Before I could ram the shifter into reverse and stomp on the gas, my car door burst open and a rifle muzzle plowed into my cheek.
“Get out. Nice and slow,” the gunman said in a gravelly voice.
Okay, I had to admit losing those two plainclothes cops who were tailing me was not the brightest move. But . . . my gun was holstered on my right hip next to the seat-belt latch, and Rifleman looked egotistical enough to think I wouldn’t give him any trouble. Holding up quivering arms, I babbled hysterically to aid the impression.
“Out,” he ordered.
The ever-obedient hostage, I meekly unlatched my seat belt, then discreetly palmed my gun.
The rifle came down hard on my arm, knocking my gun to the floor.
“Ow!” I screamed at an ear-bursting pitch and grabbed the rifle barrel with my other hand. I jerked hard.
The gunman toppled toward me, but before I could wrestle the gun out of his hold, a second guy reached across Tasha and snatched it from the both of us.
I scrambled for my Glock, but just as my fingertips grazed the steel, the first gunman grabbed me by the collar and yanked me out of the vehicle. The second guy pocketed my gun and hauled Tasha out the other side of the car.
Inside her car, parked just ahead of us, Aunt Martha screamed like a wild woman. Her head bobbed frantically from side to side, but strangely she didn’t jump out of the car, didn’t even let go of the steering wheel.
As the jerk holding my arm slammed me face-first against the hood, I saw why. They’d duct-taped her hands to the steering wheel.
“Who are you? What do you want? Why are you doing this?” I demanded.
“We ask the questions.”
I surreptitiously scanned the area. Rusting equipment littered the parking lot. Foot-high weeds pierced the cracked pavement, testifying to the lack of traffic. The closest warehouse was four hundred feet away, and based on the number of missing windowpanes, it’d been abandoned long ago. The good news was, there was no sign of any other bad guys skulking in the shadows.
And these guys weren’t expecting Malgucci to show up any minute.
Hopefully packing.
“Do you know who I am?” I squinted at the guy holding Tasha and instantly recognized him from the surveillance stint at the Boathouse—one of Dmitri’s goons. One of the ones Tyrone had been spying on.
Rifleman yanked my face off the hood of my car, his hot, stinky breath slithering down my neck. “I said, we ask the questions.”
Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow. I clearly should’ve paid more attention to the niggling voice that gave me such a hard time over keeping Tanner in the dark. And a buzz cut would’ve been smart too. “I’m just trying to help,” I said, all innocence. But somehow pointing out that if they killed a federal agent, they’d have the rest of the agency breathing down their necks for the rest of their lives didn’t seem as if it would faze them.
The second guy held my Glock to Tasha’s temple. “Tell us where you put Capone’s package, and we’ll let you walk.”
Black mascara streaked Tasha’s ashen cheeks. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Look, lady, we had a nice business going with Capone before you waltzed in. Be happy we don’t pop you for that alone.”
“She didn’t kill him,” I said.
“That’s not the story her boyfriend tells.”
Tasha gasped. “Ted told you I killed that man? He’s lying. He’s crazy.”
“Look, he didn’t have it. And it wasn’t in Capone’s apartment after you offed him.”
“I didn’t off him!”
The guy twisted his fist in her hair and got in her face. “Whatever. It wasn’t there. And no one’s going anywhere until we get it.”
“What does this package look like?” I asked, stalling for time. Where was Malgucci?
The guy holding Tasha, who seemed to be the spokesman for the pair, squinted at me. “Documents, photographs, tapes maybe. I don’t know. Trust me, we would’ve offed him ourselves after the stunt he pulled, if it weren’t for that package.”
“So these documents? They’re incriminating?”
“I said, we’re asking the questions,” my handler bellowed, twisting my hair in his fist.
I gritted my teeth against the pain. If I wasn’t expecting Malgucci any minute, the creep would’ve learned what a hoof to the kneecap felt like, followed by an elbow to the nose and capped with a knee to the groin. Out of the corner of my eye, I could make out Aunt Martha working at the duct tape binding her wrists to the steering wheel, and she seemed to be talking to someone. Herself? Or was Tyrone still hiding in the car?
“I don’t know anything about any package,” Tasha wailed.
“Ted says you went through Capone’s desk and grabbed some stuff.”
“The photo of my mother’s painting. That’s all.”
So she’d been at Capone’s apartment with Ted, after all. So much for her truthfulness.
The creep twisted his gun—correction, my gun—in front of Tasha’s face. “I don’t believe you.”
Mascara-streaked tears streamed down Tasha’s face.
“Why would she lie?” I screamed.
