Becoming Rain (6 page)

Jeez.
How many hidden doors does Rust have open? Are Tabbs and Zeke in on this? “Look, if I'm in, then you need to fill me in on a few more things. I can't look like the idiot that Vlad already thinks I am.”

Rust slouches back into his seat, like he's getting ready for a long drive and a long talk. “What is it that you feel you need to know?”

Where do I start?
“How does this all work? How do you get the orders? Who do you phone? What do they do with the cars?”

“Not happy without the whole picture.” Rust grins. “Your deda always said that about me, growing up.”

Question after question begins spinning into my head. I struggle to ground myself on one, to begin. “What was the other delivery you were talking about?”

“A few Lexuses. An Audi. Some Escalades.”

“Chopped?”

Rust's snort fills the interior. “A forty-thousand-dollar Lexus here will go for almost two hundred thousand dollars in Thailand. And Andrei can sell a sixty-thousand-dollar Mercedes in Moscow like
that
.” He snaps his fingers.

“Where are you getting them from?”

“Different places.”

“Like . . .”

“Insurance scams. People want out of their leases or they need a chunk of cash. But they're mostly coming from parking lots and driveways. I put in an order for what I need and down the chain it goes. Depends on the car, really. Something high-end requires some skill and specialty tools. Old-model Civics and whatnot . . . any eighteen-year-old kid will lift it from a driveway for five hundred cash.”

“And the people . . .”

“Bought theft insurance if they're smart,” he fires back quickly, seemingly unbothered by the same moral twinge pricking the very back of my conscience. “And if they're driving an eighty-thousand-dollar car and not locking it up in a garage, they're just asking for it.”

I guess . . .

“It's the insurance companies that end up paying in the end, and fuck them. I deal with them all the time at RTM. They're already robbing the general public.”

But insurance companies just pass on the increased costs to the consumers, so, no matter what, it's the people who pay. I'm sure he must see the hole in his logic. I don't say that out loud, though. There's something more important that I need to clear up. “They're not hurting people to get these cars, are they?” I can't believe that Rust would have anything to do with that, but . . . I pulled a car seat and stuffed bear out of the extended cab in that red Ford truck back at the storage warehouse. It's been bothering me ever since.

I've turned a blind eye to things in the past—like when I knew that Rust's business partner, Viktor Petrova, was abusing his wife—and, though I couldn't do much about it, I've never quite forgiven myself for not trying.

I vowed that wouldn't happen again.

“No, Luke. Gangbangers hijack, and my fences know never to deal with gangs. They're a bunch of crack dealers and meth heads. They all get picked up eventually and, when they do, they'll squeal to anyone who will listen. There's no need for any of that. There are plenty of ways to get a car without hurting anyone. We're car thieves, not murderers.” Rust's mouth sets in a deep frown. “So? You wanted in. Now you've seen it all. Have you changed your mind?”

It's the first time that he's bothered to ask. It's the first time we've stopped to talk in the hours since the others arrived. A man I didn't recognize arrived at the storage spot first, with two younger guys I'd also never seen before, none of whom bothered to introduce themselves. We had every last car torn apart in hours, me following their expert lead. Albert pulled up in a transport truck an hour later. Four goons built for lifting tires hopped out the back and began loading parts into empty crates, then used the forklift to fill the truck, chattering in Russian the entire time.

It was after three in the morning when the truck's taillights disappeared into darkness, leaving the storage shed empty except for a small pool of oil and a few loose screws. No one would ever suspect that only hours earlier it was loaded with stolen car parts.

I look down at myself, covered in dirt, my skin wiped but not clean. “Depends. Are you going to make me pull apart cars, or was that just another ‘experience'?”

He laughs. “Everyone should experience a good chop session once. But, no, for now you're going to be lining up the orders with my fences, the guys I have ties to closer to the street. Here . . .” One hand on the steering wheel and eyes still on the road, Rust reaches over and grabs four stacks of cash from the bag. Forty grand, by my calculations. He thrusts them against my chest.

“What's this for?”

“Your cut, which will be much bigger next time.” He grins. “Put it in your safe at home.”

I let the cash fan through my fingers.

So much cash. There's no way I earned this for what I did tonight.

