Unintended Target (Unintended Series Book 1) (28 page)

“—don’t like it,” Riley was bellowing in his ear.

The guard was gone. And the clerk—

A masked man, standing where the clerk should have been, raised a semi-automatic pistol and fired.

FORTY-TWO

“Jack!” Chloe screamed as he went down simultaneously with the muffled
pffft
from the barrel of the silenced 9mm. Before she could react, the clerk strode around the counter, threw her away from Jack and stomped on Jack’s right hand. Jack roared, red beginning to spread from his right thigh onto the pearl-white tile floor.

Chloe’s mind spun frantically, unable to formulate a coherent thought for the shock.

“He’s bleeding out fast,” said the shooter, now standing over Jack with the barrel pointed at his head. “Looks like I may have nicked an artery. You come with me without a struggle, and I leave him to his chances. You don’t, and I pop him in the head right now and take you anyway.”

“No!” Jack yelled and reached for the shooter’s ankle, the only thing within reach.

He kicked Jack’s hand away, then kicked him in the head. Hard. The earpiece flew off to the side, and Jack stopped yelling. He was out.

“No—No!” Chloe cried. “Stop! I’ll go, I’ll go!” Was that Riley’s muffled voice she heard yelling out of Jack’s earpiece? Where was he! Did he understand what was happening?

“Who’s got whatever was in the box—him or you?” the shooter barked.

“What?” she cried, shell-shocked and uncomprehending until he jabbed the gun at Jack again and clarity struck. “Wait—yes! Yes! I’ve got it.”

“Toss your weapon—I know you’ve got one somewhere—and your cell on the floor.”

As she complied, a bang sounded as the front door shuddered. It was locked and bolted shut.

“Jack!” Riley shouted frantically, his voice muted by the thick steel.

“Not a word!” the shooter growled. “Out the back,” he ordered, gesturing toward the door behind the counter. “Go!”

With a final glance towards Jack, unconscious, his life pouring out of him second by second, Chloe obeyed.              

* * * * *

“Chloe! Jack!” Riley yelled, banging on the front door over and over. It was drawing attention, but he didn’t know what else to do. This development wasn’t something they had anticipated. They’d figured that DiMeico might make a discreet attempt to catch them on the way out, or enlist a quiet tail to ambush them down some side street—but an all-out assault on the building? In broad daylight?

Why didn’t I see it? That dog completely threw me . . .

He shook off the thoughts. None of that mattered now. All that mattered was getting to them.

Jack wouldn’t respond over the Bluetooth. He’d said nothing that Riley could make out since the screaming started. It wasn’t a good sign. And where was Chloe? He pulled out his gun, to try, well, he didn’t know what, when the lock clicked and, after the sound of a bolt sliding, the door opened.

Riley tumbled through the door and spotted his friend on the floor. “Jack! Aww, no!”

“Are you the police?” the red-haired clerk, now very sweaty and disheveled, asked in a panic. “I called as soon as they left—Abe’s been shot, but I think he’ll be okay. That man made me lock him up in the back. Kept me out here behind the counter, told me he’d kill me if I made a sound. Said he needed me to operate—”

Riley was barely listening. “Jack!” he said, flopping down beside him. “Jack!”

He spun to face the clerk. “What happened!” His head snapped side to side, searching. “Where’s Chloe! The girl! Where’s the girl!”

“They left—the guy made her leave with him. Through the back. Said he’d kill him,” he nodded towards Jack, “if she didn’t.”

Riley felt for a pulse. It was weak. Slipping off his belt, he wrapped it around Jack’s thigh and tightened it as much as he could to staunch the flow of blood. In the distance, sirens sounded.

“Stay with him,” he ordered the clerk. “Press here.” He indicated the belt.

“I can’t with this on,” he said, holding up his hands, bound together with a cable tie. “Can you—” Before he could finish, Riley had whipped out a blade and sliced deftly throughout the tie.

“Do it,” Riley barked, and ran for the back door.

FORTY-THREE

Jack.
Chloe whispered his name into the darkness of the trunk the shooter had forced her into.
Please, God, not Jack. Please save him.

