Hard Candy Saga (37 page)

“First things first—do you ever remember seeing anything in Barton's house containing the name Grayson Stokes? Anything?” Tuck asked seriously.

Candice had studied many things that she'd stolen from Uncle Rock's safe, but she couldn't be too sure.

“I—I . . . can't,” she started.

Tuck leaned in; there was a look of panic on his face. “Please, Candy . . . you have to think. Please! My kids will be dead if we wait too long,” he said solemnly. Tears were rimming his eyes. Candice looked across the table and bugged out as she saw the face of her father staring back at her. She had to shake off the hallucination. Tuck's passion about his kids reminded her so much of her father.

“I remember. I do remember that Uncle Rock had been studying Stokes as one of his marks,” Candice confessed in a near whisper.

Tuck leaned back and clapped his hands together. Now they were getting somewhere.

“That man was one of the people who had tortured Uncle Rock when he was in the military back in the day. I read his stuff. . . . Uncle Rock wanted to kill Stokes, but something had him afraid,” Candice told Tuck. “I have all of the information. It's a good fuckin' thing I never kept all my shit in that hotel room,” Candice announced, digging her safe-deposit box key from her purse.

“Let's go, Candy! He has my family!” Tuck exclaimed, hopelessly optimistic. He wanted to hug and kiss her, but that could wait until after he found his wife and children. One thing Stokes had gotten right was that Candy was a force to be reckoned with. Candice and Tuck both shot up from the booth, ready for action. The greasy spoon owner had just started over to their table with Tuck's usual dish in hand. Tuck also noticed the man held Brubaker's favorite in his other hand.

“Not today. I can't stay.” Tuck put his hand up, halting the man's ungainly stride. The man looked confused and crushed. “But here . . . remember what we talked about.” Tuck dug into his pocket and placed a wad of cash in the man's dirty apron pocket. The money would more than cover the cost of the food and ensure the owner's silence when it came to other matters.

* * *

Cyndi DeSosa walked the long hallway that separated her and Arellio's wing of the home from her father-in-law's living quarters. Her heels clacked against the marble floors and she wrapped her arms around her body, fighting off the chills. Her face was still swollen from her ordeal; no amount of makeup could hide the fact that she was still grieving.

Cyndi hadn't even processed the heinous acts that had been carried out on her brother-in-law before she witnessed her own husband's death. It had all happened so fast. Cyndi didn't think she would ever get over the fact that her husband was standing in front of her one minute, and then dead the next. His brains had spewed out the front of his head and splattered onto her face, neck and clothing.

Cyndi had screamed until her throat was raw and bleeding. It had taken her two days of scrubbing her skin raw until she no longer saw or smelled his blood on her skin.

Cyndi was a shell of a person now. She felt cold down to her bones; and each time she closed her eyes, she replayed the scene in her mind like a movie. Cyndi took a daily cocktail of Valium, Zoloft and Ambien to try to stay sane, but she barely got an hour of sleep if she was lucky. She couldn't stand to be inside her house. Her husband had died in their living room; the room had been roped off like a quarantine area. No one was allowed in or out. Her house felt like a mausoleum.

Her bedroom reminded her that she was now a widow. Although she knew her husband was dead, she couldn't bear to pack away his belongings. Cyndi slept in the kids' room. She was always crying; and when she wasn't upset, it was only because she was so high from the drugs she took.

Little Rolando kept asking for his daddy. Each time he did, Cyndi would run to the bathroom to cry until she threw up. The baby was too young to understand; but each time Cyndi thought about her daughter growing up without a father, it made her double over in pain.

Cyndi arrived at DeSosa's quarters and folded her arms across her ample breasts. She cracked a halfhearted smile at DeSosa's guard, who stood in front of his bedroom door. The guard nodded in return, looking at her strangely.

“Is he okay?” she rasped, widening her red-rimmed eyes to look up at the hulk of a man. The man answered her in Spanish, stating he hadn't seen DeSosa all day.

“I'm going in to check on him. This is hard for all of us,” Cyndi said softly; her throat was raw from all of the crying and screaming. The guard didn't dare resist her request for entrance. He stepped aside and opened the door for her.

Although DeSosa had said no visitors, he hadn't specified if his live-in daughter-in-law was considered a “visitor.”

