Lucky stayed two steps behind the man who suddenly made his world scarier. In over a decade with the SNB, he’d never been burnt while undercover.
He’d keep his perfect record, thank you very much. The fact he walked behind gave some comfort. No one in their right mind turned their back on an enemy.
The ankle holster offered some comfort—not much—but better than nothing.
He followed the man up a set of steps to a loading dock and into a darkened building. Darkness, his one true friend in this situation. Outside, other agents better be regrouping, rethinking original plans and figuring out how to cover a man inside.
Their footsteps echoed in a cavernous room, empty except for a few metal racks, illuminated only by emergency exit lighting marking doors, and a light up ahead. Lucky mentally marked exits. If worst case scenario became reality, he’d learned to duck and run.
Only, his gimpy assed-leg didn’t allow for much running, nor did his partial recovery from surgery. He donned Bristol’s sneer, pulled himself up his full five-feet-six inch-height, and squared his shoulders. He’d make use of something he’d learned in training—from Bo.
For the next few hours, Lucky Lucklighter, Simon Harrison, and any of Lucky’s other personas didn’t exist. Bristol Lucklighter. That’s who he’d be. The high-living, low morals, money hungry sonofabitch who profited from loved ones’ deaths and wouldn’t help his own father.
Nope. Not the way to get into Bristol’s head. Not loved ones’ deaths if you didn’t have anyone you loved more than yourself.
Money. Power. Possessions. And being more than a tobacco farmer’s second son. In his own head, Bristol had overcome his past, deserved to look down on lesser beings like his family. He’d made something of himself.
And Bristol hated his older brother, a man who hadn’t gone to college, hadn’t scratched and scraped his way up the ladder, but still managed to live the life Bristol wanted, thanks to a wealthy and powerful lover.
If his parents had tried harder, they could have provided a better life, a life Bristol didn’t have to hide from the popular kids he’d tried to impress in school. And he wouldn’t have had to depend on his brother’s rich lover to pay his way through college.
Screw them. Screw them all. The asshole walking in front of him provided a means to an end. Nothing more than a bug smear on the bottom of Bristol’s expensive Italian loafer. Without trying hard, he’d own these guys, run the whole show.
By the time they approached the hallway light, smug aloofness replaced any fear.
The backpack he’d been staring at for the past few minutes held the key to all a man like Bristol wanted.
His escort opened a door and entered a dimly-lit room, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder to make sure his flunky followed. Bristol’s heartbeat raced, but not from fear. Pure adrenaline shot through his veins.
No windows, only one door. Standing behind Backpack Guy kept him somewhat concealed, both by shadows and the man’s body, and close to the exit. He swept his gaze over a scene he’d witnessed many times: the drug deal. From tiny casual buys to massive trafficking operations, he’d seen them all.
The stacks of bills spread out before him on a table in what must have once been a conference room rivaled any single buys he’d participated in.
Two men stood on the opposite side of the table. One exuded authority, the other held a semi-automatic weapon. Don’t leave home without the hired muscle. For a moment, Lucky’s facade wavered. He knew the muscle. Every single inch, from the dark, tousled hair to the freckles across the nose and on down to the assets hidden beneath jeans and a tight T-shirt.
No recognition shone in Bo’s eyes, other than a quick once-over. No. Not Bo. Rent-a-Thug, who didn’t know Bristol Lucklighter. Bristol Lucklighter. I am Bristol Lucklighter.
Lucky had been told to leave his gun behind, so he wasn’t supposed to be an open threat, but he was definitely backup and possibly a witness. Whoever Backpack Guy was, he didn’t trust his partners in crime, or he wanted to exert a little authority himself. And judging from the bulge in his light jacket, he’d come prepared.
Why not have Lucky armed too? Oh. Right. Bristol never could shoot worth a shit. Maybe as a sign of faith too. Honor among thieves and all. Either way, dumbass move on Backpack Guy’s part. Never, ever, let the buyer have the upper hand.
The buyer bore a striking resemblance to one of Lila’s baby-daddies on South Bend Springs—information to be filed away for later use in descriptions.
The man he’d brought to the party flung the backpack onto the table. “It’s all there.”