A cruiser raced into the parking lot, but my elation quickly deflated when it whipped around in a dust-stirring donut before squealing to a stop in front of us, and the bad guys didn’t blink an eye.
Pete jumped out of the car, showing no emotion, save for a flinch in his cheek when his gaze landed on his sister.
“Pete! How did you find us? Tell these guys I don’t have what they’re after,” his sister screeched.
Pete offered me a nod, which I responded to with an icy glare. Clearly he was in the organization’s back pocket. “What’s going on, fellas?” he said.
“This broad is your sister?”
“That’s right.”
“You got a problem with us roughing her up?”
Pete shrugged. “We’ve never been close.”
“Pete!” Tasha wailed. “What are you saying? You know me. I don’t have what they’re after.”
Pete’s voice turned caustic. “You stole a painting from your own mother. I don’t know you at all.”
“I’m sorry. I told her I was sorry.”
He shook his head, looking disgusted by her begging.
My stomach revolted at his coldness. And at the realization that, unless Malgucci brought reinforcements, we’d be seriously outgunned. Worse than that, Pete was a dirty cop. And now that I knew it, there was no way on earth he’d let me live.
“How’d you get them here?” Pete asked.
“We followed the old bag in the car from her apartment to the drop-in center”—the guy hitched his chin in my direction—“and saw her exchange a hug with Jones and figured she’d be the ticket to lure her to us once we got word Jones had the woman.”
Pete nodded. “Good work. But if you’d called me sooner, I could’ve saved you the trouble and gotten her myself.”
Tasha let out a strangled sound.
“Sorry, Tash, I’m in a tight spot here. I was counting on the money from the painting you swiped. Then you had to go and compound the problem by killing Capone.”
“I didn’t kill him,” she wailed.
“How could you sell your soul to a guy like Dmitri?” I hissed at him.
Pete cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “I think Jones here knows a lot more than she’s been saying.” He pulled his gun and grabbed my arm, and with a jut of his chin, signaled my captor to release me.
“You kill a federal agent, Hoffemeier, and the agency will hunt you down for the rest of your life, if these guys don’t throw you under the bus first.”
He laughed. “Big talk for a woman in your position.” He raised his voice. “You lost the cops tailing you. Bailed on your partner.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Give me something to work with here, Jones. I’m on your side. Stall for time.” His voice exploded louder. “Who’s going to know? Huh?”
I blinked. Searched his eyes. Was he playing me?
“Talk to me,” he barked. “Where’d Capone hide the documents?”
“Maybe they’re behind one of his paintings,” Tasha blurted. “Like you used to hide those girly photos behind your band posters on the wall.”
Pete actually blushed as he tossed a glare at his sister.
My mind bobbed to the conversation with Tyrone’s mom—the painting she’d mentioned Capone giving her. Could that be where he’d stashed the evidence?
Pete squinted at me as if he sensed I was connecting the dots. Then he shoved me back at my captor and opened the door of Aunt Martha’s car. Pointed his gun at her head. “Tell us what we want to know.”
“Pete, no!” Tasha screamed. Struggled to break free of her captor’s hold.
Aunt Martha gnawed at the duct tape binding her hands, then shot her leg out sideways and caught Pete in the knee.
“Ow,” he yelped. Then, scowling at her, he stepped back a half pace, his gun still pointed at her.
Aunt Martha babbled something I couldn’t make out as Tasha continued to wail.
Pete swung his attention back to me. “You have three seconds. One . . .”
“I don’t know anything,” I said with a stony calmness that belied the frenzy in my mind. Was this an act for the bad guys’ benefit? What did Pete really expect me to do? Was he playing with my mind?
“Two . . .” Pete said louder.
Aunt Martha frantically strained at the duct tape binding her wrists, babbling at the rearview mirror.
I fought against the creep holding me. “Pete, you can’t do this. You’re not a murderer.”
“Shoot her,” the guy holding Tasha barked. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.” He pressed a gun to Tasha’s temple. “Tell us what we want to know.”
Pete’s finger slipped inside the trigger guard. “Thr—”
“No, wait!”
He paused, cocked his ear as if to say, I’m listening.
“Capone has a booth at the flea market. Maybe the evidence is stashed there,” I blurted, praying it wasn’t.
“We already checked there,” the other guy grunted, which explained why all the paintings had been askew. He raised his gun as if he intended to shoot Aunt Martha himself.
“No!” I screamed, and Pete glared at him.
But the instant the guy lowered his gun, Pete’s gaze narrowed on me. “Three.” He fired.
“No!” I rammed my elbow into my handler’s gut. I never thought Pete would shoot. Not an unarmed victim. Not Aunt Martha.