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rainbowfic2012-01-04 09:30 am
sarcasticsra) wrote in rainbowfic2012-01-04 09:30 am
TARDIS Blue, 10 + eraser + portrait + mosaic.
Author: Sara
Colors: TARDIS Blue, 10. We're always in trouble! Isn't this extraordinary: it follows us everywhere!
Supplies: Eraser (for both!)
Styles: Portrait, Mosaic
Word Count: 7,700
Rating: PG-13
Story: Polyfaceted and The Sun From Both Sides; title of this is Crash Goes Our World.
Summary: Sam Myles meets Rachel St. John. Things snowball from there.
Notes: Takes place in an alternate February 2010. So my brain was all, "Hey, you know what you should write? Rachel and Sam meeting. That'd be fun." and I was all, "Brain, what are you talking about, they would get into so much shit together, it'd completely snowball on me." and my brain was like, "Maaaaaaaaaybe. But you should still write it." And so I wrote it. And it completely snowballed on me. This is what happens when I indulge my brain's whims. Title comes from the song "Crash Goes My World" by Cadence Grace.
Well, fuck.
Sam considered his options. The three hulking men who were advancing on him did not seem in the mood for a friendly chat. At his best, he figured he could take out one, maybe; with his shoulder fucked and no advantage, he had little hope of even that much. Where was Rachel when you needed her?
“Guys, come on,” he said, grinning wide. “We can work this out, can’t we?”
“Sure we can,” said Big Guy #1. “We’ll work it out by pounding in your fucking head.”
“That doesn’t exactly work for me,” he said, and smirked. “There isn’t another way?”
Big Guys #2 and #3 just scowled at him. Not talkers, apparently.
Big Guy #1 nodded his head. “Get him.”
TWO DAYS EARLIER
From the outside, the bar looked like a dive, but the inside was surprisingly decent. Rachel glanced around, taking it in, noticing that most of the patrons had some sort of amber liquid in front of them. She snorted to herself. This would probably not be the place to expect to find, say, good tequila.
There was an older guy behind the bar, sitting on a stool. That had to be the majority owner, a Mr. Denton Brooks. He matched the picture she had of him perfectly.
Mr. Brooks gave her a shrewd look. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for a Ms. Sandra Zielinski,” she said, ambling over to the bar.
He eyed her suspiciously. “Any particular reason you’re looking for her here?”
Rachel smirked, pulling out a small notepad. “Let’s see. She owns ten percent of this bar, she’s worked here since the re-opening in 1992, and she’s close personal friends with the majority owner, a Mr. Denton Brooks. Oh, wait. That’s you.” She smiled, pulling a business card from her pocket and sliding it to him. “So just a few particular reasons. Rachel St. John. Nice to meet you.”
“A PI,” he said slowly, looking at her card and then back up at her. “And you need to see Sandy. What for?”
“Just a small property dispute,” she said, which had the advantage of both being totally true and giving nothing away.
“She left early today,” he said, after a long moment. “Had some errands to run.”
“That’s a shame,” she said. “Guess I’ll just have to try back tomorrow.”
“You do that.”
Mr. Denton Brooks was not a man who trusted easily, that was easy to tell. He watched her like a hawk as she left the bar.
Time to try Ms. Zielinski’s home address.
---
Brooks frowned to himself as St. John left the bar. Whatever she wanted with Sandy, he intended to find out. He didn’t like inquiries after his people, even if maybe it was as simple and harmless as she’d implied.
He snorted. Yeah, right, and maybe tomorrow he’d take up long-distance running.
Reaching for the phone on the wall, he dialed Sam’s number. “Ask and you shall receive,” said Sam in greeting.
“You’re a real professional.”
“It’s this newfangled invention called Caller ID, Brooks,” Sam said, and Brooks could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “What’s up?”
“A PI just came in here looking for Sandy. She said it was something about a property dispute. Think you could look into it?”
“It serious?” His entire tone shifted, all business, and Brooks allowed himself a faint smile.
“Could be. Didn’t get much out of her. Name’s St. John.”
“…wait, you don’t mean Rachel St. John?”
“You know her?”
“Of her,” Sam said. “She’s good.”
“She said she’d try again tomorrow.”
“Yeah, she’s actually probably heading for Sandy’s place,” Sam said, sounding long-suffering. “I should be able to beat her there. I’ll keep an eye out.”
“So what are you waiting for? Get going.”
“I already am, Brooks. There are also these newfangled inventions called cell phones. You called mine, remember?”
“Just make sure Sandy’s okay, kid.”
He hung up.
---
Sam was fairly confident he’d beaten St. John to Sandy’s place. Sandy herself wasn’t home, and it didn’t look like anyone else was around either.
When a woman walked up to Sandy’s front door, this thought was confirmed. Attractive, short black hair, tattoos—that was Rachel St. John, all right.
He watched as she knocked on the door and rang the doorbell. When no one answered, she glanced around and then idly headed for the back, like it was a perfectly natural thing for her to do. Sam grinned. He couldn’t help but admire the cockiness.
His grin was short-lived. Just as she disappeared behind Sandy’s house, a crappy Toyota pulled into the driveway. The second the three men inside stepped out of the car, he could see they were obviously carrying.
Well, fuck.
Quickly, he headed down the street, hurrying back behind one of the houses four lots over. He hopped the fences back to Sandy’s place, only to be greeted by a roundhouse kick to his chest as soon as he landed in her yard.
Sam wheezed. “That’s what I get for trying to warn you?” he said, glancing up to see Rachel St. John standing over him.
“Warn me about what? The three stooges out front? They’re not exactly subtle,” she said. “Besides, you were the one Edward Cullen-ing it up before they got here, weren’t you? How do I know you aren’t with them?”
“The lack of a gun might be a clue,” Sam said, standing. St. John still looked wary. “Name’s Myles. Sam Myles. Nice to meet you.”
“Myles. I’ve heard that name,” she said, thinking. “You’re a PI. Pretty infamous around the Bronx. And you know Ms. Zielinski.”
“I know a lot of people,” he said, smirking.
“Yeah, I bet you do. Want to get the hell out of here?”
“We need to bring the welcoming party with us. I’m not letting Sandy come home to that.”
“That wouldn’t be pleasant,” she agreed. “Divide and conquer?”
He smirked. “I like your style.”
“I’ll go first,” she said, and ran for the front.
Sam heard commotion, a shouted, “Hey, get back here!” and then, “Well, don’t just stand there, you idiots! Run after her!”
He found the fake rock Sandy kept in the backyard and pulled out the key, unlocking her back door. The baseball bat she usually kept just to the right was still there, and he grabbed it. Then he waited.
It wasn’t long before the remaining thug came around back. Sam watched as he noticed the back door was open and rushed in, hand moving for where Sam figured his weapon was. Before he had a chance to draw it, Sam swung hard at his head, bringing him down.
He checked his pulse. Out cold, but alive. He took his gun, then checked for a backup. Sure enough, there was also a .22 strapped to his ankle. Maybe this guy had been a boy scout.
Snorting to himself, he wondered what Sandy might have lying around that could be used to tie him up. Searching through a few closets, he eventually found a container of zip ties, varying sizes. Those would work.
After securing the guy’s hands and feet, he sat back, trying to determine what to do with him. The trunk, he decided after a moment. Definitely the trunk.
---
Rachel knew her client had been hiding something.
There had just been something off when he’d weaved his little tale of woe, a bad breakup and his ex-girlfriend accidentally taking a flash drive full of confidential documents related to his software company. He just wanted them back, that was all. He didn’t even want to bother her. Couldn’t she just get it back without anyone knowing?
She had almost turned the case down, especially since Charlie was out with the flu, but with all the shit going down with Jon lately, she’d really needed a distraction. So she’d taken it, telling herself she’d do a little digging beforehand. She hadn’t found anything suspicious in his history—it all checked out with what he’d told her—but that last niggling doubt just would not go away. She was determined to find out the truth.
Now it seemed that the truth apparently involved armed thugs, like the two she was leading away from Ms. Zielinski’s house. They were slowing down now, obviously getting winded, and she snorted to herself. She and Charlie ran at least twice this distance almost every damn morning. Ridiculous.
She ducked into a nearby alley, scanning the Dumpster for anything usable. That piece of pipe looked good, and she grabbed it, pressing herself up against the wall. She soon heard her pursuers’ labored breathing, using it to time her movements; when they were close enough, she jumped out and struck the first one with a blow to his forehead. He went down hard, which had the advantage of tripping the one behind him, arms flailing as he fell forward, gun flying out of his hand and skidding to a stop on the concrete.
Rachel hurried to pick it up and aimed it right at his head. “Don’t even think about moving. Toss any guns you and your friend still have this way. Slowly. And don’t get any ideas, unless you’d like two new holes in your head.”
The conscious lunkhead did as he was told, slowly removing a gun from an ankle holster and sliding it toward her. He removed his friend’s guns next, just as carefully, sliding them both over too.
“Good. You can take direction. That’s a valuable skill for someone in your line of work. Mind telling me who the fuck you work for?”
He didn’t say anything. She gave him a look. “Did you forget your part in this? I’m the girl holding the gun,” she said, giving it a little wave, “and you’re the jackass who will be suffering from acute lead poisoning if you don’t answer my fucking questions. And scene.”
“Beck,” he ground out, looking pissed.
“James Beck?” she demanded, and he nodded. James Beck was a smuggler, not exactly smalltime—lately he’d been moving up. It made no fucking sense. “What the hell does he want with that house?”
“He knows what she took from her ex,” said the guy. “It’s valuable.”
“Something tells me it’s not software information,” she muttered.
“We were told to retrieve it. Not what it was.”
“That’s helpful. Great.”
She sighed to herself, backing up a little when she heard a car approach. She noticed it was the crappy Toyota the thugs had driven to Ms. Zielinksi’s house, and then she saw who was driving. Mr. Myles jumped out, grinning wide and tossing her some zip ties. “I knew I’d find you eventually. These might help.”