The one he pegged as the boss kept a steely-eyed glint on the supplier and opened the backpack with gloved hands. Packets fell out onto the table and floor. The buyer trained his beady, hard-edged gaze onto the dozen or so escaped packets.
Oh, dude, you never bring that much money to a buy, screamed through the part of Bristol’s brain still owned by Lucky. You’ve given up your leverage. One squeeze of the trigger and we get the money and the drugs.
Sloppy.
The seller nodded but didn’t reach for the money. “Bristol, get the cash.”
On a first name basis. If the guy turned around and got a good look…
“You’re not going anywhere.” The buyer stiffened, took a step back, and nodded to his thug. The gunman aimed his weapon straight at Lucky. Oh shit.
Backpack Guy shouted, “What? Why not? We had a deal.”
The man with excellent peripheral vision replied, “We did, but that’s not Bristol Lucklighter. I had him killed.”
Fucking hell.
All three men honed their sights on Lucky.
Lucky had transmitted a lot of evidence to the SNB. Killing him now only prolonged the inevitable.
All traces of Bristol fled.
And so did Lucky.
***
Outrunning healthy men wasn’t happening, not with Lucky’s beat-up body. Why hadn’t he listened to Walter and Bo and taken things easier?
Because if push ever came to shove, he needed to be here, for himself, his family, his department, and even Bristol, learning firsthand how deep in the shit his brother had sank.
He’s done nothing you haven’t done. Yes, he had. Lucky never tried to kill anyone or betray his family. And he didn’t get the moral high ground often.
Being in unfamiliar territory left him with few choices. He could either limp through the warehouse where he made an easy target but knew the lay of the land, or find out what waited behind door number one.
He chose the door and hunkered down in a janitor’s closet. Footsteps pounded by. “Get the little asshole!” the boss of the group shouted.
Lucky crouched, putting him in position to use the ankle-holstered gun he’d properly thank Jimmy for later.
He cracked open the door and peeped out, straining his ears in the silence.
Bap, bap, bap, bap, bap.
Oh shit. Gunfire. Never a good thing. And Bo out there, God knew where. The toy-sized gun with a thirteen-shot clip fit oddly in Lucky’s hand, nothing like his .38.
Thirteen shots better be more than he needed. He eased out of the closet, his back to the wall and his gun at the ready. The room where they’d met to deal lay to the right, and the shots came from the left.
Right, then.
In times like these, his lack of height gave him a huge advantage, making him much harder to spot.
He paused long enough by the conference room door to snap and send a few pictures, and clue in the listeners-of-the-mic to his whereabouts. Too bad they couldn’t tell him what the fuck the shots were about.
More footsteps, coming his way.
The empty office across the way made an excellent vantage point. The boss came back, huffing for breath, shoved some drugs and cash into the pack, and shot down the hall to the right, one hand pressed to his side.
He’d left behind quite a haul. Desperate, then.
Lucky counted to ten, murmured his intent to his tie tack, and silently stalked his prey. Dark spots glistened wetly on dingy, industrial-gray carpeting. Ahead several light fixtures lacked bulbs, giving both predator and prey darkness for hiding.
The asshole who said he’d had Bristol killed would answer to a pissed off Lucklighter.
The blood trail led straight down the hallway and veered off once or twice, into windowless rooms. The wounded man sought a way out, and didn’t appear totally familiar with the building. Worked for Lucky.
According to the plans Lucky reviewed earlier, the warehouse lay that way, conference room, offices with no windows. The hall eventually led to an exit with a chained metal door and metal grids on all windows.
Both he and his quarry worked their way into a dead end.
He observed but didn’t try to apprehend. Not without backup.
Walter’s lessons finally hit home. Boss would be so proud.
The hallway came to a T intersection. Movement caught his eye and he fused his back with the wall. The blood marked a turn. Someone—and not the one he sought—lingered in the hall to his left. They stopped, so might suspect his presence.
Not good. He counted to three, gripped the gun in both hands, and popped out of his hiding place.
And stared down a gun barrel.
He froze a scant second before his brain screamed, Shoot!
Bo’s wide eyes met his. Relief whooshed out of him. If choosing one person to run into at a time like this, Bo ranked number one.
Bo ranked number one anytime. Lucky pointed toward where the dealer dripped blood, down an unlit hallway.
Bo nodded.
