“WHAT is this?” Lucky scowled at the tinfoil package on the seat of the Kenworth, warm to the touch.
“Your admirer sent you cheese tamales.” Cruz grinned a bit wider than necessary.
“What the fuck?” Lucky glared over his shoulder. Alejandro waved and hopped into the Jeep, keeping him away from Lucky for a while.
Bo climbed in the truck. “Oh, something smells good. What you got there?”
“Tamales,” Cruz said, taunting Lucky with a smirk. If he said one more word… Lucky liked Cruz even less now that he spoke English. And still owed him an ass-whooping over the Nestor deal.
“Oh, I’m hungry. Didn’t feel like eating much this morning.” Bo grabbed the tinfoil.
Lucky hadn’t either, what with Stephan shooting daggers at him and Bo with his eyes over the breakfast table.
“There’s no meat in there, right?” Bo sniffed.
“Cheese and chilis,” Cruz replied.
Lucky said, “Help yourself.”
Bo peeled back a corn husk to take a bite. “Oh, damn, that’s good. Who made these?”
“Alejandro did.” No telling what kind of cook Alejandro was. Never in a million years would Lucky admit why the man made them, that is, if Cruz told the truth.
“Tell him thanks, these are great!” Bo grabbed another tamale.
About halfway to the warehouse, Lucky’s hunger got the best of him. He ventured a bite of tamale. Oh, hell yeah! At least he’d managed to attract another good cook.
***
Lucky schlepped cases to keep from losing his mind while waiting for the crew to unload the truck. Bo, or rather Cyrus, stood shirtless at the top of the tunnel shaft, shouting orders down to the workers, most of whom had also abandoned their shirts before disappearing underground.
One wolf whistle out of Alejandro and Lucky put his T-shirt back on. He shivered, even in the heat, watching Bo hovering over the tunnel’s entrance.
Brrr. No fucking way would Lucky get close to the tunnel again. Once was enough. How the hell did the guys stand being down in the belly of the earth, when a collapse could happen at any moment? Hell, they’d probably worked in the old tunnel before the cave in.
Bo trudged across the concrete floor to pull a water bottle out of a cooler sitting on the tailgate of one of the Jeeps. “Want one?”
Lucky nodded.
“Here you go.” Lucky ran a forefinger over Bo’s palm while taking the water. The hardness in Bo’s eyes gave no indication of familiarity. Sometimes he played his role too well, getting lost in being Cyrus Cooper and stuffing Bo Schollenberger deep down inside.
“Jefe! Jefe!” Rafael popped out the tunnel entrance and barreled toward Bo.
Lucky recognized the word “boss.” The men never called Bo “boss,” they called him Cyrus. Must be trouble. Oh shit! Boss! Stephan better not hear those words.
Rafael grabbed Bo’s hand and tugged him toward the tunnel.
“Lucky!” Bo shouted. “Go get the kit.”
Oh damn.
Lucky dove for Bo’s discarded shirt and fished the syringe box out of the pocket while racing toward the tunnel. Bo joined Rafael to man the pulley and raised the platform out of the hole in the ground. Juan lay still on the platform, Alejandro at his side.
Bo hoisted the still form onto the concrete floor while dropping to his knees. Two fingers at Juan’s neck, he lowered his head, ear positioned over the victim’s nose. “Weak pulse, labored breath.” He pried an eyelid open. “Lucky, give me the kit.”
Lucky tore open an alcohol wipe while Cruz jerked Juan’s pants down. Bo grabbed the wet gauze pad, made a cursory swipe over Juan’s thigh, and plunged the needle home. He sat back on his haunches.
Several times he checked his patient, while the Garcias and Cruz looked on. Juan opened his eyes and blinked hard a few times. Bo whooshed out a breath. Alejandro grinned and clapped him on the back.
“Cruz?” Bo’s shorter shadow stepped up. Bo spoke to him a few moments. Cruz and the Garcias carried Juan to the Jeep, settled him in, and Cruz pulled the Jeep from the building and out of sight.
Bo watched them leave, arm around Lucky to guide him out of hearing range of the men. “He’s going to the hospital. The shot only works for about an hour. He could be okay, but better to be safe.”
“What would Stephan say about your heroics?”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what that shithead thinks. A man’s life is at stake. That means something to me.” Bo pounded his chest with one hand. If Stephan walked in the building right then, Bo might have torn him apart. “I’m tired of that son of a bitch and his doctors playing God with people’s lives.”
Lucky’s breath hitched at the sight of pure loathing painted across Bo’s face. “We need to find all the dirt there is on the useless piece of shit and take care of business. Otherwise, I’m going to take a gun and put him out of everyone’s misery.” Bo whirled and stalked off, barking orders at the crew hovering by the second Jeep.
