Crossing Lines by Adrienne Giordano

3

At 10:05on a sticky evening that left sweat already running down his back, Shane squeezed his big-ass body through the mausoleum wall and made his way down the tunnel to their makeshift meeting room.

He checked the door handle — unlocked, of course — and pushed the door open.

“You’re late,” Dusty said from his usual spot in his soccer-mom chair.

“You’re breaking my balls about five minutes? Some of us work evenings. Not exactly easy to take a few hours off when I own a bar.” He jerked his chin at Trevor, sitting in his own chair. “Hey, Trev.”

In the three weeks since he’d seen his friend, Trev’s curly dark hair had grown an inch. Unusual for the usually squeaky-clean former DEA agent. Trev hopped up and they exchanged their typical combo fist-bump-man-hug. Unlike Dusty, Trev was the affectionate one and always, every time, offered up some sort of physical contact.

As men separated from loved ones, they’d become family. A twisted one, but still family.

“Good to see you,” Shane said.

“Always.”

Trev took his seat again and rather than sit, Shane leaned against the wall, hands in pockets. The cool cement was a welcome relief from the sticky June heat outside. It also helped knock back his aggravation.

Dusty had called this little impromptu meeting — on a goddamned busy night with the Cubs in town — when Shane needed every pair of available hands at the bar.

“What’d you drag me out here for? Guessing it’s not a run-of-the-mill kumbaya moment.”

“You checked on our girl at all?”

“When did she become our girl?”

Dusty shrugged. “How about when you planted her five blocks from the bar and a mile from your apartment?”

Shane gave him a hard look. “I know the neighborhood and needed to place her fast after you came to me with her sob story.”

Trevor waved them both off. “Relax.”

A middle child who came from a family of five kids, Trev had taken on the role of mediating when Shane and Dusty got their shorts in a wad. All in all, the dynamic worked. Otherwise, with the number of times they’d gone at it, either Shane or Dusty would be dead.

Or at least hospitalized.

Brothers to the core.

However, Dusty had a point. When Shane had helped the two men in this room take on new identities, he’d placed them across town, away from each other. And more importantly, away from him.

And then Faith Burgess happened and he’d…? What? Gone temporarily insane?

Shane held his hands up. “What’s done is done. And to answer your question, she’s okay.”

“And you know this how?”

“I’ve spotted her in the coffee shop across from the bar. She’s there way too much.”

“Shit,” Dusty said. “You’re sure it’s her?”

“Positive. I gave her a cell phone with her new creds.”

Trev let out a snort. “You’re tracking her.”

“Bet your ass. I helped her. Doesn’t mean I trust her. I check her movements every day. She’s damned good with varying her pattern and wearing disguises, but she’s risking her cover.” Shane waved a hand. “Not to mention mine. Maybe that’s the point.”

Dusty scoffed. “You think she’s letting you know you’re just as vulnerable if you decide to sell her out? That’s horseshit. Sully said she’s solid. And, hello, she’s not stupid. She probably assumed you’re tracking her. She could dump that phone if she wanted.”

“Have you talked to her?” Trev asked. “Any contact?”

“Not since I left her in the park. She got that job at Northwestern though. The guy is a regular. He came in the other night. Said he hired her.”

“Well, then,” Dusty said, “Brace yourself, ladies, because we got a problem.”

Not a surprise with the sudden meeting request. On a busy night.

“Spill it so I can get back to work.”

“I got word from Sully.”

Sully again. That guy was becoming a regular pain in the ass. A bigger pain in the ass than normal.

“And?”

“Brutus left Canada. They think he’s in the States.”

Well, shit. If Alfaro’s assassin left Canada via his original location of Sault Ste. Marie, he could be just hours away. “How does he know?”

“They tracked him when he crossed the border, but lost him. Now he’s in the wind.”

Shane tipped his head back, resting it against the wall while he ran scenarios. “He probably stole a boat.”

Dusty shrugged. “A boat was found docked at a Michigan marina. No one aboard. They ran the serial number.”

Shane met Dusty’s gaze. “Let me guess. Wrong boat.”

“Correct-a-mundo. The vessel assigned to that serial number is sitting in dry dock in Ontario.”

“Knew it. He found a similar one, hot-wired it, painted the serial number on it and sailed to Michigan.”

Fucking Brutus. So damned predictable and yet no one could catch him.

Trevor held his hands up. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. They lost him in Ontario, right? No one is saying he stole that boat. Could be anyone.”

Trev, always Mary Sunshine. Always wanting to give people the benefit of the doubt. For a hardened DEA agent living undercover, the guy was almost annoying with how much he saw the bright side.

But Shane loved him for it. Of the three of them, Trevor still had hope.

“He’s right,” Dusty said. “Sully is trying to confirm it was Brutus. But, yeah, could be someone else.”

These boys were full of wishful thinking today. Shane let out a sarcastic grunt. “And if it’s not, why is Alfaro’s number one muscle in Michigan?”

The two of them stared at him, neither willing to accept the inevitable. Well, Shane would have to help them. “Face it. Michigan is easy access to Chicago. Someone leaked her location.”

Probably that dickweed Sully.

