Deadly Alliance (5 page)

Ducking inside, she flew onto a seat by the window. She dialed 911, kept her voice low.

A voice picked up. “Identify yourself and state your emergency.”

“Amy Kintyre. Witnessed a shooting. Harp Hotel conference room. Took photos with my phone from a bathroom. Was chased by a light-blue SUV.” Not allowing panic to overtake her, she answered several more questions.

After she ended her call, the brutality replayed in her mind. Would their families learn what happened to them today? Didn’t every family care about their members, no matter what?

Still waiting tables, Rhonda breezed over. “Miss, your face is as white as a sheet.”

Amy’s heart drummed. “Hello, Rhonda.” Outside the whoop-whoop of a police sirens cut through the cafe’s chatter and clatter.

“That’s some loud street talking.” The older waitress flipped her russet-dyed hair off her forehead. “I’m surprised the village allows that.”

“You’re right,” Amy said dully.

Rhonda stared out the window. “Lake Arrowhead is becoming less and less like I remember it.”

“How do you remember it?”

“Peaceful. The Irish Mafia only came here to vacation.”

Amy glanced across the street. People exploded from the Harp’s green glass entrance.

“See those young guys running? The beards and turbans, they’re ISIS recruits,” Rhonda said. “What’s under the white bundles of fabric?”

“I’m guessing swords.”

Rhonda was speechless.

Amy watched firemen pile off engines. Serving here as emergency vehicles, they pushed inside. Cars crashed into each other.

Having lit the match that fired up the activity, Amy stayed put.

Rhonda found her voice and went into auto-mode. “Can I get you the soup of the day?”

She reached down for her little bag. “Forgot my purse. I’ll be back.”

“Don’t go out there.” Rhonda turned and moved through the crowd. The cafe was packed with people dining, talking and laughing. Word of the massacre would change that.

Amy needed to get her purse before the wrong people identified her. Trapped with indecision, the sheriff’s cruiser pulled in front of the restaurant.

Finn burst inside and scanned the place, not seeing her.

She said, “Finn.”

“There you are.” His low, gravelly voice rumbled through her like a caress.

“You found me.” Amy, overcome by the terrible crime, spoke in slow motion.

“With your cell,” he said. “Cops use the StingRay Tracker.” Bending, he wrapped his strong arms around her and pulled her up.

Her feet were on the ground. When he relaxed his grip, she didn’t let go. She dug her fingernails into his arms.

“What is it about you and ladies’ rooms?”

“Trouble finds me there.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“I will be.” She stumbled, trying to find her balance. After another few seconds, she loosened her hold. “Except for one thing.”

“It’s never one thing?” Finn sounded more like an Army Ranger than a CEO.

“I left my purse up there. In that bathroom,” she said in one exhale.

“The one overlooking the pit of hell?” His humor was meant to be comfort.

“Someone will find it,” she said. “They’ll know my name but not my current address.”

“No?” he asked.

“My driver’s license has my old address on it.” The DMV needed to know when a person moved, but didn’t send out a new license until it expired.

“That makes you feel safe?” Finn took her hand and with a gentle tug, led her outside. He opened the back door of Byron McGill’s cruiser. “Hop in, Amy.”

Byron turned around. “Amy. We accessed your phone’s photos.”

“Really.” Amy learned something new about police technologies.

Finn, now riding shotgun, said, “McGill, we need to get Amy’s purse.”

“It’s up in that bathroom,” Amy said. “It opens onto the mezzanine of the Harp Hotel.”

“I know the one, on the second level of Park It,” Byron said.

Amy said, “It’s on a hook inside a stall.”

“What color and style?” Finn asked.

“Green and tan plaid. A super-small barrel shape.” She withered against the warmth of the backseat. Grateful for the simple command of fasten your seatbelt, she listened to static on the police radio and closed her eyes.

When Byron blasted his siren, she clasped her hands over her ears. He spun the vehicle half circle. Slammed against the door, she held tight to her seatbelt. The cruiser bumped up and around the parking ramp. She doubled over from nausea. The cruiser came to an abrupt halt, and she lurched forward.

Finn turned around. “Here we are.” The nose of the vehicle pointed to the bathroom door.

Amy scooted across the seat to look out. She recognized her Altoid’s box, keys, and hand sanitizer as they lay strewn across the cement. Something was tossed into a corner, but she couldn’t make it out. “Maybe that’s my purse over there.” She hoped her wallet was inside.

