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Who was he kidding? He was never that lucky.

  Miss Dell got up from the visitor’s chair across from Patricia’s desk and made her way to him. Her mouth said, “Hi, sugar.” Her body said fornication.

  Either way, he was screwed. He took her offered hand. “How’re you doing, Miss Dell?”

  “Good now, sugar.” She walked past, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “I’ll be out there when you’re ready to leave.”

  Pelton said, “I guess I need to find somewhere else to sleep tonight.”

  Blu could have decked him right then and there. Except he didn’t because he would have said the same thing if the roles had been reversed.

  Patricia said, “Don’t worry about her.”

  He said, “Thanks.”

  To Patricia, Pelton said, “Don’t keep us in suspense. Show us the site.”

  She smiled and turned her monitor so they could see.

  Blu and the kid looked at the display. And both read the title aloud, “Executive Services, Limited.”

  “Catchy, isn’t it?” Patricia looked like she was enjoying it.

  Blu asked, “How’d you find it?”

  She crossed her legs. “I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who can hook you up with a guy who knows how to get people whacked.”

  “That easy?” Blu said.

  “That easy.” She smiled.

  Pelton said, “I want to send them a message.”

  Patricia said, “You know that it will have to be from you or your site page, right?”

  He smiled. “I want it to be from me.”

  There was a notepad in front of Patricia. Pelton slid it to himself, picked up a pen, twisted the cap off, and wrote something down. When he finished, he handed the note to his aunt.

  Patricia read, “I’m the one who shot Rudyard. I didn’t kill Abner. I think it was the one who hired the brothers to kill Skip. You could be next. I want to talk.” She fanned the paper. “Really?”

  “You’ve got a better idea?” he asked.

  Blu considered it. “I think it’s perfect.”

  Patricia raised her eyebrows.

  Blu continued. “Straight to the point. No B.S. Lets whoever is reading it know that he’s serious.”

  “Except there could be a third brother, or a sister, or a cousin who will be more than happy to set up a meet so he can blow your head off.” She was talking to her nephew.

  “I’ll take that risk,” Pelton said. “There’s no angle in it for them.”

  “You killed Rudyard. Abner was going to kill you. These guys don’t think in straight lines, Brack.”

  He replied, “Neither do I.”

  Blu said, “Log in and send it. What can it hurt?”

  Patricia shook her head. “You are two peas in a pod. I’m surprised you hadn’t found each other before now.”

  Pelton logged on, went to the page, and sent the message.

  The three of them chatted a few minutes and then—surprise, surprise—a new message icon appeared, indicating there was a reply.

  It read: “Folly Beach Pier, tomorrow, 10 a.m.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Folly Beach Pier

  The next morning, at 9:58 according to his vintage Tag watch, Brack stood at the end of the pier, looking out over the Atlantic Ocean. At this time on a weekday, crowds were normally minimal. The solitude of the ocean helped center him, especially since Shelby was with Trish. Considering the time of day, there were quite a few people milling about. He felt more than saw Carraway watching him through the crosshairs of the Leupold scope on the M24. The old Ranger had pulled the gun out of his closet in that ramshackle house and was now most likely, hopefully, sighting him in from the beachfront hotel room turned sniper’s nest they’d rented.

  If whoever Brack was supposed to meet made any strange moves, or if Brack raised his hands, Carraway promised to take out any threat. Brack just hoped Carraway was as good of a shot as he claimed to be.

  He relit his cigar remnant and took a long drag, letting the smoke trickle out of his mouth. Smoking was a bad idea for a lot of reasons. In particular, if Brack needed to react quick, he had one less hand to assist. But he wanted whoever was meeting him to feel as comfortable as possible. He just hoped he wasn’t proven wrong about the whole thing.

  There was a slight breeze coming off the water, but his phone said the temperature was eighty-one already. He felt the heat from the sun on his head. A figure joined him at the railing.

  Brack turned to see a teenage girl, slightly overweight, with a ball cap sporting the logo of the Pirate’s Cove and a backpack. He said, “Hi.”

  She said, “Hi.”

  A closer look revealed small-rimmed glasses and a layer of makeup covering up pubescent acne.

  He said, “This might sound strange, but if I said ‘Executive Services, Limited,’ would that mean anything to you?”

  She said, “Yes.”

  “You know who I am, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been waiting for you to contact me.”

  “Who are you to the Hollander brothers?”

  Her eyes turned down. “Abner was my father.”

  It was his turn to nod. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She looked at Brack. “They poisoned him.”

  “Yes. In my bar.” He asked, “Does anyone else know about you?”

  “No. I only managed the social media page.”

  He held out a hand. “My name’s Brack Pelton.”

  She looked at the offered hand. “You killed my uncle.”

  Brack dropped his hand. “Yes, I did.” At this moment, he really hoped she didn’t try something stupid.

  She met his gaze. “Why should I trust you?”