She smirked. “Thanks,” she said, and tossed them to the lackey. “Here. Tighten these around his hands and feet. Then do yours.”
He glowered but did as he was told. “Obedient,” Mr. Myles noted, smirking.
“Just need to find the right motivation.” She moved closer to the now-bound men—without warning, she slammed the butt of the gun against the guy’s temple, twice. He slumped over.
“Let’s move these guys further into the alley,” she said. “Where’s their fearless leader?”
“In the trunk of their car.”
She grinned at him. “Nice. I’m impressed, Mr. Myles.”
“Call me Sam,” he said.
“I’m Rachel.”
“Yeah, I know.” He smirked.
They moved the unconscious lackeys, starting with the two already on the ground, then tackled the third guy. After that was done, Sam added, “Car’s stolen, by the way. It’s hotwired.”
“Good. Just another thing the police can book them on.” She pulled out her cell phone, dialing Jon’s number. “Hey, it’s me. No, no, it’s business, I promise. You have any buddies out in Yonkers?” She grinned. “You never let me down, Jon. Yeah, if they go to this address,” she rattled it off, “and look in the alley? They’ll find a nice surprise. Bye.”
“You’ve got a cop friend?” Sam asked as she hung up, raising an eyebrow.
“He’s more than a friend.” She smirked. “You didn’t leave any prints in the car, did you?”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it up. “Borrowed it from Sandy.”
“Good. Let’s get out of here.”
“Let’s,” Sam said, “and then you can fill me in on what exactly is going on.”
“That’ll be kinda tough,” she said, “because I don’t entirely know.”
---
“Those guys work for James Beck?” Sam asked, later, when they were back at Brooks’ bar. “And they want something from Sandy.”
“Yeah, and that something is what my client hired me to get back. He said it was related to his software company, that she took it accidentally, thinking it was their vacation photos.”
Sam eyed her. “You didn’t believe him.”
“No. I almost didn’t take the case. But I checked him out thoroughly—everything he said tracks. He’s totally legit. It was just a feeling I had.”
“Well, it’s a little more than that now,” Sam said. “So you wanted to talk to Sandy to, what, make sure he was telling the truth?”
“Pretty much.”
“She’s on her way here,” Brooks interrupted. “I finally got ahold of her.”
“I didn’t find a cell phone,” Rachel said, at the same time he asked, “Sandy has a cell phone?”
Brooks smirked at them both. He didn’t say a word, just went back to his stool.
“Tricky old bastard,” Sam muttered. He thought for a moment, then pulled his own cell phone out of his pocket, dialing Torey’s number. “Hey, Torey. Just curious. If I say the name James Beck, what is your immediate reaction?” He grinned. “So you’re not friends. Good. Well, if you hear a strange rumor about three of his guys being arrested in Yonkers today, feel free to believe it, and also, you’re welcome. You wouldn’t happen to know who his major competitors are, would you? Excluding you, obviously. The Corlionis are only his competitors in his wildest dreams.” He listened for a moment. “Uh-huh. That’s interesting. Thanks.”
“You’ve got a mobster friend?” Rachel asked as he hung up, raising an eyebrow.
“He’s more than a friend.” He smirked. “And he says that James Beck is, and I quote ‘a fucking pain in the ass.’ He’s only got one real competitor, a Thomas Wetherby. Thomas is a good boy and always pays the Corlionis their share on time, so he’s the horse they’re backing in this little turf war.”
“Still doesn’t explain what James Beck wants with whatever Ms. Zielinksi took.”
“And, what, exactly, did I take?”
They swiveled in their seats. Sandy had walked in and was giving them very pointed looks.
“Sandy, this is Rachel St. John,” Sam said. “She’s a PI. She has a couple things to ask you.”
Sandy arched an eyebrow and walked closer. “What is it?”
“You recently broke up with your boyfriend, ma’am?”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” she asked incredulously.
“You took a flash drive that you’d left at his place,” Rachel continued. “Right? Vacation pictures?”
“Is that really what this is about? Thomas doesn’t have the balls to call me himself and ask for some pictures back?”
Sam blinked. So did Rachel, he noticed.
“Thomas,” she repeated. “Your ex-boyfriend is named Thomas. As in Thomas Wetherby?”
“Yeah,” Sandy said, frowning.
“Not Troy Fullerton?”
“Troy? No. That’s Thomas’ brother.”
“…his brother.”
“Well, half-brother,” she amended. “They have the same father, but each took their mothers’ names. I guess he was kind of a douchebag.”
“I turned over every inch of Troy Fullerton’s life. How did I miss a half-brother?”
“Obvious, isn’t it?” Brooks spoke up then. “Fullerton’s that bigwig software guy. You can’t be a guy like that and have a con for a brother. Media would have a field day. It’d crush him.”
“A con,” Sandy said slowly. “Are you telling me Thomas is a criminal?”
“If you didn’t know, it’s not—” Rachel started, but Sandy interrupted.
“Is that really what that idiot was hiding from me? Oh, I could kill him! He let me think he was having an affair because he was too much of a chickenshit to tell me? So he’s a criminal. This is New York City! Practically every fourth person is.”
Sam and Brooks snorted. Rachel shook her head.
“Well, at least this makes a hell of a lot more sense now,” Sam said. “Who wants to bet that flash drive has shipping data on it? Manifests, maybe, accessible ports, something like that?”
“Which is why James Beck wants it too,” Rachel said. “And since he knows about it…well, apparently my client’s brother has a mole.”
“I volunteer to get started on finding out who that is,” Sam said.
“You do that. I need to have a serious talk with my client and his brother,” Rachel said. “First, though—do you have that flash drive, Ms. Zielinksi?”
“Yeah, it’s in a box at home, shoved under my bed.” She sighed. “I was going to throw it all out, but I couldn’t bring myself to.”
“I’ll get it,” Rachel said. “I don’t think you should be going home for a couple days.”
“She’s not,” Brooks cut in. “She can stay with me.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” Sandy said.
“This asshole sent men with guns to your place, Sandy. You’re not going back there until we know it’s safe.”
She sighed heavily. “Fine, fine. Do you have anything at your place?” She waited a beat before barreling on. “What am I saying, of course you don’t. Fine, there are groceries in my car. I’ll just take them to your place.”
“I’m off. I’ll stop by your place to get the drive first, then I’ll set up a meeting with my clients, both official and unofficial, tomorrow morning,” Rachel told them.
“There’s a fake rock in the back yard,” Sandy said. “It has a key. Should be on the left side, somewhere in the garden.”
“Got it.” Rachel nodded. “Thanks for your help, Sam. I’ll meet you back here tomorrow after my meeting? Around noon?”
“Sounds good.”
“See you then.” She left the bar.
“Can I have a word with you, Sam?” Brooks asked. Sam nodded and Brooks grabbed his cane, heading into the back. They stopped inside his office. “You plan on taking this Beck asshole down, I hope.”
Sam scowled. “You said it yourself, Brooks. He sent men with guns to Sandy’s house. Of course I do.”
Brooks nodded approvingly.
“That’s why I volunteered to find this mole. I’m thinking whoever it is will lead me somewhere helpful. Maybe a storage location filled with contraband and tons of incriminating evidence kind of helpful.” Sam grinned his sharklike grin.
Brooks smirked. “Good boy.”
---
Rachel’s second visit to Ms. Zielinski’s house was much less exciting than her first visit had been. She found the rock fairly quickly and let herself in, searching for the bedroom. Once she found it, she pulled the box out from under the bed and dug through it. Sure enough, there was a flash drive, small and utterly innocuous-looking. It was almost hard to believe it was causing all this trouble.
Flash drive in hand, she left the house, locking up behind her and re-hiding the key. As she returned to her car, she considered Troy Fullerton and Thomas Wetherby.
Whatever magic Fullerton had worked, it’d been effective. There’d been no electronic link, and not even the barest hint of a paper trail, connecting the two. And yet obviously they weren’t estranged—Thomas had gotten his brother to go along with this ruse, after all.
That pissed her off most of all. Fine, he was a criminal, maybe he’d assumed she wouldn’t work for him because of it, but it still pissed her off. If there was anything Rachel hated above all else, it was people fucking lying to her.
She snorted to herself. Obviously she’d chosen the wrong line of work.
Picking up her cell phone, she dialed the number Fullerton had given her. He answered on the third ring. “Hi, Mr. Fullerton, this is Rachel St. John. Yes, I’ve found your property.” She paused, then continued savagely: “Well, not your property, not really, right? It’s actually your brother’s. Maybe you should both show up at my office tomorrow morning to collect it.” There was a lengthy pause on the line. She could almost hear him paling. “Ten is perfect. I’ll see you both then.”
She smirked and hung up.
---
Sam made his own stop before heading home for the night. It was a dive bar in the South Bronx, run by a bookie and frequented by his customers in both senses of the word. No one who wasn’t at least on the grey side of the law hung out here.
That was what he was counting on. Sam sidled up to the bar. Ricardo, the bookie and bartender, gave him a hard look, and Sam passed over a twenty. “Just here for a little information.”
“What kind of information?”
“James Beck has fucked you over in the past, hasn’t he?” Sam started. “Caused a lot of ruckus involving your customers?”
“I ain’t his biggest fan,” Ricardo agreed.
Sam leaned in. “What would you say if I told you I was looking to take him down?”
Ricardo snorted. “You and what army?”
“I’ve got a few friends,” Sam said mildly. “But I need to know something. You know his biggest competitor, Wetherby? Dude’s got a leak. I’m trying to find out who it is. I’m betting someone in here knows the people in his inner circle.”
Ricardo eyed him for a long moment. “End of the bar, wearing the Dodgers cap.”
Sam passed him another twenty. “Thanks,” he said, and headed to the guy Ricardo had indicated. He sat next to him, offering, “How about I get you a drink?”
Dodgers Cap looked up at him. “Yeah, okay. Whiskey, neat.”
“Another for my friend here. On me,” said Sam. He dropped two twenties next to him; Dodgers Cap eyed them for a second and then picked them up.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Wetherby. Inner circle. Just need the names.”
