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I glance at the clock. It will take hours to get everything set in motion, and I don’t have a minute to spare.
“No time.” I see a plate of biscuits on the counter, and grab it. “This will hold me over.”
“All right,” Alina says quietly. She walks into the bedroom and gathers her things. I type out a quick text message to Jonathan, telling him to meet me at Rinaldo’s office. I only hope he doesn’t ask too many questions.
“I’ll see you another time.” Alina closes the door before I respond.
From the front closet, I grab my duffel and empty almost everything out
of it. I grab a few things I will need, but I’ll have to shop for the rest after I meet with Jonathan for a little lesson on hacking smartphones.
I grab the biscuit I had left on the counter and bite into it, surprised by how delicious it is. I only make those that come in a can, but these must be homemade. I look over to the kitchen table, and see that Alina had laid out quite a breakfast spread. There are eggs, bacon, gravy for the biscuits, and orange juice.
“Motherfucker.” I should have set a damn alarm so I didn’t have to send her away so quickly, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. I need time to get everything into place, and I want to take care of it quickly. I still need assistance from Jonathan, but I’ll have to keep him from knowing why. There can’t be any trace this time.
I can’t stand another day of Felisa in Rinaldo’s life.
Chapter 8—Stress Relief
With a new battery in my rusted, nondescript Volvo, I head back south. I hadn’t planned to move so quickly, but my plans have officially changed. My head is full of possible betrayals from a dead former bookkeeper and the obvious connection between him and the only living major player from the Seattle mob. Somehow, they’re using the southern gangs to dig into our gun business, and they all need to know they can’t get away with taking things that belong to us.
There’s also another person who needs to understand she can’t get away with stealing from my family. I need to take care of that first so I can focus on what’s important.
Omarie is easy enough to locate and easier still to follow. When he seems to have had his fill of handing out “samples” to the neighborhood kids, he jumps into a dented Lincoln and heads west out of town. I follow at a safe distance, but he’s far too interested in bouncing around to the radio than in the car behind him.
The southern gangs have always perplexed me. They deal with similar illegal business ventures as the organized groups, but they rarely end up ahead. They spend too much time fighting within their own outfits and using their own products to come close to financial security. They maintain they’re in this for the money, but they still live in crappy apartments and drive around in cars that should have been junked years ago.
Omarie drives west all the way to the river and then turns south. There’s very little out this way. The neighborhoods end abruptly for the sake of a nature preserve. Beyond the wooded area, there are some industrial buildings and a dusty lot filled with rusty ocean containers.
He drives into the lot and parks, and I drive past him slowly, watching which direction he walks. The nearby rail station is deserted, so I park near the building and cross the street on foot. From the near side of the line of ocean containers, I can see him heading to one near the end of the line.
There isn’t a lot of cover, so I stay on my side of the line and listen as he fumbles with the metal door on the second to last container. I hear voices coming from inside, but I can’t make out the words. After about thirty minutes, someone walks out of the container and wanders off across the dirt to smoke.
His back is to me, and I can’t see his face. What I can see, shoved into the back of his pants but still over the top of a bright orange hoodie, is the butt of a Ruger.
Creeping across the dusty ground, I ease up behind him. He’s got a cigarette dangling from his fingers as he taps away at a game on his phone. I stretch my fingers, slide up behind him, reach around, and break his neck.
Slowly lowering him to the ground, I fish the Ruger out and take a look at it. It’s identical to those that went missing from Rinaldo’s shipment. I’d have to do a more thorough check to verify it is one of ours, but I don’t really care. It’s close enough for what I need.
I back away quickly but quietly. It will be a few minutes before the dead man is missed, and I have plenty of time to get out of the area. There’s a shed near the rail station where I’m parked, and I’m lucky enough to find what I need inside.
With a shovel tossed into the back of the Volvo, I don’t even have to go very far.
*****
With everything set in motion, I switch cars—making sure all the necessary equipment is moved from the Volvo to the Camaro—drive to Rinaldo’s office, and wait.
Sitting on the couch in Rinaldo’s office, I check the Ruger in my duffel bag. It’s fully loaded and ready to go. There’s also some duct tape and plastic bags shoved in the bottom of the bag, but I don’t think I’ll need them. I’m wearing an orange T-shirt I found at a thrift store.
I’ve spent a lot of time in various shrinks’ offices over the years, and I have a pretty good idea what to expect from them. They’re observant—it’s part of their job—and I’m going to have to be very careful about exactly what I say and do around Felisa. If I make a wrong move or say the wrong thing, she could get suspicious. Suspicious will turn into messy, and messy leaves evidence in the wrong place.
For once, I don’t want anything to lead back to me.
My phone makes a small chirping sound, but I ignore it. It will happen again in five minutes, just as I set the phone’s alarm to do.
I sit quietly on the couch in the empty office, patient and calm. I’ve positioned myself on the edge of the couch, an unlit cigarette dangles from my fingers, and my elbows are on my knees as I stare at the floor. Attempting to look stressed-out isn’t a major hardship. I’ve got anxiety to spare.
With a little luck, I’ll be removing one of those stressors before nightfall.
