Tracking Shadows (Shadows of Justice 4) (12 page)

"So no leads."

"Well, there's a certain woman." Jim pointed to a pixelated frame of April's guest at a dining hall table. "The face is altered, and the hair and eye color, but the orbital bone structure and the rest of her stats match the kidnapper."

Micky swallowed. She'd disguised herself and waltzed right into his compound. What the hell? "But she didn't bring this in."

Jim shook his head.
"Looks like it was already planted."

"Someone in our system is a Trojan horse."

"Probably. But we're not sure if it's a willing betrayal or something else."

"Has the virus been cured or whatever the term is?"

"Not yet. We're still running it down."

"How does it travel?"

"Don't know." Jim shrugged. "It may even have a natural expiration like any other germ."

Micky
swore. "What do you recommend?"

"Extreme caution.
I'm investigating every angle while the hackers are rooting it out."

"Was the layer or signal or whatever the hell it is being transmitted out?"

"No. That's the weird part. Why would anyone go to the trouble of hacking video if they didn't want to see anything?"

To annoy at the very least, but more likely the saboteur wanted to create paranoia.
Micky refused to give in to the fear vining like ivy into loose mortar, tearing at the seams of his steady, logical thinking.

It was one thing to be at the top of the game, aware the wannabes were looking for an opening. It was quite another to be at the top of the game unable to see the shark for the blood in the water.

"There's one more thing."

Because they needed another problem.
He cocked a brow at Jim.

"Last, but not least.
The report from the bodyguard I had on you during the night you and Ben went to the docks."

"Yeah?"

Jim tipped his head toward the screen. The bodyguard had scanned the train cars as he'd followed Micky and Ben and there, slumped against a window was the unmistakable red head of Trina Durham.

"I'll be damned,"
Micky whispered. "Same woman. Following me?"

"No. That's the weird part. She never moved to follow, never showed up anywhere again that night."

How the hell had she found Ben and Darlene on the docks? He thought about her special skills and chewed on the possibilities. "You start on her," he said, referring to the interrogation. "But nothing too hard, and nothing physical. When she's good and pissed at you, I'll go in."

Jim's jaw settled into a determined line. "I'll get started as soon as she's awake."

Chapter Twelve

Montalbano seethed as he leaned back in his leather chair. The greedy king of smuggling was lying low, but he was still alive, still making deals. Worse, the current Slick Micky still had a stranglehold on the majority of the money flowing in and out of the city.

This was his town and the Slick
Micky position should rightfully be his. At the last summit, he'd made a play for the title and been denied. The insult of it still burned in his gut all these months later.

And the insults were piling up. Even his hand-picked assassin had outmaneuvered him. She'd ditched his GPS device and remained silent no matter how he threatened her. His men couldn't find any sign of her on the street.

This sort of failure was intolerable.

He wanted to throw the crystal snifter he held into the fireplace. Instead, he carefully placed it on his desk, turning it slowly so the firelight danced with the two fingers of brandy he'd poured just for show.

If he didn't regain some measure of control, his people would lose respect. Worse, they might believe he was losing his ruthless touch. He wouldn't tolerate anyone believing he was going soft, letting some independent contractor bitch run off with his money.

The knock on the door likely saved the snifter from a splintering fate. "Enter," he called, eliminating all traces of tension from his body language and tapping the switch under his desk which started the digital recorder for the coming conversation.

Crayland, Montalbano's face in the roughest streets of Chicago, walked in, his steps muffled by the plush carpet. The incongruous combination of bulky thug and silent movement reminded Montalbano of the newest stealth products in development at his corporate offices. Maybe he should let his man take a couple devices out for a field test on those dangerous streets.

"Well?"

"No word on the assassin. Yet," Crayland quickly clarified. "But the new drug is as addictive as we'd hoped."

Montalbano
hoped it was fatal, but he kept that to himself. Years ago, the military accepted faulty research from a competitor that showed blending specific supplements and hormones could make more effective warriors. The sudden popularity of the substance known as 'juice' pushed his company out of the race to help soldiers, so Montalbano forged a more profitable path in substances designed to impair the enemy. He had no problem test driving those substances on the private sector to back up the controlled lab studies.

"Good." He turned the snifter a quarter turn. "How and where have you tested?" The recording would be beneficial when he needed to develop his report to the government about the new drug.

