Double Down (10 page)

“Agreed,” Lisa Bee said. “And pizza.”

“Yes!” the Boss exclaimed, uncharacteristically emotive. “I dream of New York pizza like some men dream of sex.”

“Do you want me to respond to that?” Jackson asked, pulling off at the entrance to the rest stop.

“Save it till I've had my second cup of coffee.”

“Roger that, Bossman.”

‡‡‡

It was nine a.m. in Palermo, and Tyka had had a very restless night. She was used to reporting to Gabriella, and was uncomfortable being completely on her own.

In addition, Mahmoud hadn't returned her text, which pissed her off, and then saddened her, and then pissed her off more because she was saddened by it. She hated that he'd meant something to her, hated that he'd gotten under her skin, and hated that he'd decided to just break off contact with her. Was she worth nothing to him?
Though she was trying hard to blame this on his cocky and pretentious ways, she knew it was all her fault. Once again, she'd fucked up and lost the only person who meant anything to her.

The knock at the door meant breakfast had arrived. Thank goodness—she needed her croissant and cup of coffee each morning or she'd find herself in a murderous rage. Sometimes it was all she ate, which was fine with her, as long as the day started out that way. She had found a café next door famous for its French pastries, and she had asked them to come every morning for a week, not sure how long she'd be staying.

It was then that a man's voice called out, “
Signora? Colazione è pronta!
” She stopped in her tracks. Something didn't feel right. Drawing the small revolver she always slept with, she crept to the door. Standing beside it, she waited till he knocked again. As he did so, she took a quick peek through the peephole to see a large man, his gun pointed at the door.
Shit.
Without a second thought she shot him through the door, flung it open, and shot another man running down the hallway.
Idiots
, she thought.
That wasn't even a challenge. And it could hardly be called a good time, either.

She quickly packed up her few belongings in her backpack and left five hundred euro on the table for damages. Then she made her way out. She grabbed the men's phones and the croissant . . . the deliveryman had been shot with a silencer, the coffee had been spilled, both of which pissed her off. But at least now she knew why Mahmoud hadn't responded, and figured she'd have to track him. Perhaps the phones could help. Silently she made her way out of the apartment building and down the cobblestone streets. She'd grab a cup of coffee and find Mahmoud. And judging by how her morning had started, she'd better find him as soon as humanly possible.

‡‡‡

The Bod Squad had arrived at the Last Stop Deli on Queens Boulevard and were all ready for breakfast, more coffee, and a good night's rest, not necessarily in that order. When they entered, the deli seemed empty. Then they heard voices shouting from the back.

“Why are you constantly challenging me on this?” said an older female voice, tinged with an accent.

“I'm not challenging you,” replied an older man, gravel and melody in his voice. “Surely after all these years, I know better than that.”

“Then why do you always argue with me?”

“Because I think you're wrong.”

“We can't keep charging the same prices we did twenty years ago!”

“I know that, Myra. I just think charging a dollar per pierogi is really highway robbery.”

“This from the man who wants to charge less than twenty dollars per pound for whitefish salad!”

“I just feel that no one can afford that.”

“Yes, Ronnie, yes, but neither can we!”

“There must be some way.”

“You want to fish for it yourself?”

“Whitefish isn't one fish. It's a bunch of fishes.”

“It is not!
How can you argue over something you know so little about?
”

“Well, it's not like I'm arguing about the salmon.”

“How could you be? We sell the best smoked salmon anywhere except Brooklyn. Or maybe the Lower East Side.”

At this the Boss rang the bell near the cash register. All the members of the Bod Squad looked considerably uncomfortable at having walked into an argument. The two owners shuffled out together. Myra was short and thin with wispy blond hair; she wore a flowered housedress and slippers. Ronald was also thin but with a large bowling ball of a stomach; his hair was thinning and he wore a plaid shirt, paint-splattered pants, and slippers. And he had an astoundingly outrageous brown mustache. They both looked like they'd just stepped out of bed.