“There’s three,” he said. “But I only have two bills in my hand.”
Sam obliged by handing him another.
“Jason Kader, he’s the first. Then there’s Walker Finn. Last is Quentin. No last name. Everyone just knows him as Quentin.”
“Thanks,” he said, and left a ten on the bar for the drink Ricardo just brought over.
He stood. “Myles,” Ricardo said, and he glanced back at the bar. “You do what you said you would, I’d consider it a favor.”
Sam grinned. “Oh, don’t worry, Ric. I’m very personally invested in this one.”
He tipped an imaginary hat and left the bar.
---
Rachel knocked on Jon’s apartment door. She smiled at him when he answered, holding up the bag of Chinese food she had in her hand. “It’s a thank you,” she said, and he smiled faintly and let her in. They moved into the living room, and she set the bag on the coffee table.
“My buddies and I should be thanking you,” he said, pulling out a container of chicken lo mein. “Those three guys had rap sheets as long as my arm. Two were wanted in other states.”
She grinned. “Glad I could help,” she said, reaching for an egg roll.
Jon stood, heading for the kitchen. “Want a beer?”
“Yeah, thanks,” she called, and he returned a moment later, two beers in hand. Using the edge of the table to flip the top of hers off, she caught it in her hand. He smirked at her.
“You have to tell me at least how you did it. All three of them by yourself? I know Charlie wasn’t there. He’s sick as a dog.”
“You’ve seen Charlie?” she asked, momentarily distracted.
“I, uh, called his cell. Found out he was staying at Greg’s.” Jon shrugged. “Brought him some soup.”
She grinned. “You did?”
“It’s no big deal, okay? Ma always made it for us when we were sick. Thought it might help.” He cleared his throat. “Tell me the story.”
“Right. The story. Well, first of all, it wasn’t by myself. I’m not that good.” She grinned. “Just almost.”
He snorted. “Right. So who helped?”
“Another PI I ran into. He’s friends with the woman I needed to talk to. Name’s Sam Myles.”
“Myles,” Jon said, obviously turning it over in his mind. “I know I’ve heard some of my buddies bitching about a pain in the ass PI with that name. Big in the Bronx, isn’t he? Though the last few years, he’s started making a name for himself in Brooklyn.”
“I wonder if that has anything to do with the fact that he’s sleeping with Torey Corlioni,” Rachel said nonchalantly, biting into an eggroll.
She could have possibly timed that better; say, for instance, when Jon hadn’t been in the middle of taking a swig of his beer. He coughed and choked, and she grinned, clapping him on the back. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he managed, letting out one last cough. “Christ. He’s banging mob royalty?”
“Apparently,” she said.
Jon gave her a serious look. “Sure you can trust him?”
“He helped me with the thugs,” she pointed out. “And he seemed honestly concerned for his friend. I think he just wants to make sure she’s safe. I had a good feeling about him, anyway.”
“Yeah, all right, I trust your gut,” he said. “Just…be careful, huh?”
“I am always careful,” she deadpanned, and he laughed. She grinned. God, she’d missed this, just hanging out and shooting the shit with him.
“Don’t think you’re stealing my egg roll,” he said suddenly, and she smirked.
“Damn. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
---
Torey was already home when Sam got there. Eileen was, predictably, not—it was only six-thirty, after all. She wouldn’t be home for at least another four hours yet.
“Hey,” Torey said, greeting him with a kiss. Sam deepened it, pressing against him, and Torey raised his eyebrows. “Long day?”
“You could say that,” Sam agreed. He didn’t have a chance to elaborate before a tiny blonde blur zoomed into the room, hugging him tightly.
“Sam!” Alexa said. “You’re back! I drew a picture today, in school, it’s so cool, you have to see it!”
Sam laughed. “Okay. Let’s see it,” he said, allowing her to drag him up the stairs. Torey just grinned in amusement.
After Alexa showed him her picture—which was, indeed, pretty damn cool—Sam stopped by his room, changing into more comfortable clothes. Then he headed back downstairs.
“Did you get to see her really cool picture?” Torey asked.
“I did. It features me, so it’s exactly as cool as she said,” Sam replied, smirking. He sunk down on the couch.
“So you’ve got something going on involving James Beck, I know that much, and nice job with those guys of his, by the way. They’re going to be out of the picture for awhile.”
“That wasn’t all me, I have to admit,” Sam said. “But the bastard is going down, I can promise you that much.”
Torey raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason?”
“He put a friend of mine in danger,” Sam said, scowling at the thought.
Torey’s eyebrow didn’t lower.
“Sandy,” Sam said after a moment. “It’s kind of a long story.”
“Dinner’s already started,” Torey pointed out, “and Eileen won’t be home for hours. We’ve got time.”
“All right. Well, today I met a woman named Rachel St. John.”
---
Rachel kicked her feet up on her desk and leaned back in her chair, waiting. Nine-fifty-nine, according to the clock on the wall. She knew there was no way Troy Fullerton and Thomas Wetherby would miss this meeting, but it’d be interesting to see how long they made her wait.
The second hand circled around the clock. Thirty-five seconds after ten o’clock, Troy Fullerton and a man she’d only seen in pictures walked through her door.
“Morning, gentlemen,” she said genially, gesturing the chairs in front of her desk. “Have a seat.”
They did. Neither of them said a word. She smiled. “So it’s interesting. I suspected, when you first came to me, Mr. Fullerton, that you weren’t telling the whole truth. I just couldn’t figure out what you were omitting. I dug into your history, which is all squeaky clean—the scrub job you did was damned effective, you’ll be happy to hear. Of course, you can’t scrub people, can you? And Ms. Zielinski was only too happy to tell me who her boyfriend really was.”
“You talked—”
“Don’t interrupt me right now, Mr. Fullerton,” she said sharply. “I am not in the mood. And considering I kind of have your balls in a vice, you might want to shut up and listen.”
Troy Fullerton shut up.
“You,” she said then, looking at Mr. Wetherby. “How much of his story was true, at least for you? Did you really care about this woman?”
“I still do,” he said quietly.
“But you didn’t tell her what you do,” she said.
“How could I?”
“You know the reason she left you is because she thought you were cheating, right?” At his glum nod, Rachel added, “Not that it makes any difference now, because she knows the truth.”
Mr. Wetherby glanced up sharply. “She does?”
“Yeah, and to tell you the truth, she didn’t actually take it all that badly,” she said. “I think she’s more pissed you didn’t tell her yourself than anything.”
He couldn’t seem to settle on a reaction to that. Rachel pressed on. “Anyway, the reason I’m pissed is because when you do shit like lie to me, I get blindsided. And I don’t like getting blindsided when it involves having to deal with men with guns.”
They exchanged a look. “Men with guns?” asked Mr. Wetherby, slowly.
“Seems your rival, James Beck, found out about this,” she said, pulling the flash drive out of her pocket. “He sent a happy little welcome wagon to your ex’s house to steal it before you had a chance to get it back.” She tossed it to him. “Luckily, she wasn’t there at the time, though I was, and a new friend. They were dealt with.”
“I heard about that. Three of Beck’s men arrested in Yonkers.” Wetherby’s entire demeanor shifted. She could see this man being very intimidating, even scary. “Sandy might have been hurt. That is unacceptable.”
Mr. Fullerton was obviously slightly less blinded with rage, because he asked, “How did Beck even know about this?”
Rachel nodded. “Yeah, that was my question, but the answer is pretty simple. You’ve got a leak in your organization, Mr. Wetherby.”
Mr. Wetherby’s jaw tightened. “Do you know who?”
“No, not yet,” she admitted, “but my friend is looking into that. Frankly, he’s a close friend of Ms. Zielinski’s, and he was as pissed as you are about this whole ‘guys with guns’ thing.”
“Good,” he said. “I already owe you a debt of gratitude for protecting Sandy. If you find out who this leak,” he spit the word out, “is, I’ll owe you more. And I always pay my debts.”
She nodded. “That’s what I’ve heard about your reputation, Mr. Wetherby,” she said. “And a small word of advice? Maybe try being a little more forthcoming in the future. Us womenfolk can take it, I promise. No fainting couches necessary.”
“Right,” he said, after a moment. “Is that all?”
“Not quite,” she said. “I need a couple more things from you.”
---
Sam had taken over Brooks’ desk, bent over several documents. He’d managed to find a last name for the guy called Quentin—Sachs, as it turned out—and had bribed a clerk to get access to some documents in the county records. Kader’s sister just got married. Quentin had just bought a house. Finn recently leased a new car. None of it looked terribly suspicious. This just might be a dead end.
He stretched and sighed, quieting when he heard footsteps toward the office. It wasn’t Brooks—he had an entirely different gait with his cane. Then the door opened. Ah, of course. Rachel.
“Hey,” she said, and grinned. “I brought you a present.” She held up a folder full of documents. “Bank accounts, and detailed financial records, for Wetherby’s top brass, all courtesy of Mr. Thomas Wetherby himself. He was none too happy about Ms. Zielinski being in danger.”
“Good,” Sam muttered. “Though did he stop to think that might not be the case if he’d told her the goddamn truth?”
“Yeah, I think he’s kicking himself about that.”
“Good,” he said again. “Want to dig into these?”
“Sounds like a party,” she agreed.
---
“I think I’ve forgotten what a number is,” Rachel declared, three hours later. “I’ve stared at so many of them they’re all starting to blur together.”
Sam snorted. “Yeah, I’m starting to have that problem too.”
“What do you say to a break? Maybe we could try some good old-fashioned surveillance for awhile. Granted, it still involves sitting around for hours on end, but at least we don’t have to stare at numbers while we do it.”
“All right. Who do you want to start with?”
“Let’s start with Quentin. There’s something about a guy with only one name that just screams ‘untrustworthy,’ don’t you think?”
Sam laughed. “Yeah, although three names is no picnic either.”
