ACCORDING TO PLAN (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Tank rumbled down the quiet street and brought his motorcycle to a
stop near 105 LaRue. He kicked out the stand and locked his bike. Not that it
would do much good in this neighborhood. Shrugging the collar of his leather
jacket up, he started walking toward a run-down section of tenement houses and
buildings.

Late afternoon sunlight struggled to reach the asphalt, cutting a
narrow ribbon through abandoned cars, strewn garbage and dilapidated, forgotten
billboards. Faded curtains twitched in a murky window; the only sign of life.
After a few minutes the acrid stench of garbage no longer burned the back of
his throat, but his eyes still watered.

He thought back on Shelby’s attempted abduction and subsequent
series of events that led to him revealing what he did for a living. A dead
weight settled in his stomach when he thought about what could have happened if
he hadn’t followed her this morning. If he’d have been even ten minutes later
he probably never would have seen her again. He couldn’t imagine life without
her. Even when she was mad, he loved being around her.

Sometimes he preferred her spittin’ mad. Kinda kept things
interesting.

He remembered the dazed look on Tony’s face when Shelby stood over
him like an avenging angel, holding a gun that was too big for her hand and a
wry smile tugged at his mouth. She handled it like a pro. That was his girl.

He
should
be back at their place cozying up with her, trying
to steal a few more kisses. Instead he was in this flea infested area meeting
Rodie, one of the best undercover operatives the agency had.

Rodie left an urgent message in an encrypted e-mail to meet him
behind 105 LaRue at eighteen hundred hours. Tank was uneasy. Everything about
this stank, much like the neighborhood. In the seven years he’d worked with him,
Rodie contacted him twice outside their arranged meetings. And both times had
been nothing but bad news.

Tank itched in his don’t-wanna-itch-place, again.

The alleyway behind the row of neglected warehouses had two exits.
He entered the one furthest away from 105 LaRue in order to get a lay of the
land. He’d learned in Afghanistan to be cautious. A quick look at the roofline
assured him no one was set up to sniper, although anyone could be hiding behind
the dumpsters and recycling bins that littered the alley.

A scraping sound ahead made him pause. He eased around the corner,
checking for the source and stopped cold at the sight of a woman, her back to
him. Her curly black hair was pulled away from her face and poked through a
bright red baseball cap. She was watching the other exit. He continued to slide
closer when movement in his peripheral vision had him reach for her shoulder,
instinctively moving her out of danger.

He found himself looking at the barrel of a gun, pointed straight
at his heart. Ice blue eyes assessed him from under the cap. Hands held away
from his body, Tank backed up a step.

“You’re late.” She lowered the gun, tucking it back into a discreet
holder clipped to her belt. He lowered his hands, but remained wary, not
knowing if she was friend or foe. Probably friend, as she hadn’t shot him. That
was always a good sign.

He checked the alley to see what spooked him and decided it must been
a rat. Today’s activities had him a little on edge. The woman crossed her arms
and leaned back on one hip, looking him over from top to bottom and then all
the way back.

“So, you’re the famous Agent Jake Steele. Or should I call you
Tank?”

Years of training kept his stance natural. How did she know who he
was?

“Who—”

“Rodie told me.”

What was Rodie up to now?

“How’d you know Rodie?” Tank’s brain kicked into overdrive. Why
wasn’t Rodie here? Was this a set up?

“Met him through Charlie and Slash.”

That would have to be One Eyed Charlie and J.D. ‘Slash ‘em, Stash ‘em’
Rogers. She was rattling off his contacts like she his smart phone in front of
her.

“Look... Whoever you are....”

“Liz.”

“Alright,
Liz.
I don’t know who you are, or how you know my,
uh... friends, but I’m supposed to be meeting one of them here and they won’t
show if I’ve got company.
Comprende
?”

Tank heard her chuckle. She actually chuckled.

“Rodie told me you’d be tough. Why do you think I’m here? For my
health?” Liz fished out a wallet and showed him her badge and identification
card. She hailed from Washington. The uneasy feeling in his gut intensified.

“Head office sent me. Rodie’s gone so deep he’ll need a diver’s
suit. But, he managed to get two messages out. One to you, to meet here and one
to me, to give you a head’s up.” She flipped the wallet shut and stuck it into
her back pocket.

His eyes narrowed at the last phrase. Heads up, for what? “I’m not
a happy camper, Liz. You need to talk to me or I’m turning around, getting on
my bike and going home to my wife.” He swung on his heel and headed back down
the alley. Her hand on his forearm stopped him.

