Cat's Paw (Veritas Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter Three

“Stupid, stubborn prick!” Morgan said, barreling past the speed limit.

No wonder Parkin had made enemies at the DEA. That lone-warrior, “I’m smarter than anyone else” crap was what had gotten him hung out to dry. It still was.

She should have expected his reaction. She’d read everything she could about Alexander Michael Parkin: his psychiatric evaluations, his medical and college records. She expected him to have changed—you didn’t do all that time in a maximum-security prison and not come out scarred. Now he was a powder keg waiting for an open flame.

“You’re trouble,” she muttered. The kind of trouble that ruined missions and that wasn’t an option with this one. She wanted revenge. So did he. “Which is why we should be working together.”

With another long string of swear words, Morgan let her foot off the gas, allowing the car to slow of its own accord. She didn’t need a ticket.

I blew it.
She’d been so sure he’d want a chance to clear his name that she hadn’t even considered it might be a hassle. Now, looking back, it would have been better to have had one of the others in her team serve as Parkin’s contact. Someone male, maybe.

As she got within spitting distance of the speed limit, she knew it was time to report the bad news.

“Phone CW,” Morgan said, and the car obediently connected to her boss.

“I’m guessing it’s a no go if you’re calling me,” Crispin Wilder said, not bothering with a greeting. His accent was hard to place, a blend of British and European, with a dash of the Old South.

“It was a total wash. He wants nothing to do with us. He’s on his own crusade.”

“I gather the Russians haven’t made their move yet.”

“Not from what I can tell. I give it a week before Parkin’s face down in an alley with a bullet in the back of his head. They aren’t going to allow for that kind of disrespect.”

“We’ll see. Knowing Buryshkin, he’ll find a way to push the con’s buttons. We may yet have a chance to bring him onto our team.”

Not likely.

But then, Crispin was a strategist. In his forties, he spoke at least ten languages fluently and had logged serious time doing super-secret activities that he never spoke of. He had good instincts.

Morgan often envisioned him as a very savvy spider sitting in the middle of a massive global web. If a twitch at the far end of that web caught his notice, one of his people would check it out. Then he’d decide if the issue needed Veritas’s intervention, or if it was something that could be safely ignored. Buryshkin and his organization were way past the “let’s ignore this” stage.

“The Russians will make their move soon,” Crispin added, bringing her thoughts back to the situation. “Please take precautions to ensure that his sister is not harmed.”

“I already have.”

“Excellent.” He paused. “The people in London send their regards. Your work on their behalf has made them very happy. They’ve offered to help us in any way possible in the future.”

“Good.” The ache in her lower back eased a bit. At least the bullet wound had healed properly. “Is their daughter getting better?”

“That will take time, I fear.”

It always did in kidnapping cases. Especially when the kidnappers buried their victim in a pit and left her to die.

“Keep me in the loop on Parkin,” Crispin added. “If he doesn’t go for our offer, we’ll have to decide what to do next.”

“How aggressive can I get?”

“As aggressive as you want. If my sources are correct, there’s a power struggle about to erupt inside the Russian’s organization, and if we don’t get a handle on it, there may be open warfare.”

“I’ll let you know how it plays out.”

“Thank you, Morgan.”

As the miles rolled by, she found herself replaying the confrontation with Alex Parkin. At six-two or so, all muscles after his stint in prison, he was ruggedly handsome with dark hair, a deep tan, and flinty brown eyes that had seemed to pierce right through her skin. But that all-male package included a strong dose of arrogance, the kind that made her angry. Now she’d been forced to protect the fool from himself.

After two more phone calls to put her plan in motion, she synced up her smartphone with the radio. Carlos Jean’s “Prisoners
”
filled the car.

Parkin’s dark eyes occupied her thoughts again. For all his bravado, the man was hurt and angry and confused. It was like finding an injured puppy on the side of the road. You just couldn’t drive by and leave him behind.

But she had done just that, and dammit, now she felt guilty.