“Good point.” Rachel stood and stretched. “I know where we can start. Mr. Wetherby gave me a rough idea of where each guy would be.”
“Let’s go.”
---
Quentin was a dead end.
They followed him for hours to no avail—if he was the mole, he was apparently doing it telepathically, because there just wasn’t any other way they could see that he’d be able to get out information.
Sam sighed as he let himself into Brooks’ office. He’d collect the documents, go over them some more at home. Maybe they’d somehow missed something. Doubtful, but possible.
Hopefully.
---
Sam met Rachel at Brooks’ bar again the next morning. “I was thinking we should split up,” he said. “Since there are two guys left.”
“Fine with me. Meet back here in four hours?”
“Yeah, that works. I’ll take Kader.”
“Then Finn’s all mine. Good luck.”
“You too.”
They split up.
---
Rachel was bored.
God, she hated surveillance. At least, she hated it when she was by herself. It was much more bearable when Charlie was with her. They could at least keep each other entertained.
Still, it beat numbing her brain by looking at endless strings of numbers, and hell, it might actually pay off.
But she still fucking hated surveillance.
---
“Fuck yes,” Sam muttered triumphantly to himself. This particular warehouse was not even remotely anywhere near someplace Kader was supposed to be today, and following him to it had been a huge fucking pain in the ass. The guy was careful, that much was clear. It just might be the break he’d been hoping for.
Driving a little ways down the street, he parked and hopped out of the car, then walked back to the warehouse. There were guards in front of the door, three of them, far too big for him to get by on his own, and probably armed.
He was going to need backup.
Slinking back behind the building, he pulled out his cell and dialed Rachel’s number. It rang once, then went straight to voicemail. Dammit. “I’m pretty sure it’s Kader. I followed him to a warehouse upstate. Here’s the rough address, as far as I can tell,” he said, giving her an idea of where to go. “If you could hurry it out here, that’d be appreciated.”
He hung up. For now, he’d wait.
---
Thankfully, her phone had been on vibrate, and she’d ignored the call quickly enough that Finn hadn’t even glanced up from his food. The less attention drawn to her the better, especially when she was trying to eavesdrop on his half of this phone call.
She kept her face hidden by the menu, as if perusing it with interest, straining her ears to listen.
“I told you I’d be home before six, didn’t I?” Finn was saying, sounding exasperated. “Yeah, I know I said that the other time, but that was an emergency, not like I could predict it.”
Either this was the dullest, cleverest code ever, or he wasn’t talking to anyone nefarious.
“Sure. I’ll get it. Wheat? Two—why do we need—fine, two loaves it is. I’ll see you tonight. Love you.”
Oh, good. She’d get to follow him running an errand. Rolling her eyes, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and glanced at who had called. Sam’s number. And he’d left a voicemail.
She dialed in to listen, a grin splitting her face as she did. Finally, something was happening. Her waiter returned just as she disconnected the call, and she smiled at him. “Sorry, changed my mind. I think I’m more in the mood for sushi.”
Hurrying for her car, she decided she had one more call to make on the way.
---
Sam grinned when his phone vibrated in his pocket. A glance at the caller ID showed Rachel’s number. He hit the button to answer.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m—”
“Get the fuck out of the car,” said a loud, angry voice suddenly, and then his door was being wrenched open by a very large man, his phone ripped out of his hand. The man dropped it on the ground and stomped on it, then grabbed him by the arm and bodily pulled him out of the car. “Just who the fuck are you? And who the fuck were you calling?” His grip tightened.
“Hey, hey, no need to get all upset, I’m nobody,” Sam said, affecting his best bewildered expression. “See, I’m just trying to find my sister’s place. I got totally lost, can you believe it? I really ought to invest in a GPS. I mean, she keeps telling me, but do I listen? I was calling her—”
“That’s the car I thought might be tailing me,” said another voice suddenly. Sam glanced over to see none other than Jason Kader, curling his lip at him. “You’d better search him.”
Sam found himself roughly pushed up against his car, and tried not to curse out loud when the big guy pulled out his ID and badge. Fuck. “He’s a PI,” said the guy.
“A PI.” Jason Kader eyed him shrewdly. “I heard something about a couple of PIs being involved with those guys in Yonkers.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about there. I hardly ever go to Yonkers. I think I’ve been there once—”
“Shut up,” demanded the big guy. Sam internally debated his options. He couldn’t overpower this guy with brute strength alone, that was for damn sure—he was at least as big as Torey. “It says his name is Sam Myles.”
“Myles. I’ve heard that name. You’re mixed up with the Corlionis.”
The big guy scoffed. “Fucking Corlionis.”
“Mixed up with? That’s really what the underworld gossip chain has settled on? That’s frankly kind of disappointing,” Sam said conversationally. He noticed the car door was still open, and the big guy’s hand was resting precariously in its path.
“I told you to shut—”
Sam spun around as hard as he could; his shoulder wrenched, what with the big guy still gripping his arm, and he kicked the car door shut. The big guy let go, howling in pain, and he ran, trying to ignore the ache that was now shooting down his left arm.
He heard the shouts after him. He kept running.
---
The abrupt hang-up from Sam had left her cold. When she drove near enough to see Sam’s car deserted, she instantly pulled out her cell phone. “Hi, yes, is this the police?” she asked in a terrified, breathy whisper. “I’m outside a warehouse,” she added, giving the approximate address, “and I just saw a bunch of guys with guns walking in. One of them was pointing one at some guy’s head! What should I do?”
When the operator promised there’d be a response immediately, she hung up. Then she stopped the car and popped the trunk. After she jumped out, she grabbed the crowbar and tire iron she stored there, and headed for the warehouse.
---
Sam’s shoulder really fucking ached, and he couldn’t move it much. Great. He ducked behind some large crates, realizing too late that he’d blocked himself in. He could only hope no one had seen him.
Suddenly, he heard approaching footsteps, and, “He went back there!”
Well, fuck.
---
Rachel could see that something was definitely going on. There were large, armed men running around all over the damned place, frantically searching. At least that meant Sam was probably still alive.
She crept around, trying to stay out of sight. Hopefully those cops got here soon.
Then she heard a shouted, “He went back there!” and watched as three very large men ran behind some crates. She followed them, peering around the side.
“Guys, come on,” Sam was saying, grinning wide. He sounded like he was in pain. “We can work this out, right?”
“Sure we can,” said one of the thugs. “We’ll work it out by pounding in your fucking head.”
“That doesn’t really work for me,” Sam said, smirking suddenly. She wondered if he’d seen her. “There isn’t another way?”
The same thug just snarled, “Get him.”
“No,” she said, and pounced, swinging the crowbar hard at his head. “I think there’s another way after all.”
He stumbled and fell hard, and she tossed the tire iron to Sam, who managed to catch it with his right hand. She ducked a punch from one of the other guys, swinging the crowbar up between his legs, slamming it into his crotch. He howled, falling to his knees, and she swung again, this time at his other head. He dropped the rest of the way to the ground.
She glanced up to see Sam standing over the unconscious body of the third guy. He grimaced, dropping the tire iron, and gripped at his left shoulder.
“What happened to you?” she demanded, hurrying toward him.
“Oh, you know, just a minor dislocation, I think.” He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Eileen’s going to kill me.” Rachel opted not to press.
The shrill sound of police sirens suddenly filled the air. They exchanged a look.
“Sounds like that’s our cue to get the hell out of here,” she said.
They did.
---
Businessman James Beck Considered Person of Interest In Smuggling Ring, read the paper’s headline the next day. Sam grinned. That was worth having his arm in a sling, he decided, and he passed it to Rachel.
“Nice, isn’t it?” he said.
“Well, they caught how many of his guys? I think Jon said at least ten. No way all of them were going to keep quiet.” She grinned back.
“Did he say if Kader was one of them?” Sam asked.
Rachel shook her head. “He wasn’t.”
“Dammit.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Rachel said. “On my way up yesterday, I gave Thomas Wetherby a call. He was, well, very interested in finding out the identity of his leak. From the tone of his voice after I told him, I don’t think Jason Kader will be causing anyone any more problems.”
A grim smile settled over Sam’s face. “Good.”
“Speaking of Thomas Wetherby,” she said, “he’s a man of his word. And this is yours.” She passed him a check. He had to glance at it twice, thinking he somehow misread it the first time. For him, it was a lot of money all at once.
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“Your share.”
“Wetherby was your client.”
“Technically, Troy Fullerton was,” she said, smirking. “Just take it. Not like you didn’t earn it.” She glanced at his shoulder.
“I didn’t fuck it up too badly,” he said.
Rachel looked like she was about to respond when the door chimed. They both glanced over to see none other than Thomas Wetherby walk in the door.
“Okay then,” said Sam.
“Is Sandy here?” he asked.
“Thomas, what the hell are you doing here?”
“That’s a yes,” Sam noted.
“I just wanted to apologize,” he said. “Can we talk privately?”
“Oh, no, we’re doing this here,” she said. “Let’s see, you want to apologize? God, what could you possibly want to apologize for? Lying to me? Driving me away? Making me the unwitting target of armed smugglers? Or how about making me spend two days straight with Brooks?”
He winced. “All of the above.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me, you idiot?”
“I didn’t want you to hate me.”
“So you thought you’d let me believe you were having an affair instead, because that really endears me to a person.” Sandy gave him a look.
“I figured you would hate me either way. I thought that might be the lesser of two evils.”
“Men,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “Why are you all so stupid?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll go. That’s all I wanted.”
She heaved a sigh. “Wait,” she said, before he reached the door. “I still think you’re an idiot, but God help me, I’ve missed you.”
He turned, a hopeful grin on his face. “Could we—”
“We’ll start over,” she said, after a moment. “Pick me up at eight.”
“Of course.” He smiled at her before leaving.
Sam exchanged a look with Rachel. “Okay then,” he repeated. “I’m not sure which I’m more surprised by. That, or this.” He held up the check.
“I think that was way more surprising,” Rachel said sagely. “This is just routine.”
He rolled his eyes, an action entirely betrayed by his smile. “Thanks.”
