For the Love of Pete (32 page)

There was a silence in the room as everyone stared at Savita-di. Mr. Neil Senior’s eyes had widened over his duct-tape gag, and little Neil Junior was watching the Gupta ladies with interest. Pratima held her breath. Perhaps her dear sister-in-law would strike her now. Perhaps she would publicly scorn her.

Instead, Savita-di’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Pratima, I am a foolish old woman. You are right, my husband was not as good a husband as he should have been. Please forgive me.”

“Of course I forgive you, Savita-di,” Pratima exclaimed. “If only—”

But here she was interrupted by the potty man clearing his throat. A soft sound, but an ominous one, as well.

“This is almost as good as the movies, but I have work to do,” he said in his awful, low voice. “I’ve decided I should start with you.” He swung the barrel of his nasty gun toward Savita-di.

“What, me?” Savita-di exclaimed. “Why should you choose me as your victim? Why not—?”

“My sister-in-law’s phone,” Pratima said hastily before Savita-di became riddled with gunshot holes. “He has my sister-in-law’s mobile phone. You can call him there.”

“Pratima Gupta!” Savita-di said in a scolding voice. “What are you thinking?”

But for once Pratima wasn’t paying attention to her sister-in-law’s unnecessary bickering. The potty man had turned his cold gray gaze on her and smiled. Quite the most terrifying smile Pratima had ever seen in her life.

“Thank you.” He took a mobile phone out of his pocket and dialed.

Chapter Fifty-nine

Sunday, 8:12 a.m.

T
he cell phone rang just as Zoey finished bandaging his side. Dante’d convinced her that he was strong enough to get up off the bathroom floor and limp down the stairs to the pallet of blankets in front of the fireplace. He tried to cover the limp, though. The last thing he wanted to do was let her know that his earlier injury was bugging him. It hurt even more than the furrow in his side. The first thing he’d done was put his sweatpants back on.

Zoey jerked at the tinkling notes from the cell phone, betraying her frayed nerves.

“It’s Savita Gupta’s cell,” Dante said. He reached for one of Tom’s sweatshirts that he’d found the night before. “Probably the Gupta ladies want to know when they’re getting their purple minivan back.”

He pulled the sweatshirt on, careful of the big bandage on his side.

“Oh,” Zoey gasped. It was a measure of how wigged out she still was that she didn’t even comment about the Guptas’ disabled van. She rummaged in his coat pocket and fished out the phone, frowning at the caller ID.

“Hello?” She’d turned to look in Pete’s direction—the baby was cruising the couch again—but suddenly froze. Her eyes were focused inward, on the speaker at the other end of the phone.

Dante stilled.

She met his gaze. Her expression was stricken.

“Who is it?” he demanded, not even trying to conceal his voice.

She shook her head, then held out the phone to him, mute.

He snatched the phone out of her hand. “Who is this?”

“My name doesn’t matter,” the male voice on the other end replied in ridiculous cliché. “I have the old Pakistani women—”

The caller was interrupted by an indignant squawk on the other end of the phone.

The caller sighed. “I am corrected. The
Indian
old women. Also Mr. Janiowski and his baby son. I will kill them if you do not give me what I want.”

What a pompous prick.
Dante felt his jaw tighten, but he kept his voice carefully even. “What do you want?”

“Ricky Spinoza’s child.”

The answer was what he’d been expecting, but it was a blow nonetheless. Dante looked to where Pete was squatting on short toddler legs to pick up something miniscule from the rug. “How?”

“Come here, to the motel where the Indian women are—”

Dante was already shaking his head. “I can’t get through on these roads. The snow—”

“Your problem,” the voice said indifferently. “Park outside the motel and call me. I’ll give you instructions.”

He disconnected.

“Asshole,” Dante muttered. He rummaged through the pile of clothes next to him, looking for some socks.

Zoey was staring at him. “What? Who was that?”

Dante sighed. His leg really did hurt like a bitch, but obviously he wasn’t going to be able to sit around. “Muscle. Probably Tony the Roses’s, but he might be connected to the FBI traitor. That seems unlikely, though. This guy didn’t sound like he was trained by a bureaucrat.”

He found a pair of socks and pulled them on, conscious that Zoey hadn’t moved. She was watching him intently. If she lost trust in him now . . .

“But what did he want?”