“What can I get for you?” Myra asked. “We have some fantastic pierogi, and they're only a dollar apiece,” she added, glancing at her husband, who sighed and mumbled something under his breath.

“Thanks,” the Boss said, “We'll take a few pierogi, but we all need coffee. And can you do some egg sandwiches?”

“Can I do egg sandwiches?” Ronald responded. “Best in Queens. Who wants cheese? Bacon?”

“Extra bacon on mine,” Jackson jumped in, “and jalapeños if you got 'em.”

The Boss looked chagrined. “Really, Jackson? First thing in the morning?”

Jackson smiled. “I like it hot.”

“And that's no joke,” Lisa Bee said with a wink. They all ordered their egg sandwiches from Ronald, and their coffees from Myra, and had a bit of small talk with their hosts. As the Boss was paying, he decided to use the intel they'd gotten from Fingers.

“Thank you, Myra,” he said with a smile. “I'm sure these will be the best pierogies I've ever had. Worth every penny.”

Myra shot an unsubtle look at her husband, then said, “They are the best in Queens, that's for sure.”

“Well, we're new to Queens—we're here just for a day or so, and wondered if you could recommend an inn? Or perhaps a bed and breakfast we could stay at? All the hotels are booked because of some kind of convention.”

“Inn?” Ronald laughed. “You must've missed the exit for Connecticut!”

“Yes,” the Boss replied, “we were so hoping to find somewhere to stay locally. The friends we were going to visit just had a bit of an emergency and had to take off. Family issues, they said. We were going to go back home but figured we'd just enjoy a bit of time here—we'd love to be able to see them when they get back. Ah, well, I guess we'll just have to hit the road.”

On his cue, the others looked forlorn. “That's too bad,” Lisa Bee said. “I was so hoping to try some more pierogies.”

“That,” Jackson said wistfully, “or some really authentic whitefish salad.”

“Well,” Myra said, puffing up like an excited pigeon, “we sell the best anywhere.”

“Right,” the Boss said. “Too bad we need to leave.”

“Now, wait just one minute,” Myra said. “Surely we can help you out. Gimme a second.”

When she grabbed Ronald and shoved him into the back, the Boss said, sotto voce, “Nicely done, Bee. You too, Jackson.”

“When in Rome,” Jackson said with a grin. “I dig this place. 'Sides which, being so near
Jackson Heights
, I feel like this should be my hood.”

“God,” Lisa Bee exclaimed, “now we'll never get his head to shrink.”

When Jackson opened his mouth to reply, Susannah jumped in. “Please, Jackson. I can only imagine your response. Wait till my third cup of coffee, for fuck's sake!”

They all had a good laugh at that until Myra returned, Ronald at her side, huge smiles on both their faces. “How would you like to rent from us?” Myra asked. “We have a basement apartment that our son used to live in . . . It's a bit of a mess, and still has some of his stuff in it, but we used to put it up on that site—whaddayacallit . . . I don't know anything about computers . . .”

“Air TNT,” Ronald said.

“Right, that's it! Air TNT.”

“I think you mean Airbnb, right?” the Boss asked with a grin. “Though I do like the sound of yours better.”

“Oh, of course!” Myra said with a laugh. “How ridiculous! Anyway, whaddaya think?”

“Well, we'd hate to put you out,” the Boss gushed. “I just don't know what to say. What do you think, gang?” At their enthusiastic nods, the Boss said, “Myra, we'd love it. What a treat! And what a great way to see our friends upon their return. What should we pay you?”

“Well, because you're new to the area, I'll give you a discount. How about two hundred dollars a night? And all the pierogis you can eat!”

The Boss looked at the others sideways. He knew they were being taken, but it was a drop in the bucket compared to what he'd paid for leads in the past.

“Sounds great, Myra,” he said, extending his hand. “We're all in.”

