The Lights of Tenth Street (11 page)

“Three hours, thirty-nine minutes.”

“Wow.” The other guy sat back in his seat. “Three-thirty-nine for your
first
marathon? That rocks. I just got down to three-forty-five after seven tries.”

Doug gave a self-deprecating laugh. “There’s no way I’ll make that time again. I must’ve caught a good tailwind. Besides, anyone who can run
seven
marathons kicks my tail all over the road.”

As the other man shrugged, Doug caught a glimpse of Jill glancing at him in admiration.

Now she realizes I’m humble, too
.

He batted the thought away, disgusted with himself. He turned to look down the table.

“So, Gil, how long has your company been around?”

Twenty minutes and another long battle later, Doug found himself yawning into the restaurant’s signature dessert of fried ice cream.

“Well, it’s been nice to meet you all.” The others stood as he rose to his feet. “I’m on Eastern time, so I better go or I won’t be any good for my meetings tomorrow.”

Gil came around the table and shook Doug’s hand. “Thanks for coming. We’ll see you Friday. Call us if you have questions.”

Doug kept his eyes turned away from Jill’s affirmative nod. “I’ll do that.” He smiled and turned to go. Out in the air, he let the chilly wind wash his face.
Whew. Obstacle course completed
.

He drove the short distance to his hotel with his mind on autopilot. For just a moment, he replayed his first glimpse of Jill’s sleek figure in that suit, then her admiring glance as he talked about his family, her respect for his marathon time. He straightened in his seat. Now
that
was affirmation.

He pulled up at the hotel, grabbed his suitcase from the trunk, and went to check in. Ten minutes later, he closed his room door behind him, hung up his garment bag, and pulled on a comfortable pair of sweats. He settled on the bed and grabbed the television remote. It was late, but he was too wired to sleep. He had to unwind.

That was another thing Sherry never wanted him to do. She wanted him to talk as soon as he got home from work or back from a meeting, when it was all he could do to form two coherent words in his own head, much less get them past his lips.

He clicked on the remote, and the television came to life with a scene from a recently released movie.

He and Sherry hadn’t seen the movie yet, and he hated starting in the middle. As he began to press the “change channel” button, the thought crept in: The
reason
they hadn’t seen the movie was Sherry’s concern about the amount of nudity, especially by the famous female star. Doug had agreed that it was best not to expose themselves to that, but now he held the remote in hand, wavering.

The movie had been wildly popular at the box office, and he’d talked to several friends from church who had liked it. One of the men had even joked about how hot the actress’s love scenes were.

I wonder what she looks like naked? Nah, I shouldn’t
.

He pointed the remote at the television and changed to a sports channel, watching the evening’s NBA highlights, then the hockey scores. Yes! The Red Wings won again. He grinned. You can take the guy out of Michigan, but you can’t take
Michigan out of the guy. When a commercial came on, he changed the channel again.

It’s been fifteen minutes, I wonder if one of those scenes is on yet
.

Doug wavered, then clicked back to the original channel. The famous actress was giving the newcomer-hunk star a slow backrub. What timing.

He sank back into the pillows behind him and settled in for the rest of the movie. After all, it was only R-rated; how bad could it really be?

T
he palm trees swayed overhead as Tyson settled back into his beach chair.

He let out a satisfied sigh.

One of the others chuckled, a tall beer in his hand. “Sure beats that warehouse in Atlanta.”

Tyson smiled, his eyes closed behind his sunglasses. “Yes, but the warehouse does serve a purpose. We’re sure it’s clean, which your homes and offices may not be. However, there’s always the chance that one of the larger group would stumble into something if we were nearby. I think it’s safe to set up the staff in the building, but I don’t want the principals there. I figured if we had to meet off site, it might as well be offshore. No American police here.”

“Any police at all?”

“Only those loyal to us. We pay them more than the local government does.” He shrugged. “And since the local government wants our business, they’re willing to see nothing, hear nothing, and conveniently forget our presence when working with the state department. And if they don’t want to forget, then the fish get another meal.”

He paused. “After lunch we have some business to attend to. I need to brief you on my last instructions from Proxy. He has an ‘in’ to a top defense manufacturer. We’ve already got one likely target in the works, so we need to analyze their product lines and prioritize our opportunities.”

He looked beyond the circle, catching sight of his local chief of staff hovering nearby. “Ah, Manuel, lunch is ready?”

The little group relaxed through a leisurely lunch, served to them on the beach by the local discreet staff. One of the young women—no more than sixteen—had smooth bronze skin and long hair falling to her waist.

At the end of lunch, Tyson pulled the chief of staff aside and whispered something. A few minutes later, Tyson watched as Manuel approached the girl and spoke in low tones. There was some sort of an argument. When she tried to jerk away, the man grabbed her arm. The girl began to cry, and she was yanked inside a small hut, out of sight.

A smile played on Tyson’s lips. The others would like this impromptu show. And if they were pleased with her, with what came after.

“No … no … don’t. Please … you can’t.…”

Ronnie thrashed in bed, whimpering, her eyelids flickering. She curled up into a tight ball against the images that played in her mind. It never worked. She could always feel the groping hands, the secret shame.