“Don’t you mean
ex
-wife?”

“We’re working things out.” He tried to shrug out of her grip but
she tightened her grip.

“There’s been a hit put out on you.”

He froze and looked back over his shoulder. “What do you mean a
hit
?”

She let go of his arm. “Exactly what I said. A hit. Your cover’s
been blown on the Grant case and Rodie said a contract’s been drawn up.”

“The timing’s all wrong. Rodie sent me the message last night,
before my cover was blown. How could they know to put out a hit?”

“We think today’s fun and games were to draw you into the open.
Confirm what Big Boss knew, or thought he did. You gotta hit the ground running
and get out of here. We’ve got a ‘copter waiting. Is there anything you need
back at the house?”

Tank started to say
No
, then realization hit him like a
power-packed punch to the gut. He ran for his motorcycle.

Footsteps pounded as Liz raced behind him, “Steele! Where are you
going?”

He hopped on his bike and unlocked it; cold sweat poured down his
back. His lips curled into a feral snarl, “Shelby’s back at the house,
unprotected.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He throttled the bike and roared off
at top speed, toward their house. An agonizing ten minutes passed before he
skidded around the final corner and screeched to a halt. Immediately he was
aware of fire-trucks, police cars and finally, a medical examiner’s car.

Black.

Solitary.

Death itself parked at the end of the driveway.

Fire fighters had the flames under control and police were busy
keeping spectators from crossing the temporary yellow-taped lines encircling the
yard. He was vaguely aware of a car purring to a stop behind him. Then he felt
a hand on his arm.

Her soft voice filtered through the cold numbness. “Steele. You
gotta get out of here. We’ll find out what’s going on. Come on.”

Anger, fast and swift, coursed through him. He shrugged off her
hand. “Look, Liz. I don’t give a rat’s ass if everybody knows who I am. Get out
of my way.”

He headed in the direction of the chaos. A police officer stopped
him when he approached the yellow-taped barrier. “I’m sorry, sir, this is off
limits to the public. You’ll have to step away.”

Tank reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He
flashed his badge in the officer’s face. “Agent Steele, N.S.U.”

The young officer allowed him to pass, but the look on his face let
Tank know that whatever he’d find, it wasn’t going to be good. As he walked
across the lawn Tank formulated a plan to get as much information as he could
before the authorities realized who he was and cornered him in some room for
questioning.

Tank ran an experienced eye over the house. The first floor looked
like it had heavy damage, the second floor untouched. Damage was concentrated
around the front door and porch. All the windows at the front of the house had
been blown inside.

Crossing the lawn, he approached what looked like one of the investigators.
A short, balding man watched him. Tank flashed his badge again. Never missing a
beat the man drawled, “Didn’t take long for the big boys to come and play in our
sandbox.”

He crushed out a cigarette with the toe of his shoe. “I’m
Lieutenant DeMarco and that’s—” nodding over to a tall, skinny, red haired man,
“—my partner, Detective Rawlins.”

Tamping down his fear, Tank asked, “So, what’ve you got?” He wouldn’t
look at the medical examiner’s car.

“What we
got
is a blown up house. Whoever set the charges
wanted to make sure there was a lot of noise and smoke.” He extracted his duty
book and scanned the few notes he’d already started.

“Any casualties?” Nausea racked Tank’s body.

DeMarco nodded his head at the coroner’s vehicle, which was slowly
pulling away and read from his notes. “Yeah. Female, mid-twenties. A passer-by
found her on the driveway. Never knew what hit her...”

Tank didn’t hear any more. He sprinted toward the Medical Examiner’s
car and banged on the driver’s window. Startled, the Coroner slammed on the
brakes. The whir of the window sliding down was followed by a tired sigh from
the man seated behind the wheel.

“Yes?” The Coroner glanced in his rear-view mirror. Tank figured he
was checking to make sure the gurney holding Shelby’s body hadn’t tipped over
when he hit the brakes.

“I’m her husband. Could I…? Could I see her before you take her
away?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, son.” The kind face of the
Coroner caused Tank’s control to slip a little further. The doctor put the car
in gear.

Tank gripped the man’s shoulder. The doctor braked again and looked
up at Tank.

“Wait. You don’t understand. I
need
to see her.” Tank
released his hold when the coroner shifted and winced. “Please.”

Eternity passed before the doctor slid the car into park. Tank
stepped aside as he opened the car door and shuffled around to the back of the
vehicle. The Coroner grabbed the door and swung it wide, reached in and pulled
out the gurney Shelby’s body was strapped to. He untied a few ropes and gently
peeled back the blanket covering her face.

