Tracking Shadows (Shadows of Justice 4) (8 page)

He lifted a handful of what looked like a blend of straw and shredded paper. The sudden, strong whiff of marijuana under the burnt honey smell was enough to make him think he'd been transported to an underground rock concert.

The room started to spin like a wild carnival ride and he dropped the packing material, shaking his head to clear it. No success. "Marion!" His voice sounded so far away. "Call Jim. And get me a bag of coffee. A small bag." At least he had the sense to preserve the profit margin, he thought as she dashed away. He leaned against the wall, trying to clear the scent from his nose and ignore the happy nonsense in his brain that kept urging him to go back for another hit.

He'd never heard of a pot product you didn't have to smoke. Not dealing the stuff didn't mean he didn't keep up with trends on both sides of the law. Even with his head out of the crate, there were six girls in the room now. He told them all to leave.

Micky started reciting the alphabet, determined to clear his head before Jim arrived. Giving up when he couldn't remember what came after 'g', he tried again backwards.

"What the hell are you muttering about?"

He looked up, happy to see Jim's scowling face – both of them. "Hello." He directed the greeting at the point where Jim's ears overlapped.

"You're stoned blind."

"No!" Micky protested, sure of this one thing. "I'm seeing double."

Jim snorted and hauled him off the floor, dumping him into a chair.
Micky watched, fascinated with both Jims and Marions as they opened the bag of coffee and pushed it under his nose.

Micky
inhaled as instructed, but when he blinked, his vision hadn't improved. He listened, vastly entertained by Jim's interrogation of Marion.

"Next time call me
before
he does something so stupid."

Marion's heads bobbed in the affirmative, making
Micky laugh.

"I'll take him up to the infirmary. Lock down this room and take the day off. I'll send someone for the crates."

"Better be a hazmat team," Micky joked while Jim kept him on his feet while they moved down the hall toward the elevator. "Don't destroy it. Whatever it is."

"Right, boss."

Micky listened, amused as Jim barked orders at the medical team.

He was stoned, not poisoned. But the stuff was obviously potent, because he didn't feel much of anything while the health team poked and prodded. When the oxygen vent dropped down into his face, he just sneezed and laughed.

"You're a freakin' mess."

Micky
didn't bother arguing. Couldn't have put up much fight anyway. The oxygen was clearing his head, but something else was making him sleepy. Trying to study the medical equipment, his view narrowed as blackness crept in and blotted out everything.

Chapter Eight

Trina hovered around the docks in a couple different disguises until she learned the rhythm of the place. Slow, but not sleepy, was an apt description. Goods and day laborers seemed to be the primary cargo. Surprisingly, the place shut down just after
sunset, as if no one had heard of electricity or the 24/7 productivity rates that plagued other industries.

The quiet nights made it easy for her to snag two empty crates and get them into her storage unit without Mary's interference. The current contents of new clothes and old books was okay, but she needed to find some china or silver just in case the woman got bored and came nosing around. Trina didn't want her finding the money, phones, computer and alternate identifications she'd currently stashed under the other items.

The one night she'd spent in the cold emptiness of her storage unit convinced her it wasn't the season to use the place as a hideout. If only because she didn't want to invest in the things that would make it manageable right now.

The best news was blissful silence from
Montalbano. She'd sent him an update, mostly false, assuring him she was about to wrap up the Slick Micky job. But the happy lack of his communication with her was tainted by his intense messages to her alter-ego, Trent, ordering her own death. Just as she thought, Montalbano wouldn't leave any loose ends or tolerate delays. She entertained the idea of taking the job, faking her death, and starting over with one of her back up identities. A familiar scenario, but she wasn't quite ready to take the paycut that would follow as soon as word of her death got out. Unless she didn't give the crime boss time to get the word out.

That was a twisting, dark path she didn't want to tread if she could avoid it. Yes, she was an assassin.
A very good assassin. But taking lives for money didn't mean she'd completely ditched her moral compass. She shivered as truth and possibilities mingled inside her head, inside her heart.

There was only one vengeance kill she wanted. She had valid, moral reasons for eliminating Slick
Micky. She'd find a different solution for Montalbano.

Her gloomy thoughts brought the dingy motel room closing in on her. With no more local contracts, she needed a distraction. She cringed, thinking of Mary and her bar on the strip, but a night out beat going stir crazy with the lousy feed on the outdated entertainment network the motel offered.