“No, thank you,” Rachel said, and she grinned.
Sam grinned back, just as wide. “It was a hell of a lot of fun, wasn’t it?”
Colors: TARDIS Blue, 10. We're always in trouble! Isn't this extraordinary: it follows us everywhere!
Supplies: Eraser (for both!)
Styles: Portrait, Mosaic
Word Count: 7,700
Rating: PG-13
Story: Polyfaceted and The Sun From Both Sides; title of this is Crash Goes Our World.
Summary: Sam Myles meets Rachel St. John. Things snowball from there.
Notes: Takes place in an alternate February 2010. So my brain was all, "Hey, you know what you should write? Rachel and Sam meeting. That'd be fun." and I was all, "Brain, what are you talking about, they would get into so much shit together, it'd completely snowball on me." and my brain was like, "Maaaaaaaaaybe. But you should still write it." And so I wrote it. And it completely snowballed on me. This is what happens when I indulge my brain's whims. Title comes from the song "Crash Goes My World" by Cadence Grace.
Well, fuck.
Sam considered his options. The three hulking men who were advancing on him did not seem in the mood for a friendly chat. At his best, he figured he could take out one, maybe; with his shoulder fucked and no advantage, he had little hope of even that much. Where was Rachel when you needed her?
“Guys, come on,” he said, grinning wide. “We can work this out, can’t we?”
“Sure we can,” said Big Guy #1. “We’ll work it out by pounding in your fucking head.”
“That doesn’t exactly work for me,” he said, and smirked. “There isn’t another way?”
Big Guys #2 and #3 just scowled at him. Not talkers, apparently.
Big Guy #1 nodded his head. “Get him.”
From the outside, the bar looked like a dive, but the inside was surprisingly decent. Rachel glanced around, taking it in, noticing that most of the patrons had some sort of amber liquid in front of them. She snorted to herself. This would probably not be the place to expect to find, say, good tequila.
There was an older guy behind the bar, sitting on a stool. That had to be the majority owner, a Mr. Denton Brooks. He matched the picture she had of him perfectly.
Mr. Brooks gave her a shrewd look. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for a Ms. Sandra Zielinski,” she said, ambling over to the bar.
He eyed her suspiciously. “Any particular reason you’re looking for her here?”
Rachel smirked, pulling out a small notepad. “Let’s see. She owns ten percent of this bar, she’s worked here since the re-opening in 1992, and she’s close personal friends with the majority owner, a Mr. Denton Brooks. Oh, wait. That’s you.” She smiled, pulling a business card from her pocket and sliding it to him. “So just a few particular reasons. Rachel St. John. Nice to meet you.”
“A PI,” he said slowly, looking at her card and then back up at her. “And you need to see Sandy. What for?”
“Just a small property dispute,” she said, which had the advantage of both being totally true and giving nothing away.
“She left early today,” he said, after a long moment. “Had some errands to run.”
“That’s a shame,” she said. “Guess I’ll just have to try back tomorrow.”
“You do that.”
Mr. Denton Brooks was not a man who trusted easily, that was easy to tell. He watched her like a hawk as she left the bar.
Time to try Ms. Zielinski’s home address.
Brooks frowned to himself as St. John left the bar. Whatever she wanted with Sandy, he intended to find out. He didn’t like inquiries after his people, even if maybe it was as simple and harmless as she’d implied.
He snorted. Yeah, right, and maybe tomorrow he’d take up long-distance running.
Reaching for the phone on the wall, he dialed Sam’s number. “Ask and you shall receive,” said Sam in greeting.
“You’re a real professional.”
“It’s this newfangled invention called Caller ID, Brooks,” Sam said, and Brooks could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “What’s up?”
“A PI just came in here looking for Sandy. She said it was something about a property dispute. Think you could look into it?”
“It serious?” His entire tone shifted, all business, and Brooks allowed himself a faint smile.
“Could be. Didn’t get much out of her. Name’s St. John.”
“…wait, you don’t mean Rachel St. John?”
“You know her?”
“Of her,” Sam said. “She’s good.”
“She said she’d try again tomorrow.”
“Yeah, she’s actually probably heading for Sandy’s place,” Sam said, sounding long-suffering. “I should be able to beat her there. I’ll keep an eye out.”
“So what are you waiting for? Get going.”
“I already am, Brooks. There are also these newfangled inventions called cell phones. You called mine, remember?”
“Just make sure Sandy’s okay, kid.”
He hung up.
Sam was fairly confident he’d beaten St. John to Sandy’s place. Sandy herself wasn’t home, and it didn’t look like anyone else was around either.
When a woman walked up to Sandy’s front door, this thought was confirmed. Attractive, short black hair, tattoos—that was Rachel St. John, all right.
He watched as she knocked on the door and rang the doorbell. When no one answered, she glanced around and then idly headed for the back, like it was a perfectly natural thing for her to do. Sam grinned. He couldn’t help but admire the cockiness.
His grin was short-lived. Just as she disappeared behind Sandy’s house, a crappy Toyota pulled into the driveway. The second the three men inside stepped out of the car, he could see they were obviously carrying.
Well, fuck.
Quickly, he headed down the street, hurrying back behind one of the houses four lots over. He hopped the fences back to Sandy’s place, only to be greeted by a roundhouse kick to his chest as soon as he landed in her yard.
Sam wheezed. “That’s what I get for trying to warn you?” he said, glancing up to see Rachel St. John standing over him.
“Warn me about what? The three stooges out front? They’re not exactly subtle,” she said. “Besides, you were the one Edward Cullen-ing it up before they got here, weren’t you? How do I know you aren’t with them?”
“The lack of a gun might be a clue,” Sam said, standing. St. John still looked wary. “Name’s Myles. Sam Myles. Nice to meet you.”
“Myles. I’ve heard that name,” she said, thinking. “You’re a PI. Pretty infamous around the Bronx. And you know Ms. Zielinski.”
“I know a lot of people,” he said, smirking.
“Yeah, I bet you do. Want to get the hell out of here?”
“We need to bring the welcoming party with us. I’m not letting Sandy come home to that.”
“That wouldn’t be pleasant,” she agreed. “Divide and conquer?”
He smirked. “I like your style.”
“I’ll go first,” she said, and ran for the front.
Sam heard commotion, a shouted, “Hey, get back here!” and then, “Well, don’t just stand there, you idiots! Run after her!”
He found the fake rock Sandy kept in the backyard and pulled out the key, unlocking her back door. The baseball bat she usually kept just to the right was still there, and he grabbed it. Then he waited.
It wasn’t long before the remaining thug came around back. Sam watched as he noticed the back door was open and rushed in, hand moving for where Sam figured his weapon was. Before he had a chance to draw it, Sam swung hard at his head, bringing him down.
He checked his pulse. Out cold, but alive. He took his gun, then checked for a backup. Sure enough, there was also a .22 strapped to his ankle. Maybe this guy had been a boy scout.
Snorting to himself, he wondered what Sandy might have lying around that could be used to tie him up. Searching through a few closets, he eventually found a container of zip ties, varying sizes. Those would work.
After securing the guy’s hands and feet, he sat back, trying to determine what to do with him. The trunk, he decided after a moment. Definitely the trunk.
Rachel knew her client had been hiding something.
There had just been something off when he’d weaved his little tale of woe, a bad breakup and his ex-girlfriend accidentally taking a flash drive full of confidential documents related to his software company. He just wanted them back, that was all. He didn’t even want to bother her. Couldn’t she just get it back without anyone knowing?
She had almost turned the case down, especially since Charlie was out with the flu, but with all the shit going down with Jon lately, she’d really needed a distraction. So she’d taken it, telling herself she’d do a little digging beforehand. She hadn’t found anything suspicious in his history—it all checked out with what he’d told her—but that last niggling doubt just would not go away. She was determined to find out the truth.
Now it seemed that the truth apparently involved armed thugs, like the two she was leading away from Ms. Zielinski’s house. They were slowing down now, obviously getting winded, and she snorted to herself. She and Charlie ran at least twice this distance almost every damn morning. Ridiculous.
She ducked into a nearby alley, scanning the Dumpster for anything usable. That piece of pipe looked good, and she grabbed it, pressing herself up against the wall. She soon heard her pursuers’ labored breathing, using it to time her movements; when they were close enough, she jumped out and struck the first one with a blow to his forehead. He went down hard, which had the advantage of tripping the one behind him, arms flailing as he fell forward, gun flying out of his hand and skidding to a stop on the concrete.
Rachel hurried to pick it up and aimed it right at his head. “Don’t even think about moving. Toss any guns you and your friend still have this way. Slowly. And don’t get any ideas, unless you’d like two new holes in your head.”
The conscious lunkhead did as he was told, slowly removing a gun from an ankle holster and sliding it toward her. He removed his friend’s guns next, just as carefully, sliding them both over too.
“Good. You can take direction. That’s a valuable skill for someone in your line of work. Mind telling me who the fuck you work for?”
He didn’t say anything. She gave him a look. “Did you forget your part in this? I’m the girl holding the gun,” she said, giving it a little wave, “and you’re the jackass who will be suffering from acute lead poisoning if you don’t answer my fucking questions. And scene.”
“Beck,” he ground out, looking pissed.
“James Beck?” she demanded, and he nodded. James Beck was a smuggler, not exactly smalltime—lately he’d been moving up. It made no fucking sense. “What the hell does he want with that house?”
“He knows what she took from her ex,” said the guy. “It’s valuable.”
“Something tells me it’s not software information,” she muttered.
“We were told to retrieve it. Not what it was.”
“That’s helpful. Great.”
She sighed to herself, backing up a little when she heard a car approach. She noticed it was the crappy Toyota the thugs had driven to Ms. Zielinksi’s house, and then she saw who was driving. Mr. Myles jumped out, grinning wide and tossing her some zip ties. “I knew I’d find you eventually. These might help.”
She smirked. “Thanks,” she said, and tossed them to the lackey. “Here. Tighten these around his hands and feet. Then do yours.”
