Double Down (5 page)

Suddenly the hairs on the back of Tyka's neck began to rise. There was something odd here . . . she had a sense that things had been searched, just slightly. There was an indentation on the bed, above the sheets. A chair just off to one side of the kitchen table stood awry. And it looked like Gabriella's jewelry had been rifled through. A common thief? The Mob? Or someone else? Regardless, she figured she'd better make quick work of finding what she sought.

In the corner of the living room, next to an antique wooden curio cabinet, she saw the milk pail, filled with dried flowers. She took the flowers out, reached in, felt around the bottom, and was able to slide the panel aside, revealing a small silver key engraved with the initials
BS
.

Slipping the key inside her bra, Tyka put the flowers back and retraced her steps. Then she went out the rear balcony, climbed down to the alley, and made her way back to her hotel.

4

Fritz had assembled everyone back in the Quantico boardroom to share some intel before things went any further. It was late, but she knew she had to let them know the news ASAP. She was concerned now that she had truly endangered the life of every member of the Bod Squad, and was determined to put her fears to rest before they got in even deeper.

“I'm sorry to have to tell you this,” she said, lighting a cigarette, “but Baba Samka is definitely back on the boards. Rafael got word from one of his contacts that BS blew up Amal's safe house, killing Amal and everyone inside. We don't know why, other than that he may have thought she knew more than she did . . . if it
was
Buzz, that is. Susannah, Chas, I'm so sorry—I know you got to know Amal, that she helped you out. Chas, if this is the work of Birdsong, is it possible he traced you back to Amal's?”

There was a potent silence in the room. Then Susannah stood up and said, “Sorry, I think I'm going to be sick,” and ran out.

Chas swallowed deeply and watched her leave. Then he looked back at Fritz. “I need to go after her, Fritz. In short, yes, of course it's possible. But I hope to God not. Do you really think this could be his doing?”

“We don't know, Chas, but yes, I think so. We need to talk strategy now. And there's no time to lose. Go make sure Susannah is okay. Then we'll get right to it.”

“She'll be fine,” he said. “She's a lot stronger than I am. It's just that Amal took care of us. It feels personal. And on top of everything with her father—” He cut himself short. “We'll be back in ten.” Standing up, he swiftly went to find Susannah.

“Wow,” breathed Jackson, who'd been uncharacteristically quiet. “They might be able to get over it, but I'll tell you who won't be: Mahmoud. This is
definitely
personal . . . Amal was like family to him. This is gonna kill him.”

“Well,
merde
times ten,” Lisa Bee said, tears in her eyes. “I hate it when it gets personal. I mean, what the heck did Mahmoud ever do to this guy?”

“This is the biz, Bee,” said the Boss, running a hand through his hair. “It's not rational. And this guy is one of the roughest. We all need to buck up, deal with our feelings, and hunt him down.”

“That's the thing about a terrorist, Lisa Bee,” Fritz said sympathetically, a bit gentler than the Boss. “There's no logic here. It's all about power. We don't know what makes a person like this enact violence against innocent people. It's what I've worked my whole life to figure out.” She sat down then and let out a frustrated sigh. “What a letdown, huh? Sometimes I feel that the bad guys are like weeds . . . I cut one down, and two spring up in his place.”

‡‡‡

Chas found Susannah splashing her face with cold water in the bathroom. She had been sick but felt a bit steadier now. She lifted her face up and caught Chas's eyes in the mirror, giving him a slight smile. This was all a bit much to handle at this point: the journeys they had taken, Buzz's involvement, and now the death of Amal, who'd taken care of them when they'd needed it. “Oh, Tex,” she said hoarsely, comforting herself with the nickname from their courtship, “this sucks.”

“I know, Legs, honey. It's worse than we imagined.”

“And we're not even married yet.”

“Well, it's been one fuck of an engagement.”

At this she let out a laugh. “Heck,” she said, still chuckling, “maybe the third time's the charm.”

Chas moved closer and put his arms around her. “You know, Legs, after going from the Harvard Club to your mom's backyard, the next logical choice might be this bathroom, here and now.”

She turned to him and said, “I think you're joking, but are you even
remotely
serious?”

He laughed. “I'd do it right now if we didn't have more pressing business. It's time to go back in. We need to figure out our next step as a team. You ready?”

“As ready as I'll ever be. Let's go.”

‡‡‡

When they walked back into the boardroom a few minutes later, the Boss was pacing back and forth. “Chas, Legs . . . I know this is a rough turn, but I need you to pull it together. We've got work to do.”

“On it, Bossman,” Susannah replied. “Sorry about that.”

