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There was no sign of it.
“Are you with Shannon?” he asked John. “Good. Wait for me. I’ll be right there and I’m coming up.”
Shannon was still trembling when he arrived. John let him in. He’d obviously been guarding the door. Miles was in the kitchen, making Shannon a hot chocolate.
She glanced up fearfully as Patrick entered. Quickly, he shut and locked the door behind him.
“It’s just me, Shannon,” he said quietly. “I checked all around the apartment and the neighborhood. There’s no sign of them.”
“But what if they come back?” she asked.
“They won’t. Not after they saw Mr. Nickels and his pistol.”
He and John exchanged a look as Miles returned with the hot chocolate—a look that Miles intercepted.
“Hey, if you two need to go over details, I’m here with Shannon,” he said.
“But you won’t leave?” Shannon pleaded.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Patrick assured her. “I just want a full report on what happened.”
He turned to John, and the two men walked into the living room, out of earshot.
The first thing John did was to hand Patrick a slip of paper. “The license plate number, make, and model of the van,” he said. “I also took pictures of the perp who fed the meter and had the gun, and a bunch more of the van. The pictures won’t be stellar, but they’ll work. I’ll text them to you.”
Patrick nodded, sliding the paper into his pocket.
“I can give you a more detailed description of the perps. Like I told you on the phone, I only saw the armed one. Short, dark hair. Solid build. Thick eyebrows. Crooked nose, probably broken more than once. The bottom of a tattoo sticking out of his jacket. I couldn’t make out what it was of; there wasn’t enough of it visible. The driver never got out of the car, and I couldn’t see much, except that he was male with no visible hair, a high forehead, and narrow shoulders—which makes me think he was probably on the thin side.”
Again, Patrick nodded. “My concern is that you pulled your gun on them, which means they know Shannon’s not here on some innocent visit. She’s carrying incriminating information, and she’s being protected from being hurt or killed.”
John frowned. “If I’d had a choice…”
“You didn’t. Clearly, they were planning on killing you and grabbing Shannon. That tells me their boss is worried enough to take risks.” Folding his arms across his chest, Patrick said, “I’m doubling security, and not just on Shannon. On Lisa and Miles, too. Whoever’s at the helm of this drug ring will realize that anything Shannon knows, they know, as well. They’ve all become targets now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Chicago, Illinois
The office building was contemporary and pristine—ten floors of white, chrome, and glass. The lobby was the same, accented with gleaming marble floors and white walls, with a granite reception desk, a blonde receptionist sitting behind it, and two uniformed security guards flanking it.
Quite the place, Ryan thought as he walked over to one of the plush chairs that lined the wall between the lobby and the adjoining coffee shop. He’d grabbed a cup of black coffee first, selected this perfect seat facing the entranceway, and was now ready for his surveillance a good half hour before the business day began.
He settled in, propping his iPad on his lap and angling himself to check out every person who entered the building. His earbuds were in place so that he and Marc could communicate.
This new role of his was way cool.
There were two reasons Marc had opted to send Ryan in today, rather than following his usual strategy of handling inside intel himself, with Ryan as the outside recipient.
One was that—after a lot of tweaking for the pocket-protector look, and even more bitching and moaning about having to downplay his appearance in order to achieve the necessary stereotype—Ryan had pulled it off. Marc, on the other hand, smacked of the military and of the Bureau. Not a good combo in a place potentially filled with experienced gangsters.
And the second reason for Ryan being the inside guy was that Marc knew that there was always the chance someone had been watching him when he walked into or out of Jim Robbins’ apartment the other night, when he’d grabbed a few personal items for Claire. The last thing FI needed was for him to be recognized and for the team to be made.
Ryan was an unknown commodity. He was definitely the way to go. And since Ryan was convinced
that Marc always had all the fun, he was thrilled to play the role of James Bond.
Now, he glanced up every minute or two, taking everything in as he pretended to be working on something uber-important on his iPad. Other people exited the coffee shop and sat down around him, all busily texting or talking on their cell phones. A few of them were beautiful women worth looking at, most of them Russian.
