THE GUARDIAN (Taskforce Series) (6 page)

**

Jackson
spotted the black Jeep out the corner of his eye, barreling up the 235 toward Gateway.
Hot damn, the bombshell was back!

Ducking back inside his dorm room in the converted motel, he tabbed the blinds to verify that the woman he’d confronted yesterday was behind the wheel. Indeed, she was. There was no mistaking her shoulder-length curls as she slowed at the intersection and turned right into the gas station.

Thankful for his roommate’s absence,
Jackson
pulled out his cell phone while she parked near the store’s entrance. Why the hell had she returned?

He accessed the camera application and snapped off several shots as she stepped out of the car, glancing over the hood in his direction. The sensible clothes she wore today didn’t come close to disguising her shapely curves. Even with fifty or so yards between them, she made his temperature rise, but the distance would compromise the quality of the photos
.

Nonetheless, he sent them with a message apprising Ike and Toby of the circumstances. Hopefully the Taskforce analysts could enlarge the image and use their state-of-the-art facial-recognition software to ID the woman. Once they knew who she was, they would put a swift end to her cat and mouse game.

**

With her feet already aching from just five hours on the job,
Lena
pushed out of the store into the afternoon heat, a bottle of iced tea in one hand and ham-and-cheese sandwich in the other. She’d had no idea being a cashier at a gas station could be so challenging. Bill had shown her all there was to do, from making fresh coffee, to setting the pumps, to restocking the refrigerators in the back room. It was two o’clock, and the midday rush had waned, affording her a break, at last.

As she crossed the quiet parking lot, she glanced toward Gateway, surprised to see construction once more underway. Hunting automatically for Mocha Man, she realized with a leaping of her pulse that he was watching her from the height of a ladder
.

With a defiant smile,
Lena
showed him her sandwich.
See, no camera here.

He tipped her a nod.
I see that.

Heading doggedly toward the picnic table positioned under a mammoth pecan tree, she sat down, propped her aching feet on the opposite bench, and watched the parolees work while she ate
.

Not that there was all that much work going on anymore. One by one, the men had ceased their hammering and sawing to squint and shade their eyes as they stared across the highway at her, even Davis. She countered her sudden discomfort with a swig of iced tea
.

Would he recognize her as his victim’s sister after all these years? Surely not. It had been ten years since
Davis
had faced the Xenakis family at the pre-trial hearing. Back then,
Lena
had worn a thick braid down her back, glasses with lenses as thick as soda bottle bottoms, and fifteen pounds of extra weight. Plus, she’d dropped her real last name, Xenakis, for the sake of her professional career since no one knew how to pronounce it. There wasn’t any way
Davis
would make the connection, she assured herself. Eye laser surgery and rigorous Pilates made her look like a whole new woman
.

The sound of a bell had her glancing back up to see the men dispersing. Roughly half turned toward the mosque, but the other half, including Davis and Mocha Man were preparing to cross the highway.

Like buzzards, they seemed oblivious to the sparse traffic. A school bus loaded with campers nearly bowled them over—all but Mocha Man who remained as alert as yesterday
.

Lena
swam in a cold sweat.
Ready or not, here they come
.

Lifting a hand to the gemstone at her neck, she flipped the tiny switch on the bail with her thumbnail. Her intent was to film her developing relationship with
Davis
, so that when he finally did confess, his words would come across as truthful, not just idle boasting
.

Last night’s dream flashed through her mind.
Don’t think about it.
She’d interviewed dozens of criminals in the course of her career. She could do this.

“Damn, I’d like to get with that bitch,” Jamal Ibn Nasser exclaimed as they drew close enough to make out the woman’s supple curves
.
 

“Watch your mouth,”
Jackson
snapped, as much annoyed by the lanky man’s outburst as he was by the fact that he felt the same way, even now that he’d learned who she was: Lena Alexandra, freelance editor for
Crime and Liberty
tabloid.

He’d received a text from Ike confirming his suspicions just an hour ago.

The woman had trouble written all over her. And he knew he ought to keep his distance, except he was dying to discover her agenda. Given her come-hither smile and the fingers she waggled at them invitingly, it was obvious she was after something—hopefully not him
.
   

“I’m going to talk to her,” announced the parolee named Muhammed. Switching course abruptly, he inspired the others to trail after him, including Jackson, who kept a sharp look-out for anything resembling a camera
.

If the beauty was alarmed at being swarmed by ex-cons, she didn’t show it. “Hello,” she called, her lush lips curving into a heart-stopping smile.

Damn if there wasn’t something about her that made a man think of sex.

“How you doin’?” Muhammed purred, putting a swagger in his stride
.
 