“Oh, and I have a little surprise for you.” He reaches into his pockets and hands me a set of keys. Just like the night he handed me the keys to a new condo.

Only, these are car keys, with a logo that I've drooled over for years.

With waves of excitement and nervousness coursing through my body, I sit back and quietly listen as Uncle Rust walks me through the “how” to this entire operation that he, one day, wants me to run with him.

The giant bag of cash pressing down on my thighs is impossible to ignore.

Chapter 8

■ ■ ■

CLARA

“You couldn't get me a real dog, could you?”

Warner's deep laugh vibrates through my phone and into my ear. “What do you mean? He barks.”

“I wouldn't qualify it as a bark.” I eye the pudgy little thing, which is belly-up and rolling in the grass next to the park bench like his back is itchy, oblivious to my severe judgment. I'm not 100 percent sure that he doesn't have fleas. “Seriously, Warner, why wouldn't you let me pick one out myself?”

Warner's laughter only grows. “What would you have preferred?”

“I don't know. A Great Dane or a pit bull, or something more . . . me?”

“But you're not you,” he reminds me. “You're Rain Martines. A little princess who lives in her daddy's condo with her lap dog.”

“
That
is not a lap dog. His eyes aren't even in the right place.” I've spent days Googling pictures, and based on his smashed-up nose and curly tail and ears like satellites, my best guess is an obese pug–Boston terrier cross, with a little bit of swine mixed in for good measure. But I'm no expert.

“He was the smallest one they had and you need a dog, not a puppy. Come on! He's kind of cute, isn't he?”

I roll my eyes. “I'm changing his name. Who names their dog ‘Stanley' anyway?” That's what the tag hanging off his collar read, when Animal Control picked him up. “I'll bet he ran away from his owners because they gave him such a stupid name.”

“Whatever he did, I'm glad he was there. You needed a small dog for our case. He needed a home. It's a win-win.”

“Yeah, until the case is over. And then what happens?”

“You'll be so in love with Stanley by then, you'll take him back to D.C. with you.”

The dog's tongue hangs over his severe under-bite as he pants, staring me down with those bulging, round eyes that belong on a gremlin, waiting for me to toss the tennis ball again.
I doubt that
. I let out a reluctant sigh. Stanley is the least of my problems.

I walked out of Rust's Garage over two weeks ago now, full of confidence and feeling in control. But there's been no call from Luke Boone. He's been at his office and out to The Cellar, based on the surveillance team reports. He's even had that bartender over once. But he hasn't picked up the phone and dialed my number. I've played through a dozen scenarios as to why that might be and what the right next step is without creating suspicion or an air of desperation.

Accidental run-in sounded like the right next move, once enough time passed. What better way to do that than on the park trail he runs every day after work with his bulldog? Fellow dog lovers, unite.

So, Warner took a trip to an animal shelter and picked out Stanley.

“If this doesn't work . . .” I toss the ball across the way. Stanley tears after it like it's a steak, struggling for speed on those stubby legs that are too short for his body.

“Who knows what happened. Remember, we lost him for an entire night. Maybe he's distracted by something.”

I remember, all right. While the surveillance team can't be on him twenty-four hours a day, they haven't had a hard time tracking him down whenever they check in. So, when they couldn't find him, we were all on high alert. I held a silent vigil by my window, reporting in when he finally stumbled through the door just after seven a.m., his clothes rumpled and stained.

Very unlike him.

“Maybe.” Hopefully not too distracted to notice me out here in my second-skin yoga pants and a low-cut V-neck sweater. I huddle against the chill and glance down at my watch—he's late; he should have been out for his run two hours ago—and then back up at the path to see the sleek body in light gray pants and a navy-blue shirt jogging toward me, his bulldog somehow managing to keep up.

A nervous burn ignites in my stomach. It's the one I always get when I'm about to jump into character. This time it's worse, though, because it's coupled with the fear of another failure. “He's coming. Gotta go.” I hang up and drop my phone into my pocket.

And wait, continuing my game with Stanley. He fetches well, at least. I hold back, timing my next throw with Luke's proximity, and then toss the tennis ball along the path. As expected, Stanley goes after it like it's his last meal.

