Chapter Fifteen

Jonas

I had plenty of time to think while Lily and Cleo got a nearly comatose Raymond cleaned up, bandaged, and into bed. We’d taken him to Cleo’s house since no one could come up with a better idea. Though the injuries he sustained at the hands of Mark Spencer’s henchmen didn’t appear to be serious enough to warrant a trip to the ER, they were serious and he deserved better than a blanket in some alley. My apartment wasn’t an option; there was barely even room enough for me. Lily was homeless. The streets were certainly not safe. Actually, when you came right down to it, there really wasn’t a place in all of Savannah where we could be assured of his safety, but as far as we knew, there was no tangible connection between Raymond and Cleo, so we could be relatively certain they wouldn’t think to look here. According to Cleo, no one used the top floor of the house, anyway. Since we didn’t have too many alternatives from which to choose, this seemed like the most sensible one. Perfect.

Well…almost perfect. In retrospect, maybe Cleo should’ve run it by her housekeeper before showing up at the front door with a mostly unconscious man who left a trail of blood behind him like a macabre version of Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs. I guess you could say that our plan hadn’t gone over too well with Minnie.

When we’d hauled Raymond out of that trunk, I’d been too busy to pay much attention to how he looked. I’d had other stuff on my mind…like getting the heck out of there before Spencer’s hit men came back. Now that I could see him, well…let’s say it was going to take a while for him to heal. Small wonder he didn’t have any broken bones. Shoot…it’s a wonder he hadn’t been killed.

For that matter…it’s a wonder we hadn’t all been killed!

What had I been thinking?! That just because I was one of the ‘good guys’ I’d be okay? That the “black hats” would wind up in jail and everyone would cheer the “white hats” for saving the day? This was real life, not an old John Wayne movie or some police drama on television that they could wrap up in an hour in between commercials. I needed to stop watching so many old NCIS episodes. I was no Jethro Gibbs.

The threat was out there, on hold, perhaps, but still very, very real. It hadn’t magically gone away just because we’d wrested Raymond from its grasp. Thinking otherwise was wishful thinking. The danger was just skulking…biding its time…waiting for the perfect moment to make its move. There had to be a way to beat this thing, but I was coming up with nothing.

Wait! Of course! The answer hit me so hard and fast, I felt it vibrating throughout my whole body, like a giant gong had just been struck with an equally giant hammer. I knew what I had to do. It was the only way.

I also knew Cleo wasn’t going to like it, not one little bit, but that was okay…I wasn’t particularly crazy about the idea, myself. Maybe I just wouldn’t tell her.

Yeah, right. Even if, by some remote chance, I was able to get away with it, eventually she’d find out and…

No, I needed to tell her, be up front with her, get it over with. Like yanking off a stuck bandage or pulling a tooth, the quicker the better. Besides, it might not even matter to her. She might not care as much as I hoped.

That thought depressed me more than it should, but then I thought about her expression when she’d seen Jill’s name on my phone at the restaurant and my spirits buoyed.

Yeah, she cared. How much? I wasn’t sure yet, but it was enough for now.

****

“I’ve decided to go undercover,” I announced quietly once Raymond was tucked in and down for the night, then waited for her response.

Nothing. Maybe she hadn’t heard me.

I glanced at Lily. She was sitting by Raymond’s bedside, holding his hand. If she’d heard, she was ignoring me, or else she was too focused on the invalid to pay much attention to anything else.

Cleo’s face stayed calm, never changing. She kept right on doing what she was doing as if I hadn’t spoken. Hmmm. Guess I better say it again. I opened my mouth to repeat myself just as she grabbed my arm and practically dragged me out into the hallway. Clearly, I’d been wrong about the “calm” part. It was all a mask, and as soon as the door closed, the mask came off.

“What, exactly, does that mean?” Her question sounded decidedly ominous.

