Criminal Instinct (4 page)

“Need information on X opportunities, Mouse. I’m looking to score, but a lot of people are cleaned out. Figured you’d know if there’s a new source.”

“Ain’t my thing.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his grimy hand. “But I know a dude, Tommy. He deals it. Hangs at the arcade. Gots lots of love drug groupies, you know?”

He bit into his apple, licking up the juices with a lizard-like tongue.

Ana refrained from curling her lip. Apples just got knocked off her grocery list for a while. “What’s he look like?”

He jerked a shoulder, his gaze skittering away.

She knew the game. She dug into the pocket of her cargo pants and pulled out a bill.

Mouse plucked it out of her hand. His face screwed up in disgust. “A
five?
”

“All I got.”

“Shit.” He snorted, stuffing the bill into his pants. “Older dude, blond hair. Tail down his back. Thinks the chicks dig it. Who knows if they do, they’re just tradin’ a piece of ass for free shit.” He chuckled at his own joke. Snot dripped from his nose and he wiped at it with his sleeve. “Ain’t too tall, ’bout your height, I guess.”

“You say he’s here a lot at the arcade?”

“Yeah.”

Short or not, without a picture she could pass the dealer and not realize it. “Look, I’ll get you a hot meal if you come and point him out.”

“No way, man. I don’t get involved in people’s shit.”

“What shit? I want to score. You point him out from a distance and he never knows.”

He scrubbed his fingers over his mouth, eyes shifting. “Forget the meal. I want cash.”

Ana hesitated. Mouse wanted to feed his drug habit and she would be helping him. Not that it was her problem or her business. So why did she feel like a jerk?

“How much?” she asked.

“C-note.”

“Get real.” She scowled when he shrugged. “I’ll see what I can come up with. Let’s go.”

Jonas halted at the entrance of the arcade, dug out a few loose bills and dropped them into a guitar case laid out in front of a scruffy man strumming a beat.

The man coughed. “God bless, sir.”

Jonas stepped into the crowded building. The pings and bells of electronic entertainment floated in the air, along with the scent of buttered popcorn from a nearby snack bar. His shoulder brushed an obese man as he took a spot in the ticket line, blending in with the assorted game players packed inside the large two-story building.

Stevie’s file named the arcade as Dolini’s usual haunt.

Peering around heads, Jonas stuffed his hands in his front pockets. He would allow himself one hour here, then he needed to get to the club to finish preparations for the opening. And to hook up with the feelers he sent out this morning.

Did Stevie’s death tie in with the Ecstasy shipment?

Over the years, in order to protect his family and move forward with his operations, Jonas had made plenty of enemies in the drug trade. It wasn’t a far off possibility someone could be after him to seek revenge for a past partnership gone sour. His muscles bunched in his back. He needed to find out who before they got too close to Kara or Elliott.

A teenager cut in front of him, stepping on his foot as she passed through the line. At the same time someone knocked him from behind. Irritated, he glanced over his shoulder. A small child stood behind him in line, looking in the opposite direction.

Jonas turned back to the kid walking away. Little brat didn’t look back or apologize. Just kept walking. A backpack hooked on her slim, petite frame, ebony hair swaying as she swung her head left to right. Something tattooed on her back peeked out from under her little sweatshirt and baggy pants. Jonas couldn’t see her face but she looked like one of those pissed-off-at-the-world teenagers. He should know. He’d been one in his day.

Then he saw it.

She bumped a guy wearing a suit jacket and executed a quick slip of her fingers as she braced herself, gripping one side of his coat so she wouldn’t fall. Some skinny kid strolled behind her and she slipped him a couple of wallets with the other hand as he passed.

Quick and clean. The mark flicked an annoyed look at the kid before taking off as if all was right with the world.

Wait a minute.

Jonas’s hand darted to his back pocket. Empty.

Shit. He scanned for the skinny kid, but lost him. The raven-haired thief, on the other hand, stopped next to a short guy playing a video game. Two adolescent girls draped themselves on either side of him.

