Midnight Alias: A Killer Instincts Novel (26 page)

Tearing his gaze away from the flurry of activity below, Vince tightened his grip on the phone and let out a curse. “How did you let this happen?”

His associate sounded unrepentant. “Our men were caught off guard,” Erik Franz snapped. “Did
you
expect the DEA to storm the place?”

“Goddamn it.” He sat down on the leather couch and slammed his fist against his thigh. “Who knew the location of the warehouse? Who’s the fucking canary who sang to the Feds?”

Franz sounded weary. “I don’t know. Other than you and me, only the men assigned to the warehouse were in the loop. A few of the enforcers in De Luca’s inner circle also knew the location, but I don’t think the boss will take too kindly to us pointing fingers at his trusted soldiers.”

No, De Luca wouldn’t take kindly to that at all.

Hot rage exploded in Vince’s gut, hardening his jaw and making his hands tingle. In his eyes there was nothing more despicable than betrayal, and someone in his organization had just betrayed the fuck out of him. The DEA wasn’t supposed to find the body until Vince
let
them, and thanks to the rat, the body had been discovered ahead of schedule.

“Are we sure it was DEA?” he demanded.

“Jimmy drove by earlier and the warehouse was crawling with Feds, crime scene tape everywhere. Five of our guys got pinched, and two were killed during the raid.”

“What precinct were they taken to?”

“Seventh.”

“Good. Detective O’Shea is a friend of ours. Someone needs to get into lockup and take care of the five. We can’t have the death in the warehouse leading back to us.”

“Already on it. I sent Dominic.”

“Are we sure our man took out Dane?”

“He called me the second the shit hit the fan. I ordered him to put two bullets in the guy’s head and stayed on the phone while he did it.”

“So Dane’s dead.”

“Dane’s dead.”

“All right. At least that’s one less thing to worry about.” His eyes narrowed as something occurred to him. “We assigned eight men to the warehouse. You said two dead, five locked up. Who and where is the fucking eighth?”

Franz’s heavy breathing echoed on the line. “Bruno. He was on a coffee run when shit went down. Came back, saw the cops, and bolted. He’s at the safe house in Brooklyn. And before you ask, he insists he’s not the rat. I’m inclined to believe him—Bruno’s too damn stupid to betray you. What endgame could that idiot possibly have?”

Vince couldn’t help but concur. Bruno had the IQ of a fucking Kleenex—the oaf lacked both the brains and the savvy to pull off any real attempt at treason. Nevertheless, a message needed to be sent, and Bruno, unlucky bastard that he was, would take the fall for this.

“Send Sal to take care of it,” Vince said brusquely.

There was a beat. “He’s not the rat. In fact, there might not even
be
a rat. One of those boneheads might have leaked the address out of sheer incompetence.”

“I don’t give a shit. Someone needs to pay for this fuckup. Might as well be Bruno.”

“That’s messed up.”

“It’s convenient,” he snapped. “Those other motherfuckers are in lockup. Bruno isn’t. So tell Sal to deal with it.”

Franz paused again. “You want to give him the rat treatment?”

“Yes.” He grumbled in irritation. “Slit the bastard’s throat, cut his fucking tongue out, and give everyone in the organization a reminder of the consequences for snitching. And then you can keep a closer eye on the men and a tighter rein on this deal so shit like this doesn’t happen again.”

As disgust and residual rage coursed through his veins, he resisted the impulse to strangle someone. Namely Franz. The sole purpose of that body had been so the Feds would be looking the other way while the transaction went down. Vince couldn’t afford a single fucking hiccup when it came to this deal. They were looking at almost a hundred kilograms of heroin, five million dollars of pure, grade-A shit. It was twice the size of the shipments they typically smuggled in, and the first delivery under the new agreement they’d made with the Moreno cartel.

He had brokered the deal himself, which meant that nothing, absolutely nothing, could go wrong. De Luca hadn’t been keen on joining up with the Colombians—the organization already had a solid distribution deal going with the Afghans—but Vince had pushed for this, and if it went smoothly, he’d climb even higher in De Luca’s eyes. If it didn’t . . . well, he refused to even consider that.

