Bounty Hunters: 03 Stay Hungry (27 page)

Jake didn't make a habit of stereotyping people, but the men who climbed out of the cars and joined Ames had FBI written all over them. The way Ames was suddenly upset, then resigned as he shook his head and stepped to the side, allowing the new arrivals to join the crime scene, suggested he'd just lost this case before he even had it.

Jake would be next in line. He held less rank than the detective in a town that wasn't his own and with a rank not acknowledged in this city. Diverting his attention back to the scene, he stepped closer to the back of the truck, leaning into it without touching anything to get a better look at the men and women lying in the cages.

"Mr. King, I need to advise you to back off." One of the men who'd just arrived flashed his credentials in Jake's face.

He didn't bat an eye at the FBI insignia and barely registered the agent's name. Memories of their case in Tijuana and how the feds had stepped in after Jake's mother called in for backup to the police flashed before his eyes. At that time, KFA had helped bring down one of the players in the game but wasn't able to end the game once the FBI stepped in and took over. Obviously the feds were still on the case. Jake wouldn't condemn their agency but at the same time wouldn't see history repeat itself. As much as he hated it, he stepped away from the truck.

"You're welcome for the phone call," he offered, stepping away from the truck and holding out his hands in mock surrender. "Or let me guess, you've been on the trail all along but would have allowed these men and women to be hauled into battle in order to make the bigger bust."

"Where is your car, Mr. King?" the agent asked, sizing Jake up, then straightening and squaring his shoulders, as if puffing himself up to possibly six feet would do any good in trying to intimidate Jake.

Jake didn't ask to be six feet, six inches tall, but because he was and had been since he'd been a teenager no one got under his skin, unless it was to annoy him. This agent would do a good job if Jake spent much longer asking questions and getting no answers.

"I parked in the garage."

"Where are you staying? I'll need your contact information and your departure plans out of the city before you leave." The agent pointed with his thumb to the other agents, who had remained by their cars, still talking to Detective Ames. "If you'd give your information to Special Agent Robinson," he stated, then walked away from Jake without another word, dismissing him and heading over to the squad cars where Mandela's men were being held.

Jake didn't join the detective and other agent. Instead he returned his attention to the back of the truck, counting the crates inside. The men and women in the crates were all dressed, wearing jeans and T-shirts, nothing that would make any of them stand out. There were black and white men and women, one lady who appeared Asian, but Jake didn't see anyone who matched Marianna's physical description or her picture. He continued studying all the victims he could focus on while standing outside the back of the truck.

Whoever had put them in the cages went to some effort to make them as comfortable as possible, considering the fact that they were in dog crates. Jake guessed Mandela didn't want them suffering from body cramps or injuries while they were being shipped out. He would want his army in top shape when they attacked the other player's army. Jake scanned the inside of the truck, not sure what he was looking for but trying to find anything he could before being ordered away from the scene.

Headlights shone in zigzag patterns across the runway and the field. Although direct light didn't flood the back of the truck and Jake didn't have a flashlight, he was able to study the contents of the truck and noticed two small plastic totes just inside. They were to his right, and he hadn't noticed them since his attention was directed upward at the stacks of dog crates. There didn't appear to be locks or any way of locking the plastic totes. Jake glanced around him at the continuing scene of arrests and detectives and FBI men talking. He wouldn't have more than a minute before someone was ordered to scour the truck and document everything inside. More than likely they were waiting for paramedics to arrive before touching the kidnapped victims. Jake banked on that assumption and pulled his shirt up, wrapped his hand inside the edge of it, and lifted the top of one of the totes. He wouldn't get his fingerprints anywhere on the evidence.

There were several notebooks inside the first tote. Jake looked around him again, nervous energy pulsing inside him as his excitement peaked. What he wouldn't do to find clarification of the game, the needed documentation that would allow Angela to nail this case. If he had it in his power, he would get this for her. Angela had come too far, risked her life too many times in the hands of that monster, to have this case yanked out of her hands by the feds.