Tank’s heart stopped beating for a few seconds and then thudded
back to life. She was so still, he could almost believe she was only sleeping.
Her hair curled about her shoulders and her lashes looked like dark smudges
against ashen cheeks. He reached out a trembling hand and brushed the errant
curl that was forever getting in her eyes and tucked it behind her ear.

Oh God! She was still warm!

He’d been this close to saving her. Anguish ripped through him and
he almost doubled over, his breath catching in his throat.

“Are you okay, son?” The Coroner replaced the blanket and pushed
the gurney back into the car.

Unable to speak, Tank nodded his reply and watched as the man
climbed back into the car and drove off into the dark night.

He turned and walked away, back toward his bike and Liz, waiting in
the shadows. As he passed where she stood, concealed in the dark, he bit out, “I
want who did this dead. Pull Rodie out if you have to, I want them dead.”

Chapter Fourteen

Crisp air, daffodils and tulips struggled to push through the
ground. Tank sat at Shelby’s gravesite with Polly clutching his hand, sobbing
quietly. As she dabbed a tissue to her red rimmed eyes, he looked around at the
few friends of Shelby’s who’d gathered.

He caught a glimpse of Regis, lurking behind a tall cedar.

Polly followed his line of sight and sniffled. “Who’s he gonna
haunt now that Shelby’s gone?” They both watched Regis slink back to his beaten
up truck, and drive off with a loud back-firing bang.

The casket began its slow descent and his stomach clenched. Tank
stood, refusing to watch his only love leave the sunlight forever. He wished he
could stay and offer comfort to Polly, but he couldn’t. This wound was too raw,
too deep to focus on any reminders of Shelby.

Polly glanced up, understanding on her face. She reached out and
touched his arm, but he turned away. The two women had been inseparable for so
long, he couldn’t look at her without seeing Shelby.

The solitary walk back to his motorcycle was interminable. He swung
his leg over the seat and for a moment, his attention was caught by the sight
of a plump robin, head cocked to one side, waiting for the worm to make one
wrong move in the ground. Shelby loved the red breasted bird. She’d often said
her first child would be called Robin, boy or girl.

He ruthlessly cut the thought off. There would be no children, no
tomorrows for him and Shelby. There was nothing.

He roared off to a motel and changed. Bundling the suit he’d bought
for the funeral into a large ball, he stuffed it into a bag, and dropped it off
at a clothing collection depot. He needed no reminders of today. He drove for
hours before exhaustion forced him to find a motel by the side of the road.
Before registering, he stopped at an all-night liquor store.

He’d just unlocked his motel room when a familiar ring tone
emanated from his jacket pocket. Irritated for not turning his phone off, he
hesitated, unconsciously squaring his shoulders before answering.

“Mother.”

“Montgomery, you know how much I dislike your monosyllabic
greetings.”

“Yes, and you know I don’t answer to Montgomery. My name is Jake.”

“There’s no need to be so confrontational. I’ve been trying to get
a hold of you for days. I’d heard that girl you lived with has died. Are you
okay?”

“She was my wife, mother. My wife, not some ‘girl’ I lived with.”
Tank forced his response through stiff lips.

His parents never met Shelby. Whether by accident or design, Tank
never knew. No one in their eyes was good enough for Montgomery Jackson III, a
persona and lifestyle he’d shed a lifetime ago.

“Mont— Jake, please.” Her voice pleaded over the phone. “Come home,
son. We need you. Your father needs you.”

It took all his energy to keep his voice civil and not yell at his
mother, who never even tried to get to know the woman he loved. To find out
what her favorite color was, or what made Shelby laugh so hard she’d fall back
into her chair and almost tip it over.

“You mean the business needs me.”

“Yes it does, but that’s not why I called. We...” She sighed
deeply. “I miss you. Please come home.”

“I can’t and I won’t.”

He turned off his phone and entered the motel room with a bottle of
Jack Daniels in his hand. The heir to Jackson Steele, worth a few billion
dollars, intended to get stinking drunk.

****

Tank leaned back onto the bar with his elbows and surveyed the
room. Smoke hung in the air, creating a hazy fog and he could barely see to the
other side over crowds of people. Music twanged out of a jukebox and a young couple
swayed on the tiny space carved out between close set tables, oblivious to
everyone around them.

Don’t they all look just freaking happy? Here’s to your
continued happiness.