11

It took Tyka until eleven a.m. to find a nice cup of coffee and hack into the password-protected phones she'd taken off the goons. Once she did, she had to translate texts from Italian, one of her least fluent languages. It took her some time to get even a hint of a lead. There were multiple messages indicating that they met at a restaurant to talk over various pieces of business. But still, that could be anywhere. Tyka was not good at asking for help; she did it rarely, and only under duress. Biting her lower lip, she put in a call to a hacker she'd had an affair with who worked for the French Agence Nationale. She and he had gotten quite close while they were partnered on Covert Operation JCON that involved hunting down a terrorist who rigged bombs in department stores while dressed like Batman. She had killed the terrorist with Parson's help, and they'd spent a sexy week in the French Alps to celebrate. Now he worked for the team investigating branches of the Sicilian crime families, and she'd used him often in the past. He'd been after her since their affair, and she didn't hesitate to use her powers of seduction when useful.

“ 'Allo? Tyka?” Philippe Parson answered on the first ring. “To what do I owe ze pleasure?”

“Do you need a reason?” she asked with a smile, knowing she had to work fast but flirting all the same. He laughed, and when the ice was broken, she filled him in on what information she had and what had happened that morning. She'd guessed who these men were from the glance she'd gotten of them in front of her apartment; she figured the attack was a counterhit for the work she and Mahmoud had done to take out those who had assassinated Gabriella. Time was of the essence. But she knew Parson would get her what she needed.

She read him the texts she had found, and it took him about fifteen minutes to figure out a possible location. The nickname Pesca was used often, and Rocco Bellini was known for frequenting a Trattoria del Pescatore. Tyka thanked him, and told him in no uncertain terms that she'd spend the night with him soon. It was after she hung up that she realized she felt something she'd never felt before . . . guilt. Like she was cheating on Mahmoud.
Strange.
With no time to lose, she brushed off the feeling, gulped the rest of her coffee, put out her cigarette, and hailed a cab.

About ten minutes later, dressed in her customary black and carrying her backpack, she walked around to the back of the restaurant and affixed the silencer to the gun in her waistband. She had another gun in a holster under her arm and a third, her favorite pink pistol, tucked into her boot. She had several other weapons in the backpack, but she was pretty sure she wouldn't need those. She kicked in the door and shot almost everyone inside.

And then she saw Mahmoud. He was certainly the worse for wear, but was very much alive. Even in his compromised state he still had strength and ferocity coming off him in waves. She only had a moment to take him in before her eyes focused on the only other person she hadn't shot, the man who sat across from Mahmoud. Eating a plate of pasta, he held his fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

“
Chi cazzo sei?
” he asked.

“Your worst fucking nightmare,” she replied, and shot him as well. Then she went to Mahmoud, who had clearly been beaten, and was tied to a chair.

She removed his restraints and cupped her hand to his face. He could barely open one eye, and there was blood all over him, running down his cheeks and hardening upon his shirt, which was ripped down the middle. “Mahmoud,” she said gently, planting a soft kiss on his lips. “Are you okay?”

He took a moment to reply, and his voice was hoarse. “I've never been happier to see anyone in my life. I thought I was done for.”

“Well, almost. But not quite.”

“No, not quite. Thanks to you.”

She smiled tenderly. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

“Good. I can carry you, but I'd rather not if I don't have to.”

“Thank you, Ms. Tyka,” he said as he gingerly stood up, finding his feet again. “I don't believe that will be necessary. I will, however, need just a bit of help.”

“Okay,” she said, sliding her shoulder under his arm and leading him to the door. “Let's get the fuck out of here. We'll head to your hotel, and go from there.”

As they walked out, Mahmoud chuckled. “Nice work, by the way. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“Oh, Mahmoud,” she said with a laugh, “you already have. Good thing I don't hold a grudge.”

