Redemption Key (A Dani Britton Thriller) (18 page)

What he didn’t tell himself, what he couldn’t tell himself, was that he needed to hurry and find Dani Britton, see her with his own eyes, before he lost his nerve.

Jinky’s, FL

10:10am, 96° F

She managed to get her grin mostly under control by the time the meeting started an hour later. Juan Wheeler had staked out the deck not long after Tucker had left, and Joaquin had joined him at some point when Dani had been packing ice into a cooler for the Australians. Mr. Randolph had finally looked at her when he got the message that the meeting was on.

“It’s about time.” He poured himself a vodka, resting back against the cash register so Dani and Peg could move around him. “If Vincente had pushed this meeting back one more time, there would have been hell to pay. Bermingham would show up shooting or Joaquin would explode from the heat. Is the room ready?”

“Yep,” Dani said, grabbing a bar bucket and filling it with ice. “I’ve put some bottles of Mexi-Coke in there for Juan. He wanted to get in and pick his seat. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“No, no, that’s good.” Mr. Randolph nodded. “Keep him happy. Make him feel like a big shot because I know he’s really raw about being disrespected by the Canadian. Ice the liquor, okay? This heat is making everyone edgy. This Bermingham is supposed to be bad news. I wish you didn’t have to be part of this.” Dani looked up when Mr. Randolph’s words faded. He stared at her for a moment and then shook his head, heading out from behind the bar. “Well, you know what to do, don’t you, Dani?”

It didn’t sound like a question.

She did know what to do. She’d watch Mr. Randolph cross the short end of the inlet to the cinder block unit and go into the room. Once he closed the door, she’d go back to the bar, gather her bucket, and stay out of sight until she heard the door slam once more. That meant Bermingham and his people were inside. New clients always wanted to come in unseen.

She’d wait a little longer, let her boss take control of the room and get everyone settled, then she would come in with ice and some better liquor in the bucket and let Mr. Randolph play gracious host. She’d take her cues from him, watching the participants in the meeting, avoiding Joaquin Wheeler’s thick hands, and if anyone on the Canadian’s side let any sort of information hang out of their pockets or on their phones, she’d read what she could. Most importantly, she’d read her boss, watch for any signals from him.

The door slammed and she waited. She rolled the vodka, rum,
and tequila bottles in the ice so the labels could be read, killing time until she felt she’d waited enough. She knew Juan had taken the power seat in the room, sitting on the far side of the small table, facing the door. Mr. Randolph would be on his right, mostly out of sight as the door swung open, so that the newcomers, Bermingham and whoever he brought, would be the first visible when she came through. Dani’s father had called that position “first swing” when he used to sneak her into poker games. It was the most vulnerable position in a room.

Dani headed down the steps and across the inlet. She took a deep breath to steady herself before she pushed the door open. She wasn’t afraid, not really, but more than once the people in the first swing spot had drawn weapons on her, and it helped to be ready. Dani knew to keep her head down, not looking at anyone until she found Mr. Randolph. Then she’d raise her eyes, get a feel for the temperature in the room, and let him introduce her or not, as he saw fit.

She pushed the door open. She heard the sudden halt to the conversation and was pretty certain at least one gun was raised. Pushing the door closed, she swung the bucket and looked across the floor for Mr. Randolph’s sandals. When she raised her eyes and saw the expression on his face, she felt a knot of fear punch at her stomach.

“I think everyone here knows Dani, am I right?”

She turned her head slowly. Joaquin grinned at her, his one good eye winking. Next to him, Juan perched on the edge of his chair, scowling. A sandy-haired man in a black T-shirt stood with his muscular arms folded and straining his sleeves. Before she could think how she knew him, her gaze moved to the man sprawled in the chair in front of him.

Dani felt the handle of the bucket grow damp in her palms as she stared into the smiling brown eyes. He didn’t show any teeth but the dimples wouldn’t be held back.

“Hey Dani,” Tucker said. “Good to see you again.”

Not Tucker. Bermingham.

10:25am, 98° F

She didn’t even blink. Oren watched and she didn’t even blink. Dani hadn’t ever shown what he would call a wealth of expressiveness, but being face-to-face with proof that she’d kept her knowledge about the Canadian gangster from him when he’d asked her point-blank if she knew the guy, Oren would have hoped for at least a fumble of shame. But he didn’t get it. He got nothing but the usual stone-face.

Bermingham certainly knew the score. Sprawled out in his chair, the big son of a bitch dwarfed the little table. His thug sidekick kept his piece tucked somewhere in the recess of his meaty armpit, and Bermingham didn’t even seem to be carrying. Oren figured he probably had something ugly stashed in the enormous pockets of his cargo shorts.

Cargo shorts. And a golf shirt.

Canadian gangsters.

If it weren’t so disturbing, Oren would laugh.

