CHAPTER 22
Lucky entered the SNB conference room and settled in at the back—his favorite spot. The Viv-issued padded body armor wasn’t as bulky as what he normally wore, and didn’t show as long as he kept his jacket on.
He couldn’t wait to try all the new toys he’d gotten from Elsa. Christmas came early. Recording devices that didn’t show on most marketed scanners. Ditto the new easily hidden body cams. A graphite device used to thwart body imaging. According to Elsa, he could pass through airport security scans and be invisible to their scanners. Not just hide a gun, but hidehimif necessary.
Cool. If he ever had the need. Still, lovely, lovely toys. Maybe he should’ve tested the body cam and mics today. But no, let Keith earn his keep from his makeshift command central on the seventh floor. Then again, Lucky still wore the crucifix with built-in mic.
O’Donoghue sat in a chair near the windows, staring at his phone and texting. Planning his next unsuccessful attempt to control the SNB? Texting Landry?
Or maybe, like Bo, he hunted pookies or pokies or whatever on his phone every chance he got. Or played Candy Crush. Whatever he was up to couldn’t be more important than this meeting.
Two members of Atlanta PD stood by the windows a few feet away from O’Dork-a-hue.
A lot of people dragged their asses in on a Saturday. Many were late. Gave Lucky time to be smug. At least the breakroom coffee pot yielded up enough go juice to keep them upright. Hopefully. No decaf though.
Bo came in a few moments later, a cup in each hand. “I used Walter’s Keurig, so it might not be up to your standards, but I thought you could use this.” He placed a cup in front of Lucky and sank into the next chair. A hay-like scent wafted from Bo’s cup.
In the past they might have hidden Bo bringing Lucky coffee, but if Bo lost his position as Walter’s replacement, in part due to his and Lucky’s relationship, why not tweak a few noses?
Lucky leaned against the high chair back and sipped his coffee. Nice not to have to worry about winding up in the floor like with the chair in his cube.
Ah, how he’d love to introduce O’Donoghue to the Hell Bitch.
A few men Lucky barely recognized entered, apparently with enough clout for O’Donoghue to finally abandon his phone. Who the hell could he be texting anyway? Lucky’s research showed the man had zero social life.
“What is this about?” O’Donoghue asked. Yeah, he definitely liked control. Not being included in planning this meeting probably drove him crazy. Domineering asshole.
Walter strolled through the door at a leisurely pace and closed the heavy wooden panel behind him. Like anyone else might be milling about on a weekend to overhear their conversation, except for maybe a few diehard exercise freaks at the far end of the corridor at the gym, or a member of housekeeping. A few cars had littered the parking garage when Lucky arrived, Johnson’s Jeep among them. She parked their current vehicle in the impound lot, where cars awaited auction.
Walter claimed his spot at the head of the table, taking his time to settle into his chair.Take that, O’Donoghue!He’s still the boss.“I believe everyone here knows everyone else, so we’ll dispense with the niceties.”
O’Donoghue glanced at his phone again. Oh, how Lucky would love to see what messages he got. Keith might know. Maybe about a truck pulled over and cargo seized? Bet the man didn’t know the truck hauled sorghum, not oxycodone.
The door opened and Cruz sauntered into the room. “I’m late.” No apologies, and no glare from Walter. Nothing shook a suspect up quite like a grand entrance from an unknown element.
One of the men Lucky hadn’t officially met let out a choked gasp. Cruz grinned and wriggled his fingers. Must be a story there.
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Agent Cruz Torres, with the International Drug Trafficking Task Force.”
Torres? Lucky bet not.
Cruz didn’t normally offer a last name, though he’d been born into the Mangiardi family, and used Sauceda on occasion when posing as Nestor’s successor. Lucky never bothered digging for an actual name, only to have Cruz use a new one the next week. For all Lucky knew, “Cruz” wasn’t even his first name. All records were sealed or obliterated, hiding him from Lucky’s prying eyes.
He’d scrounge the information one day. Or die trying.
Or not care.
Cruz’s voice held no accent at all as he spoke. “My team has been tracking a series of shipments crossing into the United States from Mexico, traveling across the south and destined for New York.”
New York. O’Donoghue’s old stomping grounds. No telling what kind of contacts he had up there.
At a wave of Walter’s hand, Bo dimmed the lights and turned on the projector. “Now,” Cruz said, pointing out spots on the projected map with a laser pointer Cat Lucky would lose his mind over, “we’ve staged our own shipments. Even while trying to, our drivers can’t manage to have their cargo searched.”
O’Donoghue’s face turned white, as did a few others.
“If the trucks are stopped by highway patrol, the officers are ordered to let them go. We recently sent a truckload of oxycodone across the border, through two SNB jurisdictions, headed straight up the east coast.” Cruz grinned, and not the flirty grin he usually wore. No, bobcats must grin like that before they chased down a rabbit. “Or rather, it was thought to be oxycodone.”
Did O’Donoghue just swallow a bug?