He looked up and met her beautiful blue eyes. “Pete. He’s holding the Gupta ladies, Neil, and Neil’s son. He wants to make an exchange of some sort.”

He waited, hoping against hope that she would trust him. His track record to date wasn’t particularly sterling. He wouldn’t be entirely surprised if she grabbed the baby and ran. Disappointed, sure, but not surprised.

But she simply sat on the couch and laid a light hand on Pete’s oblivious head. “What are we going to do?”

That
we
burrowed into Dante’s heart and made a home for itself. Now he just had to make sure he didn’t fail her trust.

“Keep Pete safe no matter what.” He held her gaze. “I don’t know what I’ll do exactly. Figure out a way to get the others away from him without handing over Pete.”

“Okay.”

He stood, aware that he wasn’t in top shape at the moment. His side burned, and his leg was starting to stiffen up. “First we need to find some transportation. Those assassins found us somehow. My BMW may have a tracker on it. I can’t think of any other way they could’ve found out where we are. We’re going to have to leave my car behind. I guess we can take the hit men’s truck.”

She glanced at the window, out in the direction of the car. Dante felt a pang of regret. He loved that goddamned car, bullet holes or not.

“You’d better get dressed,” he said. “Check the kitchen, bring whatever food and supplies you might need for Pete.”

“Okay.” She turned toward the kitchen and almost tripped over his gun holster. Zoey bent to pick it up. “Ouch.”

“What is it?” Dante took the holster from her. Something small and black was poking out between where the straps were stitched together. Dante reached for his trench coat. He had a folding knife in an inside pocket.

Behind him, Zoey said, “I think something broke on it. I’m sorry, I . . .”

Her voice died away as he pulled apart the edges of the leather and picked out a tracing chip with his fingernails.

Zoey’s eyes widened. “Is that—?”

“Yeah, it is.” Dante felt grimly triumphant as he examined the chip. “Guess it wasn’t the BMW, after all. It makes sense. Even if I ditched the car I’d always have my gun on me.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

He shrugged and placed both the chip and the gun holster on the fireplace mantel. “Leave them here. I’m not taking the chance that there’s another tracer on the holster.”

“But how will you carry your gun?”

“In my coat pocket. Listen, let me worry about my gun. You get yourself and Pete ready to go. I’m going to double-check the BMW.”

“Okay.” But still she hesitated, looking worried.

“Look.” He touched her shoulder gently, hating to see the shadows in her eyes. “I need to take a look at where DiRosa’s man is holding everyone in the motel, examine the layout a bit more, see what I can do. But I’ll come up with a plan. Believe me, I’m not giving up Pete.”

“I know,” she said simply.

She took two steps until she stood directly in front of him. Until her blue eyes were only inches from his. “I trust you, Dante.”

Then she kissed him, her lips soft and feminine and strong on his, and in her kiss was everything he’d ever longed for in life: trust, need, and want.

Maybe even love.

Chapter Sixty

Sunday, 9:34 a.m.

T
wo fucking months of twice-a-week anger management classes and this was what it got him: tied up in the corner like a chump while a hired pretty boy gunslinger waved a Glock in his face.

Neil twisted his hands behind his back, but the asshole had used duct tape, and the tape only tangled further. Fuck. If he got out of this alive he was quitting the fucking anger management classes. The coffee had sucked anyway, and they’d always had Fig Newtons to eat. He fucking hated Fig Newtons. Ash would just have to learn to live with his natural aggression.

And thinking of Ash made him realize how worried she must be right now. About the only thing halfway bad you could say about Ash was that she was a worrier. After he’d found Neil Junior, Neil had called Ash last night, just so she wouldn’t worry. He’d told her exactly where he was, mostly because she’d demanded the information. What was more, he’d promised her that he and Neil Junior would be home by two in the morning at the latest. Only of course they weren’t. There’d been that blizzard and the strange rice pudding, and then Neil had decided to take a little nap before driving home. He’d woken to find Pretty Boy standing over him, the Glock nearly up Neil’s nose.

So now he and Neil Junior weren’t home, and Ash was bound to be worrying, and that just wasn’t good. Last time he’d screwed up with Ash, she hadn’t talked to him for a month, just sent him fucking cold looks that still made him shiver. And he’d never even figured out exactly what he’d done wrong that time. This time he knew, which made it ten times worse.

