Deadly Pursuit (26 page)

What?
What?
Oh, Jesus, was
that
what this was about? Kareem’s paranoia had focused on
Yogi
?

“He didn’t do it,” Kerry cried, and he
was
crying now because he wasn’t going to come out of this alive; no one could have the slightest dealing with Kareem Gregory and come out of it alive. “Man, you
know
that. Yogi didn’t roll like that. He wasn’t smart enough to—”

Standing over Yogi’s dead body, Kareem pushed those sunglasses to the crown of his head so Kerry could see the stark loss in his face. “Everyone’s smart enough to look out for number one when the feds come knocking.”

“Kareem, man, no, Yogi didn’t—” But Kareem wasn’t looking and it was too late for Yogi anyway. Hell, Kerry was beginning to think that Yogi was the lucky one because at least he didn’t have to deal with Kareem’s reign of terror anymore.

“Good-bye, my brother,” Kareem told the mess of pulp that had been a man, their friend.

Turning, he strode off toward his car, unhurried as he put the piece back in his pocket and spoke to Kerry over his shoulder. “Check his pockets and his car. Make sure he hasn’t got anything. And then we’re going to talk about you taking over distribution for him.”

Kareem got into his car, still upset. He drove back into town to his lawyer’s office for the trial preparation meeting as planned. He accepted a cup of black coffee from the firm’s receptionist, and asked to go into the conference room ahead of Jacob Radcliffe to use the phone. His cell’s battery was low, he claimed.

The receptionist pointed him to the phone and told him to dial nine.

So he dialed nine and then dialed the other number and waited, still seething.

What was the world coming to? Why couldn’t people be trusted? No—forget trust because he knew
the only thing he could trust was that people always looked out for number one. Trust wasn’t the issue. Professionalism was the issue.

Why couldn’t people do their damn jobs?

Yogi, the man he’d trained and loved and brought up through the ranks with him—for
years
he’d groomed that man—couldn’t handle the simple assignment of hiring someone to take care of Jackson Parker.

How hard was it? They’d found out where Parker was due to Parker’s own stupidity. They’d done everything but drawn a map to Parker. Everything but leave a trail of bread crumbs directly to Parker’s door.

And had the hit woman hit Parker? Hell no. The stupid fucking bitch had not only not hit Parker, she’d hit another federal agent and created one more goddamn thing for the authorities to come after Kareem for.

Hell, he didn’t mind being in the hot seat every now and then as long as it served some greater purpose. But what was the purpose here? Huh? He was all for as many dead DEA agents as possible, but what the hell good did some nameless Seattle fed’s death do for him or his organization? None. N-O-N-E.

And then the shooter had been shot. Not that he cared one way or the other because there was always another shooter out there, most of whom could be counted on to shoot the person they’d been hired to shoot. But this shooter, Yogi’s shooter, had to go and get shot and leave her motherfucking weapons behind. Just leave them there.

So now it was a matter of time before the feds linked Ray Wolfe’s death with the Seattle DEA agent’s death. The feds needed a map and a flashlight to find
their dicks half the time, true, but they could usually be counted on to run a few simple ballistics tests. So there’d be a link between the deaths of two federal agents and from there … from there all they needed was one small link to Kareem and he’d be facing capital murder charges rather than simple money laundering.

Had Yogi seriously thought he’d forgive that mistake?

And of course, Kareem had never been able to shake the feeling that Yogi had been the snitch who’d dropped that first dime on him to the feds. The one that first pointed him out and said you might want to look at this guy. Was there any solid evidence? No. Could Kareem prove it? No. But his gut told him that there’d been a snitch within his own organization and the snitch was Yogi.

So Yogi had to go.

But still. The waste just killed him. How was Kareem supposed to run an organization that required three lieutenants when he was down to only two? How could this fly? How could Hector and Kerry handle everything for him?

Well … they’d just have to step up to the plate, wouldn’t they?

They were the best of the best, and the most trustworthy, not that anyone was trustworthy. So now Kerry could take care of distribution and Hector could get the information they needed to take care of the Jackson Parker problem for once and for all.

