Given a choice between taking an irrevocable step toward corruption and keeping Jared safe…no contest.
Okay. One of Carlotti’s girls was living at Mag’s pross house. Mag owed her several favors. It was a good place to start.
Kara stepped down from the curb to flag the cab at the end of the block.
“I don’t know if he’s here for sure ,” the prostitute repeated nervously. The woman’s street name was Krystal (“That’s with a ‘K’, sugarbumps.”) and while she claimed to be not yet drinking age, Kara put her at mid-to-late twenties. Of course, Krystal-with-a-K could be right. The street was tough on faces and the average pross had a shelf life slightly longer than yogurt. “And I don’t know why we had to come here now . I told you, if he comes , it won’t be ‘til suppertime .”
Krystal slung her purse over one bony hip and glared at Kara. She was a tall woman, underweight and twitchy, with a long, narrow face and a gleaming gaze that watched avidly for disaster. The woman had observed a child slip and fall down hard enough to skin both knees bloody and had laughed so hard she’d stumbled off the curb. Kara hadn’t commented, but did walk over and assist the child to his feet, brushed him off and sent him on his way. She wasn’t surprised, by either the child’s misfortune or Krystal’s cruelty. The prostitute with a heart of gold was a movie myth. The very nature of their work bred savagery and indifference. Their lives were so hard, who cared about anyone else’s? Kara didn’t like it, but she could understand it.
“I appreciate you showing me the place,” she replied absently. The warehouse was close to the train depot and she imagined it had once been used to store incoming shipments. Krystal told her Carlotti used it to house stolen goods and black market movies…here a customer could get a tape of a movie before it even hit the theaters. “But it’s beginning to occur to me that I’ve been something of an idiot.”
“Huh?” Krystal replied, her ratty gaze darting all over the empty first floor. “What are you talking about?”
It had taken Kara hours to seek out Krystal and talk the woman into giving her directions to the warehouse. Krystal’s insistence on accompanying her should have been the first tip-off. Now it was past lunchtime and Kara remembered that, as usual, no one knew where she was, or when she was expected back. She’d been led to an abandoned warehouse by an untrustworthy woman who laughed at a child’s pain. And she only had Krystal’s word that Carlotti wouldn’t be here for another six hours.
The oldest trick in the book, Kara thought, shaking her head as she heard the bolt from the front door shoot home, locking them both inside. And I fell for it. Because I wanted to rush and get this over with so I could run away from Jared. Stupid, stupid girl. Now pay the price for your cowardice.
A few boxes tumbled to the floor across the room and then Anthony Carlotti was walking toward her, flanked, as always, by several musclemen. And one musclewoman , she reminded herself, seeing Krystal’s malevolent grin. The woman had not been nervous about betraying Carlotti. She’d been nervous that Kara would smell a trap and vamoose.
“Looka this,” Carlotti said, pushing more boxes out of the way, “we got us a thief in the house.”
Krystal cackled dutifully, watching avidly while Carlotti slipped black leather gloves over his huge fists.
Kara knew he wore them when he planned to beat someone to death. It was a special murder saved for special occasions: rivals, traitors. Hated enemies. Beating someone to death hurt his hands, broke bones, so he didn’t do it often.
“Gosh,” she said mildly, relishing his annoyance at how she wasn’t cowering, “lucky me.” She knew her expression was mellow, her tone unworried, but inwardly she was seething at her foolishness; she had stopped making such mistakes by her eleventh birthday. Jared had shaken her in more ways than one, but she couldn’t blame him for this. No, she was definitely in a mess of her own making.
And what a mess it was. She could have taken two of the bad guys, maybe three, not counting Carlotti.
But there were five total and, judging by the bulges in a few jackets, three of them were armed.
She came to the unsurprising realization that she was going to die, that it was going to take a long time, that they would probably strip her of her valued control before it was over. She didn’t mind dying so much—or wouldn’t have, before loving Jared—but above all she wanted to die well. And she was pretty sure that wasn’t going to be possible.
Worst of all, she had left Jared unprotected. Once she was bleeding her life out on the filthy warehouse floor, Carlotti could pick Jared off at his leisure. All it would take was one phone call—come quick, Dr.
Dean, your lady friend is in trouble. And Jared, blessed do-gooder, would come on the run. Dying was awful enough. Dying with the knowledge that she had killed Jared with cowardice was too much to be borne.