He went to toast the dancing couples with his drink and realized the
glass was empty. Turning slightly to his right, he placed the empty on the bar
and called out to the bartender.

“Yo, buddy. One more.”

The bartender, drawing a mug of ale glanced at him. “I don’t think
so. You’ve had enough.”

Tank straightened and turned fully around. “I
said
I wanted
another.”

“Look,
buddy
. Y’all had enough.”

Over Tank’s shoulder the bartender signaled the bouncers. Grinning,
Tank rolled his shoulders. Finally he could get rid of a little frustration and
have some fun.

Alright. Let’s see if these boys are ready to rumble.

He turned and looked directly into the chest of what had to be the
largest man Tank had ever seen in his life. Which was pretty large. Tank knew
he stood six foot, five inches in bare feet. His line of sight rose to a big
smile, minus one or two teeth.

Hesitation had him stall for a second, then he thought, “
Got
nuthin’ to lose
,” and drew back his fist. Time slowed down and in that
small bit of eternity he saw his clenched hand connect with the giant’s palm
and then a sledge hammer disguised as a beefy fist hit him square between the
eyes. His next solid memory was being tossed through the door, onto the parking
lot gravel.

“Don’t come back, if you know what’s good fer ya.”

Face and hands scraped, Tank lay there gasping, trying to catch his
breath. The bouncer must have hit him in the solar plexus as well. He stopped
trying to push up and flopped back down.

He was so tired, so very, very tired. A woman’s soft voice cut
through his drunken haze. It sounded as though she was right in his face. “Geez,
Steele, your breath would peel wallpaper.”

Small hands wedged beneath his chest and tried to roll him over.

“Man, you weigh a ton,” she grunted, still trying to move him.

She was starting to tick him off. He pried one bloodshot eye open
and growled, “Go ‘way. Lemme sleep.”

“Oh no, sunshine. We need to get you into a motel and sober you up.
I’m tired of watching you drink yourself into the grave you so obviously
desire.”

Tank pushed himself onto his side and caught the woman around the
waist, pulling her so that she fell on top of him. He cupped her bottom and
held her, rocking his hips, pushing into her natural cradle. It felt so good to
be holding Shelby again.

“Desire? You wanna feel my obvious desire?” He bumped up his hips
and the woman gasped.

She struggled to free herself, all the while cursing. “Let me go,
you drunk Neanderthal. What is it with guys? You only think with one thing.”

She managed to free herself from his arms, but as she pushed off,
he grabbed her hand and held tight. He couldn’t lose her again. He brought her
hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Shelby?”

He couldn’t keep his eyes open. All he wanted to do was go to sleep
and never wakeup. She tugged her hand from him and whispered. “You sure loved
her, didn’t you.”

With startling clarity Tank realized it wasn’t Shelby in the parking
lot with him, but Liz. As he sank back into drunken oblivion he heard her say. “He’s
in pretty rough shape. Get Rodie over here.”

****

Bright lights hurt his eyes and Tank brought his hand up to shade
them. Squinting, he noticed the curtains in the room drawn wide, the window
cracked open. He groped around for a bottle, which should have been beside the
bed on the floor. There was nothing there.

Propping himself onto his elbow, he leaned over to look for one.
The room swam into focus and he saw it was tidy and smelled clean. His clothes
lay draped over a chair and he was under the blankets in his underwear. He didn’t
remember putting on underwear.

Shoot, he didn’t remember taking off his clothes. Balancing on his
hands, he got his bearings before nature’s call forced him to get up and
shuffle into the bathroom.

He stood facing the toilet and, left arm braced against the wall,
aimed for the bowl.

“Well, well. You’re finally awake,” a voice drawled from the door.

Tank looked under his supporting arm, acknowledging a thin, dark
haired man leaning against the doorjamb, a slick smirk on his face. He flushed
the toilet, washed his hands, dried them on a pristine white towel and then drove
his fist into the man’s face, dropping him to the floor. Stepping over the
prone body, Tank stalked over to his clothes and started dragging them on.

He cast a glance back at the man, who’d raised himself to his feet
and now rubbed his reddened jaw. Tank waited to feel any remorse. Nope,
nothing.

“What do you want, Rodie?” His anger simmered. Why hadn’t Rodie
gotten Shelby out of the house before anything happened?

Rodie sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a wary eye on Tank. “Is
this how you say hello to old friends?”

Tank launched himself from the chair and grabbed Rodie by the shirt
collar, dragging him up so that Rodie’s face was inches from his own. “
Are
you my friend?” Tank sneered. “What happened? Start talkin’ or I’ll drop you
again. And this time I won’t be nice about it.”

