Redemption (12 page)

Payback couldn’t be this easy. “What do you want?”

“Ah. You remind me so much of my dear friend Victor. It is for him and Vincent that I make you this offer. All I ask is for you to take a ride with me afterwards. We have unfinished business.”

Unfinished business. Yet Nestor claimed to have no quarrel with Lucky. Would he have to trade his life for Stephan’s? “The kind of business that requires a coroner and undertaker?”

“The kind of business that requires an accountant and an attorney.” Nestor spoke as though making small talk, not like a man who held others’ lives in his hands. Not like the ruthless son of a bitch Lucky knew him to be.

Time to lay all the cards on the table. “You know who I work for. Who I worked for all along. If I show up, it’ll be as a Southeastern Narcotics Bureau agent, with a badge and a gun.”

“You underestimate me if you think for a moment I wasn’t aware of your position. But even I won’t cross Walter Smith by harming one of his agents. Now, Thursday. Six p.m. local time. If you’re not there, I’ll take it you didn’t want my gift. Be there, Mr. Lucklighter. And bring that charming partner of yours too. The gun and badge I can live with, but no surveillance, and no wires.” The line went dead.

This couldn’t be happening. Nestor had to be up to something. He knew about Bo. Why just hand over Stephan? Why not kill the useless asshole himself and be done with it? And why did he want Bo there? Lucky stepped back into the house and flopped down on the couch to keep from falling.

Oh yeah. The papers had been full of articles recently about a drug kingpin escaping a Mexican prison after the DEA had asked to secure him in the US. Nestor wasn’t taking chances on another escape.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Bo lunged to keep Moose from counter-surfing. Cat Lucky sat on the couch arm, watching the show.

Bo, Moose, Cat Lucky. The closest Lucky had had to family in a long time. If he did what Nestor asked, would he ever see them again? So far Nestor had been on the up and up, but he was a cartel boss, had been most of his life. His loyalty lay with whoever and whatever earned him money.

And yet he feared pissing off Walter. Add a tick mark in the plus column for Lucky.

Bo glanced up. “Uh-oh.” Moose whined. Bo didn’t give in. Instead he traipsed across the floor in bare feet and took the phone from Lucky’s numb fingers. “I’m taking it the news wasn’t good.”

“I… I’m not sure.” Fuck. Bo was making progress in coming back to himself. News like this might set him back. Then again, if Lucky didn’t tell him, he’d risk losing the man’s trust.

Honesty won out. “I believe Nestor intends to hand over Stephan Mangiardi.”

Bo let out a snort. “He’d never be in custody long enough to be extradited. He owns too many cops.”

“That’s the thing. Nestor has arranged it so Stephan’ll come back to the US on his own.”

The color fled Bo’s face. He crouched down beside Lucky, putting them eye to eye. “And how does he plan that?”

“He’ll be given a choice. He can come with me, or he can get shot. Or…” Lucky blew out his breath.

“Or what?”

Lucky locked his gaze with Bo’s. “Or he can never be seen or heard from again.”

“That’s got my vote.” The way the man held himself, the venom in his eyes. Cyrus Cooper still lurked beneath the thin veneer of Bo’s returning personality. What would it take to banish him for good? Did Lucky really want him gone for good? Hard-assed sons of bitches had their place in life, and he was part of Bo. Losing Cyrus might mean losing Bo.

Fuck. Lucky was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. And now to drop the bomb. “Nestor ordered me to come to the tunnel. He wants you there too.”

Bo stiffened, then dropped his gaze. “If you’re going into the snake pit, I’ve got your back.”

The snake pit. Yeah. “I need to talk to Walter.” Oh fuck. Nestor wanted Lucky there on Thursday. “Bo, I’m afraid can’t make it to your aunt’s for Thanksgiving.”

That wasn’t all Lucky feared. Nestor Sauceda-Vasquez, one of the most dangerous men in Mexico, wanted to talk.

***

Walter shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

The tunnel appeared different from this end. Less dark, less menacing. A Taco Bell and Burger King across the street on the Texas side gave the place a more homey feel. Still, Lucky’s heart pounded in time with his footsteps as he trailed a US Marshal. This warehouse beat the hell out of the one on Mexico side. Same graffiti, less run down, an ass load of cops. Hell, every branch of law enforcement had sent men—even Homeland Security. The others were here because they had jurisdiction and Lucky didn’t, but he had the connections.

