Adone paused, cocking his head to listen.
My hand closed around a can; the heft of it felt good as I tossed it a couple of inches, gauging weight, trajectory, and force. Rearing back, I threw my considerable weight behind my throw, hurling the can. Arcing over the heads of Desiree and Adone, it clattered into the shadows on the far side.
Adone whirled toward the sound. As he did, Desiree brought the heel of her shoe down on his foot. Leaning into it, she drove the spike down into soft flesh.
Adone yelped. His gun shifted lower, his attention drawn to Desire. But he was seconds too late.
Desiree swung around, whipping her leg into his knees from the rear, buckling them. At a dead run, I tucked my gun back in the waistband of my jeans. Several strides, no more than three, and then I launched myself like a pro NFL safety into his back. The collision jarred my teeth. Anger kept me focused. Rolling off him, I propelled myself to my feet. With a look, I held Desiree back as Adone staggered to his feet. Before he regained his balance completely, I stepped into him. This time, I used my elbow.
His eyes rolled back as he crumpled.
This time, I made sure he’d be out for a while.
I kicked his gun into the shadows.
When I looked around again, I caught movement in the stacks on the far side. I squinted into the shadow.
Oh, thank God! The Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock, his head on a swivel, taking stock. On his second sweep of the space, I moved just enough to catch his eye. He gave me a jaunty grin.
The sound of voices, raised slightly to be heard above the whine of electric engines as the forklifts strained, solidified my plan. The workmen. I didn’t need them to join the fight. I pantomimed my thoughts to Jeremy. He frowned his disapproval, but knowing me well, he finally ceded defeat. With a nod, he drifted back, and the shadows swallowed him.
Desiree stood, bent at the waist, hands on her knees, drawing deep breaths.
Placing my hand on her back, I leaned over. “Are you okay?”
With a growl, she raised herself, then took a kick at Adone’s inert body. She connected with his stomach. Air left him in a whoosh, but he didn’t stir.
Grabbing her arm with both hands, I pulled her away.
When I was sure she wouldn’t attack him again, I stepped back, taking a deep breath, steadying myself. I couldn’t shake the sense that danger lurked. Turning a full 360 degrees, I couldn’t see anything, but the frisson of fear tickled my nerve endings, telegraphing a feeling someone watched us from the shadows. Someone evil. Someone with nothing to lose. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
With a feral sound, Chantal bolted out of the shadows toward her mother.
“No,” I shouted, and raised a hand trying to hold her back, make her stop. “There is another . . .” But I was too late.
I felt her presence before I turned, pulling myself to my full height. I knew this foe. “Chitza. So good of you to join us.”
I turned, then wilted. My smartass fled.
Chitza DeStefano held Christophe in one arm, balanced on her hip. In the other, she held a gun.
Clutching a teddy bear, the boy looked calm, disbelieving, wide-eyed, but only a bit frightened.
With a low growl, Desiree started toward her nephew. Chitza raised the gun and narrowed her eyes.
I grabbed Desiree, pulling her back. She and Chantal closed ranks beside me, one on each shoulder. Christophe extended his arms toward us, breaking my heart. Emotions assaulted me. Fear. Anger. My eyes got all slitty. I gave the boy a smile, and with one hand, I motioned for him to be patient.
Chitza laughed. “Lucky, you of all people, I thought you would be a more worthy opponent. But you are like the others, so easy to manipulate.”
“When it comes to kids and animals, people with a heart have the disadvantage.”
“Ah, you think I am cold-hearted. You are wrong. My heart, it is big. But I believe in a life for a life.” She eyed me coldly, but she didn’t look alarmed. She glanced at Adone’s inert form crumpled on the ground.
“Several lives,” I corrected. Needing time to think, I tried to draw her out.
“I killed no one. But they are a fitting price for several hearts broken.” Chitza cocked her chin at me.
“Hearts heal.” Time and healing hearts, an adage with a grain of truth, but not the whole truth. “The hurt leaves us changed, but life goes on.”