‡‡‡

Babs Worthington
did
hold a grudge. She'd held it for an entire lifetime, and it was what fueled her work. She'd never stop fighting for women who'd been abused, never stop seeking revenge against the perpetrators of violence. Even now, in her early forties, she never doubted what she was meant to do, or how. She still got a thrill out of it . . . out of making them squirm. When she was younger, she had been rougher than she was now, harsher: She used to say that men were useless, that they'd be obsolete one day, that their sperm should be harvested and they should then be lined up and shot, execution style. But now she felt quite differently. She knew that the men she hunted were violent and deserved what they got, but there were several other men she'd come to know over the years who had become anchors for her. And the one who threw her the most, the one who threatened to take down every wall she had built, the one who made her heart sing, was John Collins Boss. Johnny, to her.

She'd met Johnny on a rough case that centered on an awful man.
Depraved fucker, that guy was.
This con artist was running a Ponzi scheme (that was Johnny's territory) but also was an abuser living two parallel lives (her territory). She still remembered that first meeting, because it felt like something out of a 1940s film noir, and those were the films Johnny loved the most. She'd thought her team was working one abuse case, not realizing the target was hurting two different women. After tracking him for a week outside his home in D.C., she'd followed him to a different address in Maryland to find a whole other family. It was a stormy night and she was standing outside a suburban house wearing a double-breasted raincoat and trying to light a Marlboro Red, but she was out of lighter fluid and matches were for shit in the rain. All at once there was a man standing next to her, also in a raincoat, wearing a fedora. “I'd love to offer you a light,” he'd said with a smile, “but I don't smoke. However, if you'd like to come into my car . . .”

She'd laughed. Something about this tall, attractive, debonair man had made her feel instantly at ease, something she never felt around men. “Oh, come now,” she'd replied, her husky voice tinged with laughter, “if you think I'm gonna fall for that old line . . .”

“Okay, how about this one? I think we're on the same case. Want to compare notes?”

They'd held eyes for a moment and Babs had felt something she'd never felt before: an electric current that ran all the way from the man's eyes right into her guts. She'd wanted to kiss him, right there, in the rain, in the street. Instead she'd waited till they were in the car. Then she'd taken him home, and they'd made love all night long. She'd thought it would be one night, like most of her affairs. But that one night had lasted the better part of ten years.

He'd called her last night about this case he'd been on to say he was giving it to her, that it was really hers, not his. They'd done this a handful of times over the years, exchanged cases based on each other's strengths and preferences. When he described this one—the Carnivale, William Nants, and his circus of women—she'd known it was hers.

Besides which, though she'd never admit it to a soul, she'd do anything for Johnny.
Anything.
Every single piece of him still thrilled her: his beautiful body, his sharp wit, his insight, his love of classic films. From the tips of her spiky black hair to the heels of her steel-toed motorcycle boots and through every lean muscle on her petite athletic frame, she craved this man in every way imaginable.

But enough of that.
She had a job to do. And right now she was sitting in her Ford pickup, watching William Nants get breakfast at a local diner. She'd follow him out and intercept him on the way home. Then she'd make sure he paid for what he'd done. That he'd regret every single minute of it. This was why she had been put on the earth . . . to make certain things right. And she knew she was the only one who could do what was truly necessary.

‡‡‡

The Bod Squad found themselves put up in a nice apartment in the basement of a place that reminded the Boss of some of the little row houses in the D.C. suburbs. It was an old freestanding brick home right near the Amtrak overpass, and was decorated in an Old World style. There were ceramic statues of rabbits and gnomes, a stone fountain, and overgrown vines in the front yard. While the house itself was lovely, and very well kept, the area it was in was clearly sketchy, dotted with warehouses, auto body repair shops, and buildings that looked either abandoned or condemned.

His team would get settled in and take a nap, then the Boss would have them all case the neighborhood. What he was looking forward to the most, however, was casual conversation with their hosts; he knew from experience that this was where he'd get the best intel.

The gang was in the small living room, eating their sandwiches, now cold but still delicious. Thankfully the basement apartment was fully self-sufficient and had its own separate entrance. There was only one bedroom, but the Boss had decided that Jackson and Lisa Bee could have it. Susannah could sleep on the couch and he'd take the floor.

