Relentless Pursuit (13 page)

“Um, dude had dark hair.  Kinda longish.  He drove the bike.  His whore was a blonde with big tits.  Really stupendous rack.  Filled out her t-shirt fine, and wore stretchy pants that hugged her ass tight.  Little too big in the hips for me, but some guys like a gal with some meat on her bones.  And she was a looker.  Oh, yeah, she had flip-flops on her feet with some kind of flower things on them.”

“I see you paid much more attention to the lady than to the driver.  Fortunately, for you, I believe they are the couple I am looking for.”  Dubshenko paused and then turned away from Stanley before pivoting and backhanding him across the mouth.

“Do not ever refer to her again as a whore.”  He checked his hand, noting no broken skin, no blood.  Excellent.  It was rare that he personally did the dirty work anymore, but it felt good to put this little pissant in his place.

“Make sure Stanley gives very precise directions on locating the motel where our friends were staying, then turn him loose.  You might want to emphasize the importance of keeping his mouth shut about our little conversation tonight, too.”  He instructed Bubba.

With those final words, Dubshenko walked out of the room, closing the door behind him with a silent snick.  He done well, having put a state-of-the art tracking device on Lamoreaux's motorcycle a few months before.  The good detective loved that useless pile of metal with an unhealthy obsessiveness.  At the thought, he laughed, amused and delighted with this unexpected turn of events.  After all the grief Lamoreaux caused him lately it seemed only fitting that he exact a little sweet revenge—even if it was against an inanimate object.  The cop's favorite mode of transportation would be a pile of rubble and ash before the night was through.  Rubbing his hands in glee, he climbed into the back of the limo and pulled out his phone.  There were plans to make.

The chase was on—and he intended to win—at any cost.

Chapter Fourteen

C
arlo pulled his stolen car into the parking lot of a strip mall and killed the engine.  He'd driven a couple of hours west, getting as far away from New Orleans as possible.  Dubshenko's men had to have been discovered by now, meaning he knew Carlo was free.  He'd be gunning for him, that was a given.  First things first, though, he needed to ditch the car.   While he'd love to douse it with gasoline and strike a match, all that did was send a flaming beacon to Dubshenko.  He might as well post a flashing neon arrow directly over his head and have it point, “Here I am, come and get me.”

He tossed the car keys under the driver's side seat, leaving it unlocked and all the windows down.  If some enterprising thief happened upon it before the Russian mobster's goons did, well…

The parking lot was deserted, except for a homeless guy sleeping in one of the store's doorways.  No help there, guy probably didn't have a dime to his name at this time of the morning.  But he was nearly out of options himself.  No phone, no cash and no connections in this town.  Going to the local cops was out of the question.  He didn't trust cops.  From prior experience, he knew facts could be manipulated and circumstantial evidence quickly amounted to years in the state penitentiary.  Been there, done that.

There was a gas station down the street, not one of the major franchises, but that worked in his favor.  He took off at a brisk clip, headed that way.  The lights from the strip mall cast the entire area with a dismal pall.  All those lights would be off soon, and the empty parking spaces likely to stay exactly the same—empty.  Prosperity had obviously bypassed this section of town.  Reminded him of his life—prosperity had pretty much bypassed him, too.

First things first.  He needed to get to a phone.  Unfortunately, pay phones were practically nonexistent any more, except in larger, heavily populated places like airports and shopping malls.  In a small town like this—not a chance.  So he'd have to see if the gas station attendant would let him make a call.  If he was lucky, the guy would have a cell phone, where the long distance charge wouldn't show up right away.  He needed to call his boss—that was call number one.  Second and more important call—find out about Jinx.

Dubshenko's vivid description of exactly what he had planned for his baby sister made his skin crawl.  That sick, perverted son of a bitch was going to pay for every scratch, every heartache his sister endured because of him.  Maybe the cop, the one Dubshenko seemed so worried about, was keeping her safe.

