122 Rules (37 page)

Jon shook his head. “That isn’t possible. I know you were hoping that eventually you could go back to NYU and pick up where things left off, but that isn’t going to happen.”

“And why not?” Angel cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes.

“Let me lay this out for you: Tyron Erebus and Peter Morrell are just the first in a series of people who will try to silence you. There’s no way we can protect you forever if you go back to your old life. You will be too exposed.”

Monica ground her teeth in frustration. “So, it’s back to being alone in Witness Protection?”

“No.” Angel, who still held her hand, patted it. “You’re not going to be alone because I’m going with you.”

Monica’s eyes grew misty. “Oh honey, no.”

“That’s not possible. Sorry. It isn’t going to happen.” Jon snapped his notebook shut. The sound ricocheted around the tiny room.

“Yes, it is. See, you used her. You wanted her to give up her life and testify. She did that. Besides, I know too much.”

Jon stared at her. “You know what you are asking? You will be giving up everything.”

“Yes.” She held up their intertwined hands. “Where she goes, I go.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

48

Monica kept looking at Angel’s watch as Jon stayed gone for over an hour. Once he settled himself in the seat across from Angel and Monica, he placed his laptop on the table. “There has been a development.”

“What now?” Monica asked.

“All in good time. First, I checked on the story in St. Louis. There was indeed an incident at Papa Pelone’s Pizza last night. Two men were found dead. Ricardo Pelone, the owner, and his brother the cook, Belivo Pelone.”

“Shit, there has to be one other person, either Erebus or Peter,” Angel said.

“There were eyewitnesses that say a man left the restaurant, got on a motorcycle, and drove off. One of the witnesses reported injuries to the escapee. But there is more.”

“Just spill it already!” Monica blew a piece of stray hair out of her face and wished she could just punch frigging stupid Special Agent Jon. “Why do you have to make everything so dramatic?”

Jon just shook his head and unfolded the laptop. He clicked a few times then flipped it around for them to read. “Here is a preview of a news article that’s set to go out in the
Times
this evening.”

Associated Press

September 17

Four men were gunned down on the steps of the City Courthouse this morning following the release of Laven Seth Michaels, who was suspected of leading a local branch of the mob. Mr. Michaels had been arrested on multiple charges including murder, bribery, conspiracy, drug trafficking, and assault. Full details of his release have not yet been disclosed, however rumors abound.

He and three other men, suspected of being key players in Mr. Michaels’ organization, had just left the courthouse when a dark SUV pulled up. Two unidentified men fired a series of shots.

The four were fatally wounded, but no one else was injured in the attack.

Brett Wells, lead NYPD detective on the case, believes a competing organization committed this act as the result of a turf war, though no evidence has surfaced to support the claim.

Police are looking into the shooting. Citizens are asked to contact authorities if they have any information regarding the incident.

Monica sat back against the seat with a resounding thud. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

“With Laven dead, we no longer need you to testify…until, of course, we catch Tyron Erebus. But for now we believe you’re out of danger.” Jon paused. The air thickened as the two women waited for him to speak again. “But there is something else.”

Angel hissed out a curse. “Of course there is.”

“The paper speculated a rival gang might be responsible for Mr. Michaels’ untimely demise, but we know exactly who that is. In fact, even as we speak, this other group of individuals is systematically destroying their competitor’s operation. It was as if someone provided them with the information to take them apart. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Monica and Angel both shook their heads. “It seems like a good thing, right?” Angel asked. “I mean, a whole drug operation is getting shut down.”

“Only to have a new one put up in its place.” Jon frowned, his brow knitting together. “We had contacts and informants in the old operation. Now we’re going to have to start from scratch.”

“So we’re done here? I can finally go back to my life?” A wide smile spread across Monica’s face.

“No. No, we aren’t done yet,” Angel said. She swiveled sideways in her chair to face Monica. “There’s still the matter of what happens next. What do you want to do?”

“Well…” Monica stared at her friend, trying to imagine her future. “I need to finish school, get a job, and get on with my life. Really, I just want to put this whole thing behind me.”

“No.” Angel patted Monica’s leg. “That’s not all that’s going to happen. Tell her what you are going to do, Jon.”

He cocked an eyebrow though a grin played on his lips. “Who’s running the show here, exactly?”

Angel just shrugged.

Jon sighed and started talking.

* * *

Hundreds of miles from New York, a man sat a secluded table in an outdoor café. He scrolled through the news reports about the death of Laven Michaels and the subsequent takedown of the mobster’s organization. He smiled as he closed the computer.

Now that he had officially started his vacation, he had no place urgent to be, so he sat staring at the flow of the traffic and the pedestrians meandering by. For once, his inner conscience remained quiet, allowing them both this moment of peace.

He finished his coffee and gathered up his belongings. Stuffing the few items into the saddlebags of his motorcycle, he winced at the pain that radiated from his chest.

He climbed onto the big bike and started up the music linked to his helmet. Though the artist had long ago been put in the ground, the gifts of these melancholy guitar riffs remained as alive and vibrant as the day the tracks had been recorded.

Sam smiled, satisfied and content in a way he couldn’t ever recall, as the Triumph—and the music—carried him home.

Epilogue

Monica and Angel went on a two-month trip to Paris, funded by the taxpayers. When they got back, they rented a car—the bashed-up Audi had been returned to the estate of Lisa Bunder—and drove to Alabaster Cove. Angel needed to give notice on her apartment, close out her bank account, and all the other little details that accompanied a major lifestyle change.