Ready to pull the thief aside, Jonas stopped short when he saw the sleaze she stood with. Narrowing his eyes, he matched the jerk’s face with the picture burned into his brain.

Tom Dolini. Right in front of his face.

Tamping down a spike of tension, Jonas edged closer to the thief and Dolini, making sure to keep out of the dealer’s view. The fool had a habit of sneaking away when he sensed trouble. If he saw Jonas coming, he could take off fast.

Jonas eased behind some kids playing a combat game a few yards from the dealer.

Dolini hooted at his entertainment, grabbing at his female companions. The dealer looked to be twice the girls’ ages.

Pervert.

The thief turned to expose her profile. Delicate, petite, pretty. He could just make out her beige skin and the slight tilt at the edges of her eyes. Distinct features that told him she carried Hispanic heritage, maybe something else.

Her attractiveness didn’t get past Dolini, either. The dealer turned to face her with a predator’s smile. Invading her personal space, he reached out spidery fingers to her swing of black hair. The kid slapped his hand away with a belligerent lift of her chin.

How did she know Dolini? Was she looking for a buy?

She stepped away, her attention averted to the back wall, where two thugs were dragging her skinny friend out the exit.
There’s the slippery bastard
.

Jonas glanced back to the thief. Dolini had lost interest, which didn’t seem to bother her. She stared at the rear exit, one little hand cracking her knuckles in an obvious sign of nerves. She shook her head and took quick strides toward the door, a pissed-off little soldier ready for war.

Jonas frowned. What did she think she could do for her friend?

A quick survey assured Jonas that Dolini was still occupied with the game and his arm candy. Jonas glanced back toward the girl. Gone.

He scanned the room, but he still didn’t see her. Only the back door slamming shut.

Ana slipped her pack down beside the arcade’s exit door, and stared out toward the softly rocking ocean from the edge of the pier. Stagnant salt water odor was thick in the air. A ferry floated in the far distance, and somewhere a buoy dinged with the sway of the waves. The scene might have been peaceful if the sea lions weren’t barking a tune and she weren’t looking for her snatched snitch.

“No, I’m good for it! I swear!”

Her head jerked towards the end of the pier. Her fingers gliding against the rough exterior of the building, she took hurried steps down the narrow pathway where it cut to the left.

She halted at the edge of the building, pressed herself against the vandalized wall and then glanced back toward the exit. Door still closed. The pathway alongside the edge of the wharf was clear of individuals yet still close enough to hear the clamor of tourists and a guy shouting, “Cotton Candy for two dollars here!” Would someone be able to hear a cry for help?

Grunts and curses echoed toward her. She inched closer, peering around the corner.

The guys looked to be in their twenties. One jerk, a solid pack of muscle, held her snitch from behind while the other, a lanky beanpole, swung deliberate and painful punches into Mouse’s torso and face.

She’d seen—and experienced firsthand—enough street fights to recognize the sound of raw meat taking a pounding. Mouse could end up beaten to death. Before she could change her mind, she kneeled, shoved up the right pant leg of her cargo pants and whipped out the pocketknife from the ankle of her blue Doc Martens. Didn’t have her switchblade. Illegal to carry, Sarge kept reminding her.

Just take off, Ana. This isn’t your problem
.

Ana’s palms dampened. That would have been exactly what Max would have said. His favorite motto had been, “Always look out for yourself ’cause no one’s gonna do it for you.”

But she couldn’t abandon Mouse, leaving him helpless against two predators. She couldn’t just walk away.

Why not? Hasn’t everyone done that to you?

She shut that thought away. Straightening, she extended the two-inch blade and hid the weapon behind her back. Stepping out around the corner of the building, her feet scraped against a few bits of gravel. She took confident steps toward the trio, stopping a few feet away.

“Let him go.” Her voice sounded distant, flat. One point scored for her.

The lanky one whirled away from Mouse, shock on his face. The other big guy held Mouse up, actually laughing.