And Walter stood guard. Walter had his back. Nice to trust the man again. Whoever’d planted the seeds of doubt in Lucky’s mind with the picture of Walter and Victor had better try harder next time.

“I’ll give you twenty minutes, then I’m sending reinforcements.” Walter pursed his lips. Sucked having to take orders from the higher ups. But Nestor asked for Lucky and Bo; anyone else might put a stop to the whole deal—and restrict Lucky’s actions. Nestor could be a good guy, he could be a bad guy, and while Lucky might risk himself on this gamble, nothing better happen to Bo.

“Bo, are you sure you’re up for this?” Walter waited until Bo made eye contact and nodded to step out of the way.

Boss man didn’t like Lucky and Bo retrieving Stephan without backup. He
really
wouldn’t like the part about venturing into Mexico with Nestor. Good thing he didn’t know—yet.

A tech approached, loaded down with familiar equipment. Lucky lifted a hand. “He said no wires.” And when meeting a man more familiar with Lucky’s history than Lucky himself, the conversation shouldn’t be recorded.

The woman held the gear out to Walter. Walter shook his head. “Vest only.”

“Weapon?”

“I got my own.” Lucky checked his .38 for the hundredth time. It’d take more than one lousy gun to take on Nestor. You didn’t live to retirement age in the drug trade without learning survival skills.

Lucky drew in a deep breath. Didn’t help his jangling nerves. “Ready?” He tried to raise a brow at Bo but fell short.

“No. Let’s go.” With his clean-shaven face and longer hair, Bo scarcely resembled the hard-living biker sergeant at arms he’d played until two months ago. He’d kept Cyrus Cooper at bay this trip—so far. Facing Nestor and whatever else waited in the tunnel might cause a setback. Please, God, let that not happen.

Walter and an escort of uniformed officers led Lucky and Bo through an empty building that had seen better days. They left tracks on the dirty concrete floor.

Cops stood by a door in the back of the warehouse. “Lights are off,” one said.

Lucky opened the door and entered a cement block-walled room with a massive showerhead and floor drain, designed to clean industrial equipment, and spotted a faucet on the far wall. The other end of the tunnel had a similar fixture. “Right or left?” he asked Bo.

“Right.”

He twisted the tap, ready to jump back if water came flooding out. Humming vibrated through his boot soles. The floor drain rose, about three feet off the ground. How quaint. A matching set of tunnel openings.

Stale air wafted from down below. Lucky glanced at his partner. No lights, no compressor for fresh air. Oh goodie.

Bo’s nostrils flared. Neither one of them were good with enclosed spaces, and this time, Bo didn’t have chemical backup, or an alter-ego to see him through.

“Are you sure about this? I could always go alone.” If Lucky’s heart pounded any harder it’d dent the vest Walter insisted he wear. “What’s with the lights?”

Bo tried the switch. Nothing. “We’re in this together, isn’t that what you told me? And hey? What if Nestor brought us a plate from Graciela’s? Think that would be too much to ask?”

Damn, Lucky should have demanded Graciela’s burritos. The woman could cook. He pushed back the memory of cheese tamales, and the unfortunate man who’d lost his mind enough to develop a guy crush on Lucky—and later, for the same reason, had lost his life. He’d made Lucky tamales.

Alejandro. Damn. Another reason not to grow attached to folks: they either left or died, leaving a hole in Lucky’s world where they used to be.

If you never let them in, you still have a hole, it’s just never been filled
to start with
, Charlotte might say.
Stop being right, woman
.

“Don’t think about it.” Bo nudged Lucky’s arm. How had he read Lucky’s mind? Spooky shit there. “We’ve got each other, guns, and big honking spotlights. Hey, sounds like an Arkansas hunting trip.” His flicker of a smile left before settling.

If Bo wanted to put up a brave front, who was Lucky to stop him? “Here goes nothing.” Lucky sat on the edge of the opening, staring at a set of wooden stairs leading into darkness. Fuck. Dark. Deep in the ground.

“Hey, it’ll be okay.” Bo kneaded his shoulder.

Lucky jumped down onto the top step. He’d lead this time since he had a good idea where they’d be going. And better him in front, in case hostiles waited ahead. Somehow he’d missed “crawling into drug tunnels” in his job description.

And what was he thinking? Of course there’d be someone hostile—Stephan Mangiardi. If Nestor told the truth. What better way to get Lucky back to Mexico than promise him the one man he’d love to see hang? If Nestor was up to no good, he’d used the right bait to lure Lucky, and Bo, into his trap. And yet time and again he’d had plenty of opportunity to rid the world of them both, with no one being the wiser.