He glowered but did as he was told. “Obedient,” Mr. Myles noted, smirking.
“Just need to find the right motivation.” She moved closer to the now-bound men—without warning, she slammed the butt of the gun against the guy’s temple, twice. He slumped over.
“Let’s move these guys further into the alley,” she said. “Where’s their fearless leader?”
“In the trunk of their car.”
She grinned at him. “Nice. I’m impressed, Mr. Myles.”
“Call me Sam,” he said.
“I’m Rachel.”
“Yeah, I know.” He smirked.
They moved the unconscious lackeys, starting with the two already on the ground, then tackled the third guy. After that was done, Sam added, “Car’s stolen, by the way. It’s hotwired.”
“Good. Just another thing the police can book them on.” She pulled out her cell phone, dialing Jon’s number. “Hey, it’s me. No, no, it’s business, I promise. You have any buddies out in Yonkers?” She grinned. “You never let me down, Jon. Yeah, if they go to this address,” she rattled it off, “and look in the alley? They’ll find a nice surprise. Bye.”
“You’ve got a cop friend?” Sam asked as she hung up, raising an eyebrow.
“He’s more than a friend.” She smirked. “You didn’t leave any prints in the car, did you?”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it up. “Borrowed it from Sandy.”
“Good. Let’s get out of here.”
“Let’s,” Sam said, “and then you can fill me in on what exactly is going on.”
“That’ll be kinda tough,” she said, “because I don’t entirely know.”
“Those guys work for James Beck?” Sam asked, later, when they were back at Brooks’ bar. “And they want something from Sandy.”
“Yeah, and that something is what my client hired me to get back. He said it was related to his software company, that she took it accidentally, thinking it was their vacation photos.”
Sam eyed her. “You didn’t believe him.”
“No. I almost didn’t take the case. But I checked him out thoroughly—everything he said tracks. He’s totally legit. It was just a feeling I had.”
“Well, it’s a little more than that now,” Sam said. “So you wanted to talk to Sandy to, what, make sure he was telling the truth?”
“Pretty much.”
“She’s on her way here,” Brooks interrupted. “I finally got ahold of her.”
“I didn’t find a cell phone,” Rachel said, at the same time he asked, “Sandy has a cell phone?”
Brooks smirked at them both. He didn’t say a word, just went back to his stool.
“Tricky old bastard,” Sam muttered. He thought for a moment, then pulled his own cell phone out of his pocket, dialing Torey’s number. “Hey, Torey. Just curious. If I say the name James Beck, what is your immediate reaction?” He grinned. “So you’re not friends. Good. Well, if you hear a strange rumor about three of his guys being arrested in Yonkers today, feel free to believe it, and also, you’re welcome. You wouldn’t happen to know who his major competitors are, would you? Excluding you, obviously. The Corlionis are only his competitors in his wildest dreams.” He listened for a moment. “Uh-huh. That’s interesting. Thanks.”
“You’ve got a mobster friend?” Rachel asked as he hung up, raising an eyebrow.
“He’s more than a friend.” He smirked. “And he says that James Beck is, and I quote ‘a fucking pain in the ass.’ He’s only got one real competitor, a Thomas Wetherby. Thomas is a good boy and always pays the Corlionis their share on time, so he’s the horse they’re backing in this little turf war.”
“Still doesn’t explain what James Beck wants with whatever Ms. Zielinksi took.”
“And, what, exactly, did I take?”
They swiveled in their seats. Sandy had walked in and was giving them very pointed looks.
“Sandy, this is Rachel St. John,” Sam said. “She’s a PI. She has a couple things to ask you.”
Sandy arched an eyebrow and walked closer. “What is it?”
“You recently broke up with your boyfriend, ma’am?”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” she asked incredulously.
“You took a flash drive that you’d left at his place,” Rachel continued. “Right? Vacation pictures?”
“Is that really what this is about? Thomas doesn’t have the balls to call me himself and ask for some pictures back?”
Sam blinked. So did Rachel, he noticed.
“Thomas,” she repeated. “Your ex-boyfriend is named Thomas. As in Thomas Wetherby?”
“Yeah,” Sandy said, frowning.
“Not Troy Fullerton?”
“Troy? No. That’s Thomas’ brother.”
“…his brother.”
“Well, half-brother,” she amended. “They have the same father, but each took their mothers’ names. I guess he was kind of a douchebag.”
“I turned over every inch of Troy Fullerton’s life. How did I miss a half-brother?”
“Obvious, isn’t it?” Brooks spoke up then. “Fullerton’s that bigwig software guy. You can’t be a guy like that and have a con for a brother. Media would have a field day. It’d crush him.”
“A con,” Sandy said slowly. “Are you telling me Thomas is a criminal?”
“If you didn’t know, it’s not—” Rachel started, but Sandy interrupted.
“Is that really what that idiot was hiding from me? Oh, I could kill him! He let me think he was having an affair because he was too much of a chickenshit to tell me? So he’s a criminal. This is New York City! Practically every fourth person is.”
Sam and Brooks snorted. Rachel shook her head.
“Well, at least this makes a hell of a lot more sense now,” Sam said. “Who wants to bet that flash drive has shipping data on it? Manifests, maybe, accessible ports, something like that?”
“Which is why James Beck wants it too,” Rachel said. “And since he knows about it…well, apparently my client’s brother has a mole.”
“I volunteer to get started on finding out who that is,” Sam said.
“You do that. I need to have a serious talk with my client and his brother,” Rachel said. “First, though—do you have that flash drive, Ms. Zielinksi?”
“Yeah, it’s in a box at home, shoved under my bed.” She sighed. “I was going to throw it all out, but I couldn’t bring myself to.”
“I’ll get it,” Rachel said. “I don’t think you should be going home for a couple days.”
“She’s not,” Brooks cut in. “She can stay with me.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” Sandy said.
“This asshole sent men with guns to your place, Sandy. You’re not going back there until we know it’s safe.”
She sighed heavily. “Fine, fine. Do you have anything at your place?” She waited a beat before barreling on. “What am I saying, of course you don’t. Fine, there are groceries in my car. I’ll just take them to your place.”
“I’m off. I’ll stop by your place to get the drive first, then I’ll set up a meeting with my clients, both official and unofficial, tomorrow morning,” Rachel told them.
“There’s a fake rock in the back yard,” Sandy said. “It has a key. Should be on the left side, somewhere in the garden.”
“Got it.” Rachel nodded. “Thanks for your help, Sam. I’ll meet you back here tomorrow after my meeting? Around noon?”
“Sounds good.”
“See you then.” She left the bar.
“Can I have a word with you, Sam?” Brooks asked. Sam nodded and Brooks grabbed his cane, heading into the back. They stopped inside his office. “You plan on taking this Beck asshole down, I hope.”
Sam scowled. “You said it yourself, Brooks. He sent men with guns to Sandy’s house. Of course I do.”
Brooks nodded approvingly.
“That’s why I volunteered to find this mole. I’m thinking whoever it is will lead me somewhere helpful. Maybe a storage location filled with contraband and tons of incriminating evidence kind of helpful.” Sam grinned his sharklike grin.
Brooks smirked. “Good boy.”
Rachel’s second visit to Ms. Zielinski’s house was much less exciting than her first visit had been. She found the rock fairly quickly and let herself in, searching for the bedroom. Once she found it, she pulled the box out from under the bed and dug through it. Sure enough, there was a flash drive, small and utterly innocuous-looking. It was almost hard to believe it was causing all this trouble.
Flash drive in hand, she left the house, locking up behind her and re-hiding the key. As she returned to her car, she considered Troy Fullerton and Thomas Wetherby.
Whatever magic Fullerton had worked, it’d been effective. There’d been no electronic link, and not even the barest hint of a paper trail, connecting the two. And yet obviously they weren’t estranged—Thomas had gotten his brother to go along with this ruse, after all.
That pissed her off most of all. Fine, he was a criminal, maybe he’d assumed she wouldn’t work for him because of it, but it still pissed her off. If there was anything Rachel hated above all else, it was people fucking lying to her.
She snorted to herself. Obviously she’d chosen the wrong line of work.
Picking up her cell phone, she dialed the number Fullerton had given her. He answered on the third ring. “Hi, Mr. Fullerton, this is Rachel St. John. Yes, I’ve found your property.” She paused, then continued savagely: “Well, not your property, not really, right? It’s actually your brother’s. Maybe you should both show up at my office tomorrow morning to collect it.” There was a lengthy pause on the line. She could almost hear him paling. “Ten is perfect. I’ll see you both then.”
She smirked and hung up.
Sam made his own stop before heading home for the night. It was a dive bar in the South Bronx, run by a bookie and frequented by his customers in both senses of the word. No one who wasn’t at least on the grey side of the law hung out here.
That was what he was counting on. Sam sidled up to the bar. Ricardo, the bookie and bartender, gave him a hard look, and Sam passed over a twenty. “Just here for a little information.”
“What kind of information?”
“James Beck has fucked you over in the past, hasn’t he?” Sam started. “Caused a lot of ruckus involving your customers?”
“I ain’t his biggest fan,” Ricardo agreed.
Sam leaned in. “What would you say if I told you I was looking to take him down?”
Ricardo snorted. “You and what army?”
“I’ve got a few friends,” Sam said mildly. “But I need to know something. You know his biggest competitor, Wetherby? Dude’s got a leak. I’m trying to find out who it is. I’m betting someone in here knows the people in his inner circle.”
Ricardo eyed him for a long moment. “End of the bar, wearing the Dodgers cap.”
Sam passed him another twenty. “Thanks,” he said, and headed to the guy Ricardo had indicated. He sat next to him, offering, “How about I get you a drink?”
Dodgers Cap looked up at him. “Yeah, okay. Whiskey, neat.”
“Another for my friend here. On me,” said Sam. He dropped two twenties next to him; Dodgers Cap eyed them for a second and then picked them up.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Wetherby. Inner circle. Just need the names.”