“Only that I’m going to disguise myself as a homeless man, get out on the streets and see if Spencer will choose me next.” I was trying to diffuse the situation a little by forcing my voice to sound offhanded, sort of light and airy, like I was talking about the weather or telling her what my favorite color was or that I like mushrooms on my pizza.

It didn’t work. Several emotions flitted across her face, incredulity being the most predominant; fury, a close second.

“You’re kidding, right? This is a joke. It has to be. Nobody would seriously consider such a suicidal mission, not if he or she had a smidgen of intelligence. I thought you were a smart man, but must have been wrong, because I can see by your determined expression, you are, in fact, serious!”

I nodded.

“Are you out of your freaking mind?” she whisper-shrieked. “After what happened to those three men they found in the river? After what almost happened to Raymond? Or what would’ve happened if we hadn’t been at the right place at the right time and were able to stop it! Did you hit your head or something? Because you obviously have brain damage. You’re not thinking in a rational manner…or at all!”

I slipped a hand under her elbow and led her down the hallway to a cushioned bench, tucked into an alcove under a window. When she just stood there—body as stiff and unbending as a flagpole—I turned her around, resisting the nearly overpowering urge to kiss her, and gently pushed on her shoulders until her knees unlocked and she plopped onto the padded seat. I sank down next to her, picking up her hand, lacing my fingers through her icy ones.

“Do you have a better idea?” I asked gently. “Because if you do, by all means share it with me. I’m not one of those crazies who get their kicks by living life on the edge, flirting with danger, doing everything to the extreme. I’m more an “always wear your seatbelt” kind of guy.”

All she could do was splutter out partial syllables, words lacking either a beginning or an ending consonant.

I nodded. “That’s kinda what I thought you’d say.” I traced my finger along the back of her hand, feeling invisible sparks zing at the contact. My heartbeat was chaotic, skipping with some anonymous emotion. “Well…maybe I was expecting a few more actual words.” I gave her a half-grin, drowning in her beautiful eyes.

“The way I see it,” I continued, hoping she couldn’t hear how gruff my voice sounded. “Going undercover is the only way to get this guy.”

“Jonas, I—”

“No, let me finish. You have to admit that we need to get on the inside of this operation. Am I right?”

“Yes, but—”

“And since—besides those two guys who had Raymond in their trunk tonight—we’re the only other people who have figured out that Spencer uses homeless guys. Right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“And he’ll be looking for another homeless guy to replace Raymond now that he’s out of the picture, right?”

Her sigh was loud and exasperated. She snatched her hand away, crossing her arms, and glared at me.

There was my answer.

“I’m going to be that guy, Cleo. Don’t worry. I have no intention of getting dumped in the river. I can stay one step ahead of them because I have an advantage those other men didn’t. I know what’s going on. I’ll get Lily to help me find the right clothes so I’ll look the part, but that’s where the similarities will stop. I’m not like them. Homeless folks tend to be a little desperate; willing to do almost anything—legal or otherwise—to make money. I’m not trying to be a hero. All I’m after is shutting Mark Spencer down.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What about your story?”

I dropped my gaze, feeling a little sheepish. “Well…yeah, there’s that, too.”

She let that slide, not commenting any further.

She might not like it, but I was right, and she knew it. She’d probably die before admitting it, though. In the eyes of the citizens of Savannah, the name “Mark Spencer” was synonymous with “police.” He was trusted to uphold the law—to do what was right—and he was abusing that trust. He’d keep abusing it, too, unless someone did something. Someone like me.

Unless we attacked from the inside, there was really no way to stop this mess. The counterfeiting would continue and so would the killing.

“I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“I’d be wasting my breath if I tried, right?”

“Yep.”

“There’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”

Her question sent my heart pounding again, my blood heating in my veins. “Hmmm…I like the sound of that. I’d be willing for you to try.”

Her cheeks stained pink, but she ignored my offer. “Would you promise me something?” she finally asked.

I nodded, and she whispered, “Please, be careful.”

I reached over and recaptured her hand, releasing another wave of invisible sparks, before giving it a squeeze. “That, I can do. You got it.”