright green contact lenses wouldn’t be enough to avoid recognition from all the Farone-associated people in Pensacola.

  He leaned closer to the mirror, examined the contact lenses.

  Such a bright green. Damn bright. He couldn’t wait to never wear them again.

  His attention went lower.

  The damn mole.

  On the corner of his right jaw.

  He ran a finger along it. While he disliked the contact lenses, he loathed the mole. Always had, especially as a kid.

  It was another identifying feature the Farone family would not forget.

  No, he wouldn’t be coming back to Pensacola for a long time. If ever. Tanner would put a good word in for him at whatever police department he ended up at. Heck, maybe Jake would still be on the fast-track to detective.

  Or maybe he wouldn’t join another police department at all. Jake could begin a new career for his new life. Sure, why not? The only constancy he needed was C.C.

  He examined his green-eyed reflection for a moment longer.

  And left the bathroom.

  Jake walked into the library and found C.C. arranging flowers in a vase, her back to him, and when she heard his footsteps, she stopped but didn’t turn around.

  He took her shoulders, and she rested her cheek against the back of his hand, still not turning.

  “You bought me flowers,” he said. “How sweet.”

  She finally faced him, rolled her eyes. There was a slight smile, but it couldn’t overpower the concerned expression he’d seen from across the courtyard a few minutes earlier.

  She wore a light gray sweater dress, long-sleeve with a V-neck opening, under which was a black shirt. The dress fell to her knees over a pair of green leggings. Ringed over her hips was a lime green belt with a rubbery shine. Green plastic bangle bracelets encircled one wrist.

  Grays and greens, all nicely coordinated. She was outlandish but still stylish.

  He studied the concern in her smile.

  “You heard?”

  She nodded.

  Jake exhaled, looked to the ceiling. “A hit against the Rojas. Tonight. Unbelievable. This really screws with our plans of getting you out of here. Why did this have to happen right now?”

  C.C. smiled at him. “Life doesn’t happen to you, love. It happens for you. One’s identity is forged by the way one meets life’s c
hallenges.”

  He could always count on C.C. for some sage philosophy, even at a moment like this.

  “I don’t want you to go,” she said. “To the hit tonight.”

  “I know it’s gonna be dangerous, but—”

  “No, it’s more than that.” She looked away from him, balled a fist and squeezed it with her other hand. “I have a premonition.”

  Jake sighed. “C.C….”

  C.C. had a lot of premonitions. And hunches. And suspicions. All of them fueled by the zodiac or the teachings of a long-dead philosopher or current trends in the field of metaphysics.

  She stepped away, crossing her arms, and his fingers slid off her waist.

  “I’m being serious.” Her eyes remained downcast as she spoke, moving side to side, as though reading divinations on the floorboards. “Listen to me. There’s a bad vibe tonight.”

  “Babe, I can’t go off one of your intuitions. Tanner was listening. He heard all the details about the hit.” He patted his belt line, a small clunk as his fingers hit the listening device. “They’ll pull me out tonight. That was always the plan—to use any big event like this as an excuse to get me out. When I call him, we’ll make the arrangements, and—”

  “It’s Burton,” she said, finally looking up.

  Jake cocked his head. “What?”

  “He’s up to something. Something outside the family.”

  Jake shrugged. “Of course he is. I told you what happened in New Orleans. I also told you Burton’s more dangerous after what happened there, and that you should leave the mansion, but that’s beside the point.” He narrowed his eyes at her for a moment. “Everyone knows Burton’s trying to get leverage against the Farone-loyal contingent, so he—”

  Her arms uncrossed, fists swinging to her sides. “You’re not listening to me, Jake!”

  Her eyes widened as soon as she said it. Her hands went to her mouth.

  She’d used his real name.

  Jake sucked in a breath. His heart hammered. He looked out the window, across the courtyard to the great hall. Burton, Glover, and McBride, the last members of their group remaining after the meeting—their backs were turned to the window, and they were in mid conversation.