"I've cut it into some of the casual grass users and seen a bump in return business."

Always good.
"And the labor dispute?" This was Crayland's real test. Did he have the instinct, ambition, and savvy to go beyond the typical dealer to user business model?

"I know you wanted to break the warehouse workers." He shuffled his feet,
then straightened his shoulders. "I found out where they get their packing material and I treated it with the new stuff."

Creative, indeed.
Montalbano sat forward, brandy forgotten, eager to hear how this played out.

"From reports a few employees got really sick, the others just got more cooperative."

Oh, Crayland had a bright future. Vaguely he wondered if a decent suit would make him look less savage. It was something to investigate. "Dispute settled?"

"I'm told the new contracts will be signed within the week."

"Well, well. I'll have to advertise our new services accordingly. The subjects who got sick, what happened?"

"Lung issues, sir."

"I see. Well, get more of it on the street." Maybe he'd get lucky and it would find its way into Slick Micky's lair. Wherever the hell that was. He didn't like relying on luck, didn't believe in it, but so far his every attempt to crack that secret had gone up in flames. The video-bot he'd planted on a known mule who frequented Crayland's corner for her preferred fix had fizzled before transmitting anything useful. He made a mental note to send the brains behind that invention back to the drawing board.

Montalbano
refused to believe the Slick Micky was as untouchable as the urban legends claimed. Of course he hadn't had much luck killing him so far. With Dakota dead and the Reverend lost to his twisted missions, this was the best time to make a play for Chicago's Slick Micky title. Especially if the rumors were correct and the woman, Sis, had been running most of the business lately.

If he gave Dakota's gangs a rallying point it could be enough to gain the official endorsement at the next summit. But first he needed a line on the man himself. To date no one could be sure of his actual
appearance, though Montalbano had it on good authority he was viciously scarred. That he believed. Micky never attended the summits personally, always sending his assistant with a live hologram feed instead. Montalbano couldn't decide if that made his enemy smarter or more cowardly. More likely it equaled a smart coward.

He'd have to let things quiet down there, as the police were still so persistent about sniffing out Sis's killer.

Not ideal, but the delay gave him time to make the most of this new packing material discovery. So many goods and industries might be affected, and subsequently boost his profits, if he could manufacture enough of the new blend.

"Have a seat and tell me everything about this packing material coup."

* * *

Trina pulled herself out of a cloudy dream starring a rather sexy, grown up version of Joel, and immediately wished to go back under. But her sinuses felt packed with cotton and her eyes didn't want to open.

The room was absolutely sterile. The disinfectant smell even penetrated her congestion. Glancing down she realized someone had dressed her in a white hospital gown, but she didn't remember doing anything worthy of hospitalization.

"You're awake," a male voice droned over an invisible speaker.

Trina tried to sit up, but discovered restraints at her wrists, elbows, and ankles. She lifted her head, struggling a moment more, as the events of the failed hostage exchange rushed through her mind. "Where am I?"

"Call it home. You won't be going anywhere anytime soon."

"You can't hold me." Her voice scraped at her raw throat. Was she sick? What the hell had happened?

The silence stretched out and she looked around for anything to mark the time. No clocks, no monitors, nothing but stark white linen, bare white walls, and stainless steel fixtures.

"Where is Joel?"

More silence. Questions rolled through her mind like the tide, surging and falling back. Asking them only gave her captors more clues, so she remained silent. She wasn't about to help them do their job.

She turned toward the only door in time to see a panel slide open. A shallow box was followed by a tray of food, then the panel slid shut and an electronic lock hissed into place.

Her stomach rumbled at the sight of bacon and eggs. Nice. She could sort of smell the food, she could see the food, but she couldn't get up to eat the food. Slick
Micky sure had unique ideas of torture.

She was about to swear a blue streak just out of spite when her restraints popped open.

"Thanks," she muttered. Her shoulder throbbed as she sat up and she pulled the gown aside to see a puncture wound surrounded by an angry red stain. So Joel had resorted to a tranquilizer and brought her back to his boss as a trophy. Maybe the sinus thing was a side effect of the drug. It felt remarkably like an allergy attack, but there was nothing in here to be allergic to.

Her knees wobbled a bit when she tried to stand and her vision tunneled. How long had they kept her under? Based on the lack of human contact, her old 'friend' obviously mentioned her 'special feature'.
Damned traitor.