Fritz leaped to her feet. “No,
I'm
sorry to have dropped a bomb like that—all of this is a bit time-sensitive, as you can imagine. Chas, have you heard back from Birdsong?”

“Not yet,” Chas said, “but he won't take long.” Suddenly, a text message alert sounded from his phone. “And speak of the devil. . . . Let me see.” He checked his message and spoke as he read. “This is from his burner phone. Good for the next two hours, or so he says. Shall I give him a call? I'm going to be as honest as I can.”

“Do it,” Fritz said. “We've got no time to lose.”

“Agreed,” the Boss echoed. “We've got to leap on this.”

Chas clicked on the screen, and the call connected. Then he said, “Birdsong? Chas. Good to hear your voice. I'm at Quantico, which I bet you already know, but we're hoping you can give us a hand.” He listened for a moment, then gave them all a thumbs-up. “Good. Yes, I can fill you in on all the details. Let me find my way to a private room where we can talk freely. And yes, of course, you'll be compensated within the day.” And with that, he stepped outside to find out where Birdsong might lead them.

‡‡‡

Mahmoud was still with Cécile; they had spent the last couple of hours drinking and talking like old friends. They'd been sleeping together for so long that they'd never actually gotten to know each other; though she already knew about Mahmoud's family and his hunt for BS, now he told her the details of all that had gone on in the last six months. She was right; he might have needed to use her to do some of the legwork he was now precluded from. They weren't going to sleep together, not tonight—it was too strange following on the heels of his affair with Tyka. Cécile didn't want to be insulted, and he thought she could sense that something had shifted. In truth, he himself wasn't sure what he felt; he just knew that everything had changed, and that he only had eyes for
l'Assassin Blonde
.

When their conversation was interrupted by Mahmoud getting the call from Jackson that revealed that Amal's safe house had been destroyed, killing Amal and everyone with her, he was filled with sadness, and then rage. . . . It brought back so much of what had happened to his family that he was robbed of any control, and any humanity. He felt helpless, like he wasn't a man—after all, he couldn't save the people he loved. Cécile stood to the side, allowing him to have his reaction, waiting to see how she could help. After breaking a few glasses and nearly putting his fist through a wall, Mahmoud dropped to the bed and wept silently. Cécile sank into a chair and watched, simply waiting.

It was a long time before Mahmoud finally sat up and looked at her. Standing, she lit two cigarettes and handed one to him. “Cry all you want now,” she said. “I have a feeling whatever is to come will take all the strength you've got.”

“Yes,” he replied, taking several deep breaths. “I will feel it as deeply as I must, then I will allow my rage to govern me. What happens next will be the fullest embodiment of my vengeance.”

‡‡‡

Chas reentered the boardroom. “Well?” the Boss inquired sharply. “Tell us some good news.”

“He's on board,” Chas said. “Though it was a bit of a tricky dance. As expected, he knew I'd been working with you; apparently he's known it for years. He said he'd be happy to find whatever information he could, but he'd prefer to give it to me in person, in Palermo. He's just landed there. He knows we searched the house . . . he said he'd been waiting for that to happen. He sounded amused. And . . .”

“What is it?” Fritz asked.

“He said he was a fan of Mahmoud's work. I'm not sure what he meant by that, but I suppose we could take it as a compliment from a hacker to an assassin, or something more sinister . . . an admission of some responsibility? I don't know.”

There was a collective sigh, a collective murmur. Jackson said, “Mahmoud's already at his boiling point. I just called him with the news and he flipped out. This might just send him over the edge.”

Lisa Bee replied, “If this is a challenge, we gotta beat Birdsong at his own game, right?”

AJ Jones, the most expert hacker among them and an avid lover of jazz and blunt force honesty, cut in. “Well, on the hacking front I can certainly beat him at his own game, but is that really wise? It sounds like we need a whole new way to challenge him. And if this is some kind of trap, I don't want to lead us all into it.”

“All right,” the Boss said, jumping in. “Let's just take this one step at a time. Fritz? Tell us what comes next, and we're on it.”

“That's just the thing, John,” said Fritz, one of the few privileged enough to call the Boss by his first name. “I think it's time for the Bod Squad to take a step back, not forward. I don't like this one bit. I have no control over what Tyka or Mahmoud do; they're not under my jurisdiction. But I do have say over who I call my team, and I'm just not comfortable sending the Bod Squad out.”

The Boss looked taken aback. “Wait a minute. Our work has been top notch. We've gone above and beyond what you've asked us to do.”

