Read T is for Temptation Online
Authors: Jianne Carlo
“What are our next steps?” Alex queried.
“We wait for the trap to be sprung.”
Tony Trent studied the blueprints of the
US
embassy apartment in
London
searching for the weak link; there was always one. He hated that it had come to this; killing Tee, but he had no other choice. Survival of the fittest, thinking about the old cliché made his lips flatten.
“There’s a two-second spread when the security guards change, boss.”
“I see that. They’ve been ordering pizza regularly from the same place.” Tony studied the printout of all calls made from the landline in the embassy’s apartment. He checked them against the cell lines for Alex and Jake and all the recordings his men had made of incoming calls.
“This guy, Tiny, he’s the one ordering the pizza.”
“Yeah, same order every time. Double cheese, double pepperoni, double sausage, and two liters of Coke.”
“Luciano’s makes great pizza.” This statement came from a man standing guard at the door.
As if cued, the other men chimed in, and a loud discussion of pizza toppings ensued.
Tony shut his eyes and tried to drown out the stupidity of the inane musings of the muscle men he’d hired. Once long ago, his friends would have rallied around him, and he wouldn’t have had to buy loyalty. Once, he’d been his mother’s pride and joy. For a second, he wondered what his deceased mother would think of him now, but he set the thought aside. All killers had a mother.
“Take out one of the delivery men. You,” he said, pointing to the most intelligent of his employees, “you fill out a job app in person at this
Luciano’s Pizzeria.
Chat up the personnel. You other two do the same. By this afternoon, I expect one of you to be delivering for that pizza joint.”
“Boss, won’t the embassy have to vet us?”
One of
Constantine
’s guys was on the embassy payroll, Tony knew the man, and this particular mole didn’t know of the rift between he and Constantine. “I’ll get around that. Get out of here. Call me the minute you’re hired.”
Who the hell was this Tiny guy who ordered the pizza? He wasn’t one of Jake’s employees, that much Tony knew. If Graziella hadn’t betrayed him, he gritted his teeth, and for the millionth time wondered how long had she been playing him? How much did
Constantine
know? And the sheik? His stomach flip-flopped.
The transfer of the funds from the
Isle of Man
made no difference now. All the money in the world couldn’t save him from the wrath of
Constantine
or the Sheik. Damn, but he’d been insane to think he could pull this off.
He’d figured Jake would be in jail by now, safe for a while, not under circumstances his former partner could ever understand, but safe.
“So when do we go in boss?”
By tomorrow, Tony figured, all of them stood a good chance of being dead, he scrutinized the harsh features of the
London
thugs so recently bought and paid for. Twenty-three, maybe a little older, and with the current odds, their mothers would be grieving tomorrow.
“As soon as the pizza’s ordered.” He spread out the blueprints. “Okay, here’s the main security camera, and this is the main lobby. The receptionist is a Homeland Security employee, and the elevator’s monitored. What that means is I do the talking and no one else says a word.”
“Mate, what about the security check?”
“I am not your mate. I am your boss.” Tony’s temper and mood had soured. No matter what his associates and the rest of the world believed, he’d never actually killed anyone before. Witnessed murders, seen other men strangling the last breath out of another human being with their own hands, yes, but do the killing himself? Never.
Tony knew the baby-faced cockney men sitting at the kitchen table had at least three deaths to their records, the mafia equivalent of made men, because he’d stipulated that requirement when he’d spread the word that he needed assassins. “And the security check won’t be an issue.”
He’d have to take the chance that
Constantine
hadn’t notified his man in the embassy of what had happened recently. Tony paced the flat’s miniscule living/kitchen area, searching his brain for an ally and came up with nothing. He’d alienated too many people in the last few years.
“I’ll handle the re-routing of the calls, and I’ll answer any phone call that comes in, including the pizza order. You,” he said, picking out the least emotional of the group, “get three pizzas and four liters of coke. Pay cash, and wait for them. Bring them back to the flat. As soon as Tiny orders, we’ll hit the road.”
That left three of his five hired men in the room. He needed all of them gone. “Clear out all of you. Go with him and get something to eat.” He threw a couple of one hundred pound notes on the table. “No liquor. Drink and you’ll end up dead.”
As soon as they’d left and he’d scoured the flat for bugs and cameras, Tony headed for the claustrophobic, windowless bedroom, which faced Chanel Four’s Main Studio. He’d chosen the place because of its location to the blasting multi-faceted studios of
Britain
’s second largest television station, figuring any of his small communications would be dwarfed by the masses emanating from the building across the narrow alley.
He opened his laptop and hit the power button. Because of the security necessary for his emails, he never used Outlook or Gmail or any regular internet service provider, but sent his missives on a direct loop using
Commandeering his thoughts to the issue at hand, he composed a message, which seemed innocuous on first reading, but he hoped gave a virtual picture of the dire circumstances he now faced. When he hit the send button, Tony sat back, and the sudden realization hit him; this might be the last time he communicated with the only individual who still cared about him.