Lanky sneered, slithering his gaze down her body. Most likely coming to the same conclusion as most people who faced her: not much of a threat.

Don’t push it, jerkwad, or you’ll get a surprise you’re not going to like.

“Mind your business and get outta here, bitch.”

“Sorry, don’t follow orders too well. Ask my boss.” Her eyes narrowed when the other jerk hooked his arm around Mouse’s skinny neck, making the kid struggle and gasp. “You got a hearing problem, fatass? Let him go. The cops are on their way.”

“Yeah?” Lanky strutted closer, one of those slow pimp walks, like he was a hot shot and knew it. His pale eyes gleamed with sick satisfaction. “Security would be here already.”

So he possessed some brain cells. “Stick around and find out.” She made her tone a deliberate threat.

He let out a laugh of disbelief. “Listen, what do they call your kind?
Chicas? Chica
skanks?”

Ana let the taunt roll off her. She’d heard them all before. Her main concern was to watch for the attack that was sure to come.

“I’m not leaving till Mouse pays—” He lunged, clutching her left forearm in a brutal grip. “—what he owes me.”

On instinct, she struck out with a quick slash of the knife. A thin line of red split across his hand.

“Fuck!” He latched on to the wrist of her knife hand.

Adrenaline rushed through her blood like a drug. She whipped out with a vicious kick, connected with his shin, and then stomped down, grinding her boot into his foot.

A growl burst from his mouth. Bruising fingers twisted her captive arm, threatening her grip on the weapon.

She sucked in air, leaning toward him to ease the tearing pain. He reeked of sweat and liquor.

“Drop the knife, bitch.”
Spittle sprayed her face. He wrenched her aching arm in the wrong direction.

Pain blazed through her. Dots sprouted in front of her eyes. She gritted her teeth against the scream that raged in her throat. The knife slipped from her fingers and she booted the weapon, sending the blade skittering out over the edge of the pier, continuing to lash out at his shin. Again. Again. Ramming against his sweaty grip.

“Fuckin’ whore!” He released her left arm. Her weak arm.

Keep moving!
Sarge’s brutal training ripped into her head.
Aim for the eyes, throat, nose!
She swung up, connecting her open palm awkwardly with his nose, wincing with the impact.

His head jerked, blood dripping from his nostril. Snarling, he shoved his weight against her.

Her heart thundered against her chest as she lurched backward.

Going down.

She gripped his bicep and fell with the momentum. Her back hit the ground, but she still jammed her booted feet up into his upper chest as he came down. She pulled his shoulder, shoved up with both legs at the same time, and flipped his narrow body over her.

Fight!
Breath squeezed from her lungs as she rolled into a half-assed backward somersault. Her shoulder and hip scraped against asphalt, tiny pebbles biting through her layers of clothes. Something scratched the side of her face as she rolled to her feet.

Move your ass! Don’t let him get back on you!

The world leveled out as she crouched, arms out, ready to defend.

Her eyes flickered.

Lanky was no longer on the ground, but not standing either. He hung against the wall of the building, pinned under a thick, bronzed forearm. His shirt was wadded in a severe grip. A long, defined body leaned all of its weight into the arm.

Her gaze veered to the cold face of her rescuer. Had she hit the ground harder than she thought? Or was it really Jonas Saven suffocating the bastard?

Friday
1:25 p.m.

Billy Donavon, codename Jax, entered the bar, braced for anything. That was the way it had to be done. Couldn’t let his guard down, not even for an instant, or he could end up with a bullet in the back just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Stale malt and tobacco odors hung in the stagnant air. Muffled tunes slurred from an ancient jukebox.

The floors revealed scars, and faded posters curling at the edges did nothing to disguise the rat holes and nameless stains on the walls.

The bartender, a black man with a beer gut, eyed him warily, as if trying to figure out if Billy would start trouble or not.

Maybe he would.

It all depended on how things went down.