Jake's fingers were wrapped inside the edge of his shirt, which was damp from his sweat. DNA samples could be picked up and were used too frequently these days. He let go of his shirt, wiping his hands on the outside of it, and frantically searched for something that would help him open the notebooks. He had to see what was inside.

Jake stared at a pair of thick garden-type gloves. "What fucking luck!" The excitement nearly buzzed inside him as he grabbed the gloves and slipped them on. They even fit. And with hands his size that was a small miracle. He opened the first notebook and gawked as he began reading.

Chapter Fourteen

Angela excused herself from the table, finding the interruption as odd as Mario apparently did. He gave her a strange look, and she shrugged, then followed the waiter who'd asked her to come with him to the front lobby. Nerves prickled down her spine. There was a handgun in her purse, which she clutched to her side. She and Mario had just finished their dinner and over an hour of useless small talk, and it struck her as curious that Mario made no effort to join her when the maitre d' came to their table and informed her there was an important phone call waiting for her on the house phone.

"Right this way, madam," the maitre d' said, gesturing when they reached his narrow podium, where he stood and greeted guests.

Angela glanced at the house phone, which was next to the podium. Everything inside her tightened, and the prime rib she'd found exceptionally good suddenly churned in her gut. The expensive wine she'd sipped at throughout their meal began gurgling as her nerves spiked to a dangerous level. The restaurant was well air-conditioned, and throughout the meal she'd been chilly, almost wishing she'd brought a sweater.

"That way?" Angela paused in the lobby, ignoring the handful of couples who apparently didn't rate being seated right away. She frowned at the maitre d', who turned to face her, his expression masked from years of training.

"Forgive me, madam," he said in a low, calm voice. "If you please. There is a private room through these doors."

"And there is a phone right there." She pointed at his podium and dug her heels in. Clutching her purse, she ignored the trickles of perspiration that beaded along her spine. Her heart thumped too hard inside her chest. She prayed her expression matched the maitre d's, one of cool, calm confidence. "Is there someone waiting for me in that room?" she asked, staring the maitre d' in the eye.

Which was the only way she spotted the flicker of hesitation that flashed there. "Madam, I'm simply following orders."

Angela stepped closer to the gentleman, who was probably somewhere around the same age as her father. "Who is waiting for me in that room?" she whispered, staring at his face.

"I was simply asked to bring you to them." The maitre d' faltered, shifting his weight and tugging on his tie. "They asked that I not say who they were with in order to offer you protection." He was whispering now, too. "But madam, they have badges."

Badges? Criminals didn't usually carry badges, unless they were forged. Angela swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded once at the maitre d', adjusting her handbag under her arm but unzipping it. She wasn't sure how quickly she could pull her gun out of it, but she'd be damned if she'd made it this far only to take a few knocks backward. They were on the edge of discovery. She could feel it sizzling in the air.

Mario had spoken openly on his phone when it rang, ignoring her from across the table and growing angrier by the minute as he spoke with the person on the other end of the line. Angela was positive Mario was being told that while they were moving his army someone had passed by his house and started trailing them. When the person talking to Mario called in the tag, it came back as a rental. Mario didn't bat an eye at a tag being called in. Apparently he had some damn good connections, not that learning that surprised Angela. She'd thought of excusing herself to powder her nose but worried her timing might be off. So she'd sat across from Mario, digging into her purse and pulling out her compact, then powdered her nose, or made a show of doing so, while staring into the small mirror and ignoring him. When she'd put the compact back, she'd slipped her phone onto her lap. Angela was able to text Jake while keeping her attention on Mario. After Mario got off the phone, it was as if he struggled to make conversation. Angela repeatedly got the uncanny sensation that he was killing time. It crossed her mind more than once that he was establishing an alibi, using her, so that his kidnapped victims could be moved and, if caught, the cops wouldn't be able to tie him in on the bust. He would have been at dinner with her.

Angela stepped around the maitre d', but he hurried to follow her and opened the door he'd indicated for her. Then moving to the side, he offered a gallant bow when she entered a small meeting room. The door closed silently behind her with a click that almost made Angela jump. She stared at two men, both in dress shirts and black slacks. They had the Bureau written all over them.