  “I think you’re in the same boat I’m in,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Trying to figure out who you can trust.”

  She nodded.

  He asked, “Are you by yourself now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can get you set up with some good people. But I need you to do something for me.”

  She stepped back and raised her voice. “There’s always a catch, isn’t there?”

  “Easy there,” Brack said, keeping his hands low. He didn’t want to give Carraway a premature signal. “I just need to know what information you have on the last client.”

  Folding her arms across her chest, she said, “I deleted everything and smashed the computer.”

  Not believing her, Brack said, “Let me explain what I want to do.”

  And he told her, holding nothing back. Her life was in danger. For better or for worse, they were in this together. The path went off course when he’d killed her uncle. He couldn’t change that. But he could make sure she got a second chance. He’d clean house, whatever it took.

  She said, “You know, I warned them about doing anything in your bar.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Once they knew Skip was going to be there, they’d scoped it out, saw all the beautiful women. Saw you with them, with your dog. I told them about you—your past. They thought you’d gone soft. But I knew better. I looked you up. Told them their odds were fifty percent if you were in there. They laughed. Their success had gone to their heads. And they’re both dead because they wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Brack held out a hand again, “Last chance. Partners or not?”

  She looked at his hand again.

  He counted seconds. At thirty, he’d lower his hand and walk away.

  She sighed, peered around for something, and then shook his hand. “Partners.”

  His internal counter stopped at twenty-five.

  He said, “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “Angelica. Angelica Hollander.”

 
“Nice to meet you, Angelica.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Pelton had done well with the girl. Sometimes, smart people analyzed the situation, looked at the hand they were dealt, and made the best play. Angelica’s father and uncle were dead. She had no other family. There was probably some money stashed, but she was only thirteen and needed a legal guardian. Foster care was her best bet until she turned eighteen.

  Patricia ordered in a Mexican feast for lunch at the office.

  Angelica ate as if she hadn’t had anything substantial in a while. While she munched on a plate of tacos, she showed them the client messages. The last one, the one that triggered the job to kill Skip, came from a social media page titled SS Logistics.

  With a whole news organization at her disposal, Patricia put a few of her staff on the task of finding out who was behind the page.

  Pelton called his friend, Brother Thomas, and explained the situation with Angelica.

  The pastor agreed to make sure the girl was cared for. Said he had just the right people in mind.

  Angelica had left the apartment she had shared with her father and uncle the day before and taken a bus overnight to Charleston. She wouldn’t say where they had lived, and she didn’t want to go back to get anything else. From the bus station she had taken a cab to Folly.

  It was the Pirate’s Cove ball cap she had that impressed Blu the most. Angelica had the foresight to order one and have it express shipped to be ready for the meet and greet long before he or Pelton had thought about it.

  Pelton drove Angelica, Patricia, and Blu to the Church of Redemption in his four-door pickup.

  Brother Thomas met them on the front steps of his church, just like before. This time, a couple stood with him. They were African-American and older than the pastor with big smiles on their faces.

  The pastor introduced them as Alfonse and Nelia Jameson. He said they’d lost a grandson over the summer and wanted nothing more than to love on Angelica.

  The adults all shook hands.

  Mrs. Jameson put her hands on Angelica’s shoulders, smiled, and gave her a hug. The teenage girl began to cry.

  Brother Thomas said he would start the paperwork when Pelton and Blu told him it was safe to do so. As soon as the names of Angelica’s uncle and father were put in the system, the link to her could be made and she would be in danger if the wrong people were still at large.

  Simon was just finishing up a plate of his favorite dish, eggplant parmesan, when Rolf parted the curtains and entered the room. There were strict rules about interrupting him during his dinner. As in, don’t do it. Ever.

  Rolf risked getting shot.

  Simon knew that he understood the rules. So whether or not he would be shot depended on what he had to say.

  Standing before Simon, Rolf said, “We received a message from Executive Services.”

  Simon lowered a loaded fork of pasta. “The Hollander page?”

  “Yes.”

  “But they’re both dead.”

  “Exactly.”

  After setting the silverware on the plate with a soft clink, Simon dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “What does the message say?”

  Rolf read from a sheet of paper:

  “We regret to inform you that killing Abner demands retribution.”

  Simon said, “I was under the impression that they had no other partners. That they worked alone.”

  Rolf said, “All our information on them suggested exactly that.”

  “Then I suppose our information is wrong,” Simon said. “Who is responsible for getting information?”

  Rolf cleared his throat. “I am, sir.”

  “Then I suggest you figure this out.” He motioned to the paper in Rolf’s hands. “The clock seems to be ticking, old chap.”

  Rolf backed his way to the door.

  Rightly so, Simon thought. This was bad news. And bad news had to be managed. As soon as this was over, he would have to make a few changes to his staff.

  The message was again Brack’s idea. He liked messing with people’s heads. And, surely, someone at SS Logistics would need a diaper change after they read it.

