Damaged

Chapter Three

7:40 a.m.

“One last transaction.”

Darnell Raspberry glared up at Dakota from his desk. “Are you insane? Mr. Wallace is going to kill you, but first he’ll kill me. I can’t keep doing this!”

Dakota slapped the man on the back. “One more,” he prompted. “And then I’ll be on my way.”

Raspberry grumbled something about him being left behind to take the heat. Dakota didn’t bother reminding him that was the way it went when a guy chose to live a life of crime. When it was good, it was good, but when things went bad it was generally seriously bad.

Dakota recited the untraceable numbered account for Raspberry, then reached over his shoulder and entered the security code himself.

“Now.” Dakota grabbed Raspberry by the collar and hauled him out of his chair. “Let’s take a walk.”

“But you said you’d go,” Raspberry whined. “I did everything you asked!”

“Which way to the men’s room?”

Raspberry muttered desperate protests all the way to the men’s room. Good thing no one else was expected in the office for another half hour or so.

“Now.” Dakota shoved the man into one of the two stalls. “Take off your belt and sit.”

Hands shaking, Raspberry removed his belt and crumpled onto the toilet seat.

“Put your knees up and grab your ankles.”

The man’s eyes rounded in fear, but he obeyed.

Dakota threaded the belt beneath the backs of his knees and then cinched it, essentially squeezing his forearms and legs together. Getting loose wouldn’t be difficult, but it would require a balancing act and some finagling and it would give Dakota time to get the hell out of the building.

He patted the guy on the head. “You keep quiet and I won’t be back. I hear you yelling and I’m coming to shut you up.”

Raspberry nodded, his eyes wild with hysteria.

Dakota checked the corridor then exited the men’s room. Two minutes later he was out of the building and leaving the scene at a brisk walk. He’d parked his truck a block away then taken a cab to Raspberry’s residence. Planning ahead was the key to a successful mission. Before anyone arrived to find Raspberry wailing at the top of his lungs, Dakota would be long gone.

Once in his truck, he checked the status of the numbered accounts via his smart phone. A grin split across his face. “Oh, yeah. Now that’s what I call equalizing.”

Every single one of the innocent victims Wallace had cheated now had their money—with interest—in a special account waiting to be claimed.

Dakota peeled off the rubber nose and chin, then the meticulously groomed mustache and sideburns. He scrubbed a hand over his face to rid his skin of the adhesive residue and then started the engine. He shifted into first but before he could let out on the clutch his cell vibrated. Sliding his phone open, he eased out on the clutch and rolled into the street. “Garrett.”

“Stellar work, Garrett.”

The boss. “All in a day’s work.” Dakota made the statement with a nonchalance he didn’t quite feel. Though he wasn’t opposed to roughing up the bad guys, the rest was questionable. No matter that Wallace had stolen from the victims. To Dakota, stealing the money back was also a crime. It reminded him way too much of his mercenary days. And a few other incidents he’d just as soon not recall.

He’d walked away from that life…with good reason.

“I have another job for you.”

Surprised, Dakota said, “I’m your man.” That was his stock answer. Work was about the only thing going in his life these days, so the more of it the better. But the enigmatic head of the Equalizers had insisted that no one would be allowed to work back-to-back assignments. The cases brought to the Equalizers were risky in more ways than one. The assignments required exacting attention to detail and unfailing physical readiness. Dakota executed a swift mental and physical inventory. He was good to go. As long as he didn’t end up in jail, or worse, he had no problem with jumping right into the next case.

“A young woman will be delivering a package this morning,” Slade Keaton, the overly secretive head of the Equalizers, explained. No one had even known his name, much less seen his face until a couple days ago. “I want you to follow her. Get the identity of the person who receives the package and report back to me.”

Sounded easy enough. “What about the woman?” Just how far was Dakota supposed to go to ensure he accomplished his assignment? Waltzing into an operation already in progress with no background details wasn’t exactly his favorite dance.

“No contact,” Keaton ordered. “I don’t want her to know she’s being followed. The delivery is for a former spook, Lucas Camp. If he gets wind that his protégée was followed, he’ll be trouble.”

Lucas Camp. Dakota didn’t know the name. “Who’s this Lucas Camp?” Had to be someone significant to an upcoming or ongoing case or Keaton wouldn’t waste time on him. Not that Dakota or anyone else on staff at the Equalizers knew enough about their employer to make a reliable assessment. He merely measured the man by the cases he took and the orders he doled out. So far Dakota couldn’t call him a bad guy, just one who liked to bend and twist the rules.

“He’s irrelevant,” Keaton said, dismissing Dakota’s question. “Report back to me as soon as you have the identity of the person who receives the package. I’m sending a photo of Lucky Malone and her current location to your phone. She’ll be making the delivery soon.”

“Got it covered.” Dakota ended the call. Lucky Malone. The mule, likely nothing more. But this Lucas Camp had to be more no matter that Keaton had played off the question. Dakota checked his phone for the location Keaton sent and headed in that direction.

En route Dakota put in a call to an old contact from his military days.

By the time he reached the clinic where Malone was reported to be, Dakota had the scoop on Lucas Camp. Not just a former spook, the guy was the epitome of what the CIA had once stood for. Dark, dangerous and full of secrets.

This was no casual operation. Keaton was trawling deep, murky waters.