Byron handed Finn a pair of white latex gloves and a plastic bag. “Use these while I check the bathroom.” Shoving his door open, Byron stepped toward it.

Finn raised his brow. “This isn’t the work of a cleaning crew.”

“Nope. Housekeepers are tidy.” Amy watched Finn unfurl his lanky body from the cruiser.

Seconds later he was on his knees on dirty cement. He stretched to gather items from her purse. His involvement was a benefit, but she knew a couple of other things. That butt and those legs belonged to someone she’d like to know better.

Holding up a pair of black, leather gloves, he threw her a cautious gaze.

“Those are gloves, not what I was hoping,” she said.

“Perpetrator’s gloves, I’d guess. You’re missing your purse.”

Amy swallowed hard. “Nuts.” She stepped out and stood near him. “Are the gloves unlined?”

Finn stood. “Yup. For purposes of dexterity.” The warmth of his breath fluffed against her face.

Amy’s stomach reminded her to brace herself. Down in that room, blood had spurted and splattered. “The guy with the sword wore gloves. Byron downloaded the photos, right?”

Finn nodded. “Sent them to the FBI.” His voice groaned with a gruff timber.

“FBI.” Amy wanted to remain in the shadows, hidden from the bloody pandemonium while the police and FBI worked the case.

Finn slanted her a glance. “You had a camera, as we all do, in our cellphones. You’re quite the crime fighter to have used yours.”

She tried to be. “The gang execution went sideways. A robed man died. Didn’t look like the leader.” Their violence pulsed through her mind. Unlike the night of terror in Paris, where they wanted to blend in, here they made their presence known with robes and swords.

Coming from the bathroom, Byron dashed past them to the cruiser and picked up the receiver of his police radio. Speaking into it, he said, “Send the fingerprint unit ASAP.”

Looking at Byron, Finn held up the gloves.

“Indeed. With blood.” Byron ran a hand through his hair. “Amy, your last photos showed a robed man. He wore gloves and pointed toward your camera.”

Amy stiffened. “I was worried about noise. Forgot about the flash.” She watched Finn’s forearm flex as he bagged the gloves.

Byron took his plastic bag. “Thanks, Donahue.”

Finn raised his face toward the ceiling and cursed a blue streak. “What do we have to go on?”

“Amy’s photos. The gloves are good.” Byron looked up from his seat in the cruiser. “Inside, they’re saturated with the oils and sweat of the wearer’s hands. Holds DNA, and leather leaves a print of its own.”

Finn asked, “What about surveillance cameras?”

“FBI is tapped into them. BOLO for a light-blue SUV is out.” Byron shut his door, leaving Amy and Finn standing together.

Amy had read enough cop romances to know BOLO meant Be On the Look Out. Her sense of urgency mounted. “Just so you know. The Irish Roaches were held hostage around the table.”

“How did you draw that conclusion?”

“I’m from Long Beach. The Waterfront Roaches wear striped suits and gold, Claddagh rings.”

He grunted. “Crazy. With the rings, they throw in a pinch of religious reference. The Roaches are menacing, but loyal to each other. What about the other gang?”

“One Arab leader. The others wearing turbans spoke English.”

“Recruits, then.” Finn ducked his chin and scowled.

She gnawed the inside of her cheek, chose her words. “A couple of them ran out of the Harp with white bundles of fabric.” She glanced up at his face, intending to thank him for being here, but his dusky blue eyes made her breath catch.

With a shimmer of alarm in his eyes, he furrowed his brow. “Lobby surveillance cameras caught them in robes.” The sheer maleness of him arrested her thoughts. “You were chased?” His interest in her well being rolled through her.

She nodded. “Two guys chased me down the parking structure.”

He angled his head. “Tell me what you saw.”

“Them, a light-blue SUV, a rifle out the window, and a sword wrapped in white cloth.”

“They’ll hunt you down.” His face registered deep concern.

Her purse was missing, and her heart sank over her drab, mousy persona and now, she lacked food and money. “I probably shouldn’t go home tonight.” She went for the backseat handle of the cruiser.

Finn put his hand over hers, but didn’t pull the door open. “I’m buying you a ticket out.”

“To where?” Her hormones chose this moment to go nuts.

“Dublin County.”

“In Ireland?” She’d love to go with him. He’d said a ticket, not two.

“Malahide Village, very secluded,” he said. “Is your passport up to date?”

“Yes, but—

—but nothing.” When she turned her hand around and held his, Finn pulled her tight against him. You’ll like the Biscayne Lodge Bed and Breakfast. No one will track you there.”

