The dark blue delivery van chugged across the motel lot and parked beside her Toyota hatchback sedan. Though the logo on the side of the van—Valentino’s Bakery and Wedding Cakes—seemed innocent enough, Isabel D’Angelo suspected trouble. Today, she was supposed to meet with a couple of the top honchos from Denver’s most extensive crime organization to talk about a job, but they hadn’t contacted her. Not a text or an email or a simple phone call. Why not? Had the deal gone sideways? Did they find out that she was undercover for the FBI?
Angie shook off her doubts. If she hoped to convince anybody that she was a math whiz with a special talent for money laundering, she had to totally believe her own cover story. More than confidence, she needed swagger, and she had to get it right the first time. Posing as a criminal wasn’t really a far stretch for her. Though she’d graduated number one in her class at Quantico, she’d been a delinquent teenager. Her natural talent for deception was one of the main reasons she’d survived in the foster system. Lying came easy.
Peering through the slit between the cheap motel curtains and the cold window frame, she watched two guys—one in a suit, the other in a black leather jacket—leave the van and approach her room. A gust of October wind flipped back the older man’s suit coat, and she saw a holster. He was armed. Nervous tension heightened her senses as she slipped into a leather jacket of her own—pink and studded, of course. A long time ago, she’d learned to use style, sparkle and flash as distractions. She tightened her long, sleek, white-blond ponytail and applied a fresh coat of fiery red lipstick.
She whipped open the motel room door and confronted the men. “You’re late.”
“The boss didn’t tell you when we’d be here,” said the man in a gray business suit with an open collar blue shirt. He was nondescript, bland and about five feet nine inches tall, which matched her height without shoes. In her specially designed platform combat boots, she was close to six feet tall.
“It’s after four,” she said, as if criminals kept regular business hours.
“Let’s go, Angie.”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“Carlos.”
“Nice to meet you, Carlos.” She closed the door to her motel room and went forward, brushing past the two men. “I’ll take my car and follow you.”
“You ride with us.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw the guy in the black leather jacket reach toward her in an attempt to grab her upper arm. Did this dope really think she’d allow him to manhandle her? Angie’s self-defense moves were practiced and precise. She yanked his thick wrist behind his back and twisted hard. After a chop to the back of his leg, he dropped to a knee. While keeping pressure on his wrist, she flipped open the monogrammed switchblade she’d taken from a special pocket in her skinny jeans and waved the razor-sharp edge in front of his face.
Though her pulse was racing like a jackrabbit facing a rattlesnake, she stifled any sign of nerves. It was important to establish her identity as a dangerous person, even though she was cute, skinny and female. “Your name?”
“Murph.” His ID sounded like the bark of a mumbling mutt...murph, murph, murph.
She released him and took a step back in case he decided to lash out. “Here’s the deal, gentlemen. I don’t want trouble. If it’s important that I ride with you, fine. Just ask nicely.”
“Sure,” Carlos said. A smirk twisted his thin lips, and she had the impression he’d enjoyed her confrontation with Murph. “Please, Miss Angie, would you join us in the van?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
She climbed into the rear. This windowless area wasn’t meant for passengers. A lingering scent of vanilla and sugar, plus a couple of white pastry boxes tied with string indicated that the vehicle actually was used to transport baked goods. She perched on the edge of a bench seat on the wall. Murph—still cradling his wrist and acting as though she’d hurt him—slid behind the steering wheel.
In the passenger seat, Carlos turned so he could see her. “I have one more request. Until we know you better, the boss insists that you wear this.”
A black hood dangled from his forefinger, and she stared at it in disgust. “Why?”
“This isn’t negotiable.” His smirk deepened. “Would you, pretty please?”
She snatched the hood from his hand. “I’ll do it, but this is a waste. I’m new to Denver and don’t know my way around. I couldn’t tell you where we are or where we’re going.”
The lie rolled easily from the tip of her tongue. When she was fifteen, she’d spent six months living on the streets of this city after she ran away from her foster home in Utah. That was eleven years ago, but there were parts of this town she’d never forget. Since yesterday, she’d been studying maps and computer images of Denver and the surrounding area. Knowing various locations and resources could be vital to her survival.
Riding in the back of the bouncy van with the black hood over her head provided an opportunity to plan and to focus. Her goal today was to get hired by the sprawling crime business that had taken root in Denver during the post-WWII population boom. Her entry point would be through their gambling and money laundering operation, but her endgame involved gathering enough information to destroy a brand-new start-up project that might turn into the biggest human trafficking ring west of the Mississippi.
Unlike her other undercover assignments, mostly in California, she had a personal stake in bringing down the patriarch, Nicolas Lorenzo. During her stint as a runaway in Denver, she’d lost a friend who had been swept up by criminals involved in the sex trade and never seen again. Angie didn’t have many friends, and she’d loved Marigold. She’d sworn that someday she’d get even.