Jinx was his whole world.  The family all called her Jinx, and Carlo couldn't help smiling at the funny nickname.   She'd hated it at first, even though they called her that in love.  The girl was a walking bad luck magnet.  Every single time the family had planned a big score, down to the last minute detail, Jinx somehow found a way to screw things up without even trying.  She hated that the family made their living pulling cons.  It never bothered him much. He'd just cruised through life, did what his folks asked him to do.  Figured he'd join the
family business
, maybe pull the big heist and be rolling in dough.  Not Jinx though.  She wanted no part of any of it.  She'd barely been eighteen when she'd moved to the city all on her own, got a legitimate job and put the
art of the grift
behind her.  Kept in touch with the family, still spent holidays and birthdays with everyone, but refused to have any part of their shady lifestyle.  They knew Jinx loved them, never doubted it for a second, but she had her life and they had theirs, and they didn't mesh.

He'd never told her how proud she made him.  Wished he'd had her guts to turn his back on the easy mark and walk away.  She was his inspiration, made him want to be a better man.  Instead, he'd ended up doing time because he was with the wrong crowd at the wrong time.  Oh, well, water under the bridge.

Finally
, he thought, strolling across the concrete pad with its gas pumps and trash cans.  Looking through the glass doors, he spotted the clerk behind the counter.  Hot damn, he was in luck.  It was a woman.   She looked to be just this side of thirty. Her bored expression was evident even from a distance.  He smoothed out his rough appearance, running a hand through his hair and checking his breath in his hand.  Ugh, bad enough to knock down a full grown buffalo, but he hadn't exactly had access to a toothbrush or mouthwash in the last several hours.  He'd make due.

“Hey, sugar.”  He pasted what he hoped was a sexy smile on his lips, and gave her a wink.  Flipping through the pages of a magazine she'd barely glanced up when he'd sauntered through the door, but at his words she peeked in his direction. She looked back down at her magazine before her head bounced back up, and her eyes ate him up from his head to his toes in a slow, lingering survey.  Once she reached bottom, her smoldering gaze started the reverse trip.  He practically felt her hands moving across his skin, caressing as they roamed.

“Hey, yourself, stranger.”  She slid the magazine off the counter onto a shelf below, resting her breasts on the countertop as she leaned forward in what he assumed was her take-a-good-look-at-my-assets pose.  “You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet.  What happened?”

Damn, he forgot about the cuts.  “No big deal.  Car broke down and I made it as far as the strip mall.  When I lifted the hood, I whacked myself in the head.  Bled like a stuck pig, too.  Walked the rest of the way here when I realized I'd forgotten my phone.  You wouldn't happen to have one I could borrow, would you?” 

Her hand slid beneath the cash register and pulled out a cell phone in a neon hot pink case. 
Why do women always wrap their phones in that hideous color?  Why?

“You are a life saver, babe.”

“Sure, no problem.  Just put your digits in there before you make any calls, 'kay?”  Jeez, the only thing missing was her popping bubble gum to make her a walking, talking cliché, but what the hell, he needed to make those calls.

“Planned on it, sweet thing.”  He glanced around the empty convenience store/gas station.  “Not real busy, huh?”

She shook her head before leaning back against the cigarette rack behind here, placing her hands on the counter, causing her breasts to jut forward.  He gave them an appreciative once over, knowing she needed the confidence boost. Plus, he needed to stay on her good side.  Didn't need her calling the cops—at least not yet.

He nodded to the phone in his hand.  “Thanks.  I'll get it right back to you.”  He walked a few feet away and dialed a number from memory, praying that his boss answered.  It was picked up on the first ring.

“Branson.”  Yep, even the sound of his dulcet nasal tones set his teeth on edge.  Damn he loathed the S.O.B. 
Jackass
.

“It's Marucci.  We've got a problem.”

“This isn't your secure number, Marucci.  What's happened?  The whiny tone disappeared, all business now, any trace of sleep erased the minute he'd mentioned a problem.

“Dubshenko's on to me.”

“How'd that happen?  Didn't you make the scheduled run like you were supposed to?”

“Yeah, well, there was a—complication.”

There was dead silence on the other end. Seconds ticked by, and sweat beaded along Carlo's forehead.  He worked for the giant pain in the neck, had for the last year and a half, but he didn't like the guy.  Not one iota.  Something about him had the hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention every time they were face-to-face, and Carlo learned the hard way to always trust that instinct.  It had saved his skin on more than one occasion.