He's going to form an adequate obstacle for Luke, forcing him to turn toward me, see me . . . All's going as planned . . .

And then for some reason, Stanley morphs.

Positioning all four paws squarely, he lets out a howl that only a seal caught in a trap would be capable of making. It works, bringing Luke's feet, pounding against the asphalt, to a halt.

A little too obvious, but
 . . . good job, Stanley
, I silently praise him.
You'll get a bone for—

Stanley charges toward Luke's dog—easily three times the size of him—and lets out a frenzy of high-pitched barks before he lunges, his little mouth seizing the dog's front leg and attacking it like it's a rag doll.

Crap
. I leap off the bench and run forward, intent on getting there before Luke's dog decides to retaliate and maims the little mongrel. Luke's doing his part, shoving against Stanley with his leg, attempting to break up the attack. That's when Stanley releases his grip and latches onto Luke's calf.

Luke hollers in pain.

“Bad Stanley!” I yell, grabbing hold of his stocky body. He relents surprisingly easily, allowing me to scoop him up into my arms. Whatever Jekyll-and-Hyde moment he had instantly vanishes, his little sandpaper tongue darting out to scratch my cheek.

As covertly as possible, I scan our surroundings. Even though I didn't drop my safety word, the commotion that the wire picked up was obviously enough to get them running because Bill is casually leaning up against a lamppost some forty yards away, a smoke in hand.

No doubt his gun is hidden inside the folded magazine under his arm.

“Everything's fine, Stanley,” I say slowly and clearly, for the surveillance team's benefit. The last thing I need is them blowing the case by charging in here.

“Jesus! You need to keep that thing on a leash!” Luke snaps, checking his dog's leg.

This can't be good for our relationship. “I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened. He's never done that before.” Maybe
this
is why Stanley's owners abandoned him.

Luke looks up. And frowns. “Hey . . . Rain, isn't it?”

At least he remembers that much. I feign surprise to match his. “Yeah. And you're . . . Luke, right?”

He sighs, and it's like all the anger lifts from him in that one act. “Yeah.” I can't help my eyes from wandering to his damp shirt. It's clinging to every contour of his chest. Trying to attract a guy like this is an easier pill to swallow than, say, a forty-year-old pimp with plated teeth and extreme body odor. Even drenched in sweat, Luke Boone is easy on the eyes.

He smiles, and I find myself doing the same. Genuinely. “I'm sorry about my dog.”

“Yeah . . .” His hand pushes through his soaked hair, the ends curling at the nape of his neck. “So, you named your dog
Stanley
?”

“He's adopted.” Like that explains everything. There's a long pause, this one awkward. “We should probably get that bite looked at. Let me take you to the hospital. I'll pay the bill.” I wonder if the FBI budget covers being sued by the target.

His easygoing demeanor slides back in with a chuckle. “It's just a scratch. But it's good to see how loyal
Licks
is.” Uncapping his water bottle, he gestures at the panting bulldog sitting next to him, which is sounding ready to keel over from exertion. Taking a long chug of his water bottle, he mutters, “Here you go, traitor,” and begins pouring the rest into his dog's mouth. It happily laps it up. “So, you're just hanging out at the park on a Friday night?”

“Stanley loves it here.” My gaze drifts past the spot where Bill was standing only a moment ago—now empty—and over the line of cherry trees in full bloom, fallen pink and white petals forming a romantic carpet over the surrounding grass. “It's beautiful.”

“It is. I run here every day.”

I know.

A small, dark red spot is forming through Luke's light gray sweats. Blood. And an opening. I drop to one knee in front of him, Stanley still tucked under my arm, and curl a finger under the hem of his pant leg to lift it, my fingers sliding up his damp skin. Two puncture wounds and a small trail of blood mar an otherwise flawless, muscular leg. It's more than a scratch but he's right—it's not a big deal. The blood has already begun clotting.

“This looks terrible!” I peer up, catching him getting an eyeful down my sweater before his gaze darts to my face, a few degrees warmer. “Let me clean and bandage that leg up for you. At least. I insist,” I push, letting a playful smile emerge.

His lips twist into a matching smile. “Well . . . if you insist.”

Another wave of adrenaline hits me, and I'm not really sure if this one is driven by success for the case. “I live just over there.” I gesture at the high-rise behind us.