It didn't take long to get familiar with the area Mary called the strip. Surprisingly, the music pumping out of The Levee wasn't half bad. She walked through the open door, saw Mary talking with a guy at the end of the bar and wondered about life's coincidences.

Were there any?

Trina returned Mary's smile and wave and buried her reluctance behind an answering smile as she joined them. When she reached the pair, she discovered the guy looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. He didn't show any sign of recognizing her, which set her instincts humming, but the loud music postponed introductions.

Trina signaled for a pint, hoping the management watered down their brew on tap less than the bottlers. Drinking was always a prop, but when she used it, she preferred it had taste. Her first sip, a full-flavored lager, proved why the bar was full. She raised her glass to the bartender who smiled in return before moving to other customers.

At last the band struck a final chord and following the smattering of applause Mary introduced her companion as Ben. "He's new to the area too," she finished.

Ben stuck out his hand and Trina clasped it. "What brings you here?"

"Business." His voice was steady, but she caught some flicker of sadness in his eyes.

"She's waiting on a shipment from her dead grandma," Mary blurted. "Whoops." She tapped her lips with a perfectly shaped fingernail. "Sorry."

Trina waved off the blunder as it only reinforced her cover story. "It's no secret." It wasn't even the truth, but she was grateful when the band screamed into another fast, loud song.

Mary nudged Ben out to the dance floor and Trina relaxed at the bar. The name didn't help her memory, but she knew she'd seen him before. Where? She was good with
faces, she just had to give it some time. Hopefully it wouldn't be something awkward like she'd taken out one of his relatives or something.

As Trina scanned the crowd on the dance floor, she saw Mary's fun get cut short by whatever device Ben pulled out of his jacket pocket. He checked the display,
then hurried back to the bar. He put cash under his beer mug and waved to Mary who was already dancing with someone new.

"Nice meeting you," he said to Trina.

She nodded. "Take care." But he didn't leave.

He fiddled with his cell card and cleared his throat. "You're beautiful."

"Thank you."

"What I mean is, well, maybe you'd have drinks with me another night."

She wished her memory would kick in already. "I don't know –"

"It's okay." He cut her off with a self-deprecating smile. "I'm not with Mary. We just sort of met at the storage place. Maybe I'll see you in here again."

No one had asked her out on a date in ages. Before she could think of any reply, he was gone.

"The pretty ones always fall for the bad boys." The bartender shook his head as he collected the cash.

"What?"

"You.
Him." The bartender wiggled his eyebrows. "I could write a book." He counted the money, deliberating over every dollar. "What is it about smugglers? Some collective subconscious pirate fantasy in the female population?"

Of course.
She cursed herself for overlooking the obvious. People with legit jobs usually used plastic. She tossed him a ten dollar bill and a wink along with it. "Guess I'm about to find out." And she sauntered out in Ben's wake.

Once clear of any prying eyes in The Levee, Trina relaxed into her natural stride, letting her long legs eat up the distance between her and the docks while she scanned the streets for any sign of Ben. Assuming the bartender knew his customers, Ben was the lead she needed. If he wasn't working for Slick
Micky, he could probably connect her with someone who did.

Innate caution ruled her route and kept her vigilant, despite the extremely low odds that this was a trap set for her. No one knew her real face or her real business.
No one alive anyway. She'd been disguised in Slick Micky's lair and as far as Mary knew, her intentions at the storage center were legal. Still, rushing in blind was never smart.

The streets grew more quiet and empty as she neared the docks. Had she let the bartender's opinion send her on a wild goose chase?

She pressed on, sticking to the shadows, confident she'd hear or see something soon. As if she'd conjured it, an engine rumbled to life nearby. A block over, she guessed. Doing her best impersonation of a dock hand's tired swagger, she hunched her shoulders and continued toward the water. She kept up the ruse, inordinately pleased when the truck appeared at the next corner and turned in the same direction.

Her temper sparked when she saw the storage company logo on the side. If Ben was driving that truck, he was using Mary to compromise what might be Joel
Mickleson's family business. Feeling obligated to good people who'd once helped her, she kept the truck in sight.

Only one kind of business required a truck down here at this hour and she intended to catch either a smuggler or a supplier red-handed. Let the bartender have his opinion, this 'pretty girl' had a far better reason than sex for following a suspected smuggler.

She heard the truck idling and gave it a wide berth, picking her way closer to the water's edge. It was cold, and the wind off the water nipped at her cheeks, but she'd survived worse conditions.