They planned to share an apartment in New York City, paid for by a generous stipend from the government, and go to school—this too funded by the taxpayers of a grateful nation. Jon had offered to assist Monica in her education, but she wanted to finish what she had started.

Angel had her mind set on getting a degree in law enforcement. She and Jon spoke often about the requirements for joining the FBI. He told her that after she finished school, he would assist her in getting her foot through the proverbial door.

“Once you’re through though, you’re on your own,” he warned her.

“I can take care of myself.”

He’d looked at her appraisingly. “Yes. Yes, I think you can.”

Angel guided the car across the bridge into Alabaster Cove, well after midnight.

As the two women climbed the steps of the apartment building, Angel said, “I’ll be glad not to have to…” She stopped. The door to her flat lay partially open, its frame split. “Shit.”

Fear raced through Monica. She whispered, “Come on, let’s go.” She turned to leave. When her friend didn’t follow, the fear transformed into panic. “Ang, what are you waiting for? Let’s get the hell out of here. Whoever did this might still be inside.”

“He’s not.”

“What?” Monica glanced at the door, certain that at any second it would creak open to reveal a murdering psychopath with glowing red eyes. She shivered. “You can’t know that.”

“There are leaves in the doorway.”

“Pardon?”

“Leaves. See? There’s more in the living room. Old newspapers on the landing too.”

Monica could not wrap her brain around the point, but before she had a chance to raise an objection, her friend pushed the door and stepped across the threshold.

Cringing against the inevitable
pumpf
of a silenced gun and Angel’s body falling to the floor, Monica followed. The apartment, draped in shadows, looked as though it had been attacked by a pack of rabid wolves. The furniture had been smashed, the pillows from the couch torn to shreds, and the dishes lay shattered on the floor. Aside from the chaotic ruins of Angel’s belongings, an abandoned vacancy permeated the small space. Her friend had been right; no one waited for them.

“This place is a wreck.” One side of Monica’s nose turned up as she surveyed the damage. “I hope you’re a better housekeeper when we’re roommates.”

Angel snorted as she righted lamps and flicked on the kitchen overhead. The light cast an eerie yellow glow on the carnage. Oddly calm where others might have broken down, Angel studied the damage but did not comment.

She stepped over broken teacups and strewn canned goods toward the far side of the kitchen. Monica followed, and together they moved down the hall to the small bedroom. The door had been partially ripped from its hinges and lay cockeyed against a divot in the wall. Two large holes, about the size of man’s fist, had been punched clean through its softwood skin and hollow core, revealing patterned innards of cardboard and glue.

Monica’s eyes traveled over the shards of a broken mirror, the ransacked dresser, and the pile of shredded dresses and shirts, then stopped on the knives—three of them—protruding from the bed. Two handles skewered each of Angel’s pillows. The third had been buried up to the shaft in her mattress—in the exact spot her friend’s heart would have been if she’d been asleep upon the padded surface.

A bloom of reddish-black, as large as a dinner plate, blossomed at each entry point where hilt met fabric.

Monica stared at the malignant roses. No one had died here. The human body contained over five quarts of blood, and the bed would have been saturated in a sea of red had the blades of this dinnerware-turned-weaponry punctured flesh. But the morose tableau had been laid in anticipation of their arrival, both premonition and promise of unspeakable violence and unsatiated rage.

As they returned to the living room, Monica said, “This had to create a hell of a lot of noise. Why didn’t anyone call the police?”

Angel’s face dropped. “There’re only two units in this building, mine and Mrs. Anthony downstairs. She’s about ninety and wouldn’t hear it if you drove a car through her front window.”

“But…” Monica prompted, dread uncoiling in her belly.

“If we went downstairs, we would find that before he came up here, our madman stopped there first.”

“Our madman…” Monica shook her head.

Angel looked around one last time. “Come on, we’re getting out of here.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all evening.”

Angel shut off the lights, and they stepped past the busted frame and out onto the front landing.

Rain. It had begun shortly after they’d arrived, but at the time, Monica hadn’t paid it any attention. More than just a passing shower, cascading sheets of water fell, and the wind howled just beyond the covered stairs.

Angel pulled out her phone and clicked a few buttons. “Storm’s coming. It’ll be full on in just a little bit.”

Monica shrugged. “So what?”

Angel raised her eyebrows. “They’re predicting flash floods.”

Monica gestured toward the apartment. “The bastard that did this could come back at any minute. He might be watching us right now. I don’t want to just sit around waiting for him.”

“You think he’s watching us through that?” Angel pointed at the waterfall just a few feet away.

“I wouldn’t put it past him. Come on, it’s just a little rain. We faced worse on our trip to New York.”

As if in disagreement, thunder boomed, vibrating the concrete foundation under their feet. Debris protested as the winds whipped it about and slammed it into the side of the building.

Monica’s shoulders slumped. “Son of a bitch.” They returned to the ruins of the little apartment.

Angel turned the lights back on then
moved the refuse from the entryway so she could close what remained of the door. The latch had been fractured and wouldn’t keep it in place, so they slid her desk against it, piling it high with anything they could find.

In unspoken agreement, neither went back to the bedroom; instead, they cleared a space on the living room floor and piled it with blankets. As they lay in silence, Monica held Angel’s hand while staring at the ceiling and listening to the rain as it pummeled the building. In spite of her anxiety, fatigue won out, and she drifted off to sleep.