Corey blew out a breath. “I’m here.”
“See the bench?”
“Yeah.”
“Slide the briefcase underneath it.”
Sweating so much in the cool air he felt feverish, Corey knelt in front of the bench, knees popping, and pushed the briefcase beneath it. The case disappeared in the shadows.
Lord, please let this work out for us, he prayed as he released the handle. Please.
Rising on unsteady legs, he clenched and unclenched his sore fingers. “All right, it’s done. Now where the hell is my family?”
“Not so fast, home boy. I’ve got to collect the currency first. I’ve got to see the loot with mine own eyes, and when I have, when I’m satisfied that you’ve held up your end of the bargain, then I’ll give you the coordinates for the other members of the Webb pride.”
“So come get it then.”
“Leave the store, and make a right.”
Corey hurried headlong down the center aisle. Again, no one appeared to notice him. He had left behind fifty thousand dollars in cash in a briefcase in a risky gamble to ransom his family from a maniac, and no one had the slightest clue what was going on. He would have found the scenario impossible if he weren’t living it.
Outside the store, he cut to the right. “I’m out. Now where?”
“Mr. Webb?” a husky female voice said.
Corey turned. Special Agent Falco strode toward him, short arms swinging. Her wide-shouldered partner, Agent March, was close on her heels.
The bottom fell out of Corey’s stomach.
“Who the fuck are they?” Leon asked, voice crackling in Corey’s ear.
“Can we speak to you, please, sir?” Falco asked.
Numb, out of breath, Corey backpedaled.
Agent March peeled away from Falco and strode into the bookstore.
They had seen him go inside with the briefcase, he realized. And walk out empty-handed.
Oh, shit.
“You went five-o on me?” Leon said. “You went to the Feds after we made a deal?”
“No,” Corey whispered. “No, no, I didn’t-”
Cursing, Leon hung up. Corey backed away from Falco.
“Mr. Webb, listen to me,” she said, dark eyes like darts. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll come with me peacefully.”
“Stay away from me,” Corey said. “Please. . just stay away.”
And then he ran.
31
Peeping the merde going down near the bookstore from the cool safety of a men’s clothing shop on the other side of the mall, Leon headed in the opposite direction.
Using his singular gift for blending in to the crowd, he’d kept watch on Corey ever since his home boy had come inside. Corey had been looking around for him, of course, but his eyes had swept blindly over Leon as if Leon were draped in an invisibility cloak like a kid in a Harry Potter flick.
It happened, simply, because Corey was expecting someone else.
After leaving the Webb flock at the house, Leon had shaved off his beard, a little sad at watching four months of growth tumble into the sink of a local Mickey Dee’s restroom. A bit of concealer had hidden the red scratches on his face. And he’d removed the dreadlocks wig, too, exposing his bald head, smooth and round as a baby’s backside.
No beard, no dreads, Rasta man no more, kiss good-bye to his wisdom-weed toking brothers in the West End.
He’d dressed in one of his disguises: a crisp, long-sleeve blue work shirt with an official-looking but meaningless insignia on the breast, dark slacks, polished oxfords, fake walkie-talkie holstered on a chunky utility belt, black serge hat with visor, aviator sunglasses. He wore a Bluetooth apparatus clipped to his ear, to speak hands-free on his cell.
Chin up, shoulders thrown back, head ratcheting back and forth, walking with a slow, I’m-the-man gait, he passed so well for mall security that someone flagged him down and asked for directions to the can.
When he’d passed Corey, he’d been close enough to slit his throat. In retrospect, he wished he had. He should have slit his throat and snatched the briefcase, because once Corey came out of the bookstore and those two Feds rolled up on him-Leon tagged them as FBI from their bland suits-he knew he would never get his hands on that currency. His El Dorado was gone, game over, hit the restart button or quit the game altogether and play something else.
As Leon swaggered away, in the corner of his eye he watched the refrigerator-wide agent stride inside the store, going to retrieve his goddamn money.
His hands twitched. He wanted to break something.
For some reason, though, Corey started running from the pretty, pint-sized female agent. It puzzled Leon. If Corey was cooperating with them-or if they were only following him because they suspected him of being linked to Leon-why the hell was he running?
Bad move, C-Note, now you’ve got the mark of the beast. Welcome back to the dark side.
Leon descended a flight of stairs and sauntered to a corridor that led to the parking garage, where he had parked the van and where Billy awaited his return. He had no idea what he was going to do next, but what else was new. He was an impulsive guy and rolled with the punches, danced on the cutting edge of life, lived in the moment.
As soon as he got outside, he lit a cigarette, hands jittering, heart banging.
At the moment, he realized, he felt like venting his anger.
32
Corey raced pell-mell to the nearest escalator going down, yelling at people to get out of his way, using his elbows and shoulders to clear a path. In his frenzy, he caused one guy to drop his ice cream cone and another woman to fumble her shopping bags, spilling shoes. Both of them shouted at him angrily and Corey muttered apologies, while on the walkway above, a red-faced Falco ordered him to halt.
He couldn’t believe what was happening, couldn’t believe he was running from the FBI. Jesus, how had this gone so wrong?
Nearing the bottom platform, he jumped off the steps and sprinted to the exit doors, shoes clapping across tiles.
All around, people turned and looked, alarmed. A pimple-faced teenager had his cell phone out and tracked Corey running. Just in case it wound up being a sensational crime in progress, someone had to capture video footage to replay on YouTube and the local news.
Corey shouldered through the doors. The sky had finally split open. Cold rain hammered the afternoon.
He dashed across the street to the parking lot, splashing through puddles, rushing heedlessly through traffic. Cars honked. An SUV screeched to a halt, bumper less than a foot from him, the driver shaking his fist.
Corey ignored them and looked over his shoulder. He didn’t see Falco coming outside, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t on her way, and she might have a whole team of agents stationed in the area. If they caught him, his life might as well be over-Simone and Jada would be gone forever.
No, never.
He ran across the lot, rain pelting his face and soaking through his clothes. He couldn’t remember where he had parked. Shit. He wiped water from his eyes and whirled around in a circle, searching.
Wait, there. Over there. There, in the corner.
He finally reached the BMW, dove inside, and stabbed the key in the ignition, fingers trembling so badly it took three tries to get it in.
Drive.
He roared out of the parking lot, tires seizing traction on the slick asphalt, the turbocharged six-cylinder engine responding magnificently to pressure, steering responsive and tight, the perfect getaway car if ever there was one.
But he was going to have to get rid of it, and very soon.