The old ladies were sitting on the bed next to each other, aiming identical death stares at Pretty Boy. They hadn’t been real pleased when he’d called them Pakistani. Pretty Boy was still lounging in the only comfortable chair in the room, stroking the Glock like he was going to whip out his dick any moment and come all over it.

Fucking asshole. Probably didn’t have a clue how to do it with a woman. Or a guy, nothing wrong with that. Neil’s cousin Bernie swung that way, so he’d had to learn not to say “queer.” “Fag” was still okay. At least he thought so—he’d have to ask Bernie. Anyway, Neil was betting this motherfucker didn’t know how to get it on with anything warm, woman, man, or farm animal.

Pretty Boy’s eyes flickered over as Neil Junior dropped to his hands and knees and scooted toward Neil. His son grabbed the front of his shirt and crawled into his lap—what there was of it, considering that Neil had his knees crunched nearly to his chest by the duct tape. Neil Junior grinned up into his face and patted his cheek with a grubby paw. The kid was fucking cute, anyone but a stone-cold killer would admit that.

Problem was, Pretty Boy obviously
was
a stone-cold killer.

The guy glanced over now with his fucking creepy light-gray eyes and said, “I am told that one can push a thumb through the top of a baby’s skull if the bones are not yet fused. Do you think your son’s skull is fused?”

The ladies gasped, the round one making a little scream. Neil growled and lunged at the asshole. If he could get his hands on Pretty Boy, he’d fucking kill him with his bare hands. But bound as he was, Neil could move only a few inches, jiggling Neil Junior on his lap. The baby laughed and bounced. Probably wanted to play horsy.

Pretty Boy smiled like Freddy Krueger on crack. “Maybe I will let you watch. Maybe—”

But the rest of his sentence was cut off by a loud knock on the door. Everyone swung in that direction, staring.

Pretty Boy motioned with the Glock. “See who it is,” he told the taller lady.

Her eyes widened, but she moved toward the door. Neil bit back a groan. If this was that FBI agent’s idea of a fucking plan, they were all in trouble. Sure enough, Torelli stepped in the room.

“Where is the baby?” Pretty Boy asked.

“Safe,” Torelli said. He walked to the bed and sat down on the end. Neil noticed that he was limping a little.

Pretty Boy’s eyes narrowed. “I told you to bring her here.”

Torelli shrugged. “I don’t trust you.”

“You doubt my honor?”

“Yeah.”

Neil tensed, because it looked like Pretty Boy just might start shooting right then and there. But then the fucker smiled a nasty little smile. “You are smart.”

Torelli nodded. “You don’t need all these hostages. Let me take the baby outside.”

“No.”

Torelli sighed. “Look—”

Another knock sounded at the door. Everyone looked around.

Pretty Boy motioned with his gun to the tall Indian lady. She went to the door.

There was a murmur, and then the Indian lady stepped back from the door to reveal a hugely pregnant dishwater blonde in a flowered smock and stretch pants. She wore glasses, and her hair was cut short like a man’s, and she looked kind of like an accountant.

Neil groaned.

She swayed into the room, her belly leading the way.

Torelli stood. “Ma’am—”

The dishwater blonde frowned. “Which one of you is the guy who’s holding the baby hostage?”

Pretty Boy said, “Who are you?”

The blonde turned to him and pushed her glasses up her nose with her left hand. A big pink diamond sparkled on her finger. “You the tough guy?”

“Yes, I am.” Pretty Boy smirked. “What do you care?”

Neil Junior grinned. “Mama!”

And Ashley brought the Uzi in her right hand up from where she’d been concealing it behind her back and emptied the clip into Pretty Boy. The room kind of shook with the percussion. Pretty Boy slumped over and dropped his gun. He was very dead.

Torelli lowered the Glock he’d drawn. “Huh. So much for my cunning plan.”

Ashley put the Uzi on the bureau, scooped Neil Junior out of Neil’s lap, and planted a big kiss on the baby’s cheek. “That’s right, baby, it’s Mama.”

The taller Indian lady sat down hard next to her sister-in-law. Both ladies were gaping.

“Neil, honey,” his wife said to him. “I don’t want you working for Uncle Tony anymore. I don’t think it’s good for our family.”

Neil would’ve told her that there was no way he was going back to her crazy uncle, but the fucking gag was still in his mouth.

The shorter Indian lady gave herself a little shake and turned to her sister-in-law. “I think you should be the one to tell Rahul about the mess in his motel room.”