He walked past the bar, ignored a blunt proposition from a redheaded whore and continued straight back to a couple of tables occupied by Black Dragon members. Among them, Tomas Garcia.

Sarge’s instructions played in Billy’s ear.

Get in, offer the deal, leave. They aren’t going to accept. Just whet their appetite. They’ll come to you. But not until you’re tested. Be prepared
.

As he drew closer, Billy watched hands move to hidden weapons. Men, some of them just boys, shot him deadly looks.

He wanted to grin; they were no threat to him. Only one thing scared Billy, and facing down a few punks with guns wasn’t it. He didn’t know if that’s just how he’d been born, or if being raised as a bastard in the ghetto streets of Oakland had molded him into a hardass.

Probably the latter. He didn’t care one way or the other.

Billy halted, schooling his face to reveal nothing. “I’m looking for Garcia.”

Rico Garcia led the toughest street gang in San Francisco, associated with every illegal crime ring in the Bay Area. Billy saw no sign of Rico, but he didn’t let on.

Tomas, Rico’s brother, sat in a corner with his back against the wall, head tilted up, nose in the air. Though Tomas sported the same build as his brother, that’s where the resemblance ended. Tomas’s face looked like a shark—all nose, with the beady, black eyes of a predator.

The gangster leaned back in his chair, taking his time lighting a cigarette. “What you want with Garcia, cracker?”

Billy ignored the slur. “Looking to deal.”

“Deal?” Garcia scraped out a chuckle. “You see, cracker, we got all kinds of deals, aye? Just none for a white
pelotudo
like you.”

Hoots of laughter filled the room.

Billy reached into his leather jacket.

The laughter stopped. The sound of a Glock’s chamber sliding back followed.

Billy didn’t move his eyes off Garcia.

While raising his right hand slowly, with his left he grasped the wad of cash from within his leather jacket, and slid his hand out. He tossed the cash on the table.

Tomas picked up the bills and ran his fingers through them like a fan before throwing them back.

“We don’t know you. Get lost.”

Billy stuffed the money in his pants pocket and slid a scrap of paper from another on the table.

“This is my number. I’m looking to buy pure Yola.” Sarge agreed that putting out feelers for Ecstasy when such a large shipment was headed for the city would be too obvious, so Billy pretended to be trolling for coke. Gaining the Black Dragons’ trust held priority. He met Garcia’s eyes.
“Tengo mas dinero. Pase encendido la informacion.” I have more money. Pass on the information.

Tomas narrowed his gaze.
“Veamos.” Let us see.

Billy turned to leave, deliberately turning his back on a threat. Every nerve in his body braced for any potential attack as he exited the bar.

He heard footsteps crunch on gravel coming from the left of the building.

Removing his jacket, he stepped out to the parking lot. He sucked cool air into his lungs, and blew it out slowly, consciously relaxing every muscle.

He threw his jacket toward his bike and shut his eyes.

He listened, fading out the rush of traffic from the highway, the distant cry of a cat, zeroing in on the numerous heavy steps scraping small rocks.

More than one, maybe three.

The
whoosh
of a weapon whipped through the air.

He snapped his eyes open and ducked. The lead pipe missed him by an inch. Pivoting, he grabbed the attacker’s arm, braced his hand on the gangster’s elbow, and coldly jerked back at an opposite angle.

A muffled crack. The guy crumpled to the ground screaming.

Two others rushed him together, hands raised, one with a lethal blade.

Billy curled his thick fingers into fists and dodged the first forward thrust of the knife. The second man slid out of his peripheral sight, attacking from behind, hooking his arms under Billy’s. Shoving his weight into his back, Billy lifted his legs and shot both feet at the knifer’s head. The knifer fell back, losing his footing.

Throwing his head back fiercely, Billy head-butted the other gangster’s face, freeing himself. He spun on the balls of his feet and slammed his fist into the man’s busted lip.

Pain sliced across his shoulder.

Fuck!

Billy whirled. Knife Boy crouched. Billy gave a come-at-me gesture with his fist. His chest heaved, sweat pearling on his face.

