LUCKY stormed into Walter’s office. To hell with knocking. “What do you mean, Bo’s missing? Weren’t there security cameras? What do the videos show?” An hour. In one hour, Lucky could be in Athens, at the cabin he’d shared with Bo not long ago.
Bo had to be there. Maybe he’d gone hiking and forgot to tell someone. He couldn’t simply vanish. Not Mr. Responsible. But who was driving at the time? While Bo wouldn’t simply take off, Cyrus might. And the last words they’d said to each other definitely hadn’t been “I love you.”
Maybe he’d wrecked the Harley. What if, even now, he lay mangled in a kudzu-covered ravine somewhere, breathing his last? Oh, God no. Lucky trod a circuit around the room.
“Calm down, Lucky. He wasn’t taken from the cabin. Nothing is out of the ordinary there. He was last seen at Buford’s Bar and Grill, talking with a member of the Cruisers who’d managed to escape charges.”
The 441 Cruisers, the motorcycle gang Bo infiltrated to find the source of the Corruption coming up from Mexico. Damn them all.
Lucky’s boss sat behind his desk, hands folded together over his broad belly. “The man went outside, and according to the bartender, Bo finished his meal and left casually. He gave no signs of anything wrong.”
Uh-huh. Lucky stopped his pacing to lean his hip against the boss’ desk. “Phone records?”
“Nothing.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. “Last contact?”
“He checked in with me two weeks ago.”
“Two weeks? Two fucking weeks! And you’re just now telling me?” Lucky clenched his fists to keep from hitting something. “I’m heading back to the cabin. See if I can pick up the trail.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Walter pinched the bridge of his nose behind his glasses. “That’s one reason I didn’t tell you earlier. I knew you’d go charging into God knows what.”
Lucky sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. No need to tell the boss about Bo’s being more than merely a work partner. But damn, if it would get him what he needed… “Where was he when he called?”
Walter hesitated. For a split second, something close to fear flashed across his face. “Brownsville, TX. On his way to meet the Mexican supplier.”
Brownsville, not far from Harlingen, where Lucky’d picked up truckloads of Corruption.
“He what? And you let him go alone?” What was the fastest way to the border? And should Lucky pause long enough to scream at the boss before hightailing it there? “The fucking border? If he’s heading into Mexico, we have no jurisdiction there.”
“Lucky, we have men tracking him. Don’t forget, this is a joint case with the DEA. They do have jurisdiction.”
“Who’s his handler?”
“Me.”
Oh, hell no, Lucky wouldn’t get shunted to the side. “And me.”
“No.”
“No? What the fuck? Why the hell not?” Lucky clenched and unclenched his fists. That ugly framed motivation poster behind Walter’s desk would give a satisfying crash if he wrenched it off the wall. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t go after my partner.” And it better be a damn good one.
Walter blew out his breath in a forceful rush. With a calm that belied his stiff posture, he said, “They might be using him for bait.”
“Bait? Bait for what?” The hairs on the back of Lucky’s neck rose.
“You gave us a recording of a man you believed to be Victor Mangiardi.”
That again? “It is Victor.”
“And if the man on the recording is Victor, don’t you think he might want to settle a score against the former lover who testified against him?” Nothing in Walter’s even tone said snakes should be squirming in Lucky’s belly. They squirmed anyway. “We need to keep you close in case he tracks you down.”
What the fuck? “Victor might be using Bo as bait, but you’re using me?” Lucky would never actually hit Walter, but he wanted to. He stalked across the room to avoid temptation. “What the fucking hell have you been doing, boss?” He gripped the edge of a bookcase to steady himself and glared at Walter.
Walter drooped his shoulders and broke eye contact to study the papers on his desk. “I included your statement in my report, and a copy of the recording. Against my wishes, we’ve had you under surveillance, in case you were contacted.”
A criminal. They treated him like a motherfucking criminal. “I did my time. I’m a free man now. You said so yourself. Would you have watched any other member of your precious team?” The receptionist in the lobby likely heard his shout. Oh fuck. They’d better not have video of him kissing Bo, blowing Bo, fucking Bo.
“Lucky, you’ve been watched for your own safety. I was advised not to tell you for this exact reason—you’d overreact.”
Fuck it all to hell. “You let Bo walk right into a trap meant for me.”
“No, Lucky. We left an undercover agent in a position to forward his case. He was properly monitored and checked in regularly.”
“Until two weeks ago,” Lucky reminded him.
How much did Walter know about Lucky and Bo’s relationship? Would he fire Bo for “fraternization”? While Lucky had paid off the last years of his trafficking sentence in service to the SNB and earned his freedom, probation wouldn’t end for Bo until fall. Walter was up to something, and he sure wasn’t sharing with Lucky.
“You expect me to hang around here with my thumb up my ass while we have a man out there in God knows what kind of shit?” My man!
“Lucky, go home. I’ll keep you posted on further developments. But be very careful and don’t take any chances.” Walter raised his tired brown eyes. “Whatever you do, act normally. If someone is following you, we don’t want them suspicious, and we don’t want them to close in.”
Ah, hell. If someone wanted Lucky dead, he’d be dead by now. If Victor still walked the earth and wanted Lucky, he wanted him alive. But for what? “I’ll watch my back. Always have, always will. And I don’t need anyone’s help.”
“Just the same, we’ve got someone keeping an eye out.” Walter slumped down in his chair, more defeated-looking than Lucky had ever seen him before.
“Tell me it’s not Keith.” Oh God, not Keith stalking Lucky and being none too discreet about who he shared his observations with.