ASAP.

Parker wasn’t the only problem on his plate. He also needed to figure out what, if anything, Kira was up to. But first things first.

Kareem held the receiver to his ear and listened to it ring.

“Yeah,” Hector answered.

“It’s me,” Kareem told him. “I’ve got a project for you and I need it done yesterday. I need a roach killed. You know any good exterminators?”

“I’m on it.”

“And I need you to follow up on some information one of Yogi’s men was supposed to get. Check with Jerome on it, okay?”

“Whatever you say, man.”

She was really going to do this.

God help her.

Marian Barber’s plan was to wait until lunchtime to sneak into her boss’s office and get the information Jerome wanted from her. The problem was, “lunchtime” was a flexible concept around here, depending on the crisis of the moment, everyone’s mood and, probably, the phases of the moon.

She only had a couple of pills left. Normally she’d’ve taken them an hour ago, but she didn’t want to take them until she knew there’d be more. And there wouldn’t be more unless she got it from Jerome because she was out of other options. Not to mention the fact that she didn’t want to test out Jerome’s threats.

Maybe he didn’t mean them, but then again—maybe he did.

No matter how she looked at it, she was screwed ten ways from Sunday. The only way things could be worse was if the powers that be chose today for a random blood test, which was one of the downsides of working for a federal law enforcement agency. Her number
hadn’t come up for a while and goodness knew her luck wasn’t holding. If she was tested, what would the results say? Did they test for prescription meds? And if so, did they test the level? Would they know she had enough shit in her bloodstream to tranquilize an elephant?

The despair in Marian’s throat crept a little higher and burned a little hotter.

The one thing she tried not to think about was what Jerome planned to do with the information once she gave it to him. It was probably safe to assume it was nothing good, but that didn’t have to mean it was anything
terrible,
did it? By acquiring this information for Jerome—she almost thought
stealing
but it wasn’t
stealing
because she wasn’t a thief—she wasn’t taking part in anything dangerous or illegal.

Was she?

The possibility of getting caught in the act, of getting fired for what she was about to do, was too horrible for words, so she didn’t think about that, either.

“You look terrible.”

“Huh?”

Rhonda was standing there. “Your tooth must really be bothering you.”

Marian belatedly remembered she’d told everyone she had a sore tooth to explain the single chipmunk cheek she’d acquired courtesy of Jerome and his lead-plate hands.

“It’s nothing.” Marian gave Rhonda’s purse, which was slung over the woman’s shoulder, a pointed look and tried to move the proceedings along. “You going to lunch?”

“Yeah. I’ll be back in forty-five.”

“Great.”

The second Rhonda disappeared into the elevator,
Marian vaulted to her feet and ran into her boss’s office. Having practiced the drill a thousand times in her mind, it ran like clockwork now.

Key: get it out of the pocket of the suit jacket, which was hanging on the hook on the back of the door and thank her lucky stars her boss had mentioned that was where he kept it and left his jacket while he went to grab a sandwich.

File cabinet drawer: unlock it.

Unmarked file shoved in the back: get it.

Address printed on the paper: memorize it.

2250 Stockbridge Lane.

That was it.

Oh, God. That was it.

She raced out of the office, home free.

Until she ran smack into the broad chest of her boss and almost landed on her butt.

No. Christ, God, no—

Dexter Brady reached out a hand to steady her. “Are we under attack?”

She opened her mouth and prayed she could produce a laughing sentence rather than nervous vomit. “I need to get out of here or I’ll be late for … the dentist.”

Somehow she grabbed her purse and managed a sedate walk out to the lobby area, but waiting for the elevator was out of the question. Hurtling through the fire door, she raced down the two flights, slowed up again through the atrium, and went through the glass doors to the parking lot, where she found her car, got in and called Jerome on her cell phone.

“Yeah,” she said when he answered. “I got the address to the safe house like you wanted. And I need my shit.”

“Good girl. I’ve got something extra special for you.” The smile in his voice came across the line, loud and clear. “Call it a little thank-you for everything you’ve done.”

