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“Not Wildcat,” Shane said, shaking his head. “He’s as solid as they come. You’ve just got to trust me on this one.”
“Fine. I guess I don’t have any choice, but it doesn’t make me feel very safe to know we’re locked in here like prisoners with only one way to escape. What were they thinking putting one metal door and no windows in this place? It’s enough to drive a person insane.”
Rachel tore her sandwich apart in what he recognized as a nervous gesture. She was scared, and the last days were starting to take their toll. He hadn’t stopped to consider what she must be feeling. Most civilians he knew would have reached their breaking point long ago. He’d taken her strength for granted and forgotten that she’d lost a father, her home and most likely her friends. He’d let her ramble on and get everything off her chest, and then he was going to suggest she take a nice long soak in the tub and get a solid eight hours of sleep.
“Of course, they could try to burn us out,” she continued. “Though I’d hate to think that they’d try the same old, tired routine. I know Dad always had a fondness for keeping people off guard. It was one of his trademarks.”
This was information Shane already knew. The last thing he wanted to get into was a conversation about Dominic Valentine. He rinsed his dishes out in the sink and put them in the drain pan to dry. Rachel continued to sit at the table and stare at her untouched food, so he took the liberty of clearing her plate from in front of her and tidying up.
He knew she wouldn’t welcome it, but he needed to touch her. To reassure her that everything would be okay. He walked up behind her and put his hands on the back of her neck, ignoring the way she jumped skittishly at his touch. Then he kneaded the knotted muscles slowly until she all but melted beneath him.
“It wouldn’t be very practical for a safe house to have only one route of escape,” he said, continuing the massage for a few more minutes. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
Shane took her hand and held it casually as he led her into the second bedroom. He opened the closet door and moved a wooden shelf out of the way. Behind it was a square, no bigger than a suitcase, with a sliding door. “There’s your second doorway,” Shane said, sliding it open.
It was dark inside and smelled of earth and disuse. Cobwebs clung to the corners.
“Where does it lead?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but it’ll open up into a bigger tunnel and go for a couple of miles. It’s standard for any FBI safe house. But if you have to use it make sure you take a flashlight.” He closed the door and moved the shelf back in place.
Shane went into the small living room and looked at the arsenal of weapons she had laid out. “Looks like you were prepared for anything.”
“I figured I had enough firepower to scare anybody who tried to come through that door,” she said. “Of course now that I know about door number two, I think I’ll opt to take the coward’s way out.”
“I’ve never known anyone who was less of a coward than you,” Shane said. He picked up a .9mm Glock and checked the magazine to make sure it was fully loaded. He slipped it in the small of his back and headed to the metal door that led to the outside.
“Wait a minute. Where are you going?” Rachel asked.
“I’m going to take a look around the grounds and make sure we’re secure. I want you to stay here.”
“Like hell,” she said. “I want out of this place. And what if you have a relapse or something while you’re out there? The bump on your head looks terrible, not to mention how much blood you lost with the hole in your shoulder. You’ll feel pretty stupid if you get out there and pass out.”
“I’m fine, sugar. Almost as good as new, but I’m glad to see you’re so worried about me.”
“I’m worried about me,” she said with a scowl. “What if your friend turned you in and the FBI is out there waiting for you? We have warrants out for our arrest.”
“Huh. I’d forgotten about that,” Shane said. “Make sure you use the second escape route if you hear shots.” The color drained from her face and shame washed over him. He was still raw from the words she’d spoken earlier, but that was no excuse. Shane brushed a finger down the side of her cheek, but kept his face void of emotion as she jerked back from his touch.
“There’s no one out there, sugar,” he reassured her. “I just want to get a lay of the land and see what we’re up against. If there is someone out there I’ll deal with it. This is what I do. If I’m not back in an hour use the door in the closet and get as far away as you can.”
Shane closed the door in the face of a very angry woman. He needed to get away and think things through. Two years was a long time, and he was starting to suspect that Rachel could be right. Jones Daugherty might not be the man he remembered.
* * *
Angelo Valentine was enraged.
The servants were still cleaning up the mess from his reaction to the messenger who’d had the unfortunate task of telling Angelo that Jimmy Grabbaldi was dead. It wasn’t the fact Jimmy was dead that bothered Angelo so much. He’d been planning to dispose of Jimmy anyway. It was the fact that Jimmy had failed to kill his nightmare of a niece and the man she’d brought in to help her with family business. Angelo couldn’t tolerate failure. Wouldn’t tolerate failure. There was incompetence all around him—the men who worked for him were easy come, easy go, but incompetent just the same. If he had to dispose of everyone who’d ever failed him, he’d have a very short payroll. How hard could it be to kill a former interior designer, for God’s sake?
Angelo walked into the den and poured himself three fingers of whiskey from the decanter over the fireplace. He was expecting company shortly and preferred to have the meeting in comfort rather than his stuffy office—the stuffy office that had once belonged to his brother. Not to mention his guest might find the current state of the office in bad taste. Blood still soaked the Aubusson rug and brain matter was splattered on the walls. He’d found in the past that members of law enforcement reacted strangely to such things.
The oval mirror over the mantle showed a man distinguished in years—the silver at his temples and the lines of age on his face emphasized as much. He didn’t have his brother Dom’s charisma or the natural leadership, but he held power just the same. He inspired loyalty in his men through fear like Dom never had. Nice guys never finished first in the mob. And Dom had too much nice in his old age. He’d gotten soft and never quite bounced back from the death of his youngest daughter.
The order of events had worked out exactly as Angelo planned, all the dominoes falling nicely into place. First, take advantage of Dom’s weaknesses, meaning kill his wife and daughters, and then destroy Dom. Piece of cake.
Rachel would’ve already been dead if it hadn’t been for Dom’s harebrained scheme to turn on his business family and his rivals alike. And so Angelo had to move things around in his timetable and dispose of Dom first. Dom’s disappearance and eventual death had been easy to orchestrate—members of rival families had been glad to help out once they’d learned Dom had turned traitor. It had been even easier for the grieving brother to take over the reins of the Valentine empire. Rachel was the only loose end left.
Chimes echoed through the house and his butler opened the door. Two sets of footsteps clipped along the marble tile and there was a light rap on the heavy doors that led into the den. Angelo kept his place standing by the stone hearth—a position of power so he could look down on an underling.