Rodie squirmed and pushed. “Hey man, don’t get testy with me. I
tried to get your sorry backside out before things went down.”

Tank released his grip, letting Rodie fall back onto the bed. “Yeah,
remind me to thank you, when I care.”

Going over to his jacket, hanging by the door, Tank reached into a
pocket. He brought out a gun, checked the magazine and satisfied it was loaded,
tucked it into the back waistband of his jeans. Shrugging into his jacket, he
faced Rodie.

“Look, I get that you lost your old lady.” Rodie ran his fingers
through his hair, causing the ends to stand straight up. “I know how much she
meant to you, more than anybody. But you gotta move on, man. Harrison’s been
giving us more details than a horny cheerleader’s diary ever since Vinnie was
iced—”

“Vinnie Malone?”

“Yup. One and the same. After the botched kidnap attempt he was
found in the back of a movie theatre, throat slit wide open. Kind of ironic
when you think about it.”

Tank paused putting on his boots. “Why?”

“The movie playing was
The Godfather
.” Rodie chuckled
softly, rolling a coin between his fingers absentmindedly.

Tank had finished dressing, but stayed seated in the chair beside
the nicked wooden table. He registered the name of the motel on the stationery.
It looked like he was in Arkansas. He hated Arkansas.

Rodie continued, “It’s time to get back into the game, man.”

“Don’t you get it Rodie? I don’t care anymore.”

Rodie stood and paced with quick, nervous steps. “You should care.
Big Boss needs to be brought down. I’ve spent seven years undercover ferreting
this jerk out and you need retribution, man.”

“What I need is for you to get out of my sight.”

“Nah, that’s too easy, man. Look, Big Boss put the hit on you, not
the girl. This was personal, taking out your girl this way. It’s gotta be
someone who knows you.”

Tank inhaled sharply at the forced memory of Shelby’s house. The
fire blackened front door and window. How the glass and wood had blown into the
house, destroying the hall entrance.

He sat ramrod straight.

Blown
into
the house?
Think, Steele!

Rodie walked to the window and through a crack in the curtains,
looked outside. A habit most field agents couldn’t lose, no matter where they
were. A glimmer of an idea took shape as Tank watched Rodie pace.

“Rodie?”

Rodie stopped and looked over. His eyes shifted to the window, then
back to Tank. “What?”

Tank leaned back in the chair, stretched his legs out and crossed
them at the ankles. “What does it mean to you, the explosion blowing everything
into
the house?”

Rodie scratched his head as he pondered the question. “I guess it
means the charges were light, laid maybe at the base of the windows. I’ve seen
photos. Damage was not that bad once all the smoke cleared. It looked a lot
worse than it actually was.”

Tank ran a hand over his chin. He needed a shave. “I agree. It had
to be someone in the area who knew when we’d be there.”

He’d shoved the memories of that night down deep and hadn’t allowed
them any air to breath, but now he brought them out, recalling all the details
with heart sickening precision. There hadn’t been any suspicious vehicles or
any strangers on the street. Shelby’s corner of the world had been a nice quiet
area with neighbors who’d lived there for years. Everybody knew everybody.
Regis was the only person around Shelby’s house the night before the explosion.
Tank recalled Shelby’s aversion to him, and without realizing it, said his name
aloud.

“Did you say Regis?” Rodie perked up. “That’s interesting.”

Tank waved his hand dismissively. “I’m just thinking out loud. He’s
Shelby’s neighbor and he was there the night before the explosion, but he’s a
mama’s boy. He couldn’t find his way down a straight tunnel, even with GPS and
directions.”

“Hold on a minute. That name came up a few times when we were
talking to Harrison. We brushed it off because Harrison seems to think he’s
just a peripheral player. Maybe he was trying to impress the boss by taking you
out, but got the girl instead. He’d blend in, no one would notice him if he ‘scoped
out the place.”

Tank remembered seeing Regis come from around the side of Shelby’s
house when she’d returned from L.A., not from the sidewalk. He’d noticed him as
he parked his bike on the street. At the time he thought the weasel only wanted
to ask her out again, but now he sensed something deeper, more sinister.

Then he recalled the offhand comment Regis made,
I thought you
were in L.A.

He’d been so stupid. Or blind. How could he have missed the signs?
Tank’s voice was deadly cold when he said to Rodie. “Call Neil. I want a
surveillance team on Regis.”