“Not always.” Chitza took a ragged breath as she seemed to turn inward. “My mother, she died from a broken heart.” In her voice, I heard the lingering whisper of an old pain.
“I am sorry. And I am sure Jean-Charles is sorry, too. He very nearly died as well. The boy saved him.”
“Perhaps the boy could have saved my mother, too. But his father . . .” Chitza spat the last words. With renewed fire, she waggled the gun at me and shifted Christophe higher on her hip.
“You were quite clever, I will admit.” With a hidden tug on the women flanking me, I pulled Desiree and Chantal closer until they pressed in tight next to me. “Knowing that eventually, the Bouclets would gather and give you an opportunity.”
Desiree vibrated with anger. “What is she talking about?” she hissed at me out of the side of her mouth.
I kept my left hand on her arm, holding tight. “Stay calm,” I hissed in reply. It took all the willpower I had left to move slowly, to keep my voice calm, appropriately angry. I didn’t want to admit just how long it had taken to see through her plot. “It was all there, just took me a while to see it.”
“Really?” Chitza shifted Christophe—holding fifty pounds of unwilling boy sapped arm strength. That much I knew.
Leaving my arms hanging at my sides, I shielded any movement with the women on either side as I talked. “Fiona came to you. She needed an entry into the high-end distribution business—she needed someone who could make the introductions necessary to get her supply chain in order. That would’ve been you.”
“Me?” Chitza looked askance. “I’m just a middle-grade chef working my way up. Who would I know?”
“Everyone. Through your family in Venezuela—your mother and father moved back after you left home. They aren’t just farmers, they control much of the agricultural production out of a large part of South America. You would be the perfect point man for Fiona Richards, wouldn’t you?”
“But why would I make those introductions?” When Chitza looked at me, her eyes shone. With interest or with madness, I couldn’t tell.
“Because you needed her.”
She gave a derisive laugh. “For what?”
“Revenge. That’s what we’ve been talking about, isn’t it?” Desiree glanced sideways at me. I didn’t look at her.
“If Fiona was helping me, why would I kill her?” As Chitza’s arm tired, Christophe sagged lower, the space between their bodies growing. With the gun in the other hand and three women ready to pounce, she couldn’t risk lowering the gun to move Christophe.
Time worked in my favor.
Adone twitched, showing the first signs of coming to.
Okay, time might be on my side, but it was running short.
The voices of the workmen had quieted. I assumed Jeremy had something to do with that.
“The distribution business is hard work, the relationships can take a lifetime to fully cultivate. Fiona wasn’t a hard-work kind of gal. She wanted more, and she wanted it fast, so she started taking some of the shipments, lining her own pockets.” I had Chitza’s attention, so I kept going. “Then she discovered you had started tagging all the shipments. She knew the gig was up. I don’t know how she forced your hand, or if you just convinced Adone that you needed to be rid of her—either way, the result was the same. You tried to put the blame on Jean-Charles.” I marveled at her coldness, the cool, unflustered thinking of a natural predator. “You knew you had a bit of time, as you had Mr. Peccorino doctor the chips so they couldn’t be read by a normal reader.”
Chitza leveled her gaze. “Anything else?” she asked with murder in her tone.
“No, other than that you killed him, too.”
“Adone. The poor boy, I tried to stop him, you see. But he is so in love with me, he would do anything.” She seemed nonplussed.
That wasn’t a good sign—once a person had nothing to lose, they became even more dangerous.
“Oh, it wasn’t Adone. It was you. You drove this whole sick scheme. And just to see Jean-Charles suffer.”
“Why would I care about Jean-Charles?” She grimaced as she shifted the boy’s weight. He was getting heavy.
I kept my face blank, my voice calm. “You blame him for the death of your sister.”
Chitza reared back with a sharp intake of breath. Desiree’s head swiveled in my direction. I kept my eyes on Chitza while I worked my right arm slightly behind me, using Chantal as cover.