Blood dribbled from Knife Boy’s nose into his mouth. He spit out a red glob onto the gravel and charged, knife raised high, ready for a downward sweep.

The guy came at him fast. Billy sidestepped and pounded a brutal shot to his kidney, another to his bent head. Knife Boy went down, stayed down.

Reaching around to the wound, he attempted to stanch the blood leaking out of the slice with his wrist. Hard breaths vented from his mouth. He grimaced. He looked at his bloody fists, still clenched tight. He tried once to open his hands, gritting his teeth when they barely moved.

He still couldn’t feel them yet. Sometimes it took minutes for the blood to circulate again, for the numbness to go away. He walked to his jacket and chopper, hooked a fist into the neck of his leather jacket and climbed on his ride, stuffing his jacket into the bike pouch on the tail. The left hand came alive first, but the right’s fingers barely uncurled.

At the sound of the bar door opening, he twisted the key as fast as he could manage and cranked the engine as he kicked the side stand up. With one rev of the motor, he peeled out of the lot the best he could with numb fucking hands, the gravel flying behind him.

“You like to hit women?” A dark haze of fury narrowed Jonas’s vision. Gritting his teeth, he stared into the scum’s scared, reddened face—pushed his forearm harder into his throat. “Why don’t you try it with me?”

Pale eyes bulged from lack of oxygen. Thin lips opened wide.

“Let—go,” the scum gasped out.
“…sick.”

Someone yanked on his arm. Jonas shifted so quickly the thief flinched. Her green eyes were wide, her little hands tugging with surprising strength.

“Don’t kill him,” she said. “He’s not worth it.”

Cursing, Jonas eased back the pressure of his arm. The thief dropped her hands away, never taking her suspicious gaze from him.

The scum sucked in large gulps of air. Tears slid down his face.

Jonas’s chest heaved with labored breaths, his fists tightening. He willed himself to regain control. This idiot wasn’t his old man going off on a bender. The girl wasn’t his defenseless mother.

Stepping away, he watched as the assailant fell to his knees. The man wheezed, and gagged on his own vomit. Sour odor drifted up from the pier.

Jonas always exhibited control, but in just one moment his restraint was shot to hell. Shutting his eyes, he inhaled and let the tension seep out of the rigid muscles in his neck, deliberately unclenching his fists. When he had command of his emotions again, he opened his eyes and saw the thief backing away. As if
he
was some kind of dangerous animal, ready to attack.

Hell…she looked more than ready to take him on.

Discomfort and irony unnerved him. Discomfort to have a woman view him as a threat, and irony that she seemed to assume her little body was any match for him. Even if she had held her own against the drunken bastard.

She stroked her fingers through the chin length hair blowing in her eyes.

Not a girl after all, but a young woman.

Her cheeks were refined, her nose petite. Those almond-shaped green eyes, heavily lashed, were striking. Usually when he saw beige skin and dark hair, he’d find the dark eyes to match.

His gaze roamed lower.

The wind molded her simple sweatshirt against the small curves of her breasts. He couldn’t make out much past her baggy pants, but the tantalizing gap between her pants and top revealed a narrow, defined stomach and a tiny bellybutton…adorned with a miniature silver bar.

The first sign of heat in his gut wasn’t unfamiliar when in the presence of an intriguing female, but in this situation, it was unexpected.

And no way in hell wanted.

He aimed his attention on her interesting face. She was too pale.

“You okay?” He walked to her and grabbed her chin with one hand. Her eyes narrowed. He had a moment to realize her skin was soft like silk before she jerked from his grasp, distrust flickering across her soft features.

“Hands to yourself,” she ordered. Her voice was low, and as smooth as the feel of her skin. “You…have a scratch beside your eye.” Raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, he forced the smile he knew could draw in females in a heartbeat.

Not this time.

She raised a hand, hesitantly touching the scratch as she stepped slowly backwards toward her friend on the ground.