“It’s not. We’ve assigned Rogers. You remember Rogers, don’t you? He attended training classes with you last year.” A vague memory-face surfaced, an SNB computer geek who hadn’t deserved Lucky remembering his name at the time.
“Keep him the hell out of my way.” Lucky shot a parting glower at his boss. “Are we done?”
“Yes.” Walter’s manner softened. “Be careful. If you notice anything out of the ordinary, call me immediately. And take this.” He reached into his desk and pulled out an oblong box, the kind the surveillance gurus kept handy. “You know how to use it?”
Lucky nodded his thanks and accepted the bug detector. It wouldn’t catch more sophisticated radio frequencies, but it’d definitely find the more common models. “I do.”
Walter had to get the last word in. “We’ll find him, Lucky.”
Lucky bobbed his head, throat too tight to let out words. He didn’t look back when he crossed the floor and eased out the door, the calmest he’d ever run away.
***
A week. A whole fucking week since Lucky had stormed out of Walter’s office, and still no word on Bo.
None Walter shared, at any rate.
“Act normal, he says.” Lucky grumbled under his breath, pushing a cart around the grocery store. Bo’s absence left him free to pile his cart with starches, carbs, and bacon, foods Bo frowned on. Somehow, shopping lost its fun without Bo to tease. Well, it was probably more fun for Lucky than the rookie assigned to watch him.
No point in taking advantage. Lucky stuck to Bo’s preferences: Stevia instead of sugar, brown rice in place of white, and whole grain bread. He bypassed pork for turkey bacon, but loaded up on full fat cheese to go with his grits. Born and bred Southern boys didn’t compromise on a true Southern staple.
The back of his neck prickled. Maybe his tail had gotten too close and needed a stealth lesson.
Lucky searched for Rookie Rogers. Two older ladies shopped together, and several families loaded carts up and down the aisles. No Rogers. Someone was watching though, no doubt about it. The goose bumps on his arms said so.
He pushed his cart toward the front of the store. A flash from the corner of his eye had him spinning. A man rounded the aisle’s end cap, disappearing from sight. A man with dark hair. Something about the way he carried himself seemed familiar. Bo? A chill ran up Lucky’s spine. No. Not Bo. Someone else. And it wasn’t Rogers. Get a grip, Lucky. You’re seeing things.
The express line, even with more than the maximum twenty items, got him out the door fast. He broke a few speed limits on the way to his duplex and raced up the front walk, bags dangling from his arms.
Mrs. Griggs sat in her usual spot on her front porch.
“Anybody been here?”
“Not that I’ve seen.” She’d likely not moved from her porch swing all day. A good sign. His own personal security guard. Maybe he should get her a gun.
Armed with his .38 and the RF detector, Lucky dropped his groceries on the counter, primed the device and conducted a sweep. Nothing. He traded the gizmo for a screwdriver and the gun for a flashlight as he checked inside his light switches for any devices tapped into a power supply. Nothing. No bugs, no cameras.
Unease twisted his gut.
Bang! Holy shit! Lucky grabbed his gun and dove for the floor. He sighted on the back door.
Bang! Staying low, he followed the thumping. One, two, three…With a quick turn and jerk, he unlocked and flung the door open. He aimed, both hands around the gun.
Bang! The screen door smacked the doorframe again.
“Mrrow?” Roughly twenty pounds of cat hung from the unlatched screen.
Lucky closed his eyes and exhaled. “Damned cat, you’re gonna be the death of me one day.” He opened the door and let his black and white roommate saunter in, giving his furry companion an ear scratch in passing.
Cat Lucky purred and stropped Human Lucky’s hand.
“Hungry, boy?” Lucky rose and opened a can of tuna. While the cat ate, Lucky retreated outside to the mailbox to find a handful of envelopes. Bill, bill, bill… A plain manila envelope with no postage stamp or return address, only the name he hadn’t used in over a year: Lucklighter. His heart thudded against his ribs.
He hurried back into the house and slammed the door on the darkness outside. Should he open the envelope? Call Walter and hand it over? The RF detector sat next to the envelope when he placed the suspicious package on the counter. Nothing. Not even a blip.
Gloves. He needed gloves. He rummaged under the bathroom sink and found a pair of yellow rubber gloves Bo used for cleaning. They’d do.
Lucky slit down one side of the envelope with a steak knife, upended the envelope, and shook out a single piece of paper. Clear white fluttered to the floor. Crouching down and catching one corner, Lucky flipped the paper over with the knife.
Familiar faces, though time and age had changed them both. A young Victor Mangiardi sat at a table, holding a slice of pizza aloft. The twinkle in his eyes made Lucky’s heart ache. Next to him sat another man, head thrown back in laugher. Ice water ran through Lucky’s veins.
A younger, thinner Walter Smith stared back at him. He yanked off his gloves and didn’t care where they fell.
Breathe in, breathe out. A weight settled on Lucky’s chest. Calm the fuck down. There’s a logical explanation. He scrutinized the photo, searching for tell-tale signs of tampering. He traced his finger over a face he’d once known as well as his own. Victor had been forty-four at his death twelve years ago. He’d be fifty-six today. In the photo, he appeared to be in his early twenties. Roughly thirty years ago, give or take, putting Walter at mid to late thirties.
Yet, Lucky couldn’t mistake the two men who’d each spent years as his mentors. Walter and Victor. Together and, apparently, friendly. He shook the envelope again. Another paper scrap fluttered to the floor.
Five words, scrawled in red ink: Be careful who you trust.