“Finn,” she said. “I want to know what happens here.” Her head swam from the warmth of his body. Dizziness had nothing to do with her scary predicament, did it? “Please drop me at the office.”

“If you think of anything else, tell McGill.” He spoke with a tremor as though emotion touched him.

“Sure.”

“I’ll pick you up for dinner. You’re staying the night with me.” His insistent tone sent her senses spinning.

She considered his invitation. “It makes everything more complicated.”

“I know you’re at Smithson for the bookkeeping job.” He stepped even closer.

“Yes, but I feel something. A spark. I think you feel it, too. I’d like more.”

“More?” His voice was low in a good way and brought heat flooding to her face. He moved his hand up her arm.

“I’d be happy to sign an office-affair contract.” Awkwardly, she cleared her throat.

He snickered. “Sure, I’ll add an addendum. Should I have it notarized?”

“I thought of something else.”

“Yeah?” He dropped his arm and stepped back.

“By staying with you, I’m putting you at risk.” Guilt plagued her. It always did. “You fought and won at Burlie’s. Don’t die because of me.”

“I’m the one to take this on.” Deliberately, he took back her hand. His hold tightened. “Like you said, it’s complicated.”

Chapter Five

“Sorry, Donahue. Can’t let you sit in.” Sheriff Byron McGill, always on the right side of the law, had FBI Agent Gary Guhleman waiting in the conference room at the Twin Peaks Police Station. Regulations stated the sheriff and the FBI agent meet in private.

“I understand. Deal with the current crisis.” His financial woes weren’t top priority. He forced a smile and clenched his fists.

“Don’t leave. You’re next.” McGill slapped him on the back. “A Los Angeles detective is getting back to me. He’s a bank fraud specialist, perfect for your case.”

“Sounds good.” Finn watched him slip away, leaving the door ajar. He appreciated his intentional gesture, but dug his nails into his palms. In the adjacent room they were discussing what Finn already knew. Takbir, the fundraising arm of the Islamic terror group, ran into problems when smuggling oil. Finn angled his ear to the conversation in the next room.

“Takbir,” McGill said. “Their involvement makes this international.”

“You think I’m sleepwalking?” Guhleman chuckled. “I phoned my guy at the CIA.”

Takbir! Finn gritted his teeth. Takbir funded extremists who attacked innocents in Paris. Their network shot women and children, downed a Russian passenger plane, targeted civilians in Beirut. They revived public square crucifixions and then gloated about it with tweets. Now on US soil, they gained more young recruits. A flock of 20,000 fought for the radical Sunni group.

Today at the Harp, their beheading attempt failed.

Eavesdropping on the sidelines pained him, but learning how the FBI planned to proceed meant he’d dove-tail without being asked. It’d been awhile since he’d dealt with terrorists. In spite of catching a blade across his face, he had the ability to defend himself against swordfighters.

Finn eyed water bottles near the coffee pot. Thirst drove him to stand up fast. Amy came into his mind, and his chair tipped back. He forced himself to gulp water, but swallowed it down his lungs and coughed back the menace closing in on her and others.

Amy’s safety wasn’t the agency’s primary concern, and his heart pinched at her bravery. Dropping her at the office wasn’t his best idea. Two gangs. The Waterfront Roaches against the Takbir-Mexican faction. Double the danger. His brain was a buzz of white noise looking for answers. The more he overheard through the open door, the more protection of her took root.

Next door, photo comparisons between the bureau’s archives and images captured on Amy’s cell caused Guhleman’s voice to reach an excitable level. He sent all her photos to the FBI, DEA, and Interpol.

McGill made a comment about alerts.

Finn caught the gist of the hotel altercation and supplied the rest from his intuition. As he stared at the wall without seeing it, his mind filled with the painful scene Amy recounted. Seated at a round table, four Waterfront Roaches were held captive.

“Bingo, here they are. On the Most Wanted,” Guhleman said.

Finn wasn’t surprised. The Roaches ruled enough of Southern California to come up on the FBI database. His mother married Aidan Rourke, their highest-ranking figure, who took a bullet clean through his shoulder. Heritage ruled when a boss was out of commission. The next in line, a Rourke son or nephew, would take over drug trafficking, endless murders, and racketeering with little competition. Recently, Takbir struck a gold mine.

Every now and then, from somewhere on the desk, the sheriff’s cellphone pinged with a message. It wasn’t his to answer.