"Are you Angela Torres?" one of them asked, stepping forward as he reached for his badge that was clipped to his belt. "I'm Special Agent Terry Baldwin and this is Special Agent Richard Peel."

Angela managed to nod as she stared at the badges both men produced. For the moment, she remained silent about them calling her Torres and not Huxtable. All it told her was they were connecting her to Mario. Her fear shifted to anger fast enough that she almost teetered. Straightening, she relaxed her grip on her purse but kept it under her arm. It would be the worst nightmare if the FBI stepped in, took over after all she'd done, and removed her from this case. If she showed her frustration, something told her the inevitable would happen faster. She straightened, maintaining her cool.

"This is rather odd," she said, and flashed them both a toothy smile. "Why are you asking to meet me in this room?"

"You're dining with Mario Mandela." Special Agent Baldwin didn't make it a question.

"Is that a crime?" she asked.

"You're going to return to your table, inform Mandela that you have a family emergency and need to leave immediately." Baldwin sounded calm, although he ignored her question. His eyes were a bright blue, which made him appear friendly in spite of his closely trimmed haircut and nondescript gray suit that spoke of distance and mystery.

"Now why would I tell him that?" She adjusted her purse, hugging it against her stomach when she crossed her arms and tapped her open-toed high-heeled sandal on the plush carpet. "What's going on here?" she demanded.

"We know you're working undercover," Baldwin explained. "I don't know what information you might have gathered at this point, but we'll debrief you later. Right now, you will tell Mandela you must leave."

There wasn't any point in playing these two. But she still hesitated. "May I see your badges again, please?" she asked, holding on to her smile as she looked from Baldwin to Peel. Peel's gaze had traveled down her but shot to her face when she raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Please," she repeated, deciding she could make a few demands here, too.

This time she took the badges from both men, who relinquished them reluctantly. There were a few things she'd learned over the years. One of them was how to distinguish fake badges from real ones. She studied the insignia behind each of their names.

"Do you two have additional IDs?"

"Ma'am, this matter can't take much time," Baldwin stressed.

"You're right. Your driver's licenses, please?" she asked, adjusting the strap on her purse and shifting it to her shoulder. She held their badges in one hand and held her other out, letting her smile fade as she waited for them to confirm they were who they said they were.

Baldwin sighed, sounding put out, and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He opened it up, keeping it in his hand, and held it up to Angela's face.

Angela compared the information on the badge to the driver's license. She was already pretty sure the badges were legitimate, but if Mario was trying to bust her, this would be one hell of a way to go about doing it. Baldwin held up a Washington, D.C., license. Peel did the same. Their information matched.

"What do you want?" she asked, deciding they could go to hell if they wanted verbal confirmation that she was who they claimed she was.

"I just told you." Baldwin took back his badge and secured it to his belt, then shoved his wallet in his back pocket. "Tell your date you're leaving."

"He will want to take me wherever I go."

"That's fine. If he insists on returning you to your hotel room at the Drake," Baldwin said, narrowing his gaze on her and giving her a look that said they knew all about her. "Let him take you. If for any reason he diverts his course and tells his driver to take you somewhere else, we will have him pulled over. While the police are detaining his car, you will insist you don't like cops and tell Mandela you'll grab a cab. You'll slip out of the car before he can stop you. If he tries to detain you, the officers who pulled him over will prevent him from doing so and let you go. Do you have any questions?"

"Quite a few." Angela flashed her smile at the two of them, although she doubted it looked sincere. They were busting up her investigation, which pissed her off more than she would let them know. All she could do was go along with them. "I don't like this," she added, sighing. "I've put in just over a year learning everything I could about the game." She held her ground, studying both their blank expressions. "I don't want to be ordered off this investigation."

The look they both gave her let her know they'd heard that line one too many times. Angela opened her mouth to ask what they were planning on doing. Whether they liked it or not, she was on the inside. Angela wasn't opposed to working with the FBI. It sure as hell beat being tossed to the side and not getting any credit for a year of dedication to the investigation.