Cyndi stepped inside the darkened room and chills rushed over her body. There were three men inside. They were all sitting around a small table huddled together, whispering. The lights were dim and it was obvious Rolando had already gotten into bed.

Cyndi approached the men.
“Hola,”
she whispered.

They all looked at her in surprise.

“I want to have some time alone with him. Please give us a few minutes,” she whispered.

The men looked at her and then at each other. No one was ready to say no to a grieving widow.

Cyndi immediately read their hesitation. “I just buried my fuckin' husband, and he just buried both of his sons. We are all we have left.... Surely, you fuckin' understand. Now get the fuck out,” she commanded with all of the authority she could muster.

Stunned, the men scrambled up from their card game and hustled out of the room.

Cyndi watched and waited until she was alone with DeSosa. She walked to the back of the suite and pulled DeSosa's wheelchair away from his bedside. She tiptoed over to where he lay and watched him closely for a few minutes.

He was sleeping peacefully, probably because he'd been given a sedative cocktail to help him rest. Cyndi watched his slow breathing for a few minutes. She could definitely see her husband's face in her father-in-law's. Tears welled up in her eyes. She cupped her hand over her mouth to muffle her whimpers.

She couldn't understand how one man could cause so much death and destruction. Yes, she knew he sold drugs, but she had never wanted to admit until lately just how deep her father-in-law played in the drug game.

When she'd called Dulce's cell phone to tell her that she was going to call the cops on her, Dulce had told her everything. Cyndi didn't believe it at first, but how would Dulce know such details about her family if she were concocting a story out of the blue?

Cyndi never had a chance to tell Arellio what she'd learned about his father. As far as Cyndi was concerned, Rolando DeSosa was scum of the earth. He was responsible for her husband's death too; there was no doubt in Cyndi's mind about that. She swallowed the golf ball–sized lump in the back of her throat and approached his sleeping form.

“
Papi
DeSosa,” she whispered, shaking his arm softly with one of her trembling hands.

DeSosa lay stock-still.

“
Papi
,” she said a bit louder, shaking him a bit more vigorously.

He let out a long sigh. At least she knew he was still breathing.

“
Papi
DeSosa,” she called, moving her face lower, within his line of vision.

He finally stirred. His medication-dilated pupils rolled open; his eyelids slowly inched upward as if they were lead heavy. Cyndi felt a flash of relief.

“Are you awake now?” she asked, tapping his arm. He grunted. She could tell he was fighting against the drugs to wake up. She tapped him a few more times. He grunted again, but this time his eyes came all the way open.

“Cyndi?” DeSosa croaked out. His voice sounded like sandpaper against a wall. “Cyndi, is that you?” he asked, lifting his head slightly to look at her. He looked so weak, so feeble now. Cyndi had a hard time keeping the image of him as a cold-blooded murderer in her mind's eye.

“Yes, it's me,” she said. Her voice cracked, and her eyes filled with tears. She watched him through blurry eyes, tilting her head to the side as if she were a child asking for a favor.

“What is it?” he asked. His eyes and brain were fully alert now. He reached out to touch her hand.

Cyndi snatched her hand back. She folded her arms across her chest. She didn't want his evil to rub off on her.

“What's the matter, Cyndi?” DeSosa asked more urgently this time.

“Why? Why? Why'd you do it?” she cried. Her shoulders shuddered as she was overcome with pain. “How could you? How . . .” she wailed now, beyond words.

“What, Cyndi? What is it?” DeSosa asked, with raised eyebrows. He was growing worried about her. He looked down to the foot of his large bed. Then his eyes darted across the suite; he quickly noticed that his security detail was missing. He looked back at his daughter-in-law, and an uneasy feeling came over him. “Where is everybody, Cyndi?” he rasped.

“Was it worth it—losing your sons? How can you live with yourself?” Cyndi's voice was as hard and as sharp as steel.

DeSosa didn't have to ask her what she was talking about; she had discovered the sort of monster he'd become and was horrified to be living under the same roof. He didn't blame her. Tears ran out of the corners of his eyes. He was powerless. He couldn't even get himself out of bed. His head flopped back down on the pillow, defeated.