Desiree whirled back to Chitza. “Is this true?”
Chitza’s eyes flashed, her mouth hardened into a thin line. “His wife, she was my younger sister. She, too, wanted to be a chef. And she was good, much better than me. And much better than
him
.” She hurled the word like an epithet. “My family sends her to Paris to study. She meets Jean-Charles, and the next thing we hear, she is dead.”
“But that was an accident. A blood vessel inside her shredded. . . .” Desiree seemed saddened at the memory. “Surely, you can’t blame my brother.”
Unmoved, Chitza continued, “My family, we had no time to get there for the funeral. He would not wait to bury her. Then he kept the child from us.”
When she raised her eyes once again to mine, they looked haunted. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t, not for sure—not until a little while ago, when I read a letter that wasn’t meant for me. But I suspected something. First, there was a rumor of a fight between you and Jean-Charles—an affair gone bad. But I couldn’t find any evidence that you and he had even worked in the same city at the same time. And Desiree didn’t know you at all—she and her brother are close, so that was odd.”
“Anything else?”
Desiree stirred beside me, clearly on the verge of losing control. I gripped her wrist and squeezed as I continued, “One night, you stopped to talk to Christophe. I saw you, but you didn’t see me. When the boy came to me, he told me that you said he looked like his mother. Jean-Charles caught on more quickly. He didn’t know you were his sister-in-law, did he?”
“No.” A look passed over Chitza’s features.
“Your sister. You were not close.”
Anger flushed her cheeks . . . or perhaps shame. “We had a fight. We were young, so young. Stupid. We did not talk again. For many, many years. Now, I will never get the chance.
He
took that from me.”
With my right arm safely behind me, and Chitza seemingly unaware, I bent it at the elbow. My hand closed around the gun tucked into the small of my back. I hadn’t fired it; a round was still chambered. With my thumb, I checked to make sure the safety was off as I eased the weapon free and held it by my side.
Wide-eyed, Chantal glanced at me. I shut her down with an almost imperceptible nod. She returned her eyes to Chitza, a stoic expression falling over her features, but I felt her attention on me.
Somewhere to my left, a door banged open. All heads turned, including mine . . . briefly. Then I refocused on Chitza, waiting, watching. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a body hurtling into the open space, then skidding to a stop. I didn’t look. It didn’t matter.
Christophe twisted to look behind him at the figure. “Papa!” he squealed. Wiggling and pushing at Chitza’s arm, he worked himself down a bit, and distracted his captor.
I had one shot.
I took it. Raising the gun, I stroked the trigger. The gun jerked in my hand, but I heard nothing. Fear shut down my senses until all I could focus on was my target.
I’d aimed for Chitza’s free shoulder. I hit it.
The force of the shot spun her back. Christophe landed on his feet, his hands barely grazing the floor for balance. His legs already churning, he propelled himself toward his father.
Chitza grabbed her shoulder, then staggered back into the shadowed safety of the shelves. Adone rolled—he’d been playing possum. He pushed himself to his feet.
Surprised, I squeezed off a quick round. Too quick. It hit the metal shelving to his right as he disappeared into the dark safety of the rows of shelved goods.
I gave a quick command, my voice low, but insistent. “Desiree, take your family outside.” I pressed my gun into her hand. “It’s ready to fire. Adone, Chitza, anyone who poses a threat, shoot first.” She shook her head and refused to take the gun. “You have the children.”
Our eyes met. “Do not let your brother follow me.”
After a moment of hesitation, she did as I said.
I ran after Chitza, leaving the light, hiding in the shadows.
Jean-Charles barked a quick
“
Non
!”
I ignored him.
I should have stopped to find Adone’s gun that I had kicked into the shadows.
I wasn’t that smart.
N
o
gun. Short on ideas. Not good . . . but normal.