The shooter was ready for us. Somehow, he had known.
And he had planned his escape well. After he had ushered her out of Bio-Tite through the employee’s entrance at the rear, he’d made her climb into the trunk of a car parked in the alleyway behind one of the strip-malls. Riley had checked there this morning for anything suspicious before heading to the fast food parking lot. She even remembered seeing this car as they had navigated through the alley. But, like the other vehicles parked back there, it had been empty and not the least bit suspicious. So there hadn’t been a lot of concern.

And what could they have done anyway? There was only so much they could do with just the three of them. They’d known it was a risky move, going in there at all, but they hadn’t had any choice. And now—now it was over. Riley would never catch up in time, if he even found her at all.

Her mind raced through the possibilities of what the driver was planning. It seemed like they’d been traveling for at least half an hour already.
Where were they going?
Most likely, they were headed right back to DiMeico’s. More panic erupted in her belly.
What would DiMeico do with her?
That one seemed obvious, because, unlike before, now she had no bargaining chip. She knew where the money was, and they knew she knew it. Which meant DiMeico would soon know, and then he wouldn’t need her anymore.

He drove for another ten minutes then slowed. She wondered if she should yell for help, but reconsidered. She didn’t want some bystander getting hurt because of her. Not ever again. Eventually the car came to a stop. The trunk latch clicked and light spilled inside. He was standing over her, a cell phone to his ear. His mask was gone. She immediately recognized him as the man from DiMeico’s called “Vargas,” who had played and replayed Tate’s video for her.

“It’s Vargas,” he was saying into the phone, clearly annoyed. “Where were you? . . . Well I had to handle it myself . . . Yeah. No, it’s done. Hold on.” He turned his attention to her.

“Whatever was in the box, hand it over.”

Chloe hesitated. He groaned darkly. “Now, or I’ll just shoot you and search for it myself.”

Chloe pulled the business card from her pocket and gave her last hope away. She choked back a sob.
Jack. Jack, I’m so sorry.

The man looked it over, and flipped it to the reverse. A thin smile stretched through his lips.

“Korrigan? I’ve got it. All of it . . . No, Grand Cayman, Fourth Bank of. You ready?” he asked, and then rattled off the account number. He paused, apparently listening. “No that’s it. You should be able to—” he paused again. “Why your place? I can just head to the office and we can talk there—” Cut short, he waited, listening, and Chloe had the horrible thought that maybe he was receiving instructions on exactly how to dispose of her.

“Fine. Your place in,” he glanced at his watch, “twenty minutes.” He shoved the phone in his pocket and stared at Chloe, eyeing her with obvious indecision. Stepping back from the car, he paced for about a minute, clearly mulling something over. Then he turned towards her again.

“Well, you may have lucked out. I think I might need you, so that means you get a reprieve. For now.”

“What are you—”

“Shut up and listen. Chances are I’m wrong and nothing’s screwy and I’ll be back here to get you in under an hour. Which would be too bad for you. But, if I’m right, and Korrigan’s gone off on his own with this thing to take the cash for himself—I might not make it back here if things go
really
wrong. If that happens, someone else will be back to collect you. When they do, remember that name—‘Korrigan.’ If I don’t get back, he’s the reason why. I’m not sure it’ll buy you much favor with DiMeico, but who knows?”

She laid there, at a loss for how she was supposed to respond to that.

“Got it?” Vargas barked, and she jumped a little where she lay.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’ve got it.”

He sighed, taking in a deep breath. “Good.” He slammed the trunk, ushering in the darkness again. Through the lid, she heard him.

“And you better hope he kills me. Because somebody’s got to die today. And if it isn’t me, it’s most definitely going to be you.”

FORTY-FOUR

Chloe had tried screaming, pounding, and even kicking out the taillights—all to no effect. With all that and still no response from anyone outside, it was obvious Vargas must’ve taken her somewhere remote. When he had opened the trunk, she could see she was parked under something, and that there was some tall vegetation, maybe a tree or two, nearby. But other than that she had no idea where they had ended up after all that driving.