Facing one’s death, he discovered, didn’t make you stronger or wiser, just greedy, greedy for more time. All in all, though, if he had to do it all over again, the only things he would change is what would happen next.
Tony had to race to the toilet at the thought of killing Tee, seeing her draw her last breath. Even after he’d emptied every thing out of his stomach, the nausea didn’t leave him. When he’d first started down this path, he’d been warned; one life taken in the face of saving millions didn’t matter. Soon, he’d have to take four, and hope the future would prove him righteous. Somehow.
“Where’s Tiny?” Tee asked.
“Glued to the television set in the bedroom. He’s trying to understand ‘the magic tales.’” Alex mimicked quotation marks with his fingers. “He made me show him how to order pizza. The man has also discovered the Internet. Between the TV and the PC, mere mortals don’t stand a chance. At any rate, the pizza’s due any minute.”
Tee volunteered to organize plates, cutlery, and glasses. As was his wont, her father never ate any food, including pizza, with his hands, and to her surprise, Alex preferred not to as well. Jake insisted on helping. She flipped on the TV while he ferried the dishes from the kitchen to the table, refusing to let her lift anything.
“Jake, the day before I left for
London
, I hauled fifty-pound feed bags around. I think I can carry a plate loaded with the weight of a knife and fork.” She fisted her hands on her hips and glared at him.
“Until you see a doctor, why not play it safe?” He stifled a groan, knowing the next nine months would see this scene repeated with more heat on both their parts.
Tee shrugged, her lips curled into a mutinous sneer, and she gritted out, “I’m not an invalid.”
He tweaked her nose. “I love it when you’re uppity. Your eyes almost cross, and they spit fire.”
“They do, you know,” Alex said, butting into their conversation. He sauntered into the kitchen, wearing a smug smirk. “Interesting book you’re reading, sweetheart. So, who gave you this little treatise?”
Even if the title didn’t grab attention,
The Perfect Blow Job
’s flaming red cover with an impressively sized canary banana did. Waving it a tich out of reach, he flashed that crooked smile of his, his cobalt eyes devilish and purposeful.
The tips of Tee’s ears burned bright pink. Rising on tiptoe, she slashed one hand at the book.
Alex held it above his head.
“Don’t be a jackass. Give it back,” Jake ordered, arms folded across his chest. “It’s none of your business.”
“Au contraire, I find the topic enthralling and enticing. And I’d like a copy of my own. Spill it, sweetheart. Where did you get this?”
“Oh my,” she said and laid a palm over her heart. “
Dee
sent it to me. When Tony’s secretary resigned, she forwarded a box with his papers. The book was in it.”
“Now ain’t that a pickle. What did this secretary look like?”
“Mrs. Doubtfire, but without the charm,” Jake drawled.
“Why would she have this book then? Tony wasn’t humping her, was he?”
“Alex,” Jake warned, but a line of dread tightened around his chest, and he scanned the four-by-six hard-covered novel. “He has a point, babe. Isn’t she one of those church ladies? Always going on and on about some do-gooding function?”
“She’s a member of a charity organization, and, yes, she’s very religious. There’s no way she knew this book was in her possession. She’d have burned it.”
Flipping through the pages, Alex commented, “When did your
Dee
send it to you?”
“It arrived the night I did, via FedEx. I read the first chapter, and there’s nothing remarkable about it. I mean, except for the obvious subject matter.” Every inch of Tee’s skin flamed, and she avoided meeting the men’s eyes. “I can’t think that book is important. How could it be?”
“I agree with her. I don’t see how a book could be related to anything. It’s a harmless bit of fluff. Give it a rest,” Jake snapped and shut the dishwasher. “Toss the blasted book back where you found it. And if Henry so much as catches a glimpse of it . . .”
“You know, it’s little facts like this that can make or break a case. Don’t you two watch
Monk
? Or
Tee rolled her eyes. “Give it up, Alex. Please put the book back where it was.”
He cut them both a pitying look, mouth pursing, and muttered something under his breath, but disappeared into their bedroom.
“Shall we?” Jake waved a hand to the living area.
They found Tiny sprawled on an overstuffed armchair, feet propped on a large square ottoman, one hand behind his head, the other firmly in control of the remote.
“Do you even know what that’s for?” Alex said as he stomped into the room.
“’Tis called a remote, pretty boy, or a clicker by those of lesser intelligence. I believe, perchance, you form part of the ignorant masses.” Tiny lifted a superior eyebrow in a perfect imitation of Alex’s honed habit.
The two men scowled at each other.
Jake chortled. “Picking up things quickly aren’t we, Tiny?”
“’Tis marvelous easy with your amazing tools, especially this font of information, your Lord Internet.”
Alex broke into loud guffaws, interrupting Tiny’s weighty pronouncement. “You lout. The Internet is a system, not a person. It resides on machines.”
“Really?” Tiny’s wheat eyebrow lifted again. “Perchance you can give me the exact location?”