Minutes stretched out, the quiet reached up to swallow her, until at
last she heard the soft putter of a boat motor. From her hiding place, she watched a ferry tie in at the deserted dock. More silence until the metallic scrape and rumble was followed by a muted slam that could only be the gangway rolling from the ferry to the dock.

Footsteps preceded Ben's voice. Pitched too low for her to make out the words, the ferry captain's French Canadian accent was clear enough.

Definitely smugglers. Around here no one doing legitimate business worked at this hour.

Trina crept back toward the truck.
Of all the audacious, rude schemes. She didn't care about the ferry, the product, or the men involved. But she'd seize the shipment and hold it for ransom until Slick Micky revealed himself. Even if this wasn't his shipment, she was sure she could interest him in whatever contraband was coming ashore. She'd take her revenge on the murderous bastard and sell the contraband to the highest bidder.

Win-win.

Trina let the pick-up man do the heavy lifting. When the crates were loaded – only three she noticed – she inched closer. She braced, ready to overtake the guy just as he closed the door, but he spun around and grabbed her, hauling her inside.

"Got him!
Go! Go!"

Grudgingly, she admired the iron grip pinning her back to his chest. It was a good move. The truck lurched forward and though compromised Trina picked out camera feeds and
mics, realizing too late the vehicle's decrepit exterior hid a wealth of technology. Damn.

She'd fallen for the oldest disguise in the book. But she had a few surprises of her own. Though she hated doing it, she projected a thousand spiders crawling along her skin and rushing over the man holding her. His resistance surprised her. She struggled to hold on to the distasteful illusion until he finally released her with a panicked cry. She promised herself a soothing hot, real-water shower at the earliest opportunity.

Pressing her advantage she slid out of his reach, crushing his foot with her own. He howled, trying to get away, but the crates made it impossible. She swiped at the nearest camera, twisted around, and landed a punch that knocked him out.

"You okay?" a female voice called from the truck's cab. "What the hell is the problem?"

"Got it handled," Trina replied, hoping the truck's engine masked her voice.

"Good. Almost there."

'There' had to be the storage center. She wondered if Mary had roped them into an upgraded climate controlled unit. Would serve them right.

She felt the driver pause at the gate, heard the squeak as it rolled out of the way. Having memorized the layout, when the truck lurched forward and made two turns, she knew they were headed for the larger units at the outer edge of the complex.

Interesting.

She mentally sorted through her options since she hadn't been prepared for kidnapping people when she went out this evening. Letting them go meant they'd tell their boss. Keeping them trapped in the truck or storage unit was a temporary situation, but killing them felt too permanent. She didn't even know what sort of contraband they'd brought in.

Ben groaned a bit as she patted him down, searching for weapons or anything useful. Reaching inside his jacket, she seized the cell card, and did a mental hallelujah when she found a pack of plastic zip ties in a pants pocket.

She scowled at Ben while she cuffed his wrists around the rack built into the truck, refusing to ponder how he intended to use them.

"Never underestimate a nice guy," she muttered to his unconscious form. Joel had taught her to assume the best in people, but in her experience life required a tough practicality that bordered on cynical.

She completed her search, relieving Ben of the knife at his hip as the truck eased to a stop. The engine died and Trina prepared for the driver's unhappy reaction to finding Ben wasn't in control back here.

Hearing the driver's door open and slam shut, Trina crouched on top of the crate closest to the door. Her position increased her advantage with the bonus of blocking any view of Ben.

The driver was complaining about the wrecked camera as she pulled up the cargo door.

Trina attacked with every ounce of her pent up frustration. She didn't bother creating a hallucination, she simply overpowered the woman, flying at her and knocking her down to the storage unit's concrete floor. The element of surprise and the impact stole the driver's breath and Trina capitalized on the weakness, locking her legs around the woman's rib cage. She held fast even after the woman went limp, expecting the fake. Not a fair fight, but an efficient one, and soon the woman was trussed up with zip ties, swearing a blue streak the moment she came to.

"You'll die, you miserable thief."

Trina wished for a gag as the insults continued with increasing creativity, but she settled for examining the cargo.

"Cigarettes?
That's all?" It seemed questions were more effective than a gag as the woman finally shut her mouth. "Who are you working for?"

The driver glared so viciously, Trina instinctively stepped back. "I've heard Slick
Micky instills a cult-like loyalty."

Oh, she tried to stifle it, but the driver's natural instinct to defend her boss flashed on her face like a neon sign.

"So if he's Ben, does that make you Jerry?"

The driver only rolled her eyes. Of course it was a horrible joke, but Trina wanted the driver to understand who had the pertinent details.