Kerry drove up I-71 at eighty-five miles per hour, fifty miles north of Cincinnati. He was almost at the late afternoon meeting spot, but part of him hoped he’d lose control and wrap his car around a tree so he wouldn’t have to be Kerry Randolph for another cursed minute.

This idea was gaining strength when his phone buzzed. He grabbed it from the cup holder, and one quick glance told him more than he wanted to know.

Caller unknown
said the lighted display. If only that were true.

Could he not go two freaking hours without being tracked like a FedEx package?

Up ahead, another overpass zoomed into view, closer … closer … and he ignored the phone’s second buzz and eyed the massive pillars. A car racing at this speed didn’t have a chance against unforgivable concrete like that. All he needed to do was stomp the accelerator and loosen his fingers, just a little, and it would all be over. The constant fear, the minefields in every direction he tiptoed, the unwavering certainty that a violent death was sneaking up on him, waiting around every corner.

Except that then he was level with the overpass and too soon it was disappearing in his rearview mirror, and he was still alive and still the spineless punk that had stood there and watched his oldest friend get shot
in the back of the head for an imagined crime that he hadn’t committed.

And Kerry had nothing left except the flat green fields streaking by his windows, the sickening knot of cowardice and fear growing in his gut, and the buzzing phone.

Snatching it up, he answered on the fifth vibration. “Yeah.”

“Where you at?” demanded Kareem. “I’ve got some shit for you to do.”

The weight of Kerry’s exhaustion pressed down on him, so heavy he was surprised it didn’t push him through the bottom of the car. He was tired of the endless waiting for the shoe to drop. He was tired of the constant fear. Most of all, he was tired of himself.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

“All right then,” Kareem said. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Disgusted, Kerry tossed the phone down and tried to focus on the highway. His exit came into view and he rolled off the ramp and turned right into a BP gas station that was deserted except for the silvery bright gleam of a fuel tanker.

Kerry drove around back, to the meeting place behind the freestanding men’s restroom, and parked his car. He got out and stood where he was, taking a minute to enjoy the sunshine on his face and the cold air in his nostrils, clearing out the woe-is-me from his brain and letting him think clearly enough to remember one fact: he was doing the right thing for probably the first and last time in his life.

After three deep breaths, he turned to Dexter Brady’s parked car, which was idling next to his, went around to the passenger side, and got in.

“What’ve you got?” Dexter Brady asked without preamble.

Nothing,
even if it was a lie, was the best answer because it was the one least likely to get Kerry killed, but his conscience wouldn’t let him leave Yogi’s headless body lying in that field for buzzards to eat. Funny, wasn’t it? At the ripe old age of thirty, which was ancient by street standards, he’d chosen this moment to sprout a conscience and start feeling guilty about all the shit he’d done over the years.

Yeah, funny. Either that or criminally stupid.

He hesitated. Even now he wasn’t sure he could trust Brady, and he was sure the brother would just as soon arrest him on some trumped-up charge as look him in the eye.

Still, Kerry had started down this road and might as well keep walking. He was now a confidential informant. A confidential informant was a snitch, the lowest form of human life—just beneath pedophiles and men who had sex with dead bodies—dressed up in an Armani tuxedo.

People who snitched on Kareem Gregory had the expected life span of amoebas, but those were the breaks. Snitching, like popping a cherry, was easier after you’d done it once. Having facilitated the money-laundering setup, it was easier to snitch on Kareem now. Easier, but not easy.

Brady glared. “Sometime before my pension kicks in would be nice.”

“He clipped Yogi. Shot him to the back of the head this morning.”

Brady’s eyes widened with horror. “Christ.”

There was no need to define
he,
nor did there seem to be any question about Brady believing him, which was a small consolation.

“What happened?”

Kerry shrugged. “He blames Yogi for screwing up on some roach-killing project. Killing the wrong roaches. That mean anything to you?”

Brady had his emotions back under control now, but he couldn’t prevent a flicker of understanding from crossing his face. “Yeah. What else?”