“You ruined a lot of lives! You killed women and children! You dragged your children into this! They only wanted to make you proud, so they joined you. They wanted to be like you! What kind of man are you?” Her voice was accusing. Her sobs changed to pure anger. “My kids don't have a father! I don't have a husband! All because of your selfish, evil ass!” she boomed through tears.

DeSosa didn't respond. He had made a lot of mistakes in his life and was paying for them now.

“Answer me!” Cyndi demanded. “Answer me, you fuckin' devil!” She could hear the security men at the door, trying to get inside. Cyndi's hand shook as she dug into her shirtfront. She pulled the small .22-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver from between her breasts and leveled it at her father-in-law. “You ruined too many lives. You ruined my life! You have to pay for your sins!” she belted out.

She could hear the footsteps rushing toward her. It was too late. With a rush of panic engulfing her, Cyndi fired off two shots.

DeSosa's eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Her point-blank shots left two great gaping holes in his forehead.

DeSosa's security detail stormed the room and sounded off four shots. Cyndi's body dropped to the floor like a deflated balloon.

The men had arrived too late; their employer was dead and now so was his killer daughter-in-law.

Candice and Tuck both looked surprised when they arrived at their destination. The ranch-style 1960s-era house, located off a dirt road, and in the middle of a damn near forest, was not the place that one would expect the head honcho of the CIA to call home.

Candice peered out the car window. Tuck ducked his head and did the same.

“You sure you got this right?” Tuck asked doubtfully.

“Yeah,” she mumbled, equally astonished.

“I guess that's why you should never judge a book by its position in the government, huh?” Tuck said lamely.

“Yeah, I was thinking it would be a mini-mansion for Stokes. Instead, we're looking at something one step above a fuckin' trailer home.”

“Hey, it's your intel . . . not mine,” Tuck clarified.

They went over their plan one more time. Tuck was shocked to learn that Candice knew so many techniques—slicing the pie, stacking up, fatal funnel and so on. In fact, she had ended up schooling him on a few techniques he'd never even learned in his numerous training classes.

“Remember, our main goal is to get him to say where my family is, and then he's all yours,” Tuck told her.

Candice exhaled. Her gut was jumping and her heart was pounding. “You ready?” she asked Tuck.

“As ready as I'm ever gonna be,” he responded.

She went for her door handle. He stopped her by placing his hand on her arm.

“Candy, no matter what happens in here, just know I was always on the side of good,” Tuck said in all seriousness. His words sounded like parting words.

She cringed and mentally scolded herself for still having those feelings. “Same here. It was always just about justice for my family,” she offered in return.

They exited the car at the same time.

“Down,” Tuck whispered harshly. Her head was too high. He could see the black-clad men from Stokes's detail roving inside.

The simple ranch-style house had a very nondescript exterior. The grass was brown and looked like hay. What was left of the shrubbery barely resembled greenery at all. There were two small trees on either side of the front door, which surprised Tuck. As a spook he expected Stokes to know that those trees made for a great hiding spot for enemies lying in wait for an ambush.

Candice took her place behind the tree at the left of the door, and Tuck went to the one on the right. Candice popped her head up and peeked in the window. The blinds were drawn, but she could see through the small slits. There was only one man in black in the front foyer of the house. He was drinking a Coke, taking a break. Perfect.

Candice signaled to Tuck to move forward. He reached his long arm out and banged on the door. They both took cover behind their respective trees. Candice saw the man inside put the Coke down on the table. She lifted her hand up to tell Tuck that the man was coming.

Tuck stood upright, still out of sight. When the man pulled back the door, Tuck went into action. He put his gun to the man's head from the side. Candice did the same from the other side. “Shh,” Tuck instructed the man. Candice dug in his shoulder holster and took his gun. She threw it in her bag. Then she took his handcuffs.

Tuck tackled the man down to the ground on his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Before the man could even cough, Candice applied a few pressure points; in a matter of seconds, the man was knocked out. Tuck handcuffed the man's hands behind his back and flipped him over. Candice rushed to loosen his tie. Her hands were shaking fiercely with excitement.

“Hurry up before they miss him,” Tuck whispered harshly. Finally the tie came free of the man's neck. Candice was able to double the material and made a gag.

Tuck dragged the man behind the bush he'd been hiding behind and propped him up against the house. Out of sight. Out of mind.

