INFORMANT (24 page)

Day Eighty-Six

Morning

“Morning, Sunshine!” Brad Morris sings out.

I stifle a yawn, shove back my blanket, and groggily sit up. Another day gone and I’m still alive. No small miracle.

Ever since my disastrous evening at the Boom-Boom Room, I’ve been afraid to go home. I’m in hiding, and my choices of where to stay are limited. Ricco has heard me talk about the Karma, so I can’t go there. Hotels are out—a credit card could easily be traced—and I didn’t want Ricco to follow me to Ronnie’s. Beckett’s would be even worse. Definitely not the right time for Ricco to discover that I’m sharing a bed with a DEA agent.

So I’ve been crashing on the sofa in Brad’s office at SFSU. I made a frantic phone call after my ‘date’ with Ricco. Brad picked me up and brought me here. Talk about a reluctant hero. It’s all right, though. He came through and I’m thankful for it. Something about the subterranean cinder block walls surrounding me, combined with campus police patrolling the grounds at night, gives me a (false) sense of security. I know this isn’t real (if Miguel Diaz wanted me dead, I’d be dead). But I’m still alive, so at least it’s working for the time being. Good enough.

Brad passes me a cup of Starbucks, a chocolate-chip scone, and a fruit cup. He slips behind his desk with his fat-free decaf mochaccino and studies me over the rim of his cup. “No offense, darling, but you look like seven kinds of shit.”

“Now why would I take offense at that?”

I send him a small smile, and he smiles back at me. Amazing. It almost—
almost—
feels like he could be a friend.

I do look like hell, though. There are dark circles under my eyes and my mouth is still tender and bruised. I say I’ve been sleeping on Brad’s office sofa, but very little sleep has actually occurred. Generally I just toss and turn all night. Sometimes I get up and pace the room, wistfully examining the Study Abroad posters that are meant to take the place of windows.

The posters show groups of exuberant college students with their arms linked over each other’s shoulders. The Great Wall of China looms behind one group. Another set of students is on a safari in Kenya, yet another is sailing in Fiji. There’s Rome, Paris, Machu Picchu. He’s got posters all over the place—posters that practically scream,
Have Fun And
See the World While You Can, Before Life Drags You Down!

Of course, it’s too late for me. I went from being a bright student pursuing a degree in forensic science, to an informant for the DEA, to someone who’s hiding from the Cuban mob. Hard to fit that on a college transcript. My life has taken a sharp left turn. It feels as though I’ve done nothing these past few days except wait and retrace my steps, trying to pinpoint the exact moment everything went so horribly wrong. Then the futility of the chore strikes me and I’m reminded of what my mom used to tell Jess and me when we were little.

Nothing’s ever so bad that it can’t get worse.
The Porter family motto.

True enough. At least I’m no longer outfitted in Ricco’s spray-on dress and hooker heels. Brad was thoughtful enough to pick up a few things for me at the local Abercrombie. (The artfully torn jeans, pricey boots, and slouchy sweater are probably better suited to a spoiled suburban teen than to me, but I’m not complaining.) I drag my fingers through my hair and reach for my coffee, sipping it slowly.

“Any news?” I ask. Although I attempt to be casual, my voice quakes with stress. Sun Yee’s shipment is expected tomorrow.

“News? What do you mean?” Brad frowns in mock confusion—as though he has no idea what I’m talking about—and quirks a dark blond brow.

“Fuck you. What’s going on?”

He laughs, reaches into his pocket and passes me a TracPhone. “It’s already activated. You’ll get one message: a place and a time. After you’ve read it, throw the phone away.”

My stomach seized. I stare at the phone, slowly turning it over in my hands. Unbelievable. This ridiculous piece of cheap plastic is all that stands between me and oblivion. “That’s it?”

“Not quite.” He passes me a slip of paper with the name of a foreign bank scrawled across it, accompanied by a string of numbers. “As I recall, there’s still an outstanding balance of forty thousand. Transfer the money into that account,
then
that little phone will beep.”

My eyes narrow. “You know, don’t you? You already know exactly where and when Sun Yee is getting his shipment.”

He reaches for his Starbucks and takes a long sip. “Does it matter?” he asks.

No, actually. He’s just being practical. I shouldn’t take it personally. The fact is, I may not live long enough to get Brad his money—particularly if I wait until after the throw down between Miguel Diaz and Sun Yee. And I don’t suppose Ricco is going to be all that happy to see me. Beckett’s boss isn’t a big fan of mine, either. Hard to imagine my walking away from this cleanly. Too many ugly scores to settle.

