Page 21 of Deadly Threat
At the same time, the back door of Bondsmen Brothers flew open, and he eased the brand new silver minivan—complete with onboard WIFI and third-row seating—as close as he could get to the exit. Coop and Celina had Owen, Nova, and their Chihuahua, Thunder—they hardly needed the extra seats unless, of course, they were planning on adding a few more kiddos to their household.
Good for them. Someday, maybe he and Ronni would start a family, too. If, and only if, he could leave this world behind. Undercover work was in his blood, a way of life. Children needed a father who was home, a nine-to-five job, Little League games, cookouts. Someone to take them to the beach, teach them soccer, buy them ice cream. He wasn’t sure he was cut out for that.
Coop emerged first, nodded at Thomas through the windshield, and turned back to hustle the woman, Malachi, Sam, and Joe to the van. Mia Livingston had an oversized sweatshirt on, hood up. Malachi carried a dog with a bandaged leg. Another—Sam and Joe’s—dashed out alongside them, barking as if this were a game.
Thomas hit the button to open the side. It slid back noiselessly. Foot runners descended, and a sexy, female-voiced AI explained to him what was happening as if he was an imbecile.
His watch buzzed with another incoming message as the group threw themselves inside.
Target acquired? Ronni wanted to know.
The third-row seat came in handy tonight with the addition of four passengers besides him and Coop, along with the animals. Thomas pressed the yes reply button as Mia sank in behind him. Coop took the passenger seat.
“Bitch’n ride, my man,” Thomas smarted off to his boss. “The soccer mom van is definitely stealth material.”
The door slid closed, whisper-quiet. Coop glanced back at the others. “Buckle up.” To Thomas, he frowned and growled, “Just drive, asshole.”
Thomas smiled again, putting the vehicle in gear. “Roger that.”
His favorite FBI agent,Ronni Punto, waited for them at the covert Taskforce office housed in a rundown building across town. Along with a senior center and an accountant, the place was another forgotten commercial zoned building long past its glory days. Thomas smelled the coffee she’d made before they were halfway down the hall.
As he entered, she winked at him from her seat next to Bobby, their computer expert and IT guy, at the far end of the conference table.
No one had said much on the drive over. Caleb had notified Malachi that he’d managed to lead those who did give chase away and lost them. He’d doubled back and picked up Josie. They were staying at the office to make sure no one attempted a break-in. Most of the media crews had cleared out by then, realizing they’d been duped by nothing more than sound effects. “They’ll try again tomorrow,” Thomas had told Malachi, but for now, everything was quiet there.
Meantime, as Thomas grabbed a cup and sat in a chair, he covertly studied the mayor’s sister. She sat and Malachi placed the injured dog in her lap. Sam filled a bowl with water, offering it to Jack-Jack. Bobby and Ronni introduced themselves, and Coop brought the meeting to order. “Tell them what we’ve discussed so far,” he instructed Sam.
The FBI agent went through her notes, glancing at Mia every once in a while to confirm their accuracy. The woman kept her gaze on the coffee Malachi had set down for her, but her face was determined, if also showing signs of acute exhaustion.
Thomas listened carefully to the descriptions of the holding cells, the rides, the theories the others had come up with. It wasn’t nearly enough to start with, but it was all they had.
When the group fell silent, he realized Coop had said something to him. They were all waiting for a response.
The dozens of times he’d been undercover with various gangs, he knew the city inside and out. Knew the dens and headquarters of each. Had visited plenty of the places where they did their dirty work. He knew his comment wouldn’t be well received, but on the street, he’d heard plenty of gossip about the Quattro Gang and the way Damon Marcher had operated. He was a legitimate businessman by day and brushed elbows with the thieves, punks, and hitmen he used to eliminate his competition by night. Anyone he didn’t like, he tried to blackmail first. If that didn’t work? Boom, they disappeared or were found dead.
Marcher had enjoyed a good run, staying out of law enforcement’s grasp, but his ego had grown too big. Going after Mia Livingston had been his undoing.
Thomas wasn’t the only one who knew how to create a good distraction. “Damon Marcher had a big dick and he liked to swing it around a lot.”
Coop cleared his throat, stopping Thomas from going on, and making a quick slashing movement across his neck. What, he couldn’t swear in front of Livingston? What kind of bullshit was that?
But he took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and tried to be more polite. Or politically correct. Or something. “He liked to throw his weight around.” At Coop’s nod, he continued, making a mental note to bust him for it later. “He did a lot of things for show—so everyone knew he was a tough bastard and not one to mess with.”
Yeah, he used a colorful term and no one flinched, certainly not Livingston. “Okay, I get it. He had a split identity.”
Good, she was quick and smart. Thomas nodded. “He’d send his army of bullies to take out certain gang members he deemed as threats, or anyone he didn’t care for. A lot of times it was in showy public ways to send a message to anyone in his territory not to mess with him or his operations. His mercenaries moved fast and they were lethal.”
Everyone was looking at him, except Mia, who dropped her gaze.
“What does that have to do with finding the mayor?” Malachi asked grumpily.
Thomas sipped his drink, glancing at Ronni and seeing her small nod. She knew the depth of crime and greed he’d witnessed, the things he’d been through. She was his rock, and the only thing who kept the nightmares at bay. He met Malachi’s eyes. “Some of those blatant attacks on his enemies were merely distractions from his other agenda—killing key figures behind the scenes.”
Questions dominated the expressions of those gathered. Livingston finally shot a glance his way. “I still don’t get what that has to do with my sister.”
She might be tired, but she didn’t beat around the bush. Thomas appreciated that. “During Marcher’s reign, it’s believed he took out scores of players up and down the coast in order to infiltrate their operations. He couldn’t go in guns blazing every time, so his second-in-command, Jam King, took to ambushing them and making them disappear. Leo Lopez helped. They left behind no bodies, no evidence, no proof.”
Joe leaned in. “How?”