  Pleased with himself, Brack stepped out of the news office and relit his cigar for the day.

  Carraway joined him, but didn’t light a cigarette.

  Both men stood there.

  Carraway said, “You like poking sticks at beehives, don’t you?”

  “Don’t you?”

  The ex-Army Ranger opened his mouth to say something and then closed it and nodded.

  Brack knew he’d read him right. The guy liked the action. And probably didn’t get enough of it, either.

  Rolf hated being caught short. This whole fiasco started with Skip. If the stupid grifter hadn’t witnessed what was in the house on Montagu Street, he never would have called that Carraway character. Luckily, Rolf had tapped the phones of everyone involved in his theft operation.

  Unfortunately, Rolf also knew Simon was one step away from eliminating him. He stood in front of his sniveling little boss. As usual, the Brit sported the greased comb-over, dark pin-striped suit, and pale skin and sat at his throne, as he put it, in the back room of that god-awful Italian restaurant run by everyone but Italians.

  Rolf said, “One of the Hollander brothers had a daughter.”

  “And?” It was more of a snap than a question.

  “And she’s disappeared.”

  Simon picked up a bottle and poured red wine into a long-stemmed glass. “Then stick to what you know.”

  “Everything we know is about Brack Pelton and Blu Carraway.”

  “And?” He set the bottle down and plugged the top with the cork.

  “Pelton is estranged from his family, hasn’t talked to them since before he went to Afghanistan. The closest people to him in Charleston are Patricia Voyels, owner of the Channel Nine News and the Palmetto Pulse newspaper—”

  Simon interrupted with the wave of a hand. “She’s been a thorn in everyone’s side for a long time. Our friends would line up to have her taken out. But we can’t touch her. She’s friends with the mayor. If anything happened to her, he’d make the investigation a priority and we’d have to close up shop.”

  Rolf continued, “There’s Paige Crawford, the woman who runs his bar operations. She has a kid.”

  “What about the investigator, Carraway?”

  “Blu Carraway has a twenty-year-old daughter.”

  A smile formed on Simon’s face. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  “What’s our end game here?” Rolf asked.

  Simon lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed. “Everybody dies.”

  Rolf thought but didn’t say, “Including us?”

  “One more thing,” Simon said.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to work with you on this going forward. We can’t afford any more slip-ups.”

  Rolf gave a pleasant smile because that was all he could do.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Blu’s phone rang while he sat on his front porch, watching the horses graze. He’d come back home to unwind as they awaited a response to Pelton’s message. The call was from his daughter and he answered it. “Hi, Hope.”

  “Shut up and listen.” The voice on the phone was not Hope’s. It was a man.

  Blu knew at that moment that all the rules to this game had changed. And he also knew that there would be more death. A lot more.

  The voice continued. “Your daughter is alive. For how long depends on you.”

  Dealing with kidnappers was Blu’s specialty, and he knew how it worked better than anyone. He said, “What do you want?”

  “We want Angelica Hollander. And we want Brack Pelton. You give them to us and your daughter goes free. We’ll be in touch.”

  The call ended.
r />   Blu resisted the urge to smash his phone into a million pieces. Once that subsided, he did what he did best and began to solve the problem in his mind.

  It would be easy to give them what they wanted. But the request made no sense. He was involved as much as Pelton. When things made no sense, he stepped back until they made sense. And what made sense was he and Pelton were the targets.

  This enemy was trying to divide and conquer. And they had his daughter.

  He called Pelton and told him what he knew.

  Surprisingly, no smart-ass reply came. The kid sounded concerned when he said, “What do you want to do?”

  Without hesitation, Blu said, “Kill them all.”

  After a pause, Pelton said, “I’m your wingman.”

  Blu had a thought. “Who would you say is the closest to you?”

  “My aunt and Paige.” Another pause. “Oh no.”

  “Get them someplace safe. Now. Then call me back.”

  The call ended.

  Brack didn’t even try to speak with Paige directly. That would be a bad conversation. Instead, he called her husband, Crawford, and told him to get his wife out of Dodge. Crawford was an ex-cop with enough sense not to waste time cussing him out. That could wait until later.

  The next call was to his aunt. She wasn’t in the office and Miss Dell didn’t know where she was, which complicated things.

  Brack tried her cell and it went straight to voicemail. Then he sent a 911 text to her.

  His aunt called back within ten seconds. “What’s up?”

  “Where are you?”

  “That is none of your business, nephew.”

  Brack said, “Someone kidnapped Carraway’s daughter. And they want to trade her for Angelica Hollander and me. You and Paige are my family here. Crawford is getting Paige out of town. I am coming to get you right now.”

  She said, “I can take care of myself.”

  His aunt had a habit of not budging easily. She’d refused to leave the city.

  He said, “Put yourself in their shoes. What’s the end game?”