Hunte (10 page)

I’d saved his ass a time or two just as he had mine. That didn’t mean I’d welcome him into my home, and he knew it. Hence the drawn gun.

Walker—
the Silent Walker
—had no compunction, no conscience, and nothing to lose. That made him the best possible merc for hire on- or off-the-record for Operation T-Zone, not that anyone would ever find Op T-Z in paper or on the internet. The umbrella organization we worked for consisted of nameless faces, faceless names, smoke and mirrors, and uncrackable codes.

He could’ve knifed me in the gut, bored a bullet through my head, or silently garroted me as soon I’d entered the house. The fact he hadn’t meant he wanted something from me. Or maybe, just maybe, he needed me to stay alive for his own ends.

My shotgun didn’t quiver as I took aim.

Very slowly, very gently, Walker released his trigger finger. He lounged like a wolf, ready to pounce at any given opportunity. The long lean form, his coiled muscles, the black braided hair down his back spoke to his Native American heritage. His cheeks slanted in a predatory smile.

“Hey, Kemosabe.”

“Shut the fuck up, Tonto.”

I unloaded the shells and laid my shotgun against the wall. As a show of respect, Walker pushed his safety to lock and set his gun aside.

“I already told you I'm not interested.” I leaned against the wall, close enough to throw the knife in my boot but not near enough to spook the spook. “I’m going clean.”

“See now, here's the problem, pilgrim. You're the target this time.”

Blood drained from my face. “What?”

“Valderas cut loose and vamoosed. We lost eyes on him. Can’t think of anyone he'd like to pay a visit to more.”

“Fucking hell,” I bit out.

Vicente Valderas had made a deal with the Feds, giving up an even bigger fish on the food chain to gain his freedom. A freedom that came with a 24/7 tail, which was another fundamental reason I was always concerned about Mel and Jack and now Jessica.

Walker hunched forward. “Oh and just to be clear. I did my
homework
. Pretty sure Vicente will too. So if I can find out about your baby momma and your cute little kid Jack and that pretty teacher you've been banging . . .”

Walker laid it all out perfectly clear. It wasn't just my life in danger should Vicente come looking, but everyone attached to me. He’d want equal retribution for his club and his brothers and Quintessa . . .

“I need to warn Mel and Jessica. I need to get them safe.”

“No. What you’re gonna do is dislodge your head from up your ass and stay away from your girl’s sweet young pussy.”

Rage boiled through my veins. I grabbed Walker by his T-shirt and hauled him up as my fist cranked back. The clash of my knuckles meeting his face—the loud
crack
, the spray of blood from his lip—barely cooled my anger.

My face shoved in his, I snarled, “Don’t you ever fucking talk about Jessica that way again. You’ll find yourself in a coma if you do.”

I dropped him like dirty laundry, and he sputtered into his hands, cupping his mouth.

“You finally got a weak spot, Kemosabe. Another reason to locate Vicente before he discovers it.”

I strolled into the kitchen and yanked the roll of paper towels off the wall.

Returning to the living room I chucked the whole fucking thing at him so he could wipe off his bloody mouth. He caught the paper towels midair.

“What’s in it for you?”

“Working out of the goodness of my heart.” Walker inspected the crimson blots on the wadded white sheets.

I snorted. “Your heart’s as black as spades. Try again.”

“Vicente’s a professional pain in my ass. If he wasn’t trying to hunt you down, he’d be after me. We got a better chance at cutting him off at the knees together. Wipe that shitstain off the face of the earth once and for all.”

“So, what now?”

“I’m kinda hungry. Lunch?”

My eyebrows lowered as I glared at him.

“Ever the hardass, I see.” He wiped his mouth a final time before tossing the bloodied towels aside. “Let’s go meet your contact.”

“Don’t have any.”

“Bullshit. You been here six months. You would’ve set up a local informant within the first twenty-four hours. So take me to your motherfucking
source
already.”

I grunted in acknowledgement and hit the stairs to get my Glock while Walker holstered his piece.

“By the way, I’ll be staying here for a few days,” he called after me.

It was probably better to have two hands on deck if Vicente really was planning a vendetta, but having Walker as a houseguest? He wasn’t exactly roomie material. He was a quick draw, had a hot temper, was the exact opposite of me, except for the fact I’d just popped him in the mouth for taking a potshot at my woman.

My woman.

