Lucky would hate to see the anger sparking in her eyes aimed at him. “Any compassionate human being would. If these people are being forced to do illegal work, we have to find out who’s pulling their strings and stop them.”
“And if nothing illegal is going on?” Lucky would bet his prized Camaro they’d find someone doing something wrong, if nothing else, renting out apartments in a building in need of a“Condemned, no trespassing”sign on the door.
“Then I’ll quietly slink off and lick my wounds.” She fixed him in place with a no-nonsense glower. “But, Lucky? I ain’t wrong.”
He might not blow his asshole reputation by agreeing out loud, but inside, he did. “Are you honestly wanting me to sit on my ass and do nothing until you can come with me?”
“Damned skippy.”
“What about Wednesday night?”
“Gran will take Rone with her to church. I’ll be free and tell them I’m working late.” She shrugged. “Sad to say, but they’re used to it.”
Would Lucky’s children one day have to “get used to it” when he stayed out late? With Bo taking a desk job, maybe they’d coordinate for proper parental coverage at home.
If and when they had a kid.
“Okay.”
Johnson beamed, snapped her laptop closed, and rose from the chair. “Thanks, man. I owe you one.” She tucked the laptop under one arm and strode off toward her own cubicle, leaving her empty coffee cup on the desk. The nerve!
Lucky glanced down at his own desk, where six empty Starbucks cups shared space with a stained travel mug from home.
Having no room to talk never stopped him before. He rose, picked up the cup, traipsed down to the cube she shared with three trainees, and dropped it on her desk.
Too bad none of the trainees were present. Growling at a few might work off some frustration. “You left something.”
Johnson rolled her eyes upward. “Really? You brought that all the way down here instead of throwing it in the trash?”
Tossing her own words back at her, he grinned and said, “Damned skippy,” and sauntered back to his own desk. Yep. That felt good. Not as good as doing recon work on an illicit warehouse, but good nonetheless.
He sat at his desk. All the newbies being in classes with Jameson O’Donoghue, the hot-shot trainer on loan from DEA, freed up some of Lucky’s time. Which almost made Lucky appreciate the man.
Almost, but not quite. The guy’s shitty taste in associates still griped Lucky’s ass.
After a quick right-left perusal of the hall outside his cube, he put on his readers and scrolled through articles and records, entering search terms and coming up empty. Though he’d been taken off the case for being too close, somewhere out there Owen Landry still lurked— with plenty of reasons to hold a grudge.
The strait-laced man who’d come across as too timid to be much of a threat turned out to be one of the worst criminals Lucky ever encountered, totally without remorse, uncaring who he threw under the bus, as long as he achieved his goals.
A psychopath.
Landry’s goals included million-dollar deals, but still, a nutjob. A nutjob who’d tried to kill Walter, as well as an innocent businessman who’d committed the crime of developing something Landry wanted.
Lucky got in his way, making Landry a nutjob with a grudge. Would he take that grudge out on Lucky’s nearest and dearest? Only a few years ago, Lucky’d had nothing to lose. Now Bo, Charlotte, and Ty might get caught in the crosshairs of someone else’s spite.
What if he, Bo, and Charlotte succeeded in bringing a child into the world?
Off the case or no, if the opportunity presented itself to bring the man down, he damned sure would.
Wasn’t“the asshole needed killing”a viable motive in the South?
To protect his family, Lucky would take the man out. Unlike with the guy he might or might not have killed in Mexico, he’d lose no sleep over ending the life of someone who’d caused so much damage already, and might cause more if left unchecked.
Add to those one more reason: Lucky hated looking over his shoulder.
No time to worry now. He had a job to do, prompting him to abandon his search on Owen Landry in favor of his latest case. Like the bus, the van’s registration listed the fictitious cleaning company. Maybe he’d have better luck with the doctor’s office he’d trailed the car to.
Dr. Desmond Keel, family practitioner, who’d leased the office space five years ago from a retiring ear, nose, and throat guy.