Apparently reading Shane’s mind, Dusty shook his head. “Not Sully. He swears it. Could be someone on his staff.” Dusty sat forward, propped his elbows on his knees. “Does it matter? I mean, we don’t know if it’s Brutus. I’m just passing info along. Could be nothing.”

He was right. Could be nothing. But if it wasn’t?

Shane boosted off the wall, headed for the door. “I need to warn her.”

After a night spent cruisingby Faith’s house and getting zero sleep, Shane arrived at the bar at 7:40 the following morning.

Battling the weighty press of fatigue, he stood by the back door for a few measly seconds, his face tipped to the sun’s warmth.

Combat nap. At some point, he’d stretch out on his office floor and sleep for twenty. Just enough to sharpen him again. Now he’d head over to the coffee shop where the handy app on his phone indicated Faith’s presence. She should know better than to frequent any location.

Damn, the woman. The whole situation irritated him, but her being so close gave him the opportunity to make contact while staying undercover.

He pushed through the shop’s entrance and the instant aroma of fresh ground beans sent his internal circuits firing. Typically, he drank his own sludge in the morning and treated himself to the good stuff in the afternoon.

A pattern, he supposed, he’d fallen into. Just like Faith. Damn. He was as guilty as her. Between the two of them, they were lucky they hadn’t gotten cozy with a bullet.

This time of morning on a Saturday, a few early risers in varying states of dress sat at tables or stood in line. Some in business clothes, some in workout gear, a few college-aged kids who looked like they hadn’t made it to bed yet.

He took his place at the back of the line, fiddling with his phone, scrolling through emails while he waited. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Faith sitting at a table three back from the window, her shoulder-length hair pulled into a ponytail that accentuated her sweet face.

She kept her head down and her nose in her phone. Who the hell knew if she was reading or, like him, trying to look busy?

Either way, she’d seen him come in. Good field operatives kept an eye on their surroundings.

The line whittled down and he stepped to where Darla ran the register.

“Well, hey, Shane. You’re in early today.”

He offered up a smile and limited eye contact. Friendly, but not too friendly. “I couldn’t take my sludge this morning. Figured I’d swing in.”

“The usual?”

“Yeah.”

The usual for him was the dark roast. Black. Full firepower. And yet another pattern he hadn’t realized he’d established.

Darla snagged a sixteen-ounce cup from the stack and handed it off to the barista. “I have a new blend I want you to try. It’s strong and barely drinkable.”

At that Shane chuckled. “Hell of a recommendation, Darla.”

“I know. It’s a Colombian bean with a hint of jasmine. Maybe a little vanilla thrown in. A guy came in the other day and suggested I order it. He said it’s the best coffee he’s ever had. I’ll use you as my test subject. If you like it, I’ll start carrying it.”

“Ooh, the pressure.”

Darla laughed. “Somehow I think you can handle it. Faith,” she called over her shoulder, “this is Shane. He owns the bar across the street. He’s the burger guy.”

And thank you, Darla, for making my life a shit-ton easier right now.

He handed Darla a ten and glanced over at Faith who finally looked up from her phone. Her eyes held that oh-shit stare that should have been funny, yet wasn’t. What the hell did she expect when she squatted ninety feet from his front door?

“Faith is new in town,” Darla said. “I was telling her about your cheddar burgers. Told her to check ʼem out.”

Shane smiled. “Thanks. Appreciate it. I’ll stop and say hello.”

“Sure thing. God knows you’ve spent enough money in here for me to return the favor.”

Darla handed him his change. He threw the coins and a buck in the tip jar and shoved the rest in his wallet. While in there, he grabbed one of his business cards and snatched a pen from the cup near the register.

Card in hand, he moved to the end of the counter. The barista slid the cup to him and he headed straight for Faith.

On his approach, she peered up at him and hit him with that same sweet smile. Her eyes though, the deep brown that bordered on black, turned hard. Dangerous.

Yeah, sweetheart, this isn’t a social call.

“Hi.” He set his coffee down, made a production of shaking her hand in case any busybodies watched. “I’m Shane.”

“Hi, Shane. Pleasure to meet you.”

“You too.” He wrote a note — time and place she should meet him that evening — on the back of the card he’d pulled from his wallet and set it on the table. “Come by the bar. Give this to the server and they’ll take care of you.”

She picked up the card, studied the front, then casually flipped it, reading his note. “I’ll take you up on that. I’m always up for a good burger.”

“Shane,” Darla called, “did you try that coffee yet? Tell me what you think.”

He picked up the cup, took a sip. Strong. Really strong. He didn’t know about the jasmine-vanilla tones. He couldn’t think that hard, but for a guy who liked his coffee with a kick, it did the job. Hell, he hadn’t had coffee this potent since…

Shit.

Darla passed the register duties off to one of her employees and wandered to the end of the counter just across from where Shane stood.

“How is it?”

“Wicked good. Colombian, you said?”

Colombia. Right next door to Venezuela.

“It is. The guy who requested it has a Spanish accent.”

Come on. Could this be? He stood for a second while his blood pressure spiked high enough to give him a stroke.

Couldn’t be Brutus. No way.

But…

Shane held one hand out just above his head. “Tall guy? Dark hair? Scar above his eyebrow?”

Darla cocked her head. “His hair is blond, but he has the scar. You know him?”

He sure did.