While Carlotti edged closer—cautious, even on his own turf, surrounded by his own people—she decided she would have to take Carlotti with her. She could do that much for Jared.
While she pondered how best to kill her killer, Carlotti had crossed the room and slapped her hard enough to slam her back against the table. She shook off the blow, blew her hair out of her face and asked with mild curiosity, “Do you throw like a girl, too?”
Carlotti reddened and raised a clenched fist. Kara gathered herself for the fight of her life…and his. Time seemed to freeze for a long moment and then there was a brisk knock.
Surprised, they all looked toward the door.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Okay, Jared, don’t panic.” This was good advice, which unfortunately didn’t take because he was trying to put his pants on backwards.
Finally dressed, he fled the apartment, cursing himself at every step. He had known when Kara left, of course…he’d been a light sleeper all his life. A mouse couldn’t creep out of his bed without him knowing it. He assumed she wanted to get up to have some time to herself, maybe use the bathroom. The click of the front door closing had brought him bolt upright in bed. By the time he’d thrown his clothes on and gotten to the street, she was long gone.
And he knew what she was going to do. He wasn’t sure how he had come by the knowledge—no, that was a lie. He knew Kara, had watched her, fought beside her (sort of), had his hands on her while she came, held her in his arms while she slept. He knew her fear, though he only had a vague idea of its depths. And knew the only way someone with her warrior’s honor could leave his life was if she eliminated the threat to him.
She had gone after ole One Eyebrow. He had to stop her or, if he was too late to do that, help her. And there was only one person he could turn to for help.
“So what’ll it be, doc?” Mag asked, covering her surprise with a friendly leer. “Half ‘n half? Around the world? All my ladies aim to please. Satisfaction guaranteed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped.
“Yeah, you’re right,” she admitted, “all my girls are retired now. The most we could offer you is a hickey. Five bucks,” she added.
“For God’s sake! I’m here to find out where Kara went, not to indulge in a business transaction.” Jared tried for fierce and hoped like hell he wasn’t blushing. His face felt hot, but that could be because he’d run all the way here from his car. “She’s gone after ole One Eyebr—Carlotti. I’ve got to help her.”
Mag snorted. “Help her what? Get killed?”
Jared fought the urge to choke the former madam. It was more of the street “Kara doesn’t need help and even if she did, you should leave her alone” mentality. Stand alone and never ever ask for help, because that meant you were weak. These people , he thought grimly, have watched too many Clint Eastwood movies.
Even the street punks he’d backed down had cautioned him to leave Kara alone. Funny, how the street knew her—their—business, but wouldn’t or couldn’t interfere. Scared of Carlotti, or more of that maddening street code…either way, it was an infuriating impediment.
He’d brought his car to a smoking stop in front of a fire hydrant and all but leapt onto the cracked sidewalk. He’d charged up the stairs to Mag’s place, only to find his way blocked by three husky teens, any one of whom would have been a formidable opponent.
He hadn’t cared. Clenching his fists, he’d snarled, “Out of the way, boys. I’m a doctor. I can hurt you in ways you can’t begin to imagine.” Which hadn’t impressed them, he was annoyed to note, but one of the boys had recognized him as the man who’d shown up with the Avenging Angel the day before and told the other two to back off.
Jared had strutted past them. “That’s right, punks. Touch me and the Angel will have your braces for Christmas tinsel. She worships the ground I walk on, you know.”
He had ignored the hoots that greeted this statement. He’d also ignored the parting advice of one: “Stay out of this, homely.”
"That's 'homey'," he'd muttered back, only to hear more laughter.
Now he was faced with Mag, who wasn’t any more help than the boys had been. “Don’t you understand? She’s in this mess because of me. She’s taking on Carlotti because of me .”
“My, aren’t you the powerful one. Didn’t think anybody could get Angel in a mess without her say-so.”
She gave Jared a long, pitiless look. “And there’s no mess she’s in that you won’t make it worse. You’re not one of us, doc. You’re a citizen. I bet you even pay taxes.”
“Thanks for reminding me and by the way, it’s not a dirty word,” he snapped. “And I’ve had quite enough of the you-wouldn’t-understand-you’re-not-one-of-us bullshit. Just because I didn’t grow up around the corner doesn’t mean I don’t know about trouble.”
Mag was silent. They both looked when the door to the entryway opened and a girl—a kid, no more than thirteen, probably—entered, carrying two glasses of ice water. She handed them to Mag, gave Jared a brief, uninterested look and left the room.