Time to stop thinking too hard before his damned head exploded.

Bo’s footsteps plodded behind Lucky down the stairs. How deep did they say this hole was? Forty feet? Fifty. Fucking hell. Might as well be one hundred. With tons and tons of rock and dirt waiting to fall and bury them both alive.
Put it out of your mind.
Easier said than done.

Down and down they went, hanging on to the same type of PVC railing they had on the Mexico side. Lucky clicked on his spotlight. Wow. Bright. Nice.

Light from behind him joined his beam.

Lucky reached the bottom and started off down a tunnel wide enough for him and Bo to walk side by side. He’d rather have Bo at his back, in case of stray bullets his vest didn’t catch. The protection weighed a ton and wasn’t something he’d worn much. Still, the Marshal insisted—and so did Walter.

The crunch of grit underfoot roared with unnatural loudness. Each breath seemed to echo to deafening levels.

The toe of Lucky’s boot hurled a rock at a wall. So much for stealth. Hell, folks probably heard him as far away as Alabama.

A low opening appeared in a wall. He stopped and flicked his flashlight, shining the light into a shallow cave, another misstep in a planner’s calculations. It wasn’t as deep or tall as the one where he and Bo had found Vincent Mangiardi’s body.

Shudders came unbidden. Leathery skin, a pool of body fluid goo, and a godawful stench. Even now, the scent memory curled into Lucky’s nose.

Empty. No dead body. No foul odor. Keep going. Find out what Nestor wanted and get the hell back above ground.

Bo prodded him from behind.

Yeah, yeah. Time was wasting.

They should be sitting down to turkey and dressing with Bo’s family, or rather, Tofurkey, in Bo’s case, but noooooo, they had to be hoofing through drug tunnels on their way back to a place Lucky’d hoped to never see again.

And the lights being off better be a malfunction, not a trick to freak Lucky out.

Gun cradled to his chest, safety off, Lucky kept going. Flashlights in darkness made them targets. Tendrils of panic raced up his spine. What he wouldn’t give for a pair of night vision goggles. Why hadn’t he thought of those before he and Bo crawled down into this hole?

If Nestor wanted you dead, you’d be dead.
Small comfort.

Lucky slowed his footsteps at the section of tunnel where he and Bo spent a few horrible hours walled in. Heebie-jeebies time. Rocks and plywood sat stacked against the far wall—the rocks and plywood that had once sealed their doom.

His breath caught. Pitch-darkness. Counting each precious lungful of air. He’d held Bo, convinced they were both going to die. Bo had confessed sins. How he’d once beaten his lover in the throes of a PTSD-induced flashback. And he wouldn’t blame the PTSD. No, Bo carried that burden on his own shoulders. One of many. Amazing the man could still stand upright.

A memory. Just a memory. Here, now, Lucky stood as one of the SNB, with the cavalry waiting to charge in if needed. He wasn’t at Stephan’s mercy.

His deep breath pulled in stale air, not decay. His memories filled in the gaps anyway.

What was that? A body lay in the tunnel, right outside the cave where they’d found Vincent. Not a-fucking-gain!

No, not again. This body thrashed and struggled, throwing up an arm against the brightness of their flashlight beams. It scuttled to one side of the tunnel, searching for shelter it couldn’t reach. The figure struggled within a small range, as if it couldn’t go beyond a certain boundary.

Apparently not. Metal flashed in the beam—a man—shackled to the floor on all-fours and on a short leash.

Dark hair, nice clothes. Lucky’s pulse pounded in his ears. Lying in the dirt was none other than Stephan Mangiardi.

Lucky aimed his gun. He could shoot. Claim Stephan attacked. Even return to the US and say he’d found nothing. The US Marshal might not believe him and check anyway. And Walter sensed lies.

But one pull of the trigger and pow! Years of misery coming to an end. The power belonged to Lucky. He was no longer helpless, no longer bound to put up with whatever this monster dished out. For Victor, for Vincent, for Aureo, Alejandro and so many others, he should pull the trigger.

If he’d shot the guard, this wouldn’t be his first rodeo.

The heady rush answered the question of what it felt like to hold a man’s life in his hands. Powerful, yes, but his decision would affect a lot of people for a long time. Bo, Charlotte, Walter…

And this time he wouldn’t need to lie on a couch and talk about his
feelings
. Killing Stephan would be his therapy.