Someday was almost here.
Though she was unable to see, she could tell a few things about their route from shifts in direction and changes in the light that filtered through the hood. They’d gone southwest, hadn’t taken a highway. She really hoped they weren’t headed into the mountains. Angie wasn’t a fan of the unmapped hills and forests. After a few bumps and a downward turn, she guessed that they were driving down a ramp into an underground parking structure.
After they parked, Carlos pulled open the door to the van and took her hand to help her climb out. “I need for you to keep that hood in place until I tell you to take it off.”
“It’s hard to walk.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t let you bump into the wall.”
Without vision, she was thrown off-balance. Instead of facing Lorenzo with her head held high, she’d be forced to approach tentatively, clinging to Carlos like an invalid. No doubt that had been their plan: make her feel helpless so she’d be more cooperative.
Carlos guided her into an elevator. When they emerged, she shuffled her feet and felt carpeting on the soles of her boots. Carlos guided her through a door, taking care so she didn’t run into anything. He seated her in a padded chair before he whipped off the hood.
Angie blinked at the late afternoon light pouring through a wall of windows into a conference room. As soon as she could focus, she found herself staring into the most crystal-clear blue eyes she’d ever encountered. Deep set and framed by long, dark lashes, those piercing eyes dominated a square-jawed face with high cheekbones. His scrutiny disrupted her composure more than the van ride or the black hood. He seemed to be assessing her, taking her measure and making a judgment.
Dragging her gaze away from him, she checked out the other two men seated at a round table. To her disappointment, neither was Nicolas Lorenzo. Carlos took the empty chair to her left and dismissed his partner. As soon as the door closed, Carlos regaled the others with the story of how she’d bested Murph in the motel parking lot.
While he talked, she watched their expressions. The man with the incredible eyes barely reacted. Who was he? The other two were familiar from her research into the Lorenzo family, but she knew nothing about this guy with the rugged features and thick, curly, dark blond hair.
He continued to watch her, and she endeavored to match his cool resolve. She busied her hands to keep her fingers from trembling. From a pocket of her pink jacket, she took out a lipstick. There was a mirror on the side of the tube, and she used it to apply a fresh coat of bright red. When she pursed her full lips and smoothed her platinum hair, she saw that the men had stopped talking to watch her. She had their attention.
“Gentlemen, I’m Isabel D’Angelo. I go by Angie. Some people call me a genius when it comes to numbers. Hire me and I guarantee to boost your profits.”
“How much is this going to cost?” asked an extra-large man who barely fit into his chair.
“Not a dime,” she said. “I take a commission from a percentage of the profits.”
“You come with high recommendations, if you know what I mean,” said the man opposite her.
“I think I do.”
“Our associates in San Francisco like you. I’m Nolan Zapata. This big ape sitting next to me is Valentino the Baker. And that’s Julian Parisi, otherwise known as the Professor.”
She could have sworn that Julian’s firm handshake ignited an electric spark that sizzled up her arm and elevated her core temperature by several degrees. All the while, he never broke eye contact. “We have a mutual friend,” he said, “Manny Harris.”
“Not a friend of mine,” she quickly responded, tossing out another lie. Harris was with DEA and had successfully infiltrated a drug cartel before recently being reassigned. Why would Julian mention him? Was he testing her? She tried to pull her hand from his grasp but he didn’t let go.
“Where did you learn your math skills?” he asked.
“MIT.” She’d been telling this lie for so long that she almost believed it herself. “I had an uncle in Reno who showed me how to put all that academic data to use in gambling.”
“Handy.”
“Why do they call you Professor?”
“For one thing, I got brains.” He reached into the pocket of his dark blue blazer, took out a pair of black frame glasses and perched them onto his nose. “When I’m wearing these, people tell me that I look like I should be standing in front of a classroom.”
Angie never had a teacher who had blue eyes that could stare into her soul. If she had, she might have been more motivated to stay in high school. “I’ll call you Julian.”
“Now that we’re all friends,” Zapata said, “I want to make you an offer, Angie. We can use somebody with your skills, but you’ve got to prove yourself. I’ll give you one week to reorganize our OTB operation.”
“Horses?”
“That’s what off-track betting means.”
Her dislike for the massive beasts was pure truth. Animals were as unpredictable as children and almost as annoying. “I’d rather handle sports betting, even soccer.”
“It’s not your choice, honey.” Zapata gave her a dismissive nod. “I’ll check in with you, and I will expect higher profit after next weekend.”
“It’s already Thursday,” she pointed out. “I can’t make big changes in such a short time. Give me a month.”