As I consider that, I tap my fingers against the phone. My gaze flicks back to the Study Abroad posters.

Life’s an Adventure!
Live It While You’re Young!

“Now that I think about it,” I say, “it’s not too late, is it?”

“Too late?”

I tilt my head toward the poster. “Say someone wanted to get away—so far away no one would ever find her again. Exactly how would she go about doing that?”

Brad studies me. Then he smiles. “That’d be an expensive trip.”

Naturally. “How expensive?”

Day Eighty-Six

Afternoon

I venture out to take a shower at the campus gym. Until two days ago, I’d never set foot in the women’s locker room, or any of the campus’s extensive recreational facilities. But it’s a short jog from Morris’s office to the gym, so I almost feel safe scurrying over there.

I understand now why informants are referred to as ‘moles’. It’s not just that we dig our way into underground organizations. It’s an emotional transformation, as well. I live in a world of secrets and shadows. It no longer feels comfortable to walk around in broad daylight. I long for the cover of darkness. I want to bury myself. Hide perpetually out of sight. I tuck a knit cap over my hair and keep my head ducked low as I walk, so as not to draw any undue attention.

Still, there is a moment when a dark-headed guy suddenly looms in my peripheral vision and I am sure Ricco’s found me. I practically have a heart attack before I realize he’s just an ordinary student on his way to class.

An ordinary student. Just like I used to be. Impossible to imagine.

After my shower, I dress and then blow dry my hair with one of the dryers campus provides—the kind that are attached to the tile wall. When I catch a look at myself in the mirror, my heart sinks. Despite the pricey new clothes and hot shower, Brad was right. I look like shit. I could be the poster child for ‘What An Abusive Relationship Looks Like’.

Ricco did a number on me in the coat closet and it shows. My wrists are bruised, and so is my temple. My lower lip is swollen and cracked, there are dark circles beneath my eyes, and my gaze is haunted.

Two pretty young women are in the locker room with me. Fortunately, they are too busy dissecting the events of a party the previous evening to pay me any attention. (Amazing to consider that there was once a time in my life when I actually cared about random hook-ups and break-ups.) When they head off to a Zumba class, I dive into the unlocked locker where they stashed their gear and pull out a cosmetics bag. I’ve changed in more ways than one. A year ago I wouldn’t have even considered invading someone else’s privacy. Now I rifle through the stranger’s bag without guilt or remorse.

First I pile on the concealer and foundation, then I add a touch of pink lip gloss and mascara. I return the cosmetics bag to the locker, pull back and examine my reflection in the mirror. Not great, but it’ll have to do. Beckett is waiting.

I find him in the café downstairs—the one that sells protein shakes, organic smoothies, and yogurt sprinkled with acai berries and wheat germ. It overlooks the pool deck, so the whole place is vaguely damp and reeks of chlorine.

Beckett comes to his feet the second he sees me. I move toward him. At first, there is nothing but naked relief on his face at seeing me. Deep satisfaction. Then his eyes narrow and his expression abruptly hardens. The unmistakable light of fury enters his gaze. Apparently I didn’t do as good a job with the make-up as I thought.

He lifts his hand to touch me. I wince when his fingers lightly brush my temple.

“Ricco?” he asks.

The thought of relating everything that happened at the Boom-Boom Room is exhausting. Completely unnecessary, too. We’ve already defined who the bad guys are.  Also, I got away before anything really bad happened, so the details don’t matter. It’s all I can do to muster up a tight, silent nod.

“I’ll kill him,” he softly swears. “I will fucking kill him.”

“No,” I say. “You won’t. You will do your job. You will put him away. All of them.”

After days apart, I wanted some time—just a few minutes—alone with Beckett. Turns out I won’t have it. Brad Morris delivered on his promise ten minutes ago.

I remove the TracPhone from my pocket and show it to him.

Pier 96. 0100. 

Sun Yee’s shipment is coming in through Pier 96 at one AM. It’s nearly four o’clock now. That means we have less than nine hours to get everything in place. It’s happening.

As the reality sinks in, dread washes over me. For weeks, I’ve longed to get out. To get away from Ricco, from Miguel, from Reardon. Now I feel as though my life is speeding forward at an unnatural rate—as though I’m watching everything unfold through an artificial lens, like the kind of special effect they use in movies to show the passage of time. Everything’s moving too fast. I want to hit a pause button, but I can’t.