I paused in the shadows, letting my heart rate slow and my mind clear. I heard a door slam somewhere in the distance, then quiet closed around me. Ahead, somewhere in the darkness, Chitza moved quietly, Adone helping her.
If I had this figured right, I had two people and one gun to deal with.
Scanning the shelves, I found sacks of beans and peas, boxes of canned goods, but no effective weapons. The cans had come in handy, so I grabbed one. Not much of a weapon compared to their gun, but it made me feel good. Self-delusion, I can do.
I inched my way down the aisle, pressing into the shadows on either side as much as I could. One white sack of flour held a red smudge. I tested it.
Blood.
Energy coursed through me. I could find her. I hoped I could surprise her. Easing my way along, I looked for blood. Drops on the floor, a swipe across a box or bag, Chitza’s trail wasn’t hard to follow.
After several turns, weaving my way through the maze of foodstuffs, I reached the end. The trail of dark red drops led across an open area to the door to the freezer. Water droplets smeared in a damp arc across the concrete bore evidence of a recent opening. Glancing to either side, I didn’t see anyone—that didn’t mean someone wasn’t there. I weighed my options and decided to take my chances. I bolted across the open space, then pressed against the door before opening it. The metal was cold; the small window at eye level frosted over. Shielding myself behind the wall to the side, I pulled the heavy latch as quietly as I could. The door moved soundlessly on its hinges, so I yanked it open, letting it fly.
Waiting. Breathing. Nothing happened—no shots, no nothing.
Hitting the rubber stops, the door sprung back. Slipping through the opening, I paused, catching the door before it slammed. I left it ajar. Still in a crouch, I ran behind the nearest pallet, using it for cover. My breath fogged. My eyes worked to adjust to the dim blue light. The cold felt refreshing, bracing, at first. But within moments, it permeated my clothing and pricked my exposed skin like hot needles. Each breath became more difficult, painful. I turned the can in my hand with periodic flips, the metal conducting the cold through my thin skin. Pushing my discomfort away, I concentrated, listening, focusing, reaching for the slightest sound. The heavy, cold air muffled the noise: the sound of the freezing unit kicking on, the fan, the crackle as things expanded as they froze, or adjusted to a subtle change in the temperature—three bodies at 98.6 could raise the ambient temps enough, I bet—but no sound of movement.
Either Chitza and Adone had stopped and were hidden now, lying in wait, or they had run through the freezer section and out the door to docks in the back. Crouching, I peeked around. Nothing moved. So I zigzagged from one pallet to another. Pausing, listening, waiting, then bolting to another covered position.
Finally, I reached the end.
Either the two of them had left, or they had doubled back and gone out the entrance. I didn’t think that likely—the freezer was small, the pallets stacked close to the sides.
Cold now, shivering, I felt my skin might stick to the surface of the can, but I clung to it like a lifeline. When faced with danger, even a bad plan was better than none. Feeling my fingers numbing, I pushed the emergency release on the door.
It came off in my hand. The latch remained closed; the door locked.
Balling my fists, I banged on the door, knowing it was hopeless. The thing was as thick as the vault walls at Fort Knox.
The door behind me was my only way out. I whirled, fear pushing me. If they got to the door first . . .
A few strides, and I skidded to a stop. A man blocked my path.
Adone. An ugly look on his face, he raised the gun—Chitza’s gun—leveling it at my heart.
I hurled the can at him. He dodged it easily. Cold muscles were slow to react.
He gave a lopsided grin devoid of humor. His eyes stayed hard and cold. Placing his other hand to steady the gun, he closed one eye, taking aim.
Dropping my hands to my sides, I squared my shoulders and stared him down. “You don’t have the nerve.” I’d heard folks on TV say that when in the same situation. I’d thought it seemed classy. Now it just seemed . . . inadequate.
Adone’s forearms bunched, tightening his hold. His finger curled around the trigger.
I braced.
The freezer exploded with sound. The gunshot reverberated, echoing waves of pummeling sound.
