Page 37 of Risky Passion
"And what do you want me to do about that? Kill the croc?"
He made a sound like he was pulling out his own tooth. "We tried killing it but couldn’t. And then that bastard you sent killed Ramon.”
"What bastard?" My fingers tightened around the phone.
"The prick with the dog.”
"Dog?" Something cold slithered down my spine. "What kind of dog?"
"Big black beast. Like a shadow with fangs. Who fucking cares? The bastard put a bullet through Ramon's head like he was at target practice. Then vanished into the swamp with that pilot bitch."
My mind raced, pieces slamming into place. A black dog. Military precision. It had to be Whitney's brother, Jaxson. That self-righteous bastard and his K9 were good at finding things . . . drugs, graves, bodies. They’d already uncovered half the bodies at Angelsong Orphanage. He was the fucker who'd found Alice’s body. Fuck. Fuck!
"Two of my men are dead because of you!" Diego was still ranting, but I barely heard him.
This complicated everything. Jaxson wasn't some beat cop I could buy off or scare away. He and his goddamned brotherswere notorious for their loyalty to each other. Like a pack of wolves. Wound one, face them all.
"Are you even listening? Two of my men are dead!" Diego's voice cracked with hysteria.
"Shut up, you fucking fool. Their deaths are on you. You idiots can't handle a simple delivery without turning it into a bloodbath."
"Fuck you! Ya bitch!" Diego's voice quivered with rage. "I'm done with your bullshit. You'll never see me or?—"
I ended the call.
"Fuck!" The scream tore from my throat, sending pigeons exploding into the air in a panic of grey wings. As I watched them wheel around the warehouse, I wondered how many would survive what was coming. Collateral damage. My Thomas would have been furious at me about that.
I strode to the stolen car, grabbed my bag from the passenger seat, and checked that I had the detonation device.
I ran my fingers over the device’s smooth surface. It was amazing that such a little contraption could cause so much destruction. I placed the device back into my bag next to Alice’s favorite hot pink lipstick.
I could just make out Grant's silhouette through the diminishing light in the middle of the warehouse. He was still slumped in his chair, exactly as I’d left him. The sedative would keep him under for another two hours. More than enough time for the Alpha Ops team to get here.
The pigeons had settled back and were cooing on the warehouse rafters again. Peaceful. Oblivious. Just like Grant.
"Sorry, darlings," I murmured, clicking the car door shut.
At the exit to the warehouse, I paused at the door to set the pressure plate in place. My boy Fraser had designed this clever little device, which was small enough to be placed anywhere without drawing attention. The instant one of the Alpha Ops Team stood on this, I would know that those bastards had arrived. And then I would watch the greatest show of my life.
With the trap set, I strode out the exit door and walked along the old wharf’s graying planks that were already bathed in shadows.
I forced myself to think like Jaxson. What would he do next? He was methodical, precise. He would start with the pilot, get her somewheresafe. I slipped my handbag across my chest, slotting it tight against my hip.
I clicked my fingers. Jaxson had been at Angelsong when that Border Force plane went down. No wonder he’d found the pilot so quickly; he was the closest asset to where the plane ditched. I frowned. Diego had said the pilot was a woman. It had to be Tory. That bitch from Border Force was the reason my last boat had been intercepted, and this current one.
She was going to die for that.
At the end of the wharf, I turned into the narrow alley between two old warehouses. The setting sun speared right into my eyes, forcing me to squint.
Alice always hated this time of the day, when shadows crept in and nightmares formed.
Alice! Jaxson would probably return to Angelsong with Tory to hook up with his brother, Whitney.
Perfect. I could eliminate all three of them at once.
I dialed Eddie Walsh, the crooked cop who’d been on my payroll ever since his daughter was diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy. I never underestimated the lengths a desperate father would go to for his sick kid. And Walsh, for all his grumbling, had proven useful more than a handful of times.
“I wondered when you’d call,” he said, his voice sharp with irritation. “They’re late. What’s going on?”