Dread pooled in Lucky’s stomach.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. He could spend another night staring at the ceiling or brace the door and drink the damned juice.
Just once couldn’t hurt. Could it?
***
Cruz drove the Jeep, with Bo and Lucky in back. Lucky drove his foot nearly through the floorboard. The asshole got a little crazy, fishtailing and screeching tires for no apparent reason. They left the road completely to kick up a dust cloud. Cruz spun a doughnut in the sand, grinning like an idiot all the time.
“It’s his favorite pastime,” Bo remarked in casual tones when an aggressive spin slammed him full force into Lucky. “Fucking with the gringos.”
Lucky leaned up to eyeball Cruz. “You’re pissed because of Texas, ain’t ya? Well, I personally don’t have a dog in that fight. Mexico can have the whole damned state back.”
Cruz grinned wider and gunned the gas. Asshole.
Bo pressed his leg more firmly against Lucky’s and gave him a ‘pick your battles’ glare. “He’s upset over what happened to Juan. So am I. He may be Nestor’s man, but he cares about the guys. We all have our own ways of dealing with things when we feel helpless. Cut him some slack and don’t take it personal.”
Yeah, right. If the shit hit the fan with Stephan, Cruz might, just might, get word to Nestor. Who’d do who knew what? Oh yeah, nothing screwed up about this operation. Nothing at all. And if it came right down to it, Cruz would probably tell Stephan all he wanted to know about Lucky to save his own skin. As long as he had Bo’s back…
Lucky grabbed an “oh shit” handle that’d seen one “oh shit” too many—yeah, he was a wimp—and stared out the window at low-growing scrub and dusty plains. Walter had said there was no deal and insisted Victor was dead. But could Walter be trusted?
Nestor believed Victor and Vincent both dead and said a deal had been in the works. But could Nestor be trusted?
Graciela claimed Stephan Mangiardi was the devil. Now, her Lucky believed.
Cruz ran into the house the moment they arrived. “How do you say ‘weasel’ in Spanish?” Lucky huffed under his breath.
“Comadreja,” Bo replied as he breezed on past. “But since he speaks English, I vote to keep calling him weasel.” Instead of the house, Bo headed for his big, black Harley Road King, so out of place amidst the hodgepodge of cars, most of which screamed, “laborer.” The last time Lucky set eyes on a pickup so dilapidated and rusted out, it had rested on cinder blocks in his grandfather’s pasture.
He stepped double-time to match Bo’s longer strides. “Will I see you tonight?”
“This morning Stephan said he’d see me tomorrow. It was an order.” More softly Bo said, “Take care of yourself. If you need me, you know where to find me.”
Yeah, right. Like Stephan would hand over the keys to his Jag.
The bookend brothers slithered into the truck cab while the other men piled into the bed.
Bo fired up the Harley, adjusted his shades, and took off in a cloud of dust without a backward glance—or a helmet. But given where they were, and the men bouncing around in the back of a truck, he’d have marked himself as a wuss for obeying Georgia law. Damn, and Lucky had hundreds of questions to ask without Cruz’s eager ears, now that he knew the bastard understood.
The truck drove right into Bo’s dust. Lucky could stand in the yard and cough, or go into the house.
He took a deep breath and stared at the door. Stephan likely waited inside. Cruz opened the door and trotted out, flashing a wide grin before climbing into a late model Toyota. He should be sitting in the back of the truck. Then maybe the brothers would hit a bump, and he’d fly out.
The door beckoned. Lucky approached his doom.
“Diablo” didn’t meet him at the door, so he traipsed down the hallway to his room. Spending half the day with clothes sticking to him left him with the need for a shower.
He stepped from the bathroom to find Stephan Mangiardi lounging in a chair by the bed, and promptly returned for a towel. One Mangiardi ogling his junk was enough for this lifetime, and Stephan seemed to be making this a habit.
One deep breath. Then another. Lucky braved entering his room. “Like what you saw?”
“I’m still trying to figure out why my uncle kept you around so many years.” Stephan stretched like a lazy cat. The black and white tuxedo kitty at Lucky’s house deserved better than being compared to this piece of shit. Maybe Stephan was a rat. And please let Mrs. Griggs be looking out for Cat Lucky.
“He called me ‘restful.’”
“Restful? Angry badgers are more restful.”
Possibly, but being surrounded by scorpions all day warped a man’s mind. To most, Victor presented too much danger to offer any peace, and yet, Lucky had found him restful too. In a way. He didn’t bullshit or talk in circles. Like Lucky, he spoke his mind. “Are you here for a reason?”
“Now, now. Is that the way to treat the man giving you a fresh start?”
“Fresh? Smells like shit to me. You conk me on the head, drug my ass, and haul me down to some God-forsaken place that ain’t even got decent trees. Then expect me to work for you without money, a car, or even my own place.”