“Super.” She tucked a dark curl behind one ear as she regarded them one by one. “How are you all?”

They lined up on the opposite side of the picnic table feasting their eyes on her. “We good now,” Muhammed declared, his gaze wandering toward her cleavage. “Wha’s your name, baby?”

A spark of cynicism flared in her eyes, but her smile remained fixed. “Maggie,” she said, setting her elbows on the table top and giving them a mouthwatering view of the tops of her coconut sized breasts. “I work here now.” She nodded toward Artie’s.

Jackson
couldn’t believe his ears. The woman hadn’t wasted any time insinuating herself into the local scene, finding the ideal vantage from which to keep tabs on Gateway and making up a fictitious name. Why? Had the media caught whiff of the Taskforce investigation?

“My name’s Muhammed,” said their spokesperson. “This here is Nadim, Hasan, Jamal, Sulayman, and Abdul.”

“Nice to meet all of you.” Her gaze lingered a split second longer on
Jackson
than on the others
.

“Maggie, huh,” Muhammed continued, giving his chin a thoughtful rub. “Is that short for somethin’?”

Her sexy shrug shifted the pink gemstone dangling from her neck. “What do you think it’s short for?” she asked, batting her eyelashes at him
.
 

“Margaret,” guessed
Davis
, looking smug when she gestured that he was right
.

“Smart man,” she praised him. “It is Margaret.” 

She was lying through her pearly white teeth.
Jackson
battled to hide his growing scowl
.

“You live here?” he demanded on a note that made her glance at him sharply
.

“As a matter of fact I just moved here from D.C.,” she answered.

Another lie,
Jackson
thought
.

“No shit. We all from D.C.,” Muhammed exclaimed, “‘cept for Abdul. He from
Baltimore
.” 

“Small world.” She sat a little taller, tantalizing them again as her breasts jutted out. “What neighborhoods are you all from?” 

“I’m from Anacostia, baddest ’hood in the city,” Jamal replied
.

Sulayman Ibn Surad, whose real name was Rup
e
rt Davis, spoke up suddenly. “I used to be a cop—Metropolitan police,” he boasted
.

Maggie shifted her whole body to face him. “Oh, dear,” she said with a sympathetic look
.
   

Jackson
eyed her incredulously. Couldn’t the men tell that she was reeling them in?

“Yeah, we all got busted for one thing or another,” Muhammed corroborated. “But don’t you worry, baby,” he rushed to assure her. “We all cleaned up our act. We God-fearin’ men now,” he added with conviction. “Ain’t that right, fellas?”

“Tha’s right,” three others confirmed.

“Well, that’s a relief,” she stated, “especially since I’m writing a book about prison conversions and I’d love to interview some of you, if you’re interested.”

“You writin’ a book?” Muhammed thumped down onto the bench across from her.

Jackson
scowled. What book? She wasn’t here to write a goddamn book.

“Absolutely. My goal is to show the positive, long-term effects of prison conversion on parolees.”    

The men gaped at her in awe.

“I want to be in it,” Muhammed declared, slapping his hand on the table.

“Well, okay then!” Maggie flashed him a megawatt smile, her gaze jumping up expectantly. “What about the rest of you? I’d love to interview a former cop,” she said to Sulayman.

The tension ebbed slowly out of
Jackson
. He didn’t believe a word about her so-called book, but at least she didn’t seem to be sniffing out a government spy
.

“Not me,” Sulayman declared, taking a backward step.

“Man, why not?” Jamal demanded. “I’ll do it. I used to be a bank robber, but now that I found Allah, I’m a saved man.”

“We all saved,” Muhammed insisted. “You could interview all of us.”

Ike wouldn’t stand for this,
Jackson
assured himself. It didn’t matter if she was hunting  him or not; the woman was a threat to his cover.

Nadim, the only Hispanic man, shattered the moment by announcing that break time was almost over.

“Aw, man.” Jamal slid a mournful look over Maggie’s outrageous curves.

“Time to go.” Grabbing Muhammed by the scruff,
Jackson
hauled him off the bench.

“Bye, baby,” Muhammed sang out as
Jackson
herded them all toward the building
.
 

“Bye.” She fluttered her pink-tipped nails at them. “Come visit me soon. I’ll be here every night at six,” she called, setting
Jackson
’s teeth on edge.

As the men filed into the store to buy their drinks,
Jackson
handed Muhammed a dollar and told him to buy an extra water while he waited outside. The surveillance cameras in the store, like
Lena
’s camera yesterday, made him uncomfortable unless he was wearing a billed cap. Standing alone on the curb, he sensed the journalist staring at him.

Reluctantly, he looked over at her. “I trust you deleted those photos,” he called across the parking lot.