Fuck. I was already in too deep with Jessica.

Maybe having Walker as backup was a solid plan.

When we stepped outside, I swept my gaze up and down the driveway. “Where’s your bike?”

“The Indian Scout?” He smirked, always amused with his sick sense of humor by the make and model of his motorcycle. “Too traceable. In storage. I lifted a car in Florida, a new one in Georgia, and ditched it in Mt. Pleasant. Hoofed it out here. Nice place, by the way. Exactly middle-of-nowheres-ville. Suits you.”

I could imagine Walker trekking through the woods to reach my house, soundless, probably sprinting on bare feet across the frosty November ground, ducking in and out of trees.

“Where’s your shit then?” I asked.

“Stashed it in your woodshed.”

“Explosives?”

“Maybe just a little flash-bang so we can relive the good old times.” His grin curled his mouth, the lip swollen from my punch.

“Sorry I hit you,” I said, unlocking my Tahoe.

He slid inside with the grace of a stealthy two-hundred-pound panther. “No you’re not.”

I shrugged, taking the driver’s seat.

Twenty minutes later, I parked on a busy back street in downtown Charleston. The shop I led Walker into stood at the crossroads of hoity-toity and down-and-out. The bell on the door jingled, the air inside close and dim.

Walker’s blue-black braid swung against his back as he walked in front of me. His sharp cheekbone showed in profile as he turned his head. “A tailor? For fuck’s sake, man. You getting senile in your old age?”

Just then Frankie Burelli strolled out of the fitting area with a
wham bam, thank you, man
swagger.

The black plume of his hair rose in a crest off his forehead. His features ruggedly, exaggeratedly Italian and his build big inside the perfectly fitted suit, his was a commanding presence, not the least because I knew his background inside and out.

He leaned his ever-present silver-knobbed cane against the glass cufflink case and clapped my hand. “Lieutenant Sexton. Always a pleasure, never a chore. M’I right? What brings you to my bacchanalian lair this day?” His bold gaze roamed up and down my body. “Hopefully a fitting? With all the works?”

Everyone’s favorite tailor and ex—
alleged
—Mafia hitman, Frankie usually had his hands in a few illegal pies and down the pants of more than a few men, too. He gave the Meat Packing District a whole new meaning. The kingpin of the Singer Sewing Machine and my favorite criminal informant.

“I need a suit.”

He rubbed his hands together before swinging his cane in front of him. “Well then, let’s take this to the backroom.”

“
He’s
your CI?” Walker hissed at me as we followed through the swishing curtain.

“Haven’t you ever heard of Frankie Burelli?”

A faint look of horror sketched across Walker’s face before being replaced by a smooth facade. Frankie Burelli used to be known as Frankie the Butcher. Same implements, vastly different outcome when used on flesh instead of fabric. It was said he could make a grown man scream for momma. As a UC, I’d been privy to one or two instances. I’d much rather wake up next to a horse head than see Frankie sitting beside my bed in the dead of night, sharpened tools at hand.

After he’d come out as gay, The Family had disowned him. He moved south, returned to his first trade, but still kept in touch with the underground.

Frankie was my most valuable resource.

He motioned Walker and me to stand on a raised plinth and kneeled in front of us.

Always the opportunist, he laid a palm directly on Walker’s crotch as if measuring his inseam. “Is that a peace pipe I’m handling or are you just happy to see me?”

“Cut the shit, Frankie.” Taking my life into my own hands, I knocked the Italian informant on the side of the head.

“That’s my third leg.” The sound of a bullet being chambered echoed through the small room. “Next time you touch my nuts I’ll blow you to smithereens.” Walker smirked with all the deadliness of a barely leashed animal.

“Promises, promises.” Undaunted, Frankie rose to his feet. “I like to keep my weapon sheathed unless I’m gonna use it too, know what I mean?” He pulled a glinting blade from inside the whorled dark wood of his cane. With a metallic hiss, the razor sharp sword sliced across the air. “Did I mention I specialize in piecework?”

When I turned my head, I saw the privacy curtain between the two rooms sheared in two from his light slice and dice move.

“Official business this time, Frankie.” I gestured for both men to stand down.

With the ease of one long used to the motions, he reassembled his cane and leaned against the handle.

“Always at your service, but next time you gotta bring me someone up to bat. Motherfuggin’ straight guys. Fuggin’ tight asses you’re to scared to get rogered.”