Chapter Four

Alex’s luck had finally turned on the main highway to St. Francisville. An older black man in a truck picked him up. The man even let Alex use his phone. The first call on the outside was to his sister.

“Miri? It’s Alex.”

“You got my message, right?” His sister sounded upset, angry, all of the above.

“I got the message that you weren’t picking me up. I know you’re pissed at me, but stranding my ass—”

“I had a flat tire and no spare. I didn’t have a way to get it fixed fast enough, so I couldn’t come get you.”

Oh.
No doubt the prison office
had
gotten her message and just hadn’t bothered to pass it on. One final way to screw him over. And he’d thought she had blown him off.

“Sorry, sis. I got a ride,” he said.

“Where are you now?”

“Nearing St. Francisville. I’ll try to catch a ride from there to Baton Rouge.”

“Okay,” his sister said. “I’ll see you later.”

She hung up on him. No “glad to hear you’re out, bro.” Nothing.

Hell
. He knew it was going to be hard, but not this hard.

Year after year, he’d worried about a lot of things. Staying safe, avoiding anything that might lengthen his sentence, keeping on the right side of the right people so he didn’t end up a corpse. Worrying about how his sister was surviving without him.

Alex had made a list of things he had to do once he was out; get a job was number one on that list. It’d probably be working at a car wash or burger joint because of his criminal record, most likely at minimum wage. He’d tried to convince himself that anything would do at first. Maybe he could move up the ranks and . . . then what? Become a night manager at a convenience store or a Bourbon Street restaurant?

It was as if all his years with the DEA meant nothing; he was back to square one. Worse than that, because how many people wanted to hire a guy who’d been convicted of cocaine possession?

Fear wasn’t his usual emotional setting, at least not until the last month or so. Was he ready for the real world? Six years was a long time—one year awaiting trial and five inside the country’s largest maximum-security prison. He’d tried to stay current by reading news reports on the Internet in the prison library, but that wasn’t like really living out here. How much had changed?

“Everything okay?” the driver asked. He’d said that his name was Russ and he was retired. Alex noted that he hadn’t said what he’d done for a living.

“Life’s not great right now.”

“You just get out?” the man asked, examining him with bloodshot eyes.

Alex gave him a long look. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“The muscles. The tan. You get them from working on The Farm. You on parole?”

“Nope. 12/12.” The full sentence.

“I did the same. That’s why I picked you up. You looked like an ex-con. I can see it in your eyes.”

“It’s that noticeable?” Alex groaned.

“Only to those who’ve been there. You gonna do something stupid to get yourself back in there?”

“Hell no. I’m done with that.”

“Good. I was the same. My life turned out okay. Maybe yours will too.”

Like I believe that shit
.

*~*~*

Once in St. Francisville, Russ took Alex to a convenience store, where he bought a pay-as-you-go phone, water, and protein bars. Then they were back on the road to Baton Rouge, because his driver refused to let him hitchhike any farther.

“The cops will check you out if you’re hitching,” Russ warned. “If they find out you’re just out of Angola, it could get rough.” That, Alex didn’t doubt. “What were you in for?”

Alex told him the story.

“Well, shit. That sucks. I was in for armed robbery. I was good for it.”

“I wasn’t. It didn’t matter either way.”

“That’s often the case,” Russ replied, shaking his head.

Thirty minutes later, they were closing in on the Baton Rouge bus station.

Alex cleared his throat. “If you were me, would you want revenge on whoever fucked up your life?”

The older man sighed. “If I were your age, yes. My age? No. Wouldn’t matter now.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“There isn’t a right one. You gotta ask yourself how much this revenge is gonna cost you. What is the price you’re willing to pay? You will have to decide whether that’s a bill you’re willing to cover.”

When Russ pulled into the Baton Rouge bus station off Florida Boulevard, Alex thanked the man and offered to pay for gas.

“No. I won’t accept it.” Russ smiled. “Just do me a favor: Be sure you don’t ruin your future to settle the past. The past isn’t worth it. Only your future counts because that’s all you’ve got left.”

It was sound advice, which Alex knew he’d ignore.