“You have,” she said, “but we've got agents in the field who are better equipped to handle this. I want to dial you guys back to where you were. Put you back on white collar. And take these leads to the Italian team. Chas, I'd still like you to go to Palermo—perhaps you can connect with Tyka and Mahmoud, or with my people there. I'll allow that because you've been working with us for many years doing this level of undercover work. As for the rest of you, I'd like you to stay here, go back to work, return to some kind of normalcy. And let the rest of us handle this.”

A hush fell. In some ways it was what most of them wanted; this case had been a long, tough slog out of their comfort zone. AJ wanted to return to her home base in Denver to settle some old accounts with clients, Jackson and Lisa Bee wanted to revel in their newfound love, Susannah and Chas wanted to have the chance to actually get married, and the Boss wanted to stay near Babs. But on a deeper level they felt this was
theirs
: They had earned it through hard work, through bloodshed, through sheer determination. Taking this case from them was like taking away all they had built and all the potential they thought they had.

The Boss stood up and looked Fritz in the eye. “You're the boss here, Fritz; you and I both know that. I'm indebted to you, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed . . . quite disappointed. My team has been excellent, and we know we're close to taking a monster off the streets. We want to follow it through. We're more than good enough, we're more than skilled enough, and dammit, we've earned this.” He looked sharply at his team, encouraging their response.

There was a chorus of yeses, and Jackson said, “Hell yeah, Bossman. I've been involved in this since Mahmoud's family was killed. I'm not backing out now.”

“Cool it, you guys,” Fritz said, trying to calm them down. “It's not forever. It's just that we've taken a dark turn here and I think we've got better equipped people out there to handle this. You've done a remarkable job up till now; truly, we're grateful. But I'm asking you to step down.”

The Boss let out a breath and looked around. “Okay, gang. Let's meet at FTP headquarters after we all get some shut-eye. It's not our game anymore.” Grabbing his hat, he tipped it to Fritz and said, “I gather this is the end of a beautiful friendship.”

“Very funny, John,” she said. “It's clear you're angry, and I'm sorry. But I'll be in touch with a new lead ASAP. For now, we've got to do it my way.”

And with that, they all somberly made their way out.

5

Tyka had gone back to Birdsong's estate. She didn't know where the key from Gabriella's led but wondered if there was something she had missed at the villa. If Birdsong was the man they sought, it was quite possible that this key would open something in his home.

When she got there she saw a car in the driveway.
Fuck
, she thought.
I missed my chance
. Then she looked around. The sky was bright—it was about ten a.m., a beautiful sunny day. Palermo was warmer than New York in the fall; on this late October day it was about seventy degrees with a light breeze and only a few wisps of clouds in the sky. She could hear birds cawing over the water and felt a sudden yearning for a whole different life . . . a houseboat on the open sea, a drink in her hand, a man by her side. Cigarettes and chocolate, a bright orange bikini, and a pedicure to match. In her fantasy, she turned to smile at the man next to her and suddenly—suddenly it was Mahmoud's face she saw, his smile, his eyes, his dark skin and sexy mouth. What was wrong with her? She was grasping, reaching for something that never was and never could be, and she was desperate because her world was falling apart and she didn't know how to handle it. She had to keep herself on task; it was the only way.

She'd come back later, at night; it would be easier to slip in under cover of darkness. Till then, she'd go back to her hotel and get some sleep.

‡‡‡

Mahmoud and Cécile decided to make their way to a known haunt of the Sicilian Mafia, a sidewalk restaurant with a back garden called Trattoria del Pescatore. They knew they'd be able to find someone high up who knew something about Baba Samka and his connection to Birdsong. If Birdsong was Baba Samka, surely there was someone here who'd know.

Cécile made her way into the restaurant, dressed in full disguise: a curly black wig and a polka dot Marilyn Monroe–style halter dress with high heels. They were just serving breakfast, so she drew quite a bit of attention. Drawing all attention to herself by flirting shamelessly with the waiter, she gave Mahmoud the chance to slip into the back room. As soon as he was clear, Cécile drew her weapon, clearing away the patrons and forcing the waiter and host to the back of the restaurant at gunpoint.

Five men had been in the back room, a dark brick chamber with a table, wood storage shelves, wine casks, and one dim light. Mahmoud had already disarmed two bodyguards, and collected the weapons of the three mobsters. Cécile moved the two men she had brought into the center along with the others. “Calm down,” Mahmoud said to the men in Italian. “We want information, nothing else. And we want it now.” He knew the power players in the room; he'd known them for years. And though he wished for nothing more than vengeance and bloodshed in the name of all the people who'd been killed, he refrained from more violence in favor of getting something—
anything
—that could give him a lead that actually panned out. And if he didn't get what he wanted . . . then yes, he'd take them all out and be done with it.