“C'mon,” Candice said nervously. Tuck was taking too damn long; even she knew that. Tuck finally emerged. He waved his hands silently, signaling their next move.

Candice slipped inside the front door and went left, while Tuck went right. Backs up against the walls, they began the process of clearing the rooms until they found what they were looking for.

Candice's back hit up against a frame and it swayed precariously on the wall.
Shit!
She turned just a second to steady the picture. Tuck had made it to the doorway. He was waving and pointing, signaling to her that the other two bodyguards were nearby. He needed her to take one; he'd take the other.

Within seconds Candice was right up on his back; the hairs on his neck stood up in response to her rapid breaths behind his ear.

Now they both heard voices.

Candice's heart rate sped up.

The voices were getting closer.

“Where is this guy?” one of the men asked as his voice got louder and louder.

“Now!” Tuck whispered in her ear.

They both rushed through the opening to the hallway; Tuck's gun led the way. The unsuspecting bodyguard turned a sickening shade of white when he came face-to-face with the end of Tuck's gun. Tuck placed his fingers up to the man's lips, ordering his silence.

Tuck dragged the man down and Candice went to work. They handcuffed him, but they didn't bother with the tie this time.

Tuck put up his pointer finger to make the number one. He turned the same finger toward a doorway on the left. He was letting Candice know there was one more threat ahead. But there was still another door to the right, nearly diagonal from them. Candice knew this meant they'd have to split up. Somebody had to keep their eyeball on the other door to watch for any unaccounted-for and unknown threats. Tuck waved her on to the other door. Then he dipped into the door on the left.

Candice heard the man inside say, “What the . . .” but his words were clipped short. Obviously, the result of a quick blow to the back of his neck.

Candice was in front of the last door. She swallowed hard and tried to slow her rapid breathing. She reached down with her nonshooting hand and twisted the doorknob. The door clicked and it creaked open. With a two-handed grip, she slipped inside the room.

“I'm not ready to eat yet,” the man inside scolded; his back was turned to the door. When he didn't get a response, he prepared his tongue to lambaste his shit-for-brains henchmen. He swiveled around in his chair with a scowl on his face. The man's eyes widened at the unexpected sight of the girl with the barrel of a gun aimed at his chest.

“Grayson Stokes? I'm Candice Hardaway. . . . I hear you been looking for me,” she announced with the calm of Hannibal Lecter. He followed the gun with his eyes as it went up and came down with a
thwack
on his skull. Stokes growled before he slumped over like a sad heap of bones.

Candice was on the move. She dumped her bag out and retrieved the duct tape to make quick work with Stokes. With her gun tucked under her chin, she stepped behind his chair so he wouldn't have a visual of her. The tip of the tape was finally pulled up from the roll and she taped him to the chair.

“You don't have to do this,” Stokes told her. She hit his ass in the shoulder with the end of her gun. His body involuntarily struggled against the restraints; his muscles pushed against his skin. Stokes had been caught off guard; he was attacked in his own home. He couldn't believe he was tied up and rendered helpless by a mere slip of a girl. With all of the things he had done in his life—the murders, the lies, the deceit—he would most likely not die of old age.

“You better start talking. Where are the kids?” Candice growled. Another blow sent a wavering shock over him. He could feel his teeth click in his mouth from the force of the blow. He wouldn't speak.

“Agggh!”

He let out a guttural scream as the end of her gun was driven into his testicles. He didn't know how much more of this he could take. Now he wished he couldn't feel anything . . . anywhere on his body. Another hit drew blood. A fit of coughing followed. The man whirled his head around, trying to will his lungs to fill back up with air. He was angry at his condition; his body had given out years ago, defying him over and over.

If Candice was anything like Barton, she had done her homework well and knew all about his weaknesses. The thought made him angry enough to kill. He gripped the handles of his own chair now. The large green veins in his hands bulged against his liver-spotted skin.

“Where the fuck are the kids?” Candice asked him, but he couldn't answer. He couldn't find the words.

His head—the pain trampling through it.

His ears—the shrill ringing.

It was all too much and rendered him speechless.

Blood leaked down the side of his face and into his left eye. The skin that was his eyebrow had parted wide, exposing pink flesh and white bone.