Instinctively, I curled in on myself. Flexing muscles in self-protection. Anticipating the hit, the pain. But there was none. No pain. I looked down at myself. No blood. Nothing. Maybe it was the cold. Looking up, I stared in disbelief at Adone.
His eyes glazed. His expression slackened. The gun slowly slipped from his hand as he looked down. A red stain ballooned on his shirt. He fell to his knees. A quizzical expression glanced across his features. Then he fell forward on his face.
Back in the shadows, a man stood behind him.
Romeo. A gun in his hand.
I couldn’t move.
Romeo tucked his gun back in his shoulder harness as he strode toward me. He paused to check Adone’s pulse. After a moment, Romeo stepped over him. “Don’t grow roots. It’s cold as Hell in here. You gotta be half-frozen by now.” Turning, he grabbed my arm, pulling me with him as he babbled. “Thank God you left the door open. I had one heck of a time finding you.”
My teeth chattered as he pulled me out into the warmth and light. Blinking, I tried to regain my composure as Romeo rubbed my arms, trying to generate heat. “Thank you.”
The kid grinned. “Just repaying the favor. I owed you a rescue or two, as I recall.”
“Next time, don’t cut it so darn close. Okay?” Keeping the mood light chased away the horror of the what-ifs I saw in Romeo’s eyes. A second or two later . . . “Chitza?”
“In custody. She’ll be fine. You are going to help me connect all the dots, right? I’ve got some of them, but the whos and the whys are a bit murky yet.”
“We’ll tie it up tight.”
Romeo raised an eyebrow in a perfect mimic. “How you figured it out before me . . . it’s really irritating. You’ve got to teach me how you put all the pieces together so easily.”
Before I had to admit luck was the glue to my puzzle, the sound of running feet heading in our direction had Romeo reaching for his gun. He pushed me behind him as he turned toward the sound. Unarmed, I let him.
Special Agent Stokes burst into the opening first, followed by Jean-Charles and the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock. They managed to brake to a stop in front of us—I have no idea how. Jean-Charles grabbed me in a bear hug. My emotions spilling over, I returned it in spades. Tucking my face into the warm curve of his neck, I didn’t let go.
Neither did he.
“Is everyone okay?” I mumbled against his skin, absorbing his warmth.
“Yes. The police have Chitza.” He pulled back so he could see my face. “You must believe I didn’t know.”
I nodded. “You had your suspicions, but you didn’t know until Livermore came for you this evening. That’s how you got here, isn’t it?”
“Oui.”
A chuckle rumbled, low and deep, in his chest. “Livermore told me you had been at his office. I knew you would find this place somehow. I wanted to shoot him for not bringing you to me.” His lips close to my ear, he whispered the words. “You were not wise to come here alone.”
I felt the warmth of his breath. He didn’t sound angry, so I didn’t bore him with the details. In good time, he’d learn them all from his sister and niece. Everyone was safe. Chitza in custody. Adone dead. For the first time in days, I could finally breathe without the steel bands of emotion cinching my chest.
Freedom. Peace in the quiet center of my soul.
I had seized my life from the demons of fear and hurt.
I raided my head and eased out of Jean-Charles’s embrace. I could stand on my own two feet just fine.
A few days had taught me a lifetime of lessons.
Jeremy shot me a grin.
I gave him a halfhearted smirk. “You took my ride.”
He took me with a grain of salt, as always. “I’m thinking of keeping it. Adone did the shooting. I followed him, but . . .” Looking sheepish, he let the implication hang.
“You lost him in the warehouses.” Personally, I thought that was inevitable—the place was a maze—but I didn’t feel like letting Jeremy off that easy.
“I was trolling around when I saw your car—it’s hard to miss. Sorry I was late to the party.”
“You came at just the right time.”
Romeo moved away and spoke in a low tone into his shoulder radio.
Special Agent Stokes . . . Joe . . . cleared his throat. “I’d like to hear your part of this story.”