“Ten days,” He emphasized the finality by whacking the flat of his hand on the table. “I hear you’re a smart girl. You’ll figure it out.”
There was an implied threat behind his words. The Lorenzo organization wasn’t about to open their books to just anybody. “You won’t be disappointed.”
“I need to take your cell phone,” Julian said. “Security reasons. Don’t worry, I’ll give it back.”
She’d expected as much. All her contact numbers had already been cleared and sanitized. She took the red-gold phone from her jacket pocket and placed it on the table. “I want it back as soon as possible.”
“Your password?”
With her manicured and polished index fingernail, she punched in four numbers so he could see them. “I don’t know why you’re digging around but don’t be rude, okay?”
Carlos snorted. “She likes for everybody to be polite.”
“Nothing wrong with manners,” Julian said.
Though his voice was friendly, she didn’t make the mistake of thinking that he was ready to accept her. Behind his glasses, his mesmerizing eyes narrowed slightly, reminding her of a cat playing with a mouse. Julian was arrogant—the type who’d allow her to make a move and lead her to hope that escape was possible before he knocked her over with a swipe of his paw. She wouldn’t let her guard down. Angie wasn’t anybody’s easy prey.
She addressed the men at the table. “Time’s short. I ought to get started right away.”
Julian stood. “May I offer you a ride?”
Being alone with him in a car seemed risky, but she didn’t have a choice. Murph wouldn’t want to take her and calling a rideshare service for a pickup after a meeting with known criminals didn’t seem prudent. “I don’t need to wear a hood this time, do I?”
“I wouldn’t want to hide that pretty face.”
The fact that she managed to suppress her natural tendency to blush at his compliment was a testimony to her skill at falsehood. She was attracted to him but couldn’t allow herself to be disarmed. She returned his fake smile with one of her own and followed him out of the boardroom.
In the underground parking structure, she took a quick inventory of parked vehicles that ranged from flashy sports cars to humble delivery vans like the one from Valentino’s to a tanklike Hummer. Julian Parisi’s high-end, silver SUV managed to combine the rugged power of an off-road vehicle with the luxe of a limo. The vehicle suited the man with starry blue eyes and muscular shoulders. He was tough and smart, a dangerous combo. She needed to figure out where Julian fit into the Lorenzo organization and why he’d been the one to offer her a ride.
She climbed into the passenger side and snuggled into the smooth leather seat that fit her like a very expensive glove. Passing the first hurdle and getting herself hired had been easy, but there would be more to come. She suspected that the Professor would be administering the next test, and failure could have lethal consequences.
With her seat belt fastened, Angie turned her head and studied the man behind the steering wheel. Damn, he’s hot. In profile, his features were chiseled. His dark blond hair gave the impression of being unkempt, but she figured that his style was the result of expensive barbering. He glanced toward her and quickly looked away, avoiding eye contact. What are you hiding, Mr. Adonis?
She asked, “We’re headed back to my motel, right?”
“I think there’s someplace else you’d rather go.”
“Where’s that?”
“You’ll see.”
She was wary and irritated. He had no right to make decisions for her. She glided her finger along the secret pocket in her bedazzled jeans where her switchblade was hidden. “I have a better idea. You tell me where we’re headed, and I’ll decide if it’s okay.”
“It’s better than okay.” He didn’t seem threatening, but she’d heard that most sociopaths were charming. He continued, “When we get there, you can tell me if I’m right.”
As they emerged from the garage and drove west, she tallied up the facts she’d learned today. The FBI dossier she’d been given for this assignment hadn’t mentioned Julian Parisi—a gross oversight since he seemed to be a major player. The other men she’d met had been described with emphasis on Zapata, a high-ranking number cruncher who had a reputation for crunching bones when debts weren’t paid on time.
She knew that the six-story square office building they’d just left was used mostly for accounting, real estate, investments and other relatively legitimate businesses. Most of Lorenzo’s other enterprises were in central Denver, not the mountains. Where was Julian taking her?
After a long drive on the highway, the SUV exited onto a curving two-lane road that led deeper into the pine-covered foothills. Her anxiety kicked up. A seed of panic took root in her belly and sprouted branches as she remembered horror stories about fierce grizzly bears, rockslides and flash floods. Nature was dangerous. And the man behind the steering wheel might be equally lethal. He could throw her off a cliff or drown her in the rapids of a river. Since she was undercover, nobody would miss her...not for months.
Without inside info, she could only hope that he was a decent guy. In her undercover work, she’d run across many criminals—especially those involved in white-collar crime—who resembled corporate executives more than felons. They wore expensive clothes, had good taste and sent their kids to exclusive schools. Julian might be one of those guys...an MBA who took a wrong turn.
Or he could be a stone-cold killer.