Rocco “the Beast” Bellini was an enormous bald-headed man in his midfifties. He was one of the few higher-ups in the Marconi crime family who was still alive after Gabriella's last stand and Mahmoud and Tyka's cleanup, by virtue of having just been released from prison. He'd been in and out of cells for years, and Mahmoud's contacts had always said that he couldn't be killed because he was the slipperiest of them all. He was the link between several of the Italian crime families, and had been valuable as a tracking point for the endless shifting of Mob alliances. Mahmoud had observed him often over the past ten years or so, but in all that time Rocco had never known he was being watched—or so Mahmoud thought. Finding his information in Birdsong's safe had shaken his confidence. Regardless, he figured this was his only chance to have a face-to-face meeting, and he had to take the opportunity. Time was running short, and BS was still at large.

“Rocco,” he said in decent Italian, “you don't know me, and you don't want to. I'm here because I need information, and if you don't give it to me, then I'll kill you.”

The big man shifted a bit and smiled. “Sit down,” he replied in English. “Perhaps you'd like a meal? A glass of
vino
, yes? Why such a show? Let's talk reasonably.”

“No,” Mahmoud said. “There's no time. Tell me who BS is.
Now
.”

Now all the men laughed and uttered epithets in Italian. “Come now . . . what shall I call you?”

“Call me whatever you like.”

“How about Hunter, as you seem to be on the hunt, yes? Has a nice ring, doesn't it? Tell me, Hunter, why do you think BS would be so stupid as to let anyone know who he is? Hmm? We've made deals with people. We've sold weapons, drugs. We've killed. But none of us could tell you this man's face, where he lives, who he spends time with. He could be the man who owns the local
gelateria
, how the fuck should I know? As long as he pays for what he wants, none of us have ever given a shit what he does with it. Or who he actually is.”

Mahmoud paused at this, and put his gun down. Cécile kept hers up. “But surely,” Mahmoud said, “surely you must know something, someone, some connection? He runs your business, or so I've been told.”

Now Rocco leaned forward, a bit menacingly. “
Cazzate!
Nobody runs my business but me, understand?”

“Yes,” Mahmoud said. “Of course. But he does have power. So how the fuck do you connect?”

“He uses a middleman,” Rocco said. “A go-between.”

“And who would that be?”

“We've always used a South African by the name of Birdsong. You heard of him?”

‡‡‡

The Boss had told everyone to get a few hours of sleep before they reconvened at the office. He'd slept over at Babs's place, but she wasn't there; she'd been out on an all-night stakeout and crawled into bed just as he was crawling out. But she still made him wait to make sure all her girls were out before he left. It was driving him crazy, making him feel like shit to have to creep out of her place whenever she was done with him for the night. He knew it was about her work, about her mission, but he couldn't stand it any longer . . . their situation had to change. Or he was out. He'd officially had enough.

The Boss had gotten to the office before everyone else, using the extra time to get his thoughts together and clear his mind. He was determined to see his team work this assignment. Baba Samka was their case;
they'd made it their own
, and they'd done a fantastic job,
goddammit
. And now it was back to men in suits with too much money and too little conscience?
No way.

Dull work
, he thought.
The stuff I used to love just feels like bullshit now.

He looked around his office and sighed. He'd built this from the ground up; it was all he'd worked to do since he came out of grad school. He was a fine entrepreneur and investigator, he'd assembled a worthy team, and he'd connected with the FBI and grown his business every single year. But now, as he looked around at the packed filing cabinets, the bookshelves lined with research materials and books on finance for their cover business, the oak table and small coffee station with a state-of-the-art espresso machine, he suddenly felt, for the first time, like it just wasn't enough.
Small potatoes
, he thought.
This thing I've built, this thing that is my whole world . . . goddamn small potatoes. Truth is, I want more.

He sat at his desk, filled with frustration. He looked at the stack of potential new cases; they'd been organized by Lisa Bee into three categories:
Leads
,
Requests
, and
Fucked to Hell
—the category they all favored. That was where the jobs that were unusual or tricky, challenging in some way, ended up. The stuff they'd be crazy to take on. He reached for that pile now like he was reaching for his only lifeline.