Finn’s thoughts went to his step-siblings’ limitations within their Mafia family. He’d never met any of them, but knew their names. Aidan Rourke contributed hundreds of thousands to his company’s trust accounts for Daniel, Connor, Sean, and Vivienne. Aidan’s brother had trusts for his children, Thomas and Victoria.

At the scuffling of feet, Finn jerked. .

McGill sauntered in and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m leaving Guhleman to his thinking. If you ask me, he’s outside the box.”

“That’s his job.” Finn sensed McGill’s tense irritation, but for this reason, he liked the agent.

McGill rummaged around his desktop for his noisy cellphone. “My job is responding to my wife’s texts.” He chuckled, and without reading her message, he hit a speed-dial button. “Honey. What’s up?” After a few minutes he finished the call.

“Is everything okay?” Finn asked because of Amy’s friendship with McGill’s wife. His brain winced with innate wariness toward things that hadn’t begun.

“All is well. Just a schedule change.” McGill paused. “Bayliss feels it’s less intrusive to text. It’s the opposite. I like hearing her voice.” He slipped his cell into his breast pocket and gave it a pat.

“You two are joined at the hip.”

McGill cranked open a window. “Coffee, Finn? My wife would love it if I stopped with the donuts. Want one?”

“Water is more than enough.” No news about Amy eased his anxiety. “What did Agent Guhleman have to offer?”

“His team verified Amy’s photos.” Only when pushed did the territorial sheriff accept help from outside.

“The Irish were the targets of this clusterfuck.” Finn bridled his impatience, but put in his two cents.

“That’s how I see it. Here’s how it played out.” McGill raised his eyebrows. “Rourke’s sons, Connor and Daniel, and a nephew, Thomas, carried Aidan out of the room at the main level. Left a trail of blood. Took an elevator to the helipad on the roof.”

Finn leaned forward. “Rourke money funded the Harp. They own the Sundowner Casino in Vegas. It’d be easy to set up an operating room.”

“Probably did. A drone substantiated their route.”

“And?”

“Bastards left a moment too soon.” In the next few minutes McGill delivered a mercifully short, canned speech about working with international partners. He was running for reelection.

“You’ve got my vote.”

“Thanks.”

McGill nodded. “As a ranger, you swapped in to disrupt groups like this.” The sheriff paused. “The Roaches ran into competition here.”

“Damn interesting.” Finn nodded. “Takbir taps a Mexican gang. Together they take over the Roaches to boost their finances.” He tossed his empty water bottle into a recycle basket.

McGill took a swig of cold coffee. “You asked earlier about cameras in the parking structure. Caught two suspects on tape.”

“Showing what?” Finn asked.

“Suspect one wore a patch on his sleeve. Guhleman says it’s Takbir’s sword insignia,” McGill said. “He sped off on foot.”

“He was after Amy, but she had a lead,” Finn said. “Anything else?”

“Suspect two carried her purse and a long bundle. He jumped into a blue SUV, picked up suspect one.”

“Amy mentioned a rifle and a sword.”

McGill drew his brows together and nodded.

“Any word on the SUV?”

“Abandoned on Highway 173 northbound. Reported stolen yesterday. Parked alongside a soccer field in Hesperia. Unlocked. Soccer mom was bringing pizza to an after-game party.”

“The hotel gang had a backup driver.” Finn spotted Guhleman in the doorway.

“Correct. Vehicle and destination are unknown.” Gary Guhleman angled his body forward like a bloodhound. His side-parted, salt-and-pepper hair heightened his expression of a tracker.

“Detecting?” McGill jokingly asked Guhleman. Any word derived from the word, detect, made its way into the sheriff’s conversation.

The agent smiled and held up his tablet. “Got my detector out.” He slid onto a leather chair next to Finn.

Finn was damned if he was going to ask questions.

“I’d like to discuss the eight robed men,” Guhleman said. “One was Arab. Only one.”

“Let me guess,” Finn said, “American ISIS recruits and Mexicans made up the rest.”

Guhleman said, “To be exact, three recruits and four Sureños.”

Sureños.

“You’re shitting me. All dressed like Arabs?” McGill slapped a hand on the table.

Guhleman turned to Finn. “Photos taken by your anonymous tipster were good. We’ve enlarged a tattoo.”

McGill said, “I’ll need a copy.”

Guhleman moved fast to punch in a command.

McGill tapped on his keyboard. “Got them.” He angled his monitor and then paged through each photo. “Check this guy out. He pulls off his robe, black mask, and turban. No beard.”