Was Jack dead? Alive? Where was Riley? Was he staying with Jack, trying to keep him alive?
That would be okay, even if he never made it to her in time. Better than okay. Jack had to make it. But there had been so much blood. So much.

Vargas would be back soon. And then it would be over.
She
would be over. Her newfound faith might be giving her a little more courage, but she certainly wasn’t ready to go yet. Not when she and Jack were so close to being done. Not when she was so close to maybe, finally, having something real.

She screamed again and pounded harder, the skin on her fist aching with each blow, her bones already bruised and skin raw.
Please God, let someone—

“Chloe! Chloe!”

Riley’s glorious voice was muffled but strong.

“Riley! Riley! In here! In the trunk!” She resumed pounding and Riley answered, slapping his hand down hard on the lid’s outside. “I’m here, I’m here! Hold on!”

She heard the sound of glass breaking and the latch popped as he released it from the car’s interior. She pushed herself out, blinking as she took in the light, Riley burying her in an enormous hug.

FORTY-FIVE

Korrigan walked out of the elevator and purposefully strode down the hall. It was late. Other than the two idiots flanking him on either side, everyone was gone. He passed the unoccupied secretary’s desk outside DiMeico’s office and without slowing threw open the right double door.

The neon lights of Miami brazenly dotted the view through the large windows that were the walls of DiMeico’s corner office. The man sat in a large camel-colored leather chair behind the extravagant black mahogany desk that was the centerpiece of the room. He sucked heavily on a cigar, smoke curling in no particular pattern above his head, contributing to the dusky haze surrounding him. The room was low lit, with only a porcelain lamp on a credenza behind DiMeico turned on. Shadows draped everything.

“Explain,” Korrigan growled, planting himself in an aggressive stance in front of the desk.

“Funny. I was going to say the same to you.”

Korrigan breathed menacingly. “It’s after eleven. They’ve been holding me for hours in the basement. Why?” It was more a challenge than an actual question.

DiMeico puffed heavily on the cigar. “Sit down,” he said gruffly, nodding at the oversized black-and-grey striped armchairs arranged in front of his desk. Korrigan seemed to consider refusing, but after a few moments, sat down, still tense, anger seeping from every pore.

“Well?” DiMeico asked between puffs.

“Well, what?”

“What have you been doing, Korrigan?”

“What—what have I been doing! I was doing my job. Then I get back from checking out a lead up north and these two,” he barked, jabbing a thumb behind him, “usher me downstairs without so much as an explanation.”

“Why were you up north, Korrigan?”

“I told you. I was following a lead. Vargas put me on to it.”

“That is not what Vargas says,” answered DiMeico, his face deadpan.

“What are you talking about? Where is he? He was supposed to meet me and never showed.”

Slowly and intentionally, DiMeico slid a piece of paper across his desk towards Korrigan. “This arrived in my private email around six this evening.”

Korrigan snatched up the paper and read.

To: R. DiMeico

From: A. Vargas

Re: Korrigan

Mr. DiMeico, if you are receiving this, chances are I’m dead. I’m guessing that Korrigan has silenced me in an effort to make off with your money—the $18 mil McConnaughey stole. I set this email on a delayed send, just in case I’m wrong about this. If Korrigan isn’t trying to steal from you, it wouldn’t be good for my health to say anything. But if he is, and I’m not back to delete it before 6, it’ll go out and you’ll finally know what’s been going on.

Something hasn’t been right with this whole operation. Korrigan’s a professional—he doesn’t make mistakes. But this whole thing, from McConnaughey’s death to us losing his sister, has been one disaster after another. It just isn’t the way Korrigan runs things. Unless he’s running it that way on purpose.

Right after they stormed your house last night, I went back and reviewed the recordings we made of Chloe McConnaughey watching Tate’s video. After several run-throughs, I saw it. She kept reaching for her neck—where a pendant we took from her would have been hanging—while Tate was going on about how to find the money. I pulled the pendant out and took a second look. Sure enough, on the back there are two numbers. One turned out to be the phone number for a private biometric deposit box company downtown. I figured the other was a passcode.