I glance up at Beckett. He doesn’t look nervous at all. Instead, he looks totally jacked. Steely-eyed and determined. Like a gladiator who’s dreamed for years of stepping into the arena. Now he’s finally getting his chance at retribution. I can practically feel the adrenaline buzzing through him.

There are times when Beckett isn’t Beckett anymore. He might be with me physically, but mentally he’s somewhere else. Looking at him, I can tell he’s already left me. He’s thinking about the take-down. He’s thinking about Emma, and how he’ll finally be able to avenge her death. But at what cost? What if something goes wrong? What if he’s hurt… or I lose him completely?

A tight knot forms in my gut.

Heedless of anyone who might be watching us, I pull him to me. He’s wearing his sidearm. I feel the leather strap of his holster press against my chest. The cold metal grip of his gun digs into my ribs. I kiss him so hard it hurts. Literally. My lip had almost healed. Now it rips again.

“Beckett,” I say. “Be careful.”

“You, too,” he answers. He pulls back and scans my gaze, tightening his grip on my upper arms. “You’ll stay here, all right? Don’t go anywhere near the drop. Promise me you’ll wait in Morris’s office until this is all over.”

I nod. That’s our plan. We’ve got everything scripted. I wait two hours, and then convey the time and place to Ronnie. He passes the information on to Miguel. In the meantime, the DEA gets into position and sets up, ready to swoop in and make arrests.

I picture a pseudo-military operation—men carrying high-powered rifles, wearing bullet-proof vests and paratrooper boots. Helicopters and SWAT teams. I’m a bit foggy on the details. The DEA has the advantage of both manpower and surprise, so that’s in their favor. If they get there early enough, maybe they can stake out the highest ground. The rest is up to them.

Beckett gives me one last kiss, and then he’s gone. As he strides away, he’s got his phone to his ear. Talking to Reardon, I assume, or some other DEA contact. Setting up the sting.

I am left with nothing but the coppery taste of blood in my mouth. That can’t possibly be a good omen.

Day Eighty-Six

Evening

Everything falls apart almost immediately. Here’s what Beckett and I didn’t consider. A key part of our plan involves Ronnie. Specifically, we depended on Ronnie Hoyt. Now there’s an oxymoron for you. Ronnie Hoyt is the definition of undependable.

He doesn’t answer his phone.

I swear to God. That’s all he has to do. Answer his phone, get the information Miguel needs, and pass it on. Make good on the bargain he made. I call him over and over, but he doesn’t pick up. I grind my teeth until my jaw aches. I picture him hanging out in the shop with his buddies, drinking beer, hitting the ignore button on his phone when he sees my name flash across the screen.

I am so furious, so out of my mind crazy, I want to throw things.

Answer your fucking phone, Ronnie. Answer it!

He doesn’t pick up.

I hate him. I really, truly hate him.

It’s almost impossible to believe he forgot, but I think that’s what actually happened. I take a deep breath and consider my options. I can call Jess. I assume (if he’s not too drunk or stoned) Ronnie will answer
her
call. But if he doesn’t pick up, she might get scared and drive back into the city to check up on him. I can’t risk that. Jess, Dally, and my mom are safe. They’re going to stay safe.

Next. I could call Miguel directly and relay the information on the drop. Instinctively I shy away from that option. It’ll raise too many flags. I can’t do it for Ronnie.
He’s
supposed to have an inside line on Sun Yee’s operation, not me. If Miguel even suspects a set-up, he won’t go anywhere near the pier.

Final option. I go to the garage, get Ronnie to make the phone call, and then kick his goddamned ass.

Yep. That’ll do—particularly in the mood I’m in now.

I grab my backpack and storm out of Brad Morris’s office without my coat. I’m hot enough that I don’t need it.

*    *    *

I use my key to unlock the door and let myself into Noriega Street Auto. It’s almost nine o’clock at night, hours past closing time. I assumed I’d find Ronnie here, but now I’m not so sure. Silence rings through the shop. The motorized lifts are shut down, the tools are locked away, and the lights are turned down low.

“Ronnie?” I call out. “Ronnie, are you here?”

No answer.

Shit. I didn’t even consider that I might not find him. If he’s not here, where could he be?

I hear a sound coming from the office and swing around to give him hell.

Ricco.

My heart slams against my ribs so hard, it feels as though it’s trying to break out of my chest. My breath catches, leaving me unable to speak. My terror must be visible, for Ricco looks pleased.