He’d kiss the guy later. Lucky took point, darting down the hall and squeezing himself into a recessed doorway. He bounced from doorway to doorway, Bo taking each shelter he vacated.
A breeze brushed Lucky’s face, and he glanced around a ledge to an outside door standing partially open. Oops. Jimmy gave him bad intel about chained exits.
He’d chew the asshole out later.
Stooping, he dashed to one side of the door and put his back against the wall. Bo took the other side.
Not a sound came from outside, save the distant shrill of sirens, growing closer by the second.
Open gate. Parking lot. For the office workers, most likely, back before the place was abandoned.
Lucky eased up to see around the doorframe. Squinting didn’t help his night vision. His side pained him some, about five on a scale from one to shot. He’d live.
Tires squalled and three carloads of Greensboro’s finest came barreling through the gate, followed by a black SUV.
Judging from muffled sirens, more cars surrounded the back of the warehouse.
An officer hopped from the first car, gun aimed and ready for business. “Step out with your hands on your head.”
Idiot. At this angle Lucky could take him out easily. Good thing Lucky only played a felon for the job.
Now.
Hearing his boss’s voice in his head, he swung the door wide and did as told. The officer kept the gun trained on him. “Pat him down.”
Another officer approached, took his gun, and began going through the motions of a search.
“Those aren’t drugs in my pocket,” Lucky growled. “I’ve just got a really big…”
Bap, bap, bap, bap. Lucky dropped to the ground and crawled on his belly to the nearest police car. Fuck, that hurt! The cops were gone. Probably sheltering behind their own cars.
Where was Bo?”
There came a time when a man got too old for this shit, and a clock ticked away in Lucky’s head.
A black van approached. Oh, cool. SWAT team. Dark shapes hopped out of the van, fully geared, scuttled into the shadows and, one by one, entered the building. Let ‘em. Lucky’d stay right here.
Steps sounded behind him. The farther he kept away, the better. Realizing his sorry ass really could die changed his way of thinking.
The officer crept up to him, gun aimed.
Lucky kept his voice low. “I’m Agent Lu… Harrison, Southeastern Narcotics Bureau. And I’m wired.”
The man nodded, but kept his gun at the ready. Gee. Suspicious much?
“My partner, Agent Schollenberger, was right behind me coming out.” And dear Lord let him not have been in the path of one of those shots. Better clue in the new arrivals. “There’s packets in a conference room. Tell your men not to touch the shit without gloves, you got me?”
The officer nodded but continued to hold his gun on Lucky. “Hands on your head.”
Lucky grabbed hold of the car door and climbed to his feet.
Moments passed at a snail’s pace. The occasional sweep of a flashlight shining from a warehouse window pierced the darkness. Sure was creepy out here at night.
“Wouldn’t we be better off waiting in your car?” Standing here made them easy targets. If the guy fought him, he’d pull rank.
The officer nodded. The other officers fanned out around the parking lot. They’d brought one hell of a lot of firepower. Someone hadn’t given him all the details.
A shot rang out, and another, and another. Inside the building.
Then outside.
Lucky sprung and knocked the officer off his feet. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuckety fuck!” Damn, but that hurt! With any luck, Lucky hadn’t torn anything open. The cop struggled beneath him, still not realizing he’d been saved by one of the good guys.
Over a month after surgery. When would the shit quit hurting?
Pop, pop, pop. The shots came slower now, like the last few kernels in a bag of microwave popcorn.
A flurry of activity, then, “Man down! Man down!”
Oh, God. Please not Bo.
Jimmy bolted out of the SUV. An ambulance arrived mere seconds later. Must’ve been on standby at a safe distance.
Night turned to day, and Lucky shielded his eyes from the glare of a half-dozen floodlights.
He let the wiggling cop go. The guy pointed his gun at Lucky again.
“Have you ever known a suspect to try to save your sorry hide?” Jeez, when would the guy get with the program? Then again, Lucky wasn’t much of a trusting soul, either.
The agent in him yearned to sprint inside, be in the middle of the action. The man who wanted to be alive come the weekend told the agent to shut the fuck up. Not his case. He’d done his part. Time to let someone else earn their keep.
Except… Where was Bo?