“What the hell happened, Marucci?”

“I lost the package.”

“What!”  Carlo pulled the phone away from his ear at the exclamation from the other end.

“Not my fault, boss man.”

“Dammit, this is unacceptable.  We've waited months to get enough intel to take down Dubshenko and his organization, and with one screw-up you've blown everything to dust.  Tell me you at least found out what the package was, please?  Gimme that at least.”

Carlo debated for about ten seconds before answering.  “No clue.  You know I'm not high enough on Dubshenko's food chain to be trusted with that kind of info.  The only reason I even had a chance at delivering this package was because Jimmy the Snitch got arrested right before the run.  You have anything to do with that?”  He looked up at the girl who was twirling a curl around her finger, and she gave him a coy little smile, waving at him with her little finger.  He waved back.

“No, that wasn't us.  FBI picked him up for something entirely unrelated, but we didn't interfere, thinking it was a good opportunity for you to move up in the ranks—which you have.  Where did you lose the package anyway?”

“Fell out of the truck somewhere outside Houston.  I picked it up from Ivor, right on schedule.  When I checked the load before the Louisiana state line, it was gone.”  Carlo felt no remorse about lying to his boss.  There was something else going on here, something he wasn't privy to. He damn sure wasn't saying anything else about the girl, A.K.A. the package, without knowing what was really going on.

“How, Marucci?  How did everything go FUBAR without you having a clue?”

“Not sure, but it gets worse.”

“Worse than losing the best chance of putting Dubshenko away for good, putting a giant dent in the Russian mob in New Orleans?  Oh, I can't wait to hear this.”

“My cover is busted all to hell and back.  Dubshenko knows.”

Curses burned Carlo's ear and he again pulled the phone away. He held it out at arm’s length, knowing the girl behind the counter could hear the yelling, but couldn't make out any of the words.  Well, maybe she'd figure out some of the really bad words.  He chuckled softly, not wanting the jackass to hear him. 

“He knows you're DEA?”

“Well, I think the bullet to the middle of my chest was pretty much self-explanatory, don't you, boss?  Good thing I had my vest on, or I'd be in the morgue right now.”

“Son of a bitch.  You're telling me he shot you—wait, let me get this straight.  Did Dubshenko himself actually pull the trigger?  That's great.  We can get him on attempted murder of a federal agent.”

“Not yet.  There's more going on than we know.  I'm going to ground.  I'll call you when I have more intel, but until then I'm off the grid.”  Carlo ran his hand across his forehead feeling the bump and the sticky dried blood.  He really could use an aspirin or eight right now.

“Wait.  You need to come in, debrief.  Maybe we can salvage something from this cluster—”

“No can do, Chief.  By the way, this isn't my phone.  I borrowed it from this nice lady.  Don't bother sending anybody to get me, I'll be long gone.  I'll keep you posted, though. 
Ciao
.”  He ended the call with the push of a button.

Taking a chance, he made one more call, brief—only a few words.  He just hoped it was enough.

With unhurried steps he walked back to the counter, handing the phone to the clerk.  The gleam of light reflecting off of a car pulling up to a gas pump reflected through the windows, and he stepped back into the shadows pretending to peruse the shelves.  A tall man dressed in a polo shirt and a pair of dress pants walked straight past the pump and through the front door of the store.

“Ma'am, I'm looking for somebody, a man who might have stopped in here within the last thirty minutes or so.  He's a friend.  I was supposed to pick him up.  Tall, dark hair, blue eyes.  Might be a bit banged up.”  At his words, Carlo peered around the corner of the shelf he'd positioned himself behind and got a good look at the guy at the counter.  Yep, it was one of Dubshenko's men from earlier.  He'd obviously changed clothes and was out looking for him.

The clerk's eyes grew round with the man's words, her gaze darting around the aisles.  Carlos put a finger in front of his lips and shook his head no, begging her silently not to give him away.  A barely perceptible nod was his answer.

“Sorry, mister.  There hasn't been anybody in here for the last two hours.  Really slow morning.” She snapped her gum and cracked a big smile.  “At least it was until you showed up.”