As they ate, the Boss's phone pinged with an incoming text from Babs. He found himself smiling as he read her words:

Johnny. Done and done. I kept him alive but only because his wife asked. Just harmed some vital parts instead. He screamed like a little girl by the way. You ok? B

He sent back:

We've found an interesting piece of the puzzle. Needs more work. Will let you know when I know more.

Then he received something he'd never before gotten:

I miss you, Johnny.

He let out an audible sound of surprise, which the rest of the gang heard. “What's up, Bossman?” Jackson asked. “Another bonus from the FBI?”

“None of your business, Jackson.”

“Oooooh! Please tell me there's a lady in your life.”

To the Boss's surprise, and that of his team, he could feel his face heat up. Something about the text from Babs had thrown him.

“Whoa,” Jackson said. “Are you blushing?”

“Sooo cute!” said Lisa Bee.

“Bossman,” Susannah said, a look of surprise on her face. “Dish.
Now
.”

“Don't be ridiculous, gang,” he said, trying to be suave and failing. “You know there's no one.”

“Is that true?” Jackson asked. “I always wonder about you, Bossman. I mean, there's gotta be somebody, right?”

“I'm a confirmed bachelor,” he responded with a smirk.

“Yes, but even a confirmed bachelor's gotta get some sometime, no?”

“Jackie, leave him alone,” Lisa Bee said, wrapping up their garbage and tugging on his arm. “And let's get some shut-eye.”

“Yeah, okay, but I just wonder—”

“Bed. Now!” she said sternly, dragging him toward the bedroom. She pushed him into the room, then turned back and said, “Sorry, Boss.”

‡‡‡

Susannah and the Boss were left together. She looked at him curiously. She'd known him for just over ten years. . . . They'd met when he'd come to Georgetown to teach a seminar on entrepreneurship and they'd wound up having a brief affair. Then he'd asked her to work for him when she graduated. They'd never had anything else sexual or romantic between them, and they'd never told another soul. The Boss had always treated Susannah like a lady, and had always taken care of her. She'd figured he was just a loner, the kind of guy who'd occasionally have flings, but not much else.

But now she wondered. She rarely saw him flustered, and now he seemed . . . caught.

“I'm gonna curl up on the couch,” she said. “You sure you're all right on the floor?”

“I'm fine,” he said. “I can sleep anywhere.” There was a pause as he grabbed their garbage and tossed it in the kitchen, then took a blanket and spread it on the carpeting. He took his shoes off and lay down, arms crossed behind his head, looking up at the ceiling.

“Bossman,” she said. “
Is
there someone?” When he didn't respond, she said, “Shit. Who is the lucky lady?”

“You'll meet her sometime,” he said, clearly trying to end the conversation.

“She's not married, is she?”

“God no.”

“I'm glad you have someone. How long have you been seeing her?”

He sat up and looked her in the eyes. “Ten years, Legs.”

“
What the fuck?
” She sat up straight as an arrow. “That's almost the whole time I've known you!”

“I know. It's complicated. Let's get some rest.”

They both settled back down, under a palpable silence.
How could he have been seeing someone for ten years? And not told anyone?
Part of her was hurt he'd never confided in her, but another part was proud of him for keeping such a secret. Clearly he was called the Boss for a reason; he was living a partly undercover life.

It was then that they both heard Jackson say, “Thin walls, Bossman. But it seems you got some 'splainin' to do.”

Susannah laughed. The Boss said, “Ah, fuck.” But she was happy to see he had a smile on his face. She'd get the details later . . . for now, it was time to get some sleep.

‡‡‡

Tyka and Mahmoud were back at Mahmoud's hotel. He was laid out on the bed looking at the letters she'd found at Gabriella's; she was standing next to him with a bowl of hot water, a washcloth, some alcohol swabs, and antibacterial ointment. He wore briefs and nothing else, and had bruises and blood all over, the shower he had taken not seeming to help stanch the flow. Tyka was trying to take care of him, but he kept pushing her hand away, unable to stop reading.