Instead of recoiling, Stephan smiled. “I think I may see what Uncle Victor wanted with you after all. No matter how outmatched you are, you never give up fighting, do you?” He swung one pant-clad leg over the arm of the chair. While everyone in his employ wore the clothes of a working man, Stephan decked himself out like he’d somewhere important to go—and those loafers hadn’t come cheap.
“If your uncle wants to talk to me, he can damn well do it himself. So you can get the hell out of this room or let me go.”
The smile fled Stephan’s face. “Don’t think for a minute that Uncle Victor hasn’t replaced you twelve times over in the past twelve years. I believe you recall that he liked his fucks young.”
Yes, he did. And many a time Lucky had heard wagers of how long Victor would keep him around once he’d hit twenty-five. Back then, deep down, each whisper cut straight to his heart.
Now? Everything he needed rode off on a motorcycle about a half hour ago. “I’m my own man, always have been, always will be. I knew that, Victor knew that. Either one of us was free to go whenever we wanted to.”
“But you’ve not been lonely, have you?” The smile returned, a twisted, oily thing, suitable for back alley drug dealers with a knife aimed at your back. “He’s a bit rough around the edges, but I like Cyrus Cooper’s dangerous edge.” Stephan exaggerated a shiver.
“Yeah, I’m surprised he hasn’t cut out your liver yet and eaten it for breakfast or fed it to a dog.”
Stephan barked a laugh. “Tell me, how can a man as hard as Cyrus be a vegetarian?”
Some people just begged to be messed with. “He had to eat a man once.”
Ah, what a lovely shade of green. Stephan’s grin vanished. “He what?”
Think, man, think! “You heard me. He went hiking. Has he mentioned that he likes to hike?”
“He has.”
“Did he tell you about the avalanche out in Wyoming?” They did have avalanches in Wyoming, right? “Well, his buddy died instantly, but out there, cut off for days, he could have starved to death if he hadn’t…”
Stephan held out a hand, looking greener by the minute. Gullible wuss. “I get the picture.”
Oh hell no. The bastard wasn’t getting off easy. “You gotta be careful, ‘cause sometimes he has flashbacks, ya know? You might wake up with his teeth in you.” Lucky winked. “Gotta keep him away from the tender bits, if you get my drift. That’s what he ate first. Easier to chew off without a knife, he says.”
Well, from the way Stephan’s Adam’s apple bobbed, he might be on the verge of losing his lunch, and any plans to seduce Bo just got waylaid. Nice. Only Stephan would fall for this shit. For a man in his forties who ran a huge drug ring under the guise of a legal business, he was still such a child at times.
And this man might have killed his own father? Why? The Stephan of twelve years ago was a boot licker, groveling at the feet of the rich, powerful Victor Mangiardi, and a sharp bark from Vincent brought the dog to heel.
If Lucky could get away tonight, he already had enough charges on Stephan to put him away for a while, but not permanently. He needed to find a dead body. The way to do that was to win the bastard’s trust. Trust was for wimps. Thank God, Stephan fit the bill.
“Actually, I’m here to remind you what you stand to lose.” Stephan’s smirk promised no good.
“What do you mean by that?” The only thing he stood to lose was Bo.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
***
Lucky had a bigger cell than the last time he’d been imprisoned. With a nice bed, a Jacuzzi, and a chair shoved under the door handle. And no way to get word to Walter, if he’d even wanted to.
Charlotte. Up in Spokane. His anchor. When he got out of this mess, he’d quit procrastinating, go see her and the boys. Surely his nephews were old enough by now to understand why their uncle wasn’t really dead.
Richmond Eugene Lucklighter. Faking death and changing his name to Simon “Lucky” Harrison hadn’t prevented Nestor from finding him anyway. Why did Walter even bother with the whole process if he’d been sharing information with the enemy? Nothing made sense.
Lucky gazed into the dresser mirror at the rich furnishings of his room, then at himself.
“I’m Richmond Eugene Lucklighter.” His reflection agreed. Yes. If he ever got out of here, damn Simon Harrison. He’d use the name his parents had given him. No evil stalking him came close to the Mangiardi family. He didn’t belong here any more than he had in Victor’s home or life. Where did he belong?
In a cabin in the woods, next to a river. With Bo.
“I’m here to remind you what you stand to lose.”
Lucky would tear Stephan apart with his bare hands if he harmed Bo in any way.
The doorknob turned and he whirled, grabbing the letter opener again as he hit the light switch. Damn but he needed better weapons. That bastard Stephan better not think of invading Lucky’s space. “Go away and leave me the fuck alone.”
Years ago Stephan had harassed Lucky at every opportunity. “What’s the difference between one dick and another in the dark?” he’d asked.
“The dick it’s attached to,” Lucky always answered.
The handle stopped turning and footsteps led away from the door.