“There’s three,” he said. “But I only have two bills in my hand.”
Sam obliged by handing him another.
“Jason Kader, he’s the first. Then there’s Walker Finn. Last is Quentin. No last name. Everyone just knows him as Quentin.”
“Thanks,” he said, and left a ten on the bar for the drink Ricardo just brought over.
He stood. “Myles,” Ricardo said, and he glanced back at the bar. “You do what you said you would, I’d consider it a favor.”
Sam grinned. “Oh, don’t worry, Ric. I’m very personally invested in this one.”
He tipped an imaginary hat and left the bar.
Rachel knocked on Jon’s apartment door. She smiled at him when he answered, holding up the bag of Chinese food she had in her hand. “It’s a thank you,” she said, and he smiled faintly and let her in. They moved into the living room, and she set the bag on the coffee table.
“My buddies and I should be thanking you,” he said, pulling out a container of chicken lo mein. “Those three guys had rap sheets as long as my arm. Two were wanted in other states.”
She grinned. “Glad I could help,” she said, reaching for an egg roll.
Jon stood, heading for the kitchen. “Want a beer?”
“Yeah, thanks,” she called, and he returned a moment later, two beers in hand. Using the edge of the table to flip the top of hers off, she caught it in her hand. He smirked at her.
“You have to tell me at least how you did it. All three of them by yourself? I know Charlie wasn’t there. He’s sick as a dog.”
“You’ve seen Charlie?” she asked, momentarily distracted.
“I, uh, called his cell. Found out he was staying at Greg’s.” Jon shrugged. “Brought him some soup.”
She grinned. “You did?”
“It’s no big deal, okay? Ma always made it for us when we were sick. Thought it might help.” He cleared his throat. “Tell me the story.”
“Right. The story. Well, first of all, it wasn’t by myself. I’m not that good.” She grinned. “Just almost.”
He snorted. “Right. So who helped?”
“Another PI I ran into. He’s friends with the woman I needed to talk to. Name’s Sam Myles.”
“Myles,” Jon said, obviously turning it over in his mind. “I know I’ve heard some of my buddies bitching about a pain in the ass PI with that name. Big in the Bronx, isn’t he? Though the last few years, he’s started making a name for himself in Brooklyn.”
“I wonder if that has anything to do with the fact that he’s sleeping with Torey Corlioni,” Rachel said nonchalantly, biting into an eggroll.
She could have possibly timed that better; say, for instance, when Jon hadn’t been in the middle of taking a swig of his beer. He coughed and choked, and she grinned, clapping him on the back. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he managed, letting out one last cough. “Christ. He’s banging mob royalty?”
“Apparently,” she said.
Jon gave her a serious look. “Sure you can trust him?”
“He helped me with the thugs,” she pointed out. “And he seemed honestly concerned for his friend. I think he just wants to make sure she’s safe. I had a good feeling about him, anyway.”
“Yeah, all right, I trust your gut,” he said. “Just…be careful, huh?”
“I am always careful,” she deadpanned, and he laughed. She grinned. God, she’d missed this, just hanging out and shooting the shit with him.
“Don’t think you’re stealing my egg roll,” he said suddenly, and she smirked.
“Damn. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
Torey was already home when Sam got there. Eileen was, predictably, not—it was only six-thirty, after all. She wouldn’t be home for at least another four hours yet.
“Hey,” Torey said, greeting him with a kiss. Sam deepened it, pressing against him, and Torey raised his eyebrows. “Long day?”
“You could say that,” Sam agreed. He didn’t have a chance to elaborate before a tiny blonde blur zoomed into the room, hugging him tightly.
“Sam!” Alexa said. “You’re back! I drew a picture today, in school, it’s so cool, you have to see it!”
Sam laughed. “Okay. Let’s see it,” he said, allowing her to drag him up the stairs. Torey just grinned in amusement.
After Alexa showed him her picture—which was, indeed, pretty damn cool—Sam stopped by his room, changing into more comfortable clothes. Then he headed back downstairs.
“Did you get to see her really cool picture?” Torey asked.
“I did. It features me, so it’s exactly as cool as she said,” Sam replied, smirking. He sunk down on the couch.
“So you’ve got something going on involving James Beck, I know that much, and nice job with those guys of his, by the way. They’re going to be out of the picture for awhile.”
“That wasn’t all me, I have to admit,” Sam said. “But the bastard is going down, I can promise you that much.”
Torey raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason?”
“He put a friend of mine in danger,” Sam said, scowling at the thought.
Torey’s eyebrow didn’t lower.
“Sandy,” Sam said after a moment. “It’s kind of a long story.”
“Dinner’s already started,” Torey pointed out, “and Eileen won’t be home for hours. We’ve got time.”
“All right. Well, today I met a woman named Rachel St. John.”
Rachel kicked her feet up on her desk and leaned back in her chair, waiting. Nine-fifty-nine, according to the clock on the wall. She knew there was no way Troy Fullerton and Thomas Wetherby would miss this meeting, but it’d be interesting to see how long they made her wait.
The second hand circled around the clock. Thirty-five seconds after ten o’clock, Troy Fullerton and a man she’d only seen in pictures walked through her door.
“Morning, gentlemen,” she said genially, gesturing the chairs in front of her desk. “Have a seat.”
They did. Neither of them said a word. She smiled. “So it’s interesting. I suspected, when you first came to me, Mr. Fullerton, that you weren’t telling the whole truth. I just couldn’t figure out what you were omitting. I dug into your history, which is all squeaky clean—the scrub job you did was damned effective, you’ll be happy to hear. Of course, you can’t scrub people, can you? And Ms. Zielinski was only too happy to tell me who her boyfriend really was.”
“You talked—”
“Don’t interrupt me right now, Mr. Fullerton,” she said sharply. “I am not in the mood. And considering I kind of have your balls in a vice, you might want to shut up and listen.”
Troy Fullerton shut up.
“You,” she said then, looking at Mr. Wetherby. “How much of his story was true, at least for you? Did you really care about this woman?”
“I still do,” he said quietly.
“But you didn’t tell her what you do,” she said.
“How could I?”
“You know the reason she left you is because she thought you were cheating, right?” At his glum nod, Rachel added, “Not that it makes any difference now, because she knows the truth.”
Mr. Wetherby glanced up sharply. “She does?”
“Yeah, and to tell you the truth, she didn’t actually take it all that badly,” she said. “I think she’s more pissed you didn’t tell her yourself than anything.”
He couldn’t seem to settle on a reaction to that. Rachel pressed on. “Anyway, the reason I’m pissed is because when you do shit like lie to me, I get blindsided. And I don’t like getting blindsided when it involves having to deal with men with guns.”
They exchanged a look. “Men with guns?” asked Mr. Wetherby, slowly.
“Seems your rival, James Beck, found out about this,” she said, pulling the flash drive out of her pocket. “He sent a happy little welcome wagon to your ex’s house to steal it before you had a chance to get it back.” She tossed it to him. “Luckily, she wasn’t there at the time, though I was, and a new friend. They were dealt with.”
“I heard about that. Three of Beck’s men arrested in Yonkers.” Wetherby’s entire demeanor shifted. She could see this man being very intimidating, even scary. “Sandy might have been hurt. That is unacceptable.”
Mr. Fullerton was obviously slightly less blinded with rage, because he asked, “How did Beck even know about this?”
Rachel nodded. “Yeah, that was my question, but the answer is pretty simple. You’ve got a leak in your organization, Mr. Wetherby.”
Mr. Wetherby’s jaw tightened. “Do you know who?”
“No, not yet,” she admitted, “but my friend is looking into that. Frankly, he’s a close friend of Ms. Zielinski’s, and he was as pissed as you are about this whole ‘guys with guns’ thing.”
“Good,” he said. “I already owe you a debt of gratitude for protecting Sandy. If you find out who this leak,” he spit the word out, “is, I’ll owe you more. And I always pay my debts.”
She nodded. “That’s what I’ve heard about your reputation, Mr. Wetherby,” she said. “And a small word of advice? Maybe try being a little more forthcoming in the future. Us womenfolk can take it, I promise. No fainting couches necessary.”
“Right,” he said, after a moment. “Is that all?”
“Not quite,” she said. “I need a couple more things from you.”
Sam had taken over Brooks’ desk, bent over several documents. He’d managed to find a last name for the guy called Quentin—Sachs, as it turned out—and had bribed a clerk to get access to some documents in the county records. Kader’s sister just got married. Quentin had just bought a house. Finn recently leased a new car. None of it looked terribly suspicious. This just might be a dead end.
He stretched and sighed, quieting when he heard footsteps toward the office. It wasn’t Brooks—he had an entirely different gait with his cane. Then the door opened. Ah, of course. Rachel.
“Hey,” she said, and grinned. “I brought you a present.” She held up a folder full of documents. “Bank accounts, and detailed financial records, for Wetherby’s top brass, all courtesy of Mr. Thomas Wetherby himself. He was none too happy about Ms. Zielinski being in danger.”
“Good,” Sam muttered. “Though did he stop to think that might not be the case if he’d told her the goddamn truth?”
“Yeah, I think he’s kicking himself about that.”
“Good,” he said again. “Want to dig into these?”
“Sounds like a party,” she agreed.
“I think I’ve forgotten what a number is,” Rachel declared, three hours later. “I’ve stared at so many of them they’re all starting to blur together.”
Sam snorted. “Yeah, I’m starting to have that problem too.”
“What do you say to a break? Maybe we could try some good old-fashioned surveillance for awhile. Granted, it still involves sitting around for hours on end, but at least we don’t have to stare at numbers while we do it.”
“All right. Who do you want to start with?”
“Let’s start with Quentin. There’s something about a guy with only one name that just screams ‘untrustworthy,’ don’t you think?”
Sam laughed. “Yeah, although three names is no picnic either.”
“Good point.” Rachel stood and stretched. “I know where we can start. Mr. Wetherby gave me a rough idea of where each guy would be.”
“Let’s go.”
Quentin was a dead end.