“Who are you?” he asked, sounding confused.

“Don't fuckin' act like you don't know who I am, you muthafucka!” Candice bellowed.

A maniacal laugh filled his ears.

“You don't know who I am? I thought you were like God. I thought you knew everything and controlled everyone.” Her anger was as potent as the venom that dripped off each word.

“You're here to avenge your father? He deserved to die,” Stokes said cruelly.

Candice walked over to her bag and retrieved something. Then she walked over to him and turned a box of salt upside down over his open wound. Tuck's Greek friend had hooked her up with a large bag of cooking salt, perfect for just this purpose.

“Agggh!”

Stokes was panting as the stinging from the salt sent a million tiny needles all over his body. Another hit from the gun rocked through his cranium. This time Stokes barely held on to his consciousness.

“I will ask you again for the truth. Where the fuck is Tucker's family?” Candice continued to pour more salt over his open wounds.

The man opened his lips and began to speak, but his tone was a weak whisper.

“I knew you would come. I had been expecting you,” Stokes barely managed.

Candice's hands shook now; anticipation was making her antsy. She wanted to blow his fucking brains out, but she had to find out where Tuck's kids were first.

“I knew all of this time you would come,” Stokes whispered again. Then his head dropped forward, and his chin hit his chest.

“Good. Then you should've been expecting this,” Candice said in an even tone as she lifted her weapon. The man looked up at her out of battered eyes. He locked gazes with Candice. Stokes tried to hold back a coughing fit, but he lost that battle.

“How did you find me?” he asked weakly.

“Don't worry about that!” Candice responded. She was enraged. “Where the fuck are the kids?” She hit him again across the face.

Stokes's mouth filled with blood, making him look like a
Twilight
film extra.

Candice could swear the man was smiling. This angered her even further.

“Wh—why . . . don't you . . . as-ask Agent Tucker where his family is?” Stokes wheezed.

Candice swung her body around. Tuck was standing in the doorway; sweat was dripping down his face.

“He's not telling me anything. Our salt trick didn't work.” Candice turned to Tuck.

Stokes began laughing; then another fit of that same cough that Candice recognized from Uncle Rock. Tuck moved into the room but didn't speak. Three goons in black were behind him.

Candice lifted her gun and leveled it at all of them.

Stokes started laughing again. “Can't you see what's going on here, Candy girl?” Stokes asked weakly, true merriment in his voice.

“Shut the fuck up and tell me where the kids are,” Candice barked. Her voice was cracking. Things were going downhill fast.

“Ask Tucker,” Stokes demanded. His voice was getting stronger now.

Tuck just stood there, silent as a church mouse.

“What is he talking about, Tuck?” Her gun was aimed straight for his head now.

Tuck let out a long breath.

“Don't you know that Agent Tucker would do anything to save his job? From day one he sold his soul to the very devil to make a name for himself. He used you, his wife and even his kids as pawns,” Stokes rasped out. He was coughing and wheezing for breath between nearly every word.

Candice's body became engulfed in heat as the gravity of the situation sank in.

“We used you, Candy. All of the people who knew about Operation Easy In are now gone. We couldn't afford for that kind of information to get out,” Stokes continued.

Candice looked at Tuck; hurt was evident in her eyes. She readjusted the grip on her gun.

“You better start fuckin' talking, Tuck. You better tell me that muthafucka is lying just to save his own ass!” she screamed. Candice was still holding out hope that this conspiracy theory was just a fluke—that Tuck hadn't sold her out to Stokes to save his own ass.

Tuck didn't say a word. Candice swallowed hard. His silence was louder than any verbal confirmation of the truth.

“You fuckin' traitor bitch!” she screeched. Hot tears were running down her cheeks. “I can't believe I let myself fall for your lies! I should've known a bastard that would go undercover for a year and not care to check on his family was a piece of shit!” Candice screamed. Her gun hand was shaking now, wavering dangerously between Stokes and Tucker. She didn't know which one she wanted to take out first.

“Agent Tucker agreed to lure you here. He knew he could get you here with a story about saving his family. He really did have to save his family from us. You're a Hardaway through and through,” Stokes said cruelly. “I guess he sacrificed more than some fling with a revenge-filled little girl,” Stokes cackled.