I called Korrigan, told him about it, and suggested we get someone down there right away to watch the place and be ready to move in case McConnaughey showed up the next day. He told me to keep it quiet. That he suspected a mole in our security team and that until we knew more, we should handle it ourselves. He said to be prepared to move on McConnaughey if she showed and that he’d provide support himself. Between the two of us, we figured we could handle it. What he said made sense, and the thing about the mole explained why everything had been going so badly.

I followed his instructions. And McConnaughey did show as soon as the place opened. I’d been keeping watch since before 5 from the roof of an office building across the street. But Korrigan never showed, and when I called, he just said he’d gotten tied up and would get there as soon as he could. He told me to handle it. So I did. After they’d retrieved the contents of the box, I shot Collings, but had to leave him behind. I took the girl.

I drove to a remote spot to put some distance between me and the deposit box location, and to get someplace where I could deal with her more privately. I figured I’d get whatever they’d found in the box, pass the information to Korrigan as soon as possible, then bring her in to you. She gave me a card with an account number, which I called in to Korrigan. He told me to dispose of the girl and meet him at his apartment to discuss what to do next to try to flush out the mole.

That makes no sense to me. I understand keeping it quiet until we actually had the money in hand—but after? And why kill her now? Didn’t you want to see her first? The only reason to not tell you we’d finally gotten the money back is if Korrigan has no intention of giving it back.

So right now I’m sitting outside his apartment, finishing this email. I’m not stupid enough to move on this without some proof, so I’m going to try to get some. I don’t know what he’s planning—maybe to offer to cut me in, maybe to pin it on me, maybe to kill me. Anyway, if I’m wrong, you’ll never see this. But if I’m right and something does happen to me, I want you to nail him. I’ve been loyal to you DiMeico—even now Chloe McConnaughey’s sitting in the trunk of a car parked in the location contained in the attached map link, just waiting for you. And Korrigan has your cash. Make him pay.

At the bottom was a map link showing Chloe’s location and photos of the front and back of the contact card for the bank in Grand Cayman.

Korrigan broke the smoky silence hovering in the room. “This is not right,” he fumed indignantly, his iron stare rising to meet DiMeico’s gaze. “This did not happen. This,” he said waving the paper, “is an absolute lie. Vargas never came to my apartment. I never said any of these things. Vargas called
me
a little before eleven.
He told
me
that he’d found a lead in Port St. Lucie; somebody Tate had dealings with, but that
he
suspected a mole and that he would meet me there personally. Said he couldn’t trust anyone else. Get him in here!” Korrigan barked, gesturing around the office. “Ask him!”

“We don’t know where he is,” DiMeico said. “But I think you do.”

“What, you think I did something to him? That he’s, what, dead? I’m telling you he’s lying!”

“There is more,” DiMeico said darkly. “While you were downstairs, we checked on your apartment.”

“And?” Korrigan hissed, his eyebrows raised as if daring DiMeico to make further accusations.

DiMeico tapped a laptop set on the right side of his desk. “Tucked away in a spare closet. It took us a bit of time to hack it, but we managed in the end. There are some interesting emails. A confirmation from an overseas bank of a twenty million dollar deposit. Then a subsequent electronic withdrawal, deposited again who-knows-where. And then there is the confirmation of multiple one-way plane tickets purchased today: Miami to Berlin set three days from now; Miami to London in one week. Looks like you were covering all your bases, no?”

“I’ve never seen that laptop in my life,” Korrigan said, an uncharacteristic anxious tone underscoring his words. “You think I’d be so stupid as to leave that thing
in my closet
if it were mine?”

“I think that men in a hurry often do things they would otherwise not do.”

“I wasn’t in a hurry. I wasn’t doing anything but following Vargas’s lead. He’s the one that’s behind all this. I just . . .” Korrigan trailed off, as if realizing something, then announced with a hard certainty to his voice, “He’s framing me.”

When DiMeico just continued staring at him, Korrigan repeated, “Vargas is framing me. Don’t you get it!”

“Funny, he said you might try to blame him.”