“Sure, but I’d like to check on the kids.” I hooked my arm through Jean-Charles’s and let him lead me in the right direction. With a quick look over my shoulder, I made sure the others followed. I waited for Romeo to catch up before I spoke. “Adone and Chitza—they both had huge bones to pick with Jean-Charles. They met on the set of that cooking show.” I tugged on Jean-Charles’s arm. “Remember?”
“Yes, they were contestants. I remember. Desiree supplied the food, but she did not come to the set.” He nodded, then sighed as realization dawned. “Fiona worked as the set sous chef.”
“Right. That’s where it all started.” Adrenaline still thumped through my veins, scattering my thoughts, but the whole plot was coming together bit by bit as I talked. “Fiona approached Chitza about getting into the food supply business. Chitza saw a way to stick it to at least one of the Bouclets. Adone wanted in; his feud with Jean-Charles and estrangement from Desiree was pretty public.”
“The stage was set.” Joe stated the obvious. Thinking out loud—I recognized the method. In fact, I could almost hear the grinding of his mental gears. “But where did the plan go off-track?”
“When Fiona double-crossed everyone, rerouting the shipments. It only takes one bad apple.” What was it with me and all the adages lately? And here, I thought that character flaw was limited to clichés.
“Choosing your partner is critical to success.” Jean-Charles gave me a grin with the tidbit, leaving me with the impression he was talking about more than business.
“How did Chitza discover the duplicity?” Joe asked.
“She was smart. She didn’t trust Fiona, so she used her relationship with Dr. Phelps and his gang to put the extra bit of code into the chips so only she could read them. That way, she kept tabs on her partners, and no one else was the wiser.”
“Clever.” Joe sounded impressed. “Worked like a charm too, until Chef Bouclet here got us involved.”
“How did you stumble onto the scheme?” Jeremy directed the question to Jean-Charles.
“Some of my sister’s shipments started going awry. They would leave the suppliers with the appropriate quality goods, but when they arrived at their destinations, lesser quality goods would have been substituted. Smelling a dog, I went to Agent Stokes.”
“A rat.” Correcting his idioms had become knee-jerk with me. I needed to stop.
“Yes, this is it.” Jean-Charles squeezed my arm. “I will learn this.”
Agent Stokes picked up the thread. “So, I went to Mr. Peccorino, the guy’s the expert in the RFID field. I used my position to scare him a bit, so he wouldn’t tell anyone he was working with us on this.”
“But he had to clear the project with the head, Dr. Phelps,” I said, as another connection fell into place.
Joe confirmed my suspicion. “In a university setting, resources are limited, data is critical. And in this case, the chip prototypes are carefully controlled and monitored. Especially since the program has national security uses.”
“And Dr. Phelps, being a bit of a showman and proud of his work, most likely bragged to his bedmate.” I completed the circle.
Jeremy put the exclamation point on it. “Chitza. So, why didn’t she sound a general alarm?”
“Oh, I think she saw the end coming, but she had some time if she could keep the key to reading her chips hidden until she could clean up loose ends. She used Adone to do that.”
“Chitza was very clever, showing Adone how he could get rid of the three loose ends, as you put it.” Romeo chimed in.
I’d almost forgotten he was back there, he’d been so quiet, letting the others do the asking. “Yes. He could do the deeds, and the two of them could frame Jean-Charles for it. And he almost got Dr. Phelps as well.”
“How did he play into all of this?”
“Innocent braggart. He knew of Chitza’s involvement.”
“It almost worked,” Jean-Charles whispered, pulling me tighter to him. “Except for you.”
I leaned away from him so I could get a good look at his face. “Now, about that truffle.”
He eyed me with a bland look. “Yes?”
“First, let’s talk about the fake truffle. Let’s trace its path to see how it got Fiona killed.”
“It is not fake.” Jean-Charles’s narrowed his eyes at me.
I gave him an exasperated look.