They followed him for hours to no avail—if he was the mole, he was apparently doing it telepathically, because there just wasn’t any other way they could see that he’d be able to get out information.
Sam sighed as he let himself into Brooks’ office. He’d collect the documents, go over them some more at home. Maybe they’d somehow missed something. Doubtful, but possible.
Hopefully.
Sam met Rachel at Brooks’ bar again the next morning. “I was thinking we should split up,” he said. “Since there are two guys left.”
“Fine with me. Meet back here in four hours?”
“Yeah, that works. I’ll take Kader.”
“Then Finn’s all mine. Good luck.”
“You too.”
They split up.
Rachel was bored.
God, she hated surveillance. At least, she hated it when she was by herself. It was much more bearable when Charlie was with her. They could at least keep each other entertained.
Still, it beat numbing her brain by looking at endless strings of numbers, and hell, it might actually pay off.
But she still fucking hated surveillance.
“Fuck yes,” Sam muttered triumphantly to himself. This particular warehouse was not even remotely anywhere near someplace Kader was supposed to be today, and following him to it had been a huge fucking pain in the ass. The guy was careful, that much was clear. It just might be the break he’d been hoping for.
Driving a little ways down the street, he parked and hopped out of the car, then walked back to the warehouse. There were guards in front of the door, three of them, far too big for him to get by on his own, and probably armed.
He was going to need backup.
Slinking back behind the building, he pulled out his cell and dialed Rachel’s number. It rang once, then went straight to voicemail. Dammit. “I’m pretty sure it’s Kader. I followed him to a warehouse upstate. Here’s the rough address, as far as I can tell,” he said, giving her an idea of where to go. “If you could hurry it out here, that’d be appreciated.”
He hung up. For now, he’d wait.
Thankfully, her phone had been on vibrate, and she’d ignored the call quickly enough that Finn hadn’t even glanced up from his food. The less attention drawn to her the better, especially when she was trying to eavesdrop on his half of this phone call.
She kept her face hidden by the menu, as if perusing it with interest, straining her ears to listen.
“I told you I’d be home before six, didn’t I?” Finn was saying, sounding exasperated. “Yeah, I know I said that the other time, but that was an emergency, not like I could predict it.”
Either this was the dullest, cleverest code ever, or he wasn’t talking to anyone nefarious.
“Sure. I’ll get it. Wheat? Two—why do we need—fine, two loaves it is. I’ll see you tonight. Love you.”
Oh, good. She’d get to follow him running an errand. Rolling her eyes, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and glanced at who had called. Sam’s number. And he’d left a voicemail.
She dialed in to listen, a grin splitting her face as she did. Finally, something was happening. Her waiter returned just as she disconnected the call, and she smiled at him. “Sorry, changed my mind. I think I’m more in the mood for sushi.”
Hurrying for her car, she decided she had one more call to make on the way.
Sam grinned when his phone vibrated in his pocket. A glance at the caller ID showed Rachel’s number. He hit the button to answer.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m—”
“Get the fuck out of the car,” said a loud, angry voice suddenly, and then his door was being wrenched open by a very large man, his phone ripped out of his hand. The man dropped it on the ground and stomped on it, then grabbed him by the arm and bodily pulled him out of the car. “Just who the fuck are you? And who the fuck were you calling?” His grip tightened.
“Hey, hey, no need to get all upset, I’m nobody,” Sam said, affecting his best bewildered expression. “See, I’m just trying to find my sister’s place. I got totally lost, can you believe it? I really ought to invest in a GPS. I mean, she keeps telling me, but do I listen? I was calling her—”
“That’s the car I thought might be tailing me,” said another voice suddenly. Sam glanced over to see none other than Jason Kader, curling his lip at him. “You’d better search him.”
Sam found himself roughly pushed up against his car, and tried not to curse out loud when the big guy pulled out his ID and badge. Fuck. “He’s a PI,” said the guy.
“A PI.” Jason Kader eyed him shrewdly. “I heard something about a couple of PIs being involved with those guys in Yonkers.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about there. I hardly ever go to Yonkers. I think I’ve been there once—”
“Shut up,” demanded the big guy. Sam internally debated his options. He couldn’t overpower this guy with brute strength alone, that was for damn sure—he was at least as big as Torey. “It says his name is Sam Myles.”
“Myles. I’ve heard that name. You’re mixed up with the Corlionis.”
The big guy scoffed. “Fucking Corlionis.”
“Mixed up with? That’s really what the underworld gossip chain has settled on? That’s frankly kind of disappointing,” Sam said conversationally. He noticed the car door was still open, and the big guy’s hand was resting precariously in its path.
“I told you to shut—”
Sam spun around as hard as he could; his shoulder wrenched, what with the big guy still gripping his arm, and he kicked the car door shut. The big guy let go, howling in pain, and he ran, trying to ignore the ache that was now shooting down his left arm.
He heard the shouts after him. He kept running.
The abrupt hang-up from Sam had left her cold. When she drove near enough to see Sam’s car deserted, she instantly pulled out her cell phone. “Hi, yes, is this the police?” she asked in a terrified, breathy whisper. “I’m outside a warehouse,” she added, giving the approximate address, “and I just saw a bunch of guys with guns walking in. One of them was pointing one at some guy’s head! What should I do?”
When the operator promised there’d be a response immediately, she hung up. Then she stopped the car and popped the trunk. After she jumped out, she grabbed the crowbar and tire iron she stored there, and headed for the warehouse.
Sam’s shoulder really fucking ached, and he couldn’t move it much. Great. He ducked behind some large crates, realizing too late that he’d blocked himself in. He could only hope no one had seen him.
Suddenly, he heard approaching footsteps, and, “He went back there!”
Well, fuck.
Rachel could see that something was definitely going on. There were large, armed men running around all over the damned place, frantically searching. At least that meant Sam was probably still alive.
She crept around, trying to stay out of sight. Hopefully those cops got here soon.
Then she heard a shouted, “He went back there!” and watched as three very large men ran behind some crates. She followed them, peering around the side.
“Guys, come on,” Sam was saying, grinning wide. He sounded like he was in pain. “We can work this out, right?”
“Sure we can,” said one of the thugs. “We’ll work it out by pounding in your fucking head.”
“That doesn’t really work for me,” Sam said, smirking suddenly. She wondered if he’d seen her. “There isn’t another way?”
The same thug just snarled, “Get him.”
“No,” she said, and pounced, swinging the crowbar hard at his head. “I think there’s another way after all.”
He stumbled and fell hard, and she tossed the tire iron to Sam, who managed to catch it with his right hand. She ducked a punch from one of the other guys, swinging the crowbar up between his legs, slamming it into his crotch. He howled, falling to his knees, and she swung again, this time at his other head. He dropped the rest of the way to the ground.
She glanced up to see Sam standing over the unconscious body of the third guy. He grimaced, dropping the tire iron, and gripped at his left shoulder.
“What happened to you?” she demanded, hurrying toward him.
“Oh, you know, just a minor dislocation, I think.” He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Eileen’s going to kill me.” Rachel opted not to press.
The shrill sound of police sirens suddenly filled the air. They exchanged a look.
“Sounds like that’s our cue to get the hell out of here,” she said.
They did.
Businessman James Beck Considered Person of Interest In Smuggling Ring, read the paper’s headline the next day. Sam grinned. That was worth having his arm in a sling, he decided, and he passed it to Rachel.
“Nice, isn’t it?” he said.
“Well, they caught how many of his guys? I think Jon said at least ten. No way all of them were going to keep quiet.” She grinned back.
“Did he say if Kader was one of them?” Sam asked.
Rachel shook her head. “He wasn’t.”
“Dammit.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Rachel said. “On my way up yesterday, I gave Thomas Wetherby a call. He was, well, very interested in finding out the identity of his leak. From the tone of his voice after I told him, I don’t think Jason Kader will be causing anyone any more problems.”
A grim smile settled over Sam’s face. “Good.”
“Speaking of Thomas Wetherby,” she said, “he’s a man of his word. And this is yours.” She passed him a check. He had to glance at it twice, thinking he somehow misread it the first time. For him, it was a lot of money all at once.
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“Your share.”
“Wetherby was your client.”
“Technically, Troy Fullerton was,” she said, smirking. “Just take it. Not like you didn’t earn it.” She glanced at his shoulder.
“I didn’t fuck it up too badly,” he said.
Rachel looked like she was about to respond when the door chimed. They both glanced over to see none other than Thomas Wetherby walk in the door.
“Okay then,” said Sam.
“Is Sandy here?” he asked.
“Thomas, what the hell are you doing here?”
“That’s a yes,” Sam noted.
“I just wanted to apologize,” he said. “Can we talk privately?”
“Oh, no, we’re doing this here,” she said. “Let’s see, you want to apologize? God, what could you possibly want to apologize for? Lying to me? Driving me away? Making me the unwitting target of armed smugglers? Or how about making me spend two days straight with Brooks?”
He winced. “All of the above.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me, you idiot?”
“I didn’t want you to hate me.”
“So you thought you’d let me believe you were having an affair instead, because that really endears me to a person.” Sandy gave him a look.
“I figured you would hate me either way. I thought that might be the lesser of two evils.”
“Men,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “Why are you all so stupid?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll go. That’s all I wanted.”
She heaved a sigh. “Wait,” she said, before he reached the door. “I still think you’re an idiot, but God help me, I’ve missed you.”
He turned, a hopeful grin on his face. “Could we—”
“We’ll start over,” she said, after a moment. “Pick me up at eight.”
“Of course.” He smiled at her before leaving.
Sam exchanged a look with Rachel. “Okay then,” he repeated. “I’m not sure which I’m more surprised by. That, or this.” He held up the check.
“I think that was way more surprising,” Rachel said sagely. “This is just routine.”
He rolled his eyes, an action entirely betrayed by his smile. “Thanks.”
“No, thank you,” Rachel said, and she grinned.
Sam grinned back, just as wide. “It was a hell of a lot of fun, wasn’t it?”