After a quick trip to the restroom, he made his way to the ticket counter, skirting around various travelers. The noise in the station felt off, not the routine sounds he was accustomed to. He found himself becoming increasingly jittery. Prison routine had a purpose: It reminded the inmates they weren’t in charge. Out here, he could go anywhere he wanted. Do anything he wanted. In many ways, that scared the hell out of him.

Alex was relieved to see he could easily afford a one-way ticket to New Orleans. The next bus left in fifteen minutes, so he bought a ticket and found himself a seat on the bus. One step closer to his sister.

He’d always been tight with his only sibling, from the moment Miri was born. That had been a given, since their mother was a drug addict and their father an over-the-road truck driver. It’d been up to eleven-year-old Alex to take care of the new baby, who probably wasn’t even his dad’s kid. He didn’t care about that. All he knew was that Miri was the brightest light in his miserable life and he adored her.

For a time, his sister had felt the same about him, right up until he’d been arrested for possession of cocaine and her rampant hero worship had imploded. Miri grew to distrust most everyone.

Especially me
.

He had to mend fences with her. Then, after he had a job, he’d figure out who had sent him to prison—and decide exactly how to take his revenge.

No matter what, there’d be blood and a lot of screaming. None of which would be his own.

*~*~*

Despite the uncomfortable position and the low murmuring of the other passengers, Alex didn’t wake until the bus pulled into the station in New Orleans.

I’m home.
Or at least back where he’d started years earlier. As he trudged down the bus steps, he caught the smell of a city unlike any other, a blend of fish, river, people, and swamp. With a bit of jambalaya and evil thrown in to spice up the mix.

The place was busy, doubling as the city’s Amtrak station. Alex half expected to see the Blake woman waiting for him, tapping her foot, arms folded over her chest in annoyance. But there was no one to greet him except a panhandler outside the station. Alex dug into his pocket and dropped a few coins into the guy’s paper cup.

“Thanks,” he said, looking up with watery eyes.

“No sweat,” Alex replied. He’d been at the bottom himself, what with the time in prison, but during all those years, they’d fed him and given him a place to sleep. This guy didn’t even have that.

Not needing to claim any luggage, he walked outside the white stone building, his plastic bag over a shoulder. Looking up, Alex studied the hazy sky, then the buildings toward downtown. He paused for a moment, picturing where he was on a mental map, and then set off.

Miri’s place was located in Central City, on the other side of the interstate. He still couldn’t believe she’d be living in such a dangerous, run-down neighborhood, and that told him she was squeezing every dime she earned.

Not now. I can help her.

No one messed with him as he walked along. Prison had given him a hard look, and the people who could read that message respected it. A couple young gangbangers called out to him, but he kept moving and they made no attempt to follow.

Finally, he made the turn onto South Liberty and then paused. The street was a classic example of poor New Orleans—small one-story houses, sometimes two stories, with a few steps up from the street in case of flooding. Most had dilapidated fences shielding them from the street. Weeds grew in some of the yards, but not in others. He passed several houses that were boarded up, abandoned. A bird flew out of the broken second-story window of one.

Alex finally found Miri’s rental house—not by the street number, but by the old car sitting in front of it with a flat rear tire. The house was small, and if it had been a person, it would have been drawing Social Security.

A dirty, uneven teal, it desperately pleaded for some maintenance, starting with a coat of paint. Clearly, the landlord didn’t give a damn, as the hurricane shutters were either damaged or missing, and Alex bet you could read a newspaper through the roof’s pathetically thin shingles.

Jesus.
His baby sister lived here. Why the hell hadn’t she told him it was this bad? Probably because there was nothing he could have done about it, not when he was earning a few cents an hour on prisoner’s wages.

The place was divided into a duplex, the apartment door on the right sealed shut with warped plywood. Graffiti added a colorful touch to the dull and blackened wood. The neighbor’s house to the right was even worse, with a sheet of plastic covering a broken window and a rickety porch leaning lazily to one side, seemingly unable to decide whether to collapse or keep fighting gravity. At least the place on the left was a little better, with intact windows and an old tricycle in the yard.