“Keep me posted on the situation,” he barked into the phone. “The Moreno rep is supposed to call tomorrow with a status check on the delivery, and the boat should arrive in the Miami port Monday afternoon. Make sure the crew down south is ready.”

“What about the Premiere Roast shipment?” Franz asked.

“Gets in late Monday night. The cargo will be unloaded, but the crew will wait for the Dominican merchandise before loading the truck.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got a fitting with my tailor, but I’ll be at the club later tonight. Take care of those five loose ends. And silence the canary.”

With that, Vince ended the call and swore out loud. How the hell had the DEA caught wind of where they’d been holding that asshole? He didn’t give a damn if he was looking for a snitch or an imbecile—either way, this would not happen again.

It was also clear that he’d given Franz too much rope, and that was something he evidently needed to rectify. Delegating that much responsibility was always a bad idea.

Nothing could go wrong this time. The DEA might have found the body, but Vince would be damned if the Feds screwed up this new venture. Everything was on schedule, and he planned on being there when the merchandise arrived to make sure it all went according to plan. He couldn’t afford any more fuckups. The boss already had doubts about this new partnership with the Moreno organization. If anything went wrong . . .

He banished the thought. Nothing would go wrong. The shipment would arrive safe and sound, the merch would be distributed without a hitch. De Luca would slap him on the shoulder and grudgingly admit that he’d done good.

And then Vince would earn a permanent place at the boss’s table.

* * *

“Good morning,” Kathleen said softly when Olivia entered the kitchen.

“Morning.” She padded over to the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee, then joined her mom at the table. “Sleep well?”

“I slept better than I have in a long time.” Her mother arched her brows. “I imagine you did too.”

Olivia shot her a quizzical look. “Why do you say that?”

“I might be bald, but I’m not deaf.” Kathleen gave a crooked smile. “So when do I meet him?”

Heat scorched her cheeks. “Meet who?”

“The man who’s been sneaking into my daughter’s bedroom the past couple of nights.”

Oh boy. Talk about embarrassing. The two of them never spoke about Olivia’s love life, but that was probably because she didn’t
have
a love life. She’d only been in one serious relationship in her life, back in freshman year at NYU, but that involvement had been a fluke. Normally she was far too busy for trivial matters like dating. Or love.

Not that she and Luke were dating. Or in love.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly. “Not a big deal at all.”

“Really? Because I can’t recall the last time you invited a man home.” Her mother wrapped her frail hands around her coffee mug, pretending to think it over. “Oh, I know why I can’t remember. Because you’ve never done it before.”

“Like I said, it’s no big deal.”

“Does Mr. No Big Deal have a name?” Kathleen prompted.

The faint chime of her cell phone saved Olivia from having to answer. She jumped out of the chair, left the kitchen, and hurried into her bedroom, answering the phone just before it kicked into voice mail. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

An involuntary streak of happiness surged through her. Luke’s lazy drawl instantly had her remembering everything they’d done last night. Her mom was right—she
had
slept great. She’d gone to bed sated and relaxed, drifting off the moment Luke climbed out her window to meet up with his team and—

“How did it go last night?” she blurted out. “Did you find the agent?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we did.” He paused. “The guy was already dead when we got there.”

Olivia gasped. “They killed him?”

“Afraid so,” he said flatly. “Either way, it’s done. We found Dane, so our job is over. Now it’s time to return the favor, darlin’.”

Hope skated up her spine. “You’re really going to help me?”

“I promised you I would,” he said gruffly. “I’m stopping by in an hour or so if that’s all right with you. I need to take a couple of photographs of you and your mother so we can line up your new documents.”

Her mother. Olivia’s heart jammed in her throat as she realized she would finally have to tell her mom the truth.

“Liv? You there?”

God, how was she going to explain everything to her mom? She’d been lying about her job for the past twelve months, pretending to work at a restaurant on Broadway. She’d even gone into the place and asked if she could buy one of their aprons, just so she could bring it home every now and then to give her bullshit some credibility. And six months ago, she’d explained away her attack by claiming she’d been mugged on her way home from work and that the surgeon who’d worked on her face had done it pro bono.