His blue eyes drift to my building, and then to the one right next door. His. A flash of something unreadable passes through his eyes. “Nice and close.” Eyeing Stanley, he mutters, “What about Cujo?”

“I'll lock him up.” Keeping my terminator within my grip—I've found a new respect for the bug-eyed fur-ball now that he's actually earning his way in this case—I turn down the path that leads to the condo buildings.

He gives the leash a light tug to force Licks into an amble. “So how long have you lived here?”

“I moved in three weeks ago.” More like six. “My dad owns the condo. He's letting me stay in it for a while.”

“Oh yeah? What does your dad do?”

“Buys and sells property.” I shrug. “Lots of it.” Rain Martines's daddy has made his riches in real estate and land development. In reality, my dad spends his retired time tending to his tomato plants and making prosciutto in the basement.

“I'm surprised I've never run into you at the park before.”

“I'm usually here earlier in the day.”

“Right. And what do you spend the rest of your day doing?”

I shrug. “I'm taking a photography class. Sometimes I shop, or go to the gym. I'm figuring out life, basically.” As opposed to what my real life in D.C. looks like, which is running out the door with my travel mug of coffee and passing out the second my head hits the pillow well after midnight. To be completely honest, this assignment has felt like one long vacation so far.

“Sounds like fun,” he muses. By his lax tone, I can't tell what he really thinks. Is this a deterrent? It shouldn't be. Guys like Luke are attracted to money and a life of leisure. That was part of the cover design. “I bought my condo last summer. I love it here. Great area.” He plays it off well, but I know that his uncle bought his condo for him. I wonder if he's embarrassed that Rust funds him for pretty much everything and that's why he's not admitting to it, or if he likes to fool girls into thinking he has money. Or maybe he just doesn't care enough to elaborate.

We turn up the path to my condo building, my eyes focused on keeping my steps in line with his unhurried ones, to appear as relaxed. And I begin playing out scenarios inside my head. Scenarios no normal woman trying to pick up a guy would think of.

I doubt he's armed, given he was out jogging and a gun would weigh him down. Plus, I've never seen any guns lying around on coffee tables in his home. Maybe he's got a knife. It would have to be a small one, though, and I can buy some time if he pulls it on me, until the cover team gets here.

I
should
be able to restrain him with some difficulty, if he tries to force himself on me, for the simple fact that he won't expect that I know how to fight back.

I don't read him as that type of guy, though.

I read him as the type of guy who's going to stroll into my condo, make small talk for ten minutes, ask for a tour, and then strip off his clothes in my bedroom, assuming the leg was just an excuse for my invitation all along.

This is where I have to do things that fit into the “gray area,” of my job, to keep my cover, and the case, going.

Like, if he tries to kiss me, I may have to kiss him back.

Sneaking a glance at that mouth right now—curled up at the ends in a perpetual, slight smirk, glossy from a fresh drink of water, and surrounded by the beginnings of a five-o'clock shadow to match the caramel-brown hair on his head—I'll admit it would be far from the worst thing I've ever had to do. Nervous flutters begin to tickle my stomach.

And then his phone rings.

All at once, his demeanor changes. His face turns grim, a glimmer of panic flying through it. Taking backward steps away from me, he reaches into his pocket. “Listen, I have to take this call.”

No . . .
“Go ahead. I can wait.”

“Maybe we can connect some other time?” His steps are hurried as he moves away, a low murmur of “hey” touching my ears. He doesn't look back. Not even once.

I fight to keep the frustration from showing on my face as he disappears down the path to his building.

Stanley lets out a tiny playful noise and then licks my cheek.

I give his head a scratch. “You tried, buddy. We all tried.”

I don't know what else to do.

■ ■ ■

“Warner said you were in after the last meet,” Sinclair's deep, gruff voice fills my ear. Almost an accusation. “What happened?”

I wasn't expecting a phone call from the assistant director tonight.

“I thought I was. I just need more time. I'm getting somewhere but it's going to take more time.” Other cover officers get months—sometimes years!—to form relationships before people begin breathing down their backs. Me? Two freaking months! Less, technically, because the first few weeks were for case prep.