I’d never seen the clenched-tight look on Walker’s lean face before. I bet his ass clenched closed, too.

I swallowed my amusement. “You got any eyes or ears on a Vicente Valderas? Former Tampa Bay Outlaws Motorcycle Club president. Supposedly on the run. Heard he has a hard-on for me.”

Tucking a cigar into one side of his mouth, the big Mafioso peered at me with olive-pit eyes. “Who doesn’t got a hard-on for you. M’I right?”

“I sure as hell don’t,” Walker interjected.

“Fuggin’ straight guys, like I said. Loosen up a little, walk across that line. No harm, no foul, just a nice long ass fuckin’.”

“Frankie?” I waited for him to raise his eyes from the back-and-forth ping-pong between my and Walker’s crotches. “Focus.”

“Yeah, yeah. Eyes and ears not cocks and asses. I got it. Vicente Valderas. Cuban born. Did the rafter thing and floated across the Florida Straits when he was fifteen. Set himself up as a pussy monger by the time he was eighteen. Worked his way up to head honcho in Miami before moving north. Took over the Tampa Bay streets with the Outlaws MC. Had Florida nailed more than Jeb Bush ever did. Feds wanted to bring him down, locals would like to see him elected to office. He gave to charities, cleaned up after himself, and kept the kills quiet. RICO charges—thank you, Hunter—took out the Outlaws. Busted. Worked a deal. Walked. And recently
ghosted
.” Frankie’s sharp slit gaze slid from me to Walker.

“Impressive.” Walker allowed for a small nod.

“Wanna see impressive? Lemme drop trow.”

“Not now,” I said. “Continue, Frankie.”

Frankie knocked the end of his cane against the toe of his spit-shined shoe. “Returned to his roots. Miami Muerte MC.
Pistolas
, illegal dockers, and hookers with huge knockers. The usual trifecta.”

“Yeah, I know about the guns, slaves, sex. But where is he now?” Walker scowled at the informant.

Frankie remained silent as he lit his cigar with an old, silver-chased lighter. His smoke rings made the room even more speakeasy-gloomy.

“Stiffies aside, we need to know the news on the street.” I waved away the sweet-scented smoke rising in front of my face.

“Guess I’ll put my nose to the ground and find out what’s what for you. If only because you’re in good with Nicky Love.” Frankie mentioned his favorite romance writer, one of the lowcountry’s downhome celebs who’d become a friend of mine through the Chrome and Steele connection since he was married to Brodie and Boomer’s sister Catarina.

“If there’s any movement, I need to know, Frankie.” I stepped off the pedestal and clapped him on the shoulder.

“What’s my payment?” He stuck the burning cigar into a corner of his mouth, speaking around it.

“Respect, man.” I clasped his hand in mine. “Nothing short of my respect.”

“
Madon
. You got it. But only because of your big cojones
.
”

“That was really Frankie Burelli?” Walker asked as we strode outside.

“In the flesh. Keep walking and don’t look back.”

I heard the bell jingle as Frankie stuck his head out the door behind us. “Respect ain’t keeping me warm at night, fellas!”

Walker’s face paled, and he kept his eyes on the pavement. “So, he could kill us—trained mercs.”

“Pretty much.”

“Nice friends you got.”

“You should know.”

Chapter Eight

I LET WALKER MOVE his crap—C-4 and all—into the house. I wouldn’t let him near Jack’s bedroom but showed him to the spare.

“This place is already wired, locked down, airtight. The WiFi is encrypted, dedicated,
not your mom’s maiden name
password protected. I don’t get cable. The only phones are my cells. There’s no safe room, but my armory is in the basement.” I watched as Walker hefted his big black bag onto the bed. “Feel safe?” I spoke through clenched teeth, anxiety for Jack, Mel, and Jessica’s welfare putting paid to any deceptive calm cool edge.

“As houses,” Walker remarked, unpacking his firearms.

I wanted to break doors off the hinges, hit plaster with my knuckles. If I’d put my people in danger because of Vicente fucking Valderas, I’d make sure he’d die a long, lonesome, cruel death.

Instead of going hari-kari on my house, I made four sandwiches, wielding the knife like a stabbing blade, mutilating the head of lettuce and pretty much committing murder on the tomatoes.

Walker hung back at the door of the kitchen. “Master chef, you are not.”