‡‡‡

The Boss looked up as Jackson, Susannah, and Lisa Bee all straggled in. Chas had stayed with Fritz before making an immediate departure for Palermo. AJ had booked a ticket to go back to Denver, and had said she'd be happy to be “on call” with Susannah like she had been in the good old days. Mahmoud and Tyka were in Italy, and would stay in Europe for the foreseeable future. Gabriella, who had never really been a member of the Bod Squad—though the Boss had hoped she'd become one—had been gunned down. So this was what was left of his team, back to what he started with, the original members of FTP,
Financial Trust and Protection
. That was their cover company for white-collar investigations. To the Boss it always really stood for Films Take Priority or Fuck the Police. He looked around at them all, taking stock of his crew. Lisa Bee was in her customary pink, wearing a hot pink T-shirt and a miniskirt to match. Jackson wore a red shirt that had a faded Pabst ad on it with the phrase
Drink While Fresh
and a tight pair of dark jeans with Italian leather shoes. Susannah was also in jeans and wore boots and a tight white tank top. Though their cover business was in finance, they all dressed casually unless they knew they had to impress. Besides which, the Boss had made sure they had mandatory “casual Fridays,” which had devolved into everyone wearing whatever they wanted. The Boss was almost always in a button-down, but that was his favorite way to dress. Silently, they grabbed chairs and sat at the table. All of them looked tired, and a bit confused. The Boss knew they were let down and pissed off.

“Well, damn, team, you all look as bad as I feel,” he said, walking around the desk and then leaning back on the front corner. He wore a pair of slacks and a pinstripe button-down, trying to look as professional as possible to inspire them all to forge ahead. “But we need to buck up and do what we do best.”

Jackson sighed. “Yeah, Bossman, that's what I thought we
were
doing.”

“Me too,” piped up Lisa Bee.

“Roger that,” said Susannah.

“I know, guys,” the Boss said, “I feel the same way. But we're not going to get anywhere like this. Here's the thing: We've got to look at the hunt for Baba Samka as a lucky break . . . something that showed us where we can go in the future. We've got skills we didn't have before, and a hunger for more. This is where we build a new kind of business, one that operates on a whole other level. That was the point of this case. To take us out of our comfort zone and into something new. Are we going to let this get us down? Hell no. We forge ahead, and we do the goddamn best we can with what we've been given.”

“Who died and made you Yoda?” asked Jackson.

“I prefer Obi-Wan,” the Boss replied with a smile. “But thanks. I think it's just what I've had to tell myself since Fritz tossed us out. I don't want to lose what I've built—in fact, I want to amplify it. Here's the thing, kids: Life is what you make it. Do we want to be second rate? Of course not. Do we want to pander to men with toupees and trusts who are stealing from their own goddamn hedge funds? Hell no. Do we want to have our balls cut off and shipped to another country?
No goddamn way.
But at the same time, we've got to work with what we've got. And that,
lookin' at you, kids
, is a helluva lot.”

“Wow, Bossman,” Lisa Bee said, her eyes round as saucers. “You really are Obi-Wan. And you are our last hope!”

“Shit, yeah,” Jackson said, looking impressed. “I love to see you go alpha, Bossman.”

“Agreed on everything,” Susannah replied, brushing away a tear and putting her long auburn hair up in a clip, “except that all things being equal, I'd choose Han Solo. But, Bossman, my Han Solo took off
yet again
on a piece of the mission I've just been cashed out of. So it leaves me feeling out of sorts. And I'm jealous, too, which pisses me off.”

“That'll change, Legs,” the Boss said gently. “It's all just part of the game. So are you in or are you out? I'm pressing on, no matter what.”

“I'm in, Bossman,” Jackson said with a smile. “As long as my Queen Amidala is ready to rock the dashboard and keep us all in line.”

Lisa Bee giggled and blushed. “Well,” she said, “I always had a thing for Anakin, so that makes us perfect. And yes, of course . . . I'm wherever Jackie is.”

“Geek alert,” Susannah said, smiling.

Jackson laughed. “We're just from an older and wiser generation.”

“I never thought I'd live to see the day,” the Boss said with a wry grin. “It's like I'm running a dating service, not a detective agency.”

“Aw, come on, Bossman,” Susannah said, winking. “Just think of it as Hepburn and Tracy. Or Bogart and Bacall.”

The Boss laughed. “Damn, Legs. I didn't know you cared. Okay, gang, here's the new case: an abusive carnival barker. I thought this'd be a good way to get back in.”

Lisa Bee stood up with a chuckle. “I knew that one would get you, Bossman. Bizarre, but may be a fun way to wash the rest of this bullcrap out. Right?”

“Right on, Bee,” the Boss said, feeling his blood start to thrum in his veins again. “Let's get back in the game.”