“I’m blaming him because it
is
him!” Korrigan said, shooting out of the chair. “Listen to me—”

“No!” DiMeico said ferociously. “You listen.” His pupils were perfect black beads, trained intently on Korrigan. “It has always bothered me how Tate was able to pull this off alone. It bothered me how everything went wrong on St. Gideon. None of the explanations and excuses ever truly satisfied me. Before now, I shrugged off these nagging doubts, believing I was overthinking everything after Tate’s betrayal. But in light of this new information, I believe I was right to wonder.”

“Find Vargas.
Ask
Vargas.”

“Vargas is dead.” He made the flat pronouncement as if declaring an end to the matter. “In addition to the laptop, we discovered where you
attempted
to quickly clean up an enormous amount of blood from the carpet. Even moved a chair to hide what you could not clean. So much blood, Korrigan. More than someone would be able to survive losing. What did you do? Slit his throat when he was not looking?”

Korrigan did not answer.

“As I am told, the trip to Port St. Lucie would be a nice, two-hour drive up the coast. It would provide multiple locations to dump a body where it would not be found. Swamps, backwoods, rivers . . . endless possibilities. Convenient, no? Maybe you did take a drive up there, but it was not to meet Vargas, was it?”

There was shuffling behind Korrigan, as the two men moved to stand behind his armchair.

“We have checked everything, Korrigan. Your cell. Your car’s GPS. Everything supports Vargas’s email. I am so very disappointed in you. So very disappointed.”

* * * * *

Korrigan’s head was roaring. Everything was disintegrating. He barely heard DiMeico as his boss demanded that he return the cash immediately.
Where was it?
DiMeico was saying.
Which bank? What time zone? Was it open already? If not, they’d stay there until it was and then Korrigan would transfer the money back to Inverse, or else.

Or else.
But Korrigan knew this was not a matter of choosing between walking out or being killed. DiMeico was talking about the difference between being killed quickly, or being made to wish you had been.

“Are you listening to me, Korrigan?” DiMeico fussed. “Say something.” When Korrigan remained mute, DiMeico rolled his eyes in frustration and said to the men behind Korrigan, “Take him back downstairs. Work him over. Bring him back when he’s ready to talk.”

This was it, Korrigan knew. It was either now or, truly, never. They’d taken his weapons when they’d grabbed him in the parking deck earlier, so he’d have to improvise. His chances weren’t good. But they were a lot better than they would be once they got downstairs.

When Korrigan didn’t move, the beefier man on his right came around the chair and grabbed his arm. With his other hand holding a gun to Korrigan, he directed Korrigan back around the chair towards the door. At first Korrigan made like he was going to comply, but once around the chair he pulled hard against the man’s hold. When the man redoubled his pull on Korrigan, Korrigan reversed his momentum and used the man’s force against him, driving a stunning head butt into the man’s chin.

In a matter of seconds, everything came apart. Dazed, Korrigan’s captor stumbled just long enough for Korrigan to snatch his weapon from him, shove him backwards, and fire randomly at him as a bullet, fired by the second man, tore through Korrigan’s shoulder. Korrigan spun, firing on the second man, dropping him to the ground with a bullet through his center mass.

And then a hot white flash burned though Korrigan’s core, and he dropped to his knees. A small red dot appeared on the belly of his crisp white shirt. His breath grew labored as he sank back against DiMeico’s desk.

DiMeico grunted in disgust as he moved to the side of the desk, keeping it between him and Korrigan as a shield. He tilted his head, taking Korrigan in. Korrigan’s head drooped limply as he grabbed at his abdominal wound with his left hand. His trembling right hand still held the gun, and he attempted to raise it. But the shot to the shoulder had apparently done too much damage. Only inches above the floor, his hand spasmed and dropped uselessly to the ground, the gun resting impotently in his open palm.

Sensing Korrigan’s incapacitation, DiMeico slowly stepped out from behind the desk, his gun aimed at Korrigan’s chest. “It will not end like this. You do not get to dictate this to me. I will get that money back if you have to stay in the basement for the next month. I’ll keep you alive until you tell me what I need to know. But just barely.”