Taking it slow, since the cold white floor looked decidedly unforgiving, she eventually reached the box. She snorted, recognizing the Macy's logo on the lid, but she peeked inside anyway. Under sheer white tissue paper she found a light gray sweatshirt, matching pants, and high end cotton lingerie.

Hmmm, how many women woke up alone in shackles followed by boxes from Macy's and their favorite breakfast?

Maybe this was the norm for Slick
Micky. One of those pesky insider details April hesitated about. She wondered if she was an initiate or prisoner. There had to be some reason he only worked with women.

As she dug into breakfast, she marveled at the food. Scooting back against the wall with the tray on her lap, she savored every bite of the savory eggs and crisp bacon.
Absolutely divine. She was pretty sure the jam on the toast was homemade, though how and why Slick Micky would bother with details like that was anyone's guess. A war between the crime bosses might be justified if Micky's chef was the prize.

The voice on the other end of the speaker barked an order for her to dress. She wasn't inclined to cooperate just for the sake of good behavior; she wanted to meet the man in charge. And she wanted to watch him die.

Possibilities flitted through her head as she doused herself in the ion shower and dressed in the relative privacy of the curtained lavatory. Humorous as the scenes were, she couldn't afford to overlook how the tables had turned. She was now the hostage, obvious but true, and she needed to prepare for the inevitable interrogation.

Would they send Joel, hoping she would cave to the memories of their old friendship? They'd soon learn the error of that line of thinking. She was too furious with him for selling out and joining the pig who'd tried to kill him for sole ownership of a blasted street corner.

Trina had no intention of telling anyone here anything, though at some point they would discuss why he'd left her lonely and devastated, believing her only friend had been blown to bits.

She emerged from the bathroom to find a tall, broad chested man waiting for her. Former military judging by the buzz cut, the strict posture, and the hard eyes. The unrelenting black of his shirt, cargo pants and boots were probably intended to intimidate, but she just wasn't that easy. She propped a shoulder against the wall. "Good morning."

"Afternoon," he corrected.

She shrugged. Time didn't matter much in these circumstances. They eyed each other. Apparently he'd also adopted the attitude that the person who spoke first lost a point in their little contest.

Trina was happy conceding the first point. The winning point was the only one that counted. She offered a question he was surely expecting. "What does a girl have to do to get out of here?"

He didn't react. She smiled.

"Let's start with the basics," he said. "Name?"

And so the interrogation began.

* * *

Micky
questioned Ben and Darlene about everything that had gone wrong during the pickup. He glanced back over the notes, troubled by the assassin talk Darlene mentioned. It didn't fit the facts, didn't even make sense, so he chalked it up to a classic investigation technique. Unfortunately he hadn't learned anything useful about Trina beyond her overpowering ability to shock her opponent with illusions and, according to Darlene, to fight dirty.

Trina wrestling with Darlene ... he would've paid to see that one.

He wondered how and where Trina had finally learned to channel her ability. In school, she'd been able to confuse people and make them see little things that weren't there, but she was far from 'weapons grade' back in those days.

The only recent bonus, minor as it was, came from the lack of trouble with the video feeds. If Trina or Ben had been responsible for the attempted viral attack on his security here at the warehouse surely the same problem would have occurred on the truck or at the storage center. An assumption, not his preferred method of reaching a conclusion, but he didn't have more to go on. The discovery was a double edged sword anyway, as it instantly increased his suspect list to everyone living in or having access to the warehouse.

Micky looked up at the clock, all too aware that Jim had been interrogating Trina for just over an hour now. He'd set up runners to keep him informed. It kept the girls busy and it meant less data going over his compromised system. The hacker swore the damned virus wasn't transmitting, but he'd also admitted he wasn't done scrubbing it out.

Paranoid?
Sure. And he might as well get used to it.

He glanced up at the knock on his door, but instead of the runner he expected, it was Marion. "Hello."

"They sent me down from the infirmary."

"If you've got a treatment mask in your pocket you're fired."

"The nurse offered to send the rectal thermometer, but I don't want to know that story."

"Good choice." The nurse would be the death of his reputation. "Come on in. You have to ignore the nurse. She's just a piece of work."

"Uh-huh," Marion agreed, taking a small step closer. "Are you feeling better?"

"Mostly."