Finn rounded the foot of McGill’s desk and studied the assailant’s tatted back. “That’s not a parlor tattoo.”

“It’s from prison,” Guhleman said. “The Sureños’ tattoo has the letters, SUR, and under it, the number 13. The letter, M, is the thirteenth letter of the alphabet.”

“The M stands for the Mexican Mafia,” Finn said, knowing Sureños meant Southerners in Spanish. “They’re a Southern California gang.”

“Get this.” Guhleman barked a warning. “Mexico doesn’t control them.”

“Compared to the Sureños, ISIS is a gang on steroids. The allure is much the same.” Finn’s stomach clenched.

“If it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck, it is a duck.” Guhleman snarled. “ISIS depends on Takbir for additional funding.”

Finn said nothing for a moment. The ISIS network needed more than the kidnap ransoms, extortion, taxes on non-Sunni, looting, and bank robberies.

McGill said, “The Sureños are as violent as Takbir.”

Finn agreed. “They use chainsaws instead of swords, but size doesn’t compare. ISIS is a vast organized crime gang.”

McGill clicked through the photos. When finished, his lips tightened. “After Takbir gets what they want, they’ll kill the heathens.”

“Before that, we’ll take them all down.” The bloodhound spoke with smug confidence.

McGill turned toward Guhleman. “FYI, Donahue was an Army Ranger.”

“Ah.” The hound put his head back as if he’d heard of him. “Any theories, Donahue?”

“Just the obvious. Takbir tapped into the Sureños’ network, telling them it’d be a two-way profit. The Sureños are not recruits,” Finn said.

“Agree. They’d never give up their musica for the sake of Allah,” the agent said. “Mixing things up confuses anyone looking.”

The Irish weren’t fooled. Finn had a maneuver of his own. He’d touch base with the youngest Rourke son, Sean. He sidestepped the family’s tradition.

The sheriff’s phone rang. McGill looked at Agent Guhleman. “I’ve been expecting a call about Donahue’s missing cash. There’s siphoning going on at his company. Discovered a bank account. Mirrors the original.”

“Fraudulent accounts interest me. I like making the IRS happy,” Guhleman said.

McGill tipped his head to read the ID on his phone. “Los Angeles fraud examiner. Zeke Blake.” His hand reached back and he hit the speaker button. “Sheriff McGill here.”

Finn wanted to speak with the fraud examiner himself. After all, he’d brought Amy’s findings to the table, giving them something concrete. He inclined his ear.

The detective summarized previous findings and then said, “The date Les was shot was October tenth, three years ago.”

“Roger that,” McGill said.

Guhleman said, “Lester Kelly. Fuck.” The case meant something to him. “Finn Donahue. You’re a victim of a financial crime.”

“Yes.” Finn turned his attention to the detective’s voice on speaker.

“We located another surveillance tape.” Blake’s voice had a catch to it as if he caught a detail. “In front of a bank.”

Finn’s interest peaked.

McGill said, “Fine, send us a link.” He opened it up to reveal a video of Lester Kelly. He held a pistol and darted toward the alley behind the bank.

Finn said, “Kelly didn’t drop in an alley.”

The bloodhound scoffed a snort through his nose.

“Kelly held a gun. We don’t know if he fired it.” Detective Blake kept pushing. “Weird. We know someone shot him.”

Guhleman pressed his lips into a thin line. “Knock. Knock.”

Okay, I’ll play. Finn said, “Who’s there?”

Guhleman said, “Les.”

Finn said, “Les Who?”

Guhleman said, “Les Kelly. Still here.”

He does have a twin.

McGill shook his head. “Stop with the knock-knock jokes.” His police radio popped and hissed with static.

Finn tried to make sense out of the new evidence. Les was armed and ready for trouble.

McGill walked to the coffee station, put a donut on a napkin, and returned to his desk. “Blake’s forensic accounting team will finish their report. They’ll fax it after their final review.”

“What are their preliminary findings?” Guhleman asked.

McGill took a bite and chewed. “The account shows money laundering.”

“This case is mine!” Guhleman rubbed his hands together with cheesy horror-movie glee.

Finn gave the agent a thumbs-up.

“I want to hear more,” Guhleman said.

McGill said, “The first laundering phase co-mingles with cash stolen from your business, Donahue. Believe it or not, laundered funds and your cash carry separate transaction codes.”

“My partner, Les, was a fanatic about codes,” Finn said. “Clever. Sales receipts make the account appear legit. When money is laundered, the funds disappear about as fast as they accumulate. Reduces tax liability.”