He wanted to listen to what they said to each other, listen through the posturing and the chest-thumping coming from the Wheeler boys.
Oren knew them well enough to know that Juan’s temper toed the breaking point and Joaquin could smell it. The bigger Wheeler’s face glistened with the oily sheen of anticipation that Oren knew was often the last thing his victims ever saw. Joaquin wanted this deal to go bad—he always did, because he loved the violence that followed—but Juan was nervous. Whatever this deal was, Juan Wheeler wanted it badly.

Dani poured Bermingham a shot of tequila and he smiled at her. At least she had the decency to not smile back, and that seemed to amuse the Canadian. He toasted the Wheelers and Oren and threw the shot back with a grimace.

He sucked on a lemon and squeezed his eyes shut. “Wow I don’t know how you guys do this every day.” He smacked his lips, laughing like they were knocking shots back at a bachelor party. “Give me a rye and ginger ale, eh? Or at least a beer, am I right, Ned? Something brown and serious, you know?”

It seemed Juan didn’t care for the frat-house act any more than Oren did. The little man kicked his chair back, sweeping the table clean of glasses with one scarred and tattooed arm, the other swinging a Glock up into Bermingham’s face.

“I don’t give a fuck what you drink, you overgrown piece of—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Bermingham let Juan get to the creative part of the insult and then lunged from his seat with a speed Oren wouldn’t have expected from a man his size. He slapped the gun aside, grabbing that wrist, and yanking Juan stomach first across the table. He twisted the gun hand at an ugly angle and pressed the muzzle against Juan’s side.

Joaquin and Ned, Bermingham’s thug, stood with guns drawn on each other, and Oren and Dani backed away. Juan struggled in the arm lock, wheezing for breath with Bermingham’s fist jammed into the small of his back.

“You feel that, Juan?” He torqued Juan’s wrist, pressing the gun harder into his side. “I’m gonna shoot your brother through your liver. Which one of you do you think will die first?” He let Juan swear and struggle, his feet useless off the floor. Oren could see that Bermingham’s golf shirt hid an impressive muscular form. Bermingham only looked like a frat boy.

“Why don’t you relax, you stupid fuck?” Bermingham spoke close to Juan’s ear. “I don’t think Mr. Randolph wants to be cleaning blood up out of these nice carpets, do you? It’s bad enough Dani has to clean up the liquor you just spilled. What kind of fuck wastes good booze? Sheesh.”

Bermingham straightened up, pulling back from the spinal punch he’d kept on Juan, but keeping his arm in the lock. “Now we’ve got business to do, and Mr. Randolph here was kind enough to let us use his place, so let’s get it done. You’ve got Vincente’s product; I’ve got money; we all win.” He included Oren in his glance. “We all win. Alright? Okay, here we go.”

He let go of Juan’s arm, giving him a chummy slap on the shoulder as the little man squirmed off the table. No sooner had his feet hit the ground than Juan again pointed his weapon at Bermingham. The Canadian rolled his eyes and waved it off, settling back into his seat as if nothing had happened. His thug Ned holstered his piece as well, and Oren had to admit the Wheelers looked a little foolish, keyed-up and armed in the face of the Canadian’s nonchalance.

It took balls to ignore that much sweaty-handed gun-power.

Bermingham gave the Wheelers a chance to save face, turning to Dani and asking for a fresh drink. And damn it if Dani didn’t take it all in stride. She didn’t flinch; she didn’t hesitate. She just poured and served and stepped around the table to pick up the thrown glasses.

Dani and Bermingham and that pretty boy at the bar with the stupid name—Oren was being pushed around by an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog.

Those ridiculous dimples appeared once more as Juan took his seat and pushed Joaquin into his. Bermingham leaned back in his chair, sipping the fresh tequila Dani had poured. “So, twenty-five units. Still good, right?”

“Prime,” Juan said, struggling to restore his gangster face. “You seen the pictures.”

“Yeah I did, but that was three days ago. How do I know you’re taking care of my cargo? I mean, this fucking heat, you got it in any kind of climate control?”

“We got vents on it.”

“Vents, yeah.” Bermingham scratched his face and leaned across the table. “Because here’s the thing. If I find out you dipshits are storing my product on a boat in this heat before the deal goes down, the money goes bye-bye. I’m buying twenty-five units prime. Not twenty-four, not twenty-three. It’s a bundle deal. Twenty-five units in prime condition. Any of them go bad in this heat, they all go bad, you follow? I’ll let Vincente take the heat for casualties.”

“Yeah, yeah. We know our shit.”

“Good.” Bermingham smiled, looking back at Ned, who smiled too. “They know their shit. That’s great, eh? Because here’s how this works.” His smile stayed in place but iced over as he looked at Juan. “I’m going to inspect each unit before I pay. For every one of them that’s damaged, you lose a finger. For every one that’s broken beyond repair, you lose a limb.” He held his hand up, miming counting off on his fingers. “Twenty-five units. That’s a lot of fingers.”