Gathering his courage, Alex fought the rusty gate, then walked toward his sister’s front door, taking note of a few scraggly flowers growing in little plastic pots along the cracked sidewalk. Miri had always loved to garden.

He was on the porch and about to knock on the door when he felt his pride sting. If it’d been Miri coming home after so long, he’d have been watching out the window, waiting for her. But she wasn’t watching for him, as if he’d just been gone for a few days. When he knocked, it took a while for the door to open, revealing a thick security chain.

His sister’s brown eyes peered at him, a decade older than her twenty-one years. They looked like his—same color, same pain.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. She removed the safety chain, and the worn door opened. He couldn’t help but notice that she held a pistol down by her side.

When the hell had that happened?

“Always meet people at the door with a gun?” Alex asked, stepping inside and letting the flimsy door close behind him.

“Yeah. Lock it, will you?”

He did as she asked, then turned to study the house’s interior. It was better than he had expected, the walls painted a pale blue and the curtains a bright white. A pale lime-green dining table—just big enough for two people—sat in a tiny kitchen. The floors were warped wood and promised splinters to anyone adventurous enough to go barefoot. The living room furniture was likely scavenged from thrift shops and yard sales. Despite the fact that it screamed “No money here!” it felt like a home. Something he hadn’t had in over six years.

A lump grew in Alex’s throat and his eyes dampened. He blinked to clear them as he set the plastic bag on the lumpy black couch. Miri put the pistol in a kitchen drawer, then turned toward him. Her hair was lighter brown now, cut shoulder length, her features more filled out than he remembered. She was about four inches shorter than him, five-eight or so.

Of course she’d changed—he hadn’t seen her in three years, not since her last visit to his private hell.

“Well? It’s a dump, right? Just say it,” she demanded.

He shook his head. “No. It looks good. I’m so damned proud of you.”

He’d meant it as a compliment, but somehow that set her off.

“Well, I’m not proud of you, okay?” she shot back. “If you think you’re staying here more than a couple days, you’re wrong. Get a job, move on. I have my own life now.”

She couldn’t have hurt him more if she’d taken her gun and shot him in the heart.

“You’re serious? You don’t want me around?”

“No.” Then she frowned. “Just . . . this isn’t easy, Alex.”

“Not for me either, Monkey.”

“Don’t call me that! I’m not some kid.”

No matter what he said, it was wrong.

“Okay, whatever you want. I’ll get a job and move on. But . . . ” He swallowed hard. “If you need me, I’m here for you.”

“You weren’t for six years, why would you be now?”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he said, his voice rising. “Every damned day. Every damned night, I thought of you, and—”

“Don’t tell me how rough it was,” she retorted, taking a step closer now. “You got three meals a day, no matter what. You didn’t have to worry about someone breaking in, beating you, trying to—”

He was in front of her now, his heart thudding, wanting to hold her but not sure if she’d allow it. “God, tell me that didn’t happen.”

Miri shook her head. “I ran out the back door and hid a few streets over. The bastard took the TV and ripped up the place. It’s why I have the gun now.” She shrugged like it didn’t matter, but he knew it did. “I didn’t bother to get another television. They always steal them.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks, shocking him. “Miri . . . Jesus, I never . . . ”

She blinked at him as her own tears formed, and then they were in each other’s arms, sobbing like they had when their dad had died in that truck accident. Like they had when their mom had taken that final overdose and left them orphans.

“If there is any way I can make this up to you, I will. I swear to God,” he whispered.

She tugged out of his grasp, as if embarrassed to be crying. “Just don’t go back to jail, you hear? No cocaine, no pills, no nothing.”

“I didn’t do any of that in the first place,” he said, wiping away his tears. “That cocaine was
planted
, Miri. I’ve told you over and over.”

No matter how many times he explained that he’d been framed, she wouldn’t accept it. They were right back to where they’d been three years earlier. It was why she had no longer come to visit him at Angola—because it’d always come down to this.