Deep Under (Tall, Dark and Deadly #4)(74)

“Where will you be?” she asks as we exit into the warehouse to start our lengthy walk to the other side.

“I’ll be right by your side. I just want you on high alert.”

“Right,” she says. “High alert.”

I want to say something to comfort her, but I don’t. Comfort doesn’t protect her and protecting her is all that matters right now.





***





The instant we walk through the back door of the store, Barbara is in our path. “There you are,” she says, lacing her arm with Myla’s and guiding her forward, leaving me to pursue.

Keeping them close, I scan the store, the half-moon shaped register desk in the center of the space, piled with clothes, while various employees work to hang them on display racks, the front display windows stacked with boxes. Myla and Barbara, on the other hand, disappear beyond an arched entryway near the rear of the space. Following, I find them in the center of a lounge-style sitting room surrounded by a half dozen dressing rooms. Confirming there is no separate exit, I leave them to fret over what several mannequins are wearing and claim the leather chair on the wall just outside the dressing room.

It’s nearly noon, and I’m still sitting there when Royce calls. “I have you on camera. I know you can’t talk, so just listen. The FBI staged a raid on several low-end Alvarez targets. The raids went down over the past few nights and amounted to pretty much nothing.”

“Why the f*ck would they do that and not tell us?” I ask, because just listening already isn’t working for me.

“I blasted them, but the plan was a good one. It makes Alvarez feel they’re focused on low quality targets that do nothing to harm him, thus he can come out of hiding.”

“Let’s hope like hell that works.”

“Blake’s picked up further chatter he feels indicates it has. He believes Alvarez is on the move.”

“Based on what?”

“I have no f*cking clue,” he says. “He was talking that hacker shit you two talk, but he says this is the first time he’s ever pinned down anything he believes indicates Alvarez’s possible movement. He must plan to surprise her for the grand opening.”

“Too obvious,” I say, choosing my words cautiously.

“What are you thinking?”

I watch the UPS man walk in the door and start chatting with Barbara. “Today. My gut says today is dangerous.”

“I’ll sharpen our guard and alert the FBI.”

We end the call and I stand, rounding the corner to check on Myla as I have a half dozen other times since arriving to the store. She’s alone in the lounge now, standing a few feet from one of the mannequins, her gaze taking in the pale pink dress it’s wearing, pure pride in her expression. It’s her creation, her dream that she’s looking at in that moment, and I vow to make sure that Myla has her fashion line, no strings or monsters attached.





***





Myla and I return to her office mid-afternoon and spend the rest of the day there, but the anticipation of what might happen, and hasn’t, is wearing on Myla. Come six o’clock, Myla grabs her purse from her desk and sets it on top. “I’m ready to leave.” She glances over at me where I sit at the table. “This is when it will happen, right? When we leave.”

I give her a slow nod. “That would be my expectation.”

“Then let’s leave.”

As ready as she is, I give her a nod, and quickly key a message into the chatroom I have live with our surveillance team: We’re headed out the door, receiving an immediate: Copy that, in return.

Shutting the lid to my computer, I stand, meeting Myla at the corner of her desk. “It’s over after this. Remember that.”

“I do,” she says, her chin bravely lifting. “And I have never wanted something as badly as I do this moment, other than his death.”

“I want to kiss you right now,” I say softly.

“I’ll taste better when he is no longer on my lips.”

I don’t tell her that he isn’t because she is the one who has endured his torture, much of which I haven’t asked her to talk about. One day, maybe she will, but that day will be easier if he is no longer a threat. “Remember your gun,” I say, before giving her space, and she doesn’t hesitate. She moves forward, but instead of exiting the office, she pauses by the door and stares at the photos on her wall of her mother. I step behind her, close but not touching her, silently letting her know I am right here with her.

“I hate that he used her like this,” she whispers, expressing what I’ve always thought but not said, but she doesn’t give me time to reply. Her spine straightens just a little more, and she steps forward, sureness in her pace that tells me those photos have destroyed her fear and enraged her anger. I step to her side in the lobby, the receptionist’s desk already shut down for the night.

We exit the building into an exceptionally humid March Texas night, and I stay close to Myla again, our shoulders all but brushing, surveying the area for trouble, which is nowhere in sight. She slides into her seat, and I seal her inside, and in a matter of a few seconds, I’m inside with her, doors locked, while I shove my computer under the seat. Automatically now, she grabs the scanner and checks the car, her task complete by the time we’re out of the parking lot.