They were alone now. The big guy had run like hell the minute Jonas had grabbed his friend, and now the other idiot scrambled behind him. Let them go. They weren’t his concern.

She kneeled beside her friend. “Mouse, you all right?”

The kid moaned.

Jonas had witnessed grown men unable to keep their cool in an emergency situation. For someone who’d been through an assault, she seemed okay. No tears. She was physically tough, too. He’d been caught off guard when she flipped the guy over her and scrambled up to fight.

But she wasn’t too smart. She’d picked the wrong guy’s wallet.

“Mouse?”

Jonas shook his head. Out cold. “Does he need an ambulance?”

“Yeah.” She nodded, the breeze causing a sweep of hair to veil her eyes.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 9-1-1. It took some time to be connected, but he finally relayed the situation.

“They’re on their way,” he said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. When she didn’t say anything, he cleared his throat. He wanted to ask about her connection to Dolini, but damn, with her guarded attitude it didn’t look like he’d get much information. And now with cops on their way, Dolini wouldn’t stick around.

“I need you to answer some questions,” he said.

No answer.

Irritation flickered. “You were talking fine a minute ago.”

She whipped her head up. “Excuse me for not being in a conversational mood.” She offered him an expression of disgust. “I only answer questions if I feel like it.”

Those green eyes taunted him.

“Well,” he told her, “feel like it.”

The smooth line of Jonas Saven’s jaw was strong, and his nose was long but proportioned to the appealing lines of his face, now distant and closed off. He looked just like the snapshot Ana had seen of him—dark mahogany hair slicked back from his forehead and tied at his neck. Tall and broad shouldered, arms nicely built with muscle beneath his loose navy sweater, long legs covered with spiffy gray corduroys. The sleeves of his sweater were pushed up beneath the elbows, exposing bronzed skin feathered with dark hair. A large silver watch encircled his right wrist.

Probably not silver though. She’d bet platinum.

“You make it a point to wade into dangerous situations on your own?” Saven demanded of her.

The wind kept teasing her hair into her face. Irritated, she ran her hands through the wayward strands. “When it’s necessary.” She cocked her head. “Any more brilliant questions?”

Saven’s thick eyebrows lowered over his gaze as if he wasn’t accustomed to people talking back to him. Her eyes skimmed his rebel eyebrow, the one with the scar. It made him look dangerous. Tough. Totally at odds with his rich lifestyle.

“Help’s on the way, Mouse,” she murmured to the kid, and then stood. “Look,” she said to Saven. “Thanks for your help, but I have it under control now.” Yeah, this was an excellent opportunity to get to Saven, and get in close, but not now. The thugs were history, but Mouse needed to be taken care of.

Saven glanced at his wristwatch.

“If you got things to do, don’t let us hold you back.” She was still a bit shaken up, and needed a moment to get back on level footing. Gratitude and suspicion danced a twisted tango inside of her. Being attacked and then rescued by the guy she was trying to get information on hadn’t been covered in SIDE 101.

“Wish I could, but you and your friend there have something of mine.”

That’s when it hit her.
Gray cords, blue sweater over broad shoulders, thick ponytail
. She’d seen him from behind, not noticing the face of her target—just the perfect outline of a wallet right in front of her so that she could get the money to pay Mouse for information.

Oh shit.

The fact that she’d been caught performing a lift didn’t sit so well. Rusty was not a word she liked to associate with herself.

His gaze drifted to her mouth.

“If I know Mouse, your wallet’s already in a dumpster. He goes for quick cash and dumps the rest.”

“What about you?” His voice had gone soft. “You’re the one who lifted it.”

“Ever hear of wrong time, wrong place?”

His attention traveled back to her eyes, where he held her captive long enough for her to shift and cross her arms. Although he didn’t visually scan her body, she still felt thoroughly examined. She already knew she wasn’t someone to draw the interest of a man like Saven. His file listed the type of women he gravitated toward—short and slight weren’t it. Long legged, big chested—not to mention exotic—were more his style.