Redemption Key (A Dani Britton Thriller) (13 page)

“What tracker?”

Booker flicked the damp lettuce shred off the seat. “The tracker you swallowed. How was your shawarma?” Davis swallowed loudly. “I’m looking for a woman.”

“How are you supposed to do it? To kill me?”

“The next time you turn the key, the ignition sets off enough C-4 to vaporize the car. I’m told it’s the signature move of your suspect.”

The gun drifted as the agent thought, then snapped back up against Booker’s skull. “Bull. Shit. This is my car. I picked you up. Nobody had access to it.”

“It’s an easy bomb to rig. Only takes a few seconds if you know what you’re doing. So I’ll ask you again, how was your shawarma?”

Booker could see the agent struggling to re-create the timeline, trying to gauge how long he’d been out of the car to run to the
corner stand for his food. Booker gave him all the time he needed, although he thought the process took an embarrassing length of time.

“But if the car blows,” Davis at last came out with, “you blow with it. And if you try to get out of the car, I’ll blow you away.” He pulled the trigger back.

Booker pulled several more lengths of yarn free of the tote. “I’ll just wait for the tranquilizer to kick in.” He held up a hand to stop Davis from speaking. “Please don’t ask, ‘What tranquilizer?’ Do I really need to ask you about the shawarma again?”

Davis dropped the gun on top of the keyboard in his lap. Booker let him think his thoughts and weigh his options, listening as the agent’s breath grew more ragged. “How is this going to work?”

“You have been targeted for a government-sanctioned execution. One thing these people do better than orchestrate hits is arrange unbreakable alibis. Essentially you are invisible right now. Nobody is watching your file; nobody is tracking your case. Everyone who could be implicated is busy-busy-busy doing anything other than interacting with you. That means that for the next hour, nobody will check to see what you’re doing in the FBI database. You can find the woman I’m looking for. If you do, I let you walk. I tell them you overpowered me and you got away.”

“But the tranquilizer. The tracker.”

“I’ve got an amphetamine in my bag that will counteract the drug. It’s laboratory-grade speed that will have the added bonus of making you shit out the tracker, assuming that disgusting shawarma doesn’t do it first. I assume you have some sort of getaway plan already in place.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Davis nodded rapidly. “I do. It’s a good one. Solid. Okay, yeah. Okay. What’s the name you’re looking for?”

“Danielle Kathleen Britton.” He spelled the last name.

“There’s no file on her.” He scanned through screens as Booker wrapped up the afghan and zipped it into the plastic tote. “She’s not in here.”

“She’s in there. She’s somewhere.”

“Nothing active. At least nothing I have access to.”

“Don’t you have some sort of people-finding capabilities at your disposal? You are the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Davis scowled at him. “It’s nothing a private eye couldn’t do for you.”

“Consider yourself hired. Unless you’d rather I just kill you.”

The redhead swore and began typing. “Here. There’s a Danielle Kathleen Britton employed at someplace called Jinky’s Fish Camp on Redemption Key in Florida. What the hell?” He laughed. “You looking for a little tail with your tail?”

Booker stared at him. “What does that even mean?”

“You know, the fish, like . . . fish tails with, you know, the piece of ass . . .”

The words died on his lips as Booker leaned over the seat to see the face he’d been waiting all these months to see. The picture was so much like her Rasmund identification card. He bit his lip as he took in the messy black hair and little white smile. “She’s very special.” He smiled up at Davis. “I bet she tans really well. I bet she looks adorable with a tan.”

Davis nodded, unconvinced. “You got what you need? We good?”

“Redemption Key. Sounds intriguing, doesn’t it?”

“Hey, buddy, are we good?”

Booker grinned. “Oh yeah. We’re good. I really appreciate you helping me with this.”

Before Davis could thank him for saving his life, Booker jammed the crochet hook through the agent’s right eye, then gripped the back of the stunned man’s skull and slammed his face against the steering wheel.

“And this is for the tail comment.”

A quick jerk to his jaw and the agent’s neck snapped cleanly.

Booker wiped his hands on the shawarma-stained napkins.

Jinky’s, FL

Thursday, August 22

7:25am, 86° F

Oren didn’t know why Dani had wanted to fly up with Jackson to Boston. He figured she had her reasons. He could admit he didn’t know Dani that well, but in a million years he never would have thought she’d come back from anywhere with the guy she strolled back into Jinky’s with. He looked like he’d stepped off the pages of some snotty French catalog for the Beautiful People. His floppy blond hair and girl-pretty face made Oren itch to rough him up, and it had been years since Oren’s roughing-up days.

