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This means the location is in the hands of the FBI. I won’t ever be able to use it after this visit, but I need a safe place to meet him.
I slip the phone into my pocket after sending the message as the elevator doors open. After a silent exchange with the cop who stayed behind to keep an eye on my SUV and the building, we walk across the sidewalk toward the street where the vehicle is parked, both of our heads on a swivel. It’s too open, with too many spots where someone could be waiting to take their shot.
I make Carina walk behind me, but she’s still too exposed. It’s a humbling, horrible feeling, knowing that her safety is not wholly within my grasp. I want to wrap her in a bulletproof bubble and never let her out.
I wait while Carina climbs into the front of the SUV, and once she’s safely inside, I jog around and climb into the driver’s seat. I waste no time pulling out of my designated parking spot. The roads are quiet, but every person we drive past could be a killer. We have no idea who wants her dead. No idea who they’re paying to handle it. It could be anyone…any regular Joe, just like this guy taking his evening stroll down the street. I push my foot down on the accelerator.
“Are we being chased?” Carina asks, but she doesn’t sound alarmed.
I lift my foot slightly. “No. I just want us off the streets.”
“Hey.” She waits until I look at her. “I know I’m safe with you, Luca.” Her trust in me should make me relax, but it just piles the responsibility heavier on my shoulders.
“You will be safe soon.” Once I reach the safe house and figure out what the fuck is going on, I can make a plan. My phone dings, and I lift it and open the message from the agent. One letter.
K.
The streets are deserted outside the safe house. I sit for a moment and observe the area. No one walks up or down the sidewalk. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.
“It looks safe, Luca.” Carina’s hand rests on my forearm.
Everything looks safe until it isn’t. I reach down, and Carina takes her hand away so I can unbuckle my belt. Picking up my gun, I check the clip for the fourth time in under an hour. “Don’t get out until I come around your side,” I instruct.
She obeys for the third time today. That’s got to be a record. I open her door, and this time, I keep her walking in front of me, my back to the other buildings and the street. She pushes open the small gate, and my gaze dances from one window to the next, but there is no movement. Carina climbs the three steps, and I touch her shoulder, telling her without words to wait.
I test the knob. It’s locked, as it should be. I unlock it and move to unlock the deadbolt, but the door begins to swing open, the deadbolt clearly unfastened.
That’s not as it should be.
“Go back to the car.” I extract my gun.
“Fuck that.” Carina pulls out her own gun.
So much for her obeying me. I’d snort, but instead, I pocket the key and push the door all the way open with my foot. I go first. There isn’t much light in the hallway as we creep through the house.
The bottom level is dilapidated, the stench of stagnant water and mold strong. I watch my footing as best I can but pause when glass crunches under my boot. My head snaps to Carina, who raises a brow. We wait a few beats, but there is no sound in response, so we turn to the stairs and begin to make our way up.
The safe house is on the upper floor. When we reach the landing, I slowly push open the door and step into the cramped kitchenette. To my left is the small brown couch, but it’s not empty. The agent is here, but he won’t be talking. His tongue has been cut out and sits on his lap.
Carina’s deep intake of breath has me turning to her, and I hold a finger to my lips, stopping the scream that’s clawing its way up her throat.
She swallows back her horror. Keeping my gun at the ready, I point at the kitchenette for her to wait there, and she moves carefully away from the body while I check the rest of the place. The small bedroom is empty and appears untouched, as is the bathroom. Once it’s safe, I put my gun away and return to Carina, who still holds her gun poised on a dead man.
“It’s clear,” I say, but she doesn’t relax.
I turn to look at the agent. The screech of a chair behind me has me glancing at Carina as she sits down on one of the rusted metal kitchen chairs. She’s staring at the agent, but she doesn’t speak as I step closer to him. His tongue was cut clean out of his mouth. His lips are parted, and I kneel down to see inside his mouth. Sometimes a message is left, but the gaping maw of his mouth is empty.
“His tongue is in his lap,” Carina says.
The agent’s hands are placed on either side of his thighs, palms up, fingers open. I check his jacket pockets for his phone, but it’s gone.
“Yes,” I finally answer Carina.
“That means that he broke the Code of Omerta.”
My gut twists and sinks. I reach in and check his trousers pockets, praying his phone turns up. When it doesn’t, I stand straight. “Yes,” I answer again as Carina pieces everything together.
“That means he was a snitch or a cop.”