Paramedics hauled a gurney out, loaded with a body fully covered by a sheet. Two SWAT team members followed them, dragging two men Lucky hadn’t seen before in handcuffs. Damn. How much backup had money man brought?
More emerged. How many people were in there? All around him radios crackled, offering up bits and pieces of information. Two dead from the warehouse, one officer down.
Shit. Two dead. Please, please, please. Not Bo.
A man nearly as large as Walter, with the same, you’d-better-do-as-I-said bark reached down a hand. “Would you mind pointing your gun in some other direction?” The cop lowered his gun and backed away.
Lucky struggled to his feet.
“Agent Harrison?” The man kept his grip on Lucky’s hand.
“Some days.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Special Agent Gaskins, DEA.”
“My partner…”
“All our men are accounted for. One casualty—one of our own. I lost a good man tonight.”
“There were two suspects involved directly in the drug deal.”
“Can you identify them?” Agent Gaskins towered over Lucky but kept his voice low.
Lucky nodded. “Yeah.”
“Come with me.”
Lucky followed Gaskins into the building, past the conference room full of blue uniforms into the warehouse. Two cops stood guard over a body.
A semi-automatic lay on the floor next to the deceased. Bo’s.
“That’s the man I brought here, the supplier.” Lucky nodded to the body. “The buyer was bleeding last I saw him, and exited the building right before your men arrived.”
“We’ve got him on camera, and we’re looking for him now.”
“Good. Can you tell me what went down at the airport?”
“Arrested four, and found a pallet of unmarked boxes. We backed off to let the lab handle cleanup.” Gaskins rubbed a hand over his head. “They know better what we’re dealing with. I hate the shit these assholes are bringing into this country.”
Right now, assholes, the shit they sold, and even Mr. DEA didn’t matter. Lucky trudged through the building as fast as his beat-up body allowed.
He strained to make out voices, recognize a familiar face in shadowy rooms, heart falling with each, Nope, not him.
Finally, a familiar drawl yanked Lucky toward the conference room, followed by Mr. DEA. Bo made eye contact while deep in discussion with an officer. Hallelujah! Closing his eyes, Lucky blew out a breath. Alive. Still alive.
If not for the roomful of people, he would happily check Bo head to toe for injuries.
“Umm… Harrison? You all right?”
Lucky opened his eyes to find Special Agent Gaskins staring down at him.
“Yeah. Just tired. It’s been a rough few hours.”
“I’ll bet.” Gaskins tugged on rubber gloves from a box on the table, lifted a packet from the floor, and dropped the instrument of death into a zip-close bag. “I can’t understand why people do this horror.”
“Some assholes mix stronger stuff into heroin.” Made the heroin more potent, but in the end shot the dealers in the foot by killing their clientele. Which might have happened to the woman Bristol allegedly sold to.
The guy nodded. “First started coming into this area about four months ago. We’ve had twelve overdoses since then. I’d love to believe this operation supplied them all, but I’ve never been much of an optimist. What say we get out of here?” the first DEA man Lucky’d met in a long time who didn’t insult him said.
“I’m game.”
“Thought you might be. Care to drive the BMW back to the station?”
His brother’s BMW. Bought with ill-gotten gains, though Lucky had yet to figure out how much profit Bristol made and for what. So far all he’d seen tonight was enough drugs for minor deals, and acting as a cab driver. Flunky work alone didn’t finance Bristol’s lifestyle. And he’d supplied his basement operation somehow. “I’d really rather not.”
“Don’t blame you. I’ll get one of my men. You can ride with me.”
Lucky followed behind the man, too tired to argue, with a dull throbbing around his heart—and in his side.
Gaskins opened the car door for Lucky. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your help. And if it’s any consolation, I’m sorry about your brother.”
“Yeah, me too.” And not just Bristol. The whole situation likely fucked with Daytona’s head, not to mention the hell Mama went through. Or Charlotte.
Breath whooshed out of Lucky when Bo stood silhouetted on the loading dock. Safe. Still safe. Bo nodded once and returned inside the building.
Right. Still on a case. Lucky’d done his task.
He needed his family, now more than ever, with every fiber of his being. “After we finish the formalities, can I get a ride up to my parents’ farm?”
“It can be arranged.”
Time to officially reenter the Lucklighter clan.