Dani was a cute girl, but this guy? Guys like that didn’t waste time with girls like Dani, if they wasted time with girls at all. The kid moved with all the bored disdain of a cat as he climbed onto the barstool, waiting while Dani straightened out her schedule with Peg. What kind of hold did he have over Dani? What on earth could those two possibly have in common?

The kid leaned forward, the collar of the loose white shirt sliding down. Oren saw the edge of what looked like a massive set of scars.

They looked a lot like Dani’s scars.

Oh.

7:33am, 86° F

“Whoa, you weren’t kidding about living simply, were you?” Choo-Choo leaned against the door frame of her shack. “What do you call this? Florida Minimal?”

“More like ‘rent-free shit-hole that comes with the job.’ ”

Choo-Choo made a noncommittal sound and walked the floor. Ten strides took him to the far wall, where a hotplate sat atop a tiny square fridge beside a rusted sink. He looked over the plastic bins that protected the little food on hand. His fingers ghosted over the mosquito netting that draped the crooked aluminum cot.

“Rats?”

“Sometimes.”

“Cockroaches?”

“Palmetto bugs. The size of dinner plates.”

“TV?”

“No.”

“Wi-Fi?”

“At the bar.”

“Can you get phone reception?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have a phone.” She shrugged when he looked up at her. “Who would I call?” He said nothing, just kept trailing his fingers over surfaces. “Do you hate it?”

The mosquito netting bunched up beneath his fingers as he moved over the contours of a large conch shell sitting in a sand-filled tray on the nightstand. He followed the narrowing curve of the shell and dug his fingers into the sand.

Dani had fitted a broken mop handle into the sharp-edged shell and filled it with quick-drying concrete. Choo-Choo hefted the homemade mace.

He smiled. “It’s starting to grow on me.” He buried the handle, smoothing his fingers over the sand to cover his tracks. “Do they come to check on you? The Feds? Me too, for a while. They came under the guise of following up on my story. They didn’t stay long. The truth is the FBI is a bit below the pay grade of the security that usually accompanies my family. I’m not sure which my father was more embarrassed about—me being a junkie or me being of interest to something as pedestrian as the Bureau. I’m under the
impression that phone calls were made and assurances given that I would behave.”

“What will they do when they find out you’ve run away to Florida with a stranger?”

“Assume it’s situation normal. Assume that I’m fucking up again.” He leaned against the open window and considered her. “But what about you? What is all this glamour? What’s the story with you and Papaw at the bar?”

“Mr. Randolph. He’s my boss. He’s good to me.” She shook her head at Choo-Choo’s smirk. “Not like that. He pays me okay and the work is good. Bartending and housekeeping.”

“Like your mom.”

She smiled. “You remembered. Yeah, like my mom.”

“And how about your dad? Still doing any of the little tricks he taught you?”

Dani laughed and looked out the window. “You really don’t forget much, do you?”

“Nothing juicy like your mad cold-reader skills. I figure you’re working in a bar again, lots of tourists. Could be pretty lucrative. And nicely outside the letter of the law.”

“Nothing like that. Well, not too much. I don’t want to put Mr. Randolph in an awkward position by victimizing his customers. But I’ve helped out here and there. Mr. Randolph has these meetings with people and I keep an eye on them.”

“An eye?”

“Maybe a fingertip or two.” Dani felt her face warm at the confession. “I forgot how easy it can be to empty pockets.”

Choo-Choo laughed out loud. “Pickpocketing? I had no idea your skills ran so broad.”

“I don’t keep anything. I just read a little bit here and there, stuff they have in their briefcases and shirt pockets. And on their phones. And sometimes in their cars. I make sure it all finds its way back to
them.” She laughed again when she saw his grin. “Just trying to stay sharp, you know? It’s not like I can use those skills in a legitimate job anymore.”

The name Rasmund sat thick and ugly between them.

Dani shook her head. “I guess I never did, huh? Oh well, at least now I’m not working for anyone who fakes it. I’m working a meeting this morning with two bad dudes who’ve got everyone on edge here. A couple of psychos from Miami.”

“Psycho how?”

“Crazy. Gun-happy. Tweaked beyond belief but, I don’t know, they don’t scare me that much. I mean, I don’t want to cross them, but they’re just garden-variety tweakers with guns. They’re straightforward animals. Not what you’d call cunning.”

Choo-Choo slid his fingers along the bottom of the windowsill and Dani watched as he detached a thin strip of stainless steel she had hidden there. He didn’t flinch when he cut himself on one of the edges she had honed to a razor’s edge.

He looked at himself in the reflection of the metal. “Well, if anyone would know cunning, it would be you.”