He sends me a slow, seductive smile. “
Hola, armorcito.”

“Where’s Ronnie?” I manage.

He playfully arches his brows. “Who?”

“Ronnie. Where is he? What have you done to him?”

Ricco slowly strides toward me. I instinctively slink backward. There’s got to be a weapon somewhere. Something I can use to defend myself. I glance around frantically, but I come up empty. I’m in a goddamned garage, and I can’t even get my hands on a wrench. This is a high-crime neighborhood. The only thing Ronnie has ever been meticulous about in his life is locking up everything when he closes the shop at night. The irony is insane.

Ricco stalks me into a corner. “Don’t worry about your lowlife brother-in-law,” he says. He runs a single finger down the side of my face, then brushes it along the seam of my lips. “Worry about me.”

“Ricco…”

“Get your fucking hands off her.”
Ronnie.

He’s alive. I nearly go limp with relief.  My gaze shoots across the room. Ronnie is flanked by two of Ricco’s men. Two large, bulky, bodyguard types. Ronnie doesn’t look good. He’s been beaten and it shows. All the anger and resentment I was feeling toward him earlier abruptly evaporates.

In that instant, everything suddenly becomes clear. Maybe Ronnie and I are more alike than I want to acknowledge. Yeah, maybe he is a petty criminal, but I’m not exactly squeaky clean. He and I come from the same neighborhood. We’re part of the same family. We both made stupid mistakes, both went for the easy money as our ticket out. At a result, he’s been knocked around, and so have I. That doesn’t mean we’re going to let Ricco and his father get away with this shit. No more. It ends here.

His eyes meet mine and the message we send one another is clear.

Fuck these guys.

It’s all I can do not to smile. 

“Have you told Ricco anything yet?” I ask, looking directly at Ronnie.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Told me what?” Ricco says.

I ignore him. My mind is racing. We need a new plan. Ronnie doesn’t know anything. If I divulge where and when Sun Yee’s shipment is coming through, Ricco and his men will kill us. Once they get the information they need, Ronnie and I are dead weight. Literally.

The old joke about being chased by a bear pops into my mind: you don’t have to outrun the bear. You just have to run faster than the other guy being chased by the bear. The same principle applies here. I don’t have to be brilliant. Just smarter than Ricco. I’ve got to play him one last time. Get him to do this my way. If Ronnie and I can make it to Pier 96, we have a chance at staying alive.

Ricco grabs me by the shoulders and slams my back up against the wall. “Told me what?” he hisses.

“Get your fucking hands off me or you get nothing,” I hiss right back at him. “Nothing.”

Ricco’s eyes darken. His hands move to my throat, lightly tracing the cords of my neck. “I take what I want,” he says.

“Your macho bullshit won’t work here,
armorcito,”
I say. “Miguel’s waiting to hear about Sun Yee’s shipment, isn’t he? He sent you over here to beat it out of Ronnie. But it’s not working, is it?
You failed.
You want to know why?”

His fingers tighten slightly. “You should be very careful what you say next.”

“Ronnie doesn’t know. He sent me to meet his contact. I’ve got the information you need.”

“Tell me.”

I turn my face away, mulishly silent.

He grabs my chin leans forward, bringing his face inches from mine. “
Tell me
.”

We glare at each other for a long beat. Finally I blurt out, “Pier 96. Sun Yee’s shipment is coming through in less than four hours from now.” I slant a glance at Ronnie from beneath my lashes and allow a small curve of satisfaction to tug at the corners of my mouth.

Ricco doesn’t miss it. “That’s a fucking lie,” he snarls, shoving me again.

“No, it’s not!” I protest weakly. “I’m telling the truth!”

Ricco searches my face, then he releases me and steps back a pace. He looks over his shoulder at his men, and then back at me. Laughs. “The truth, eh? A little whore like you is telling me the truth.”

Ignoring the insult, I bring up my chin, daring him to believe me. “Yeah. Pier 96. One AM. Go check it out.”

“Go check it out?” Ricco’s dark eyes smolder. “You know what I think? I think you like to play games, don’t you,
armorcito?
  All right, all right. Very good. Let’s all play your little game. Tell you what—I call my father, give him this information. But then we
all
go to the pier. If everything’s there, fine. But if it turns out you’re lying to me, if Sun Yee’s shipment is not there…” he pauses, drags one finger up my arm, “then it’s time to play
my
game.” His gaze locks on mine. “I hope you and your lowlife brother-in-law don’t mind a little pain.”