"We don't have any say in that matter, miss," Peel informed her before she could say anything else. He didn't sound apologetic or concerned. He just stated the facts. "We're following orders and you need to do the same."

Neither one of them needed to threaten her with arrest. Angela understood how it worked. They were FBI. If they wanted the case, they took it. Even the local cops could lose a case to the FBI if the Bureau decided it would be that way.

Angela turned around and strutted out of the room, outraged and upset at the same time. At least returning to their table didn't require she mask all of her emotions. She really was upset when she explained to Mario that there had been a family emergency.

"My father's secretary just contacted me. My grandmother has had a stroke."

"Why did they call the restaurant and not your cell phone?" Mario asked, the question sensible, which was why she'd immediately brainstormed to come up with a believable answer, and a clever one, too, at that. Especially if Mario did know more about her than he'd let on.

"My sister is the only one I've told about you," she offered, sliding into her chair and clasping her purse in her lap. "She doesn't live with my father, either, but has been visiting these past few months. When Grandmother collapsed, she told my father's secretary where we were dining."

Mario accepted her explanation without a blink of an eye and did insist on returning her to the Drake, as she'd anticipated. He didn't alter his course, and fifteen minutes later his limo pulled under the awning outside the front of the hotel.

Mario hadn't said a word during their drive, nor had he touched her. Her insides twisted further, although he made no show of sharing his thoughts with her or taking anything out on her. The limo stopped and he placed his hand over hers before she turned to the door.

"Before you start apologizing," he began, giving her a knowing look with his piercing dark, opaque eyes, "remember family always comes first. I'll call you later."

She hadn't planned on apologizing but bailing quickly. "I'm sorry. I can't help saying it." She offered a small and, she hoped, sincere-looking smile. "Your concern for family is admirable. Unfortunately, my family isn't worth being too concerned over." She held on to her cover and watched to see his expression change to disapproval, anything. When he kept his feelings masked behind his grave stare, Angela guessed something else was preoccupying his thoughts and probably he didn't mind getting rid of her since he might not need an alibi any longer. "I would much rather spend the evening with you than pacing sanitary hospital hallways. But I couldn't say no, now could I?"

"Of course not." He let go of her hand. "Dinner was quite enjoyable,
mi amore,
" he said, lowering his voice as he brushed his knuckles down her cheek. "I didn't get to discuss our travel plans. You will come with me while I travel on business, yes?"

"It sounds fun." Angela's going along with whatever he said at the moment would allow her to get out of the car faster. "Give me a call later."

She managed to step out of the car. Albert was there, holding the car door for her and gallantly offering his hand, although if she leaned on the old man Angela would bet they'd both topple to the ground. Mario looked noticeably pleased when he strutted around the back side of his limo and came up to her, ignoring Albert, who moved out of the way easily.

Mario wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her up against his body. "You are an incredibly beautiful woman,
amore,
" he whispered, lowering his lips to hers.

Angela wouldn't be surprised if the FBI was watching. If the agents were, they probably had been for a while. They would know she'd never kissed Mario before. Although she despised the chaste kiss, she allowed it, then lowered her head, ending it easily.

"I need to go," she said quietly.

"Of course." He released her and moved to the back door Angela had hopped out of. Tomas was already standing there, a quiet giant, as still as a statue and not focusing on either one of them but patiently waiting for his boss to climb in so he could close the door.

Albert caught her eye and smiled. She started toward him, seeing how anxious he was to help escort her inside. When she turned to tell Mario good night, he'd already returned to the backseat and Tomas was sliding into the driver's seat. She watched the long, regal-looking vehicle pull out of the circular drive in front of the Drake, then glanced around, trying to look casual but shifting her attention from car to car. There was no way to tell whether anyone was watching her or not.

And honestly, what had just happened? Neither agent at the restaurant had told her officially to leave the case alone. One of them had mentioned something about debriefing her, but she'd been left with no specific instructions. If the FBI pulled her off the investigation, did they find Jake, too? Somehow, she didn't see that scene going down well at all.