But Dakota had his orders. He parked across the street from the small parking lot fronting the clinic. The clinic was a posh place. Private. No insurance clients seeking treatment at this place. This was where the folks with money went for the caliber of treatment perhaps unobtainable anywhere else.

Malone had to be the daughter of some rich dude. She wasn’t old enough to be rich in her own right unless she’d inherited big money. Twenty-five. Five feet, four inches. Coal-black hair and big gray eyes. The chick was a looker and likely had the ego to go with it.

A woman matching Malone’s description exited the front entrance. Dakota sat up straighter. He watched as she strode toward a waiting car. It was big and black, though less ostentatious than most limos; nevertheless it left little doubt in regards to the financial portfolio of the backseat’s occupant. Malone hesitated at the car door, glanced around as if she feared being watched.

Definitely her.

When she’d settled inside and the car pulled out onto the street, Dakota waited until a full block yawned between them before following. A few turns and twenty-one minutes later and the car stopped at the curb in front of a run-down building. That was the thing about Chicago. One could be in the ritziest part of town and minutes later wander into an area where Mag Mile shoppers wouldn’t be caught dead.

Dakota parked half a block back. The street and sidewalks were deserted. To the best of his knowledge, none of the businesses that had once operated along this block as well as two or three around it remained open for commerce. The only tenants were squatters and they would be out and about panhandling for food and money during the daylight hours.

Malone didn’t get out of the car right away. If she hadn’t been here before, Dakota figured she wasn’t too happy about getting out now. While he waited, he used his phone and did a search on her name.

“That’s interesting.” He divided his attention between the car and his phone. Lucky Malone hailed from Houston. Her family had once been in the oil business but things had gone downhill a number of years back. Lucky had managed to get through college, with major loans, and she’d made her way to Chicago.

But that wasn’t the truly interesting part. At seventeen Lucky Malone had been charged with murder. According to the headlines from eight years ago, she’d shot her father in the chest with a twenty-gauge shotgun. The murder rap had later been changed to self-defense and she’d gotten off with only one night in jail. The media had hyped the case to near celebrity status. An alcoholic, abusive husband who beat his wife one time too many stopped by his daughter.

“Damn.” Lucky wasn’t so lucky after all. Headlines had played up that catch phrase over and over. “Definitely not a lucky lady.”

Not by a long shot.

The mother, still alive, resided in a home for the mentally unstable. She’d apparently gone off the deep end after her husband’s death.

Malone had no siblings. No close family mentioned. What she did have was a perfect academic record at the University of Texas.

Malone climbed out of the car. Dakota’s attention zeroed in on her. She had a killer body. Even the conservative dress pants couldn’t hide a backside like that. The equally modest blouse tightened over nicely rounded breasts as she moved. She said something to the driver before closing the door, then seemed to brace herself before entering the building.

She definitely had something in her hand. Something small and brown.

After another moment’s hesitation, she walked up to the door and knocked. The plate-glass door had been boarded up, likely where the glass was missing. She banged on the door a couple of times and nothing happened. Twice she glanced back at the car. Dakota wondered if she were wishing she could jump in and rush away. Strange, a girl who’d had the guts to kill her own daddy shouldn’t be afraid of a whole lot.

Finally, she braced both hands on the door and pushed. It didn’t budge.

Why would Lucas Camp send her here? Didn’t make a whole lot of sense. And what was her connection to Camp? Dakota scanned the area. Maybe the contact would arrive, take the package and split.

Still pushing on the door, Malone stumbled inward, evidently as the ramshackle entrance gave way. Dakota eased the door of his truck open and slid out of the seat. He closed it, careful not to make any more sound than necessary. Considering the driver remained in the car and it was pointed in the other direction, his movements weren’t likely to be noticed. With one last look at the building and the car, Dakota hustled to the other end of the alley on his side of the street and double-timed it until he was parallel with the limo.

Careful to stay close against the building on his right, he made his way forward. His position was directly across from the entrance to the building where Malone was to meet her contact.

When he’d come within twelve meters of the parked car, he hung back, watched and listened.

It was quiet, until a low roar brushed against his senses. He went on alert, listened intently. The roar grew louder and louder until a dark sedan skidded to a stop between him and the limo Malone had arrived in.

The sedan’s front doors flew open. Two men bailed out and rushed Malone’s car. Before the driver had noted the danger or could react, one of the men had dragged him from behind the wheel.

Two unmistakable hisses zipped through the air.

Silenced gunshots.

A new kind of tension ignited in Dakota’s veins.

A hit team. The driver was dead. Malone and whoever she’d come to meet would be next.

Dakota had palmed his weapon and was stealthily moving around the sedan belonging to the assassins before the two gunmen had made the sidewalk fronting the run-down building Malone had entered.

The second of the two whipped around, his weapon leveled on Dakota.

Too bad he didn’t have a silencer.

Dakota dropped the guy before he could pull off a shot.

The other man whirled to fire at him, and Dakota popped him in the center of his forehead.

The gun blasts echoed in the silence. Dakota surveyed the street. Still empty. The stillness resumed, the silence thundered.

Surely someone had heard his shots.

Where the hell were Malone and her contact? They had to have heard the shots.

He started for the entrance to the building when another gunshot rent the air.

This one from inside the building.

Dakota lunged for the door.

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