Now she had to confess that it had all been a lie. That she was actually a stripper at the Diamond Mine who’d been attacked by a would-be rapist and had become indebted to a mobster who paid all their bills.

Tears of shame stung her eyes. “She’s going to be disgusted with me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My mother.” She blinked through the onslaught of tears. “She’s going to hate me when I tell her everything that’s been going on.”

“She’s not going to hate you,” Luke said firmly. “And she won’t be disgusted. I promise you, your mom will understand. If anything, she’ll be upset with herself for putting you in a position where you had to do all this to take care of her.”

“
I
put myself in this position.” Olivia hesitated. “But I’m getting us out. You’re getting us out, right?”

“Right.” His voice became husky. “I’ll be over in an hour, darlin’. Do you want me to be there when you talk to your mother?”

The offer warmed her heart, but she knew this was something she had to do alone. “No, that’s okay, but thanks. I’ll see you soon.”

After they hung up, she walked into the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face. When she lifted her head to examine her reflection in the mirror, she had to wonder what Luke Dubois saw in her. Yes, her face was technically flawless—high cheekbones, full lips, straight nose, and smooth skin. But her eyes . . . they were full of shadows, as Candy Cane had noticed.

Now she was about to bring shadows to her mother’s eyes, and as she left the bathroom, she prayed that Luke was right and that her mother would understand.

Her mom was still at the table when she returned to the kitchen. “Everything all right, sweetheart? Who was on the phone?”

Olivia’s legs shook as she lowered herself onto the chair. “A friend,” she said vaguely. She took a long sip of coffee, then set the mug down and mustered up some courage. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Kathleen frowned. “All right.”

“We need to go away for a little wh—”

The phone rang again. The landline this time, and Olivia gritted her teeth in irritation. For the love of God.

“Hold that thought.” She sighed and grabbed the cordless from the counter, answering with a quick hello.

“Is this Olivia?” an unfamiliar female voice asked.

She wrinkled her forehead. “Yes. Who’s this?”

“This is Maureen. Maureen Malcolm.” A pause. “Cora’s mother.”

Olivia’s chest squeezed. “Oh. Mrs. Malcolm. I . . . I’m so sorry about Cora. I know I should have called, but—”

“It’s all right, dear. I understand.” The woman hesitated. “Cora spoke of you often.”

“She spoke of you too.” Olivia swallowed the lump in her throat. “She loved you very much. How is Katie doing?”

“She misses her mom, but she’s a tough little girl. She’ll be okay. Eventually.”

“And you?”

“I miss my daughter,” Maureen said simply. “I . . . Lord, I still don’t understand any of this. Was she . . . did my daughter confide in you . . . about the drugs?”

“No. No, she didn’t.”

Olivia felt like someone had shoved a knife into her heart, especially when Maureen continued in a bewildered tone, “Cora was a good girl. A smart girl. I don’t understand why . . . how . . . she got involved with drugs. I never knew.”

The soft sobbing tore Olivia apart. She wanted so desperately to assure the woman that everything she’d believed was true—that Cora
wasn’t
a drug addict. To tell her that her daughter had been murdered.

But she couldn’t do it. Vince wouldn’t have risked killing Cora unless he’d known he wouldn’t be leaving any evidence behind. If Olivia told Maureen Malcolm the truth, she might be placing Maureen and Cora’s daughter in danger.

“I’m so sorry,” Olivia said.

The sobbing stopped, replaced by Maureen’s dull voice. “The funeral is Friday afternoon at St. Joseph’s Church. I thought you should know.”

“I’ll do my best to be there,” she promised.

After they disconnected, Olivia turned to find Kathleen’s unhappy green eyes fixed on her. “That was your friend’s mother?”

She nodded. “She was calling about the funeral.”

“The poor woman must be devastated. Imagine, finding out your daughter is an addict when you didn’t have a clue.”

But she wasn’t an addict!

A rush of anger flooded her belly. These last couple of days she hadn’t allowed herself to think about Cora’s death, but the memory returned now in full force. Vince had killed Cora. He’d
killed
an innocent young woman just because she wasn’t being cooperative during his private sex parties, and now a little girl was an orphan because of it.

And Vince was
still
doing it. Distributing his heroin, doping up dancers when his associates requested their company.