If she told, he would take her away from her mother. Or she would be put in jail. Or worse would be done to her. Her childhood brain rang with the reasons, all the reasons for her silence.

As always, he stood from her bed and gave her a warning lash—a single lash—from his belt. The first time, she had cried out, and her mother had come running. And had been beaten unconscious. Ronnie never cried out again.

“No … 
NO
…!”

There was pounding this time as he lay down beside her, a pounding on the door.

“Ronnie? Ronnie?”

She bolted awake, aware of a voice in the dark. She sat up, panting, as the voice called out again.

“Ronnie?” Tiffany’s worried face peeped in at her. “You okay?”

“I’m sorry.” Ronnie looked at the clock on her nightstand. 4:13. They’d been asleep only an hour.

“The same dream again?”

Ronnie could only nod.

Tiffany gave her a long hug. “I’m sorry. Life stinks, doesn’t it?”

“Thanks, Tiff. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Sorry I woke you up.”

“No problem.” She stood. “You okay?”

“I’m okay. It won’t come back tonight.”

“Good. And if it tries to, you just flip your stepfather off for me.”

Ronnie had to chuckle. “I’ll try to remember that.”

She settled back into the bed as Tiffany slipped out the door. She pulled the covers up to her chin, clutching them like a frightened eight-year-old-girl. She closed her eyes, hoping she could sleep, hoping she wouldn’t be yawning at work all the next night.

Ronnie hurried out to her largest table, balancing her laden tray on her shoulder.

She laid down the final steak platter, and waited while the customer cut into it.

“Is that acceptable, sir?”

The man’s words were slurred. “It’s acceptable, sweetcheeks. And so are
you
. I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you dance for me.”

Ronnie crossed to the other side of the table and filled a few water glasses. “I’m just a waitress, honey, but thanks for the compliment.” She forced herself to give a saucy grin. “But I’ll take whatever tip you want to give me.”

The other men at the table laughed as she turned away. The sloppy man raised his voice.

“The names Ron, sweetcheeks! And I’ll keep tipping you until I get a dance. One of these days!”

Ronnie saw a new group sit by a table against the wall and hurried over, muttering, “Don’t hold your breath, sweetheart.”

Farther along the wall, behind a one-way mirror, several men sat in a room resembling a television production booth. Electrical equipment and control boards formed a horseshoe around them. One ran the many cameras, the other the control boards and computers. The third stood behind them, arms crossed, giving direction as the cameras scanned the room from all angles.

After a few minutes of silence, something on the control panel beeped, and the camera operator focused in tighter.

The man standing, uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. “Right there—who just sat down?”

“Hold on.” The computer operator tapped a few keys and waited while several face-prints and paragraphs of text flashed across the screen. “Name of Wayne Jackson. The other man is … wait … Darrell Hardy.” A few more clicks, and then a slow sound of satisfaction. “Ah … They’re both with that big electronics manufacturer Marco mentioned yesterday. The one Proxy’s looking at as a possible target.”

“Good. Good.” The first man nodded, pleased. “Are their positions helpful?”

More clicking on the keyboard, then the computer operator raised an eyebrow. “Jackson is just a midlevel manager, but … Hardy is apparently the chief operating officer.”

“Excellent. Tab those, get the necessary data, and notify Marco right away.” He straightened and his eyes turned to the next table along. “Let’s see if we can make this night a two-fer, shall we?”

Outside of Washington, D.C., a similar operation was taking place. Behind oneway glass, another camera scanned the crowd, capturing another face, another screen of data.

This one generated even more excitement. The data was compiled and transmitted to a control room in Atlanta.

Within five minutes, Marco was behind closed doors, staring at the promising data on his computer screen. He took a few cryptic notes and tapped his pen rapidly on the desktop. He would need to move even faster than expected; some of these targets were too good to waste. This Washington, D.C., satellite engineer would have access to some critical systems they needed.

But … would he be able to deliver the targets? As unsettling as it was, he forced his mind to run through the various scenarios. What if he
wasn’t
ready yet?

He coldly replayed his cocky assurances to Proxy’s lieutenant. Proxy didn’t suffer fools lightly. Just last year, another man had held Marco’s current position in the organization. He’d had a drinking problem and despite repeated warnings, became garrulous when smashed. In the crowded club one night he had held forth about masterminding the idea behind a very profitable—and until then, very secret—underground tunnel that had permitted an undetected flow of drugs and people into the country. Waving a drink at a fascinated crowd, he described how the tunnel originated on a small island off the gulf of Florida and ended inside a false fireplace in a house on shore. The next morning, he hadn’t even remembered his late-night loquaciousness, but someone else sure had.

One week later, twenty million dollars’ worth of cocaine and heroin had been captured in transit. A few hours later, Marco’s predecessor had been found floating facedown in the Gulf, not far from his marvel of now-useless engineering.

Marco had been promoted the same day. He grimaced at the memory. An undercover cop must have been among the customers in the club, but no one had ever figured out who it was. Unsettling, but inevitable.

Marco looked again at the screen before him, planning his strategy. Even if he had to move prematurely he could still deliver. Despite Tyson’s pointed concerns, they already had enough assets to do a credible job. Heck, he could even move a girl from Atlanta to Washington, D.C., if he had to. But he was pretty sure they wouldn’t have to.