Mr. Dark 5 (Tamed #5)(17)

"Tabby and I grabbed a quick bit of exercise and a shower. She's still using the hot water, not surprising me in the least."

Mark smiled and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Are the gas bills going to go up with her living here?"

"Most likely, but since we recycle most of our water, that won't be affected too much. She told me something really awesome after the workout, too." I opened the fridge and took out some salmon, which I thought would make a good dinner for all of us. "She's thinking it's time for her to find her one."

"One what?" Mark asked, setting his bags on the floor near the back door. "By the way, don't use those. It's plastique and poison."

"I won't. And as for her one, she's looking for her version of you. She knows that's going to be pretty hard to find. Perfection is pretty hard to repeat."

"Keep talking like that, and I'm going to have a problem fitting in the door," Mark said as he headed for the back to change clothes. "My head's going to be too big."

I messed around in the kitchen while Mark and Tabby got ready, marinating the fish and prepping some couscous and some grilled asparagus. The fish was ready to go into the broiler when Tabby came out, wearing some casual clothes that we preferred for around the house. They weren't quite pajamas, but I wouldn't go grocery shopping in them. Still, Tabby made them look like a million bucks, and it was good to see her so relaxed and happy. "Hey, Mark's getting changed, and dinner will be ready in ten."

"Great. So is that what I think it is by the door?" she asked, pointing to Mark's bag. "The party favors?"

"You could say that. If you want, Mark can tell you what it's for when he gets out here." I took down some plates from the cupboard, along with silverware. Without a word, Tabby set the table while I started the fish. Our timing was perfect, and Mark came out just as I was setting the fish on the table.

"That looks amazing. And I'm not talking about the fish," he said, giving Tabby's shoulders a squeeze before coming over to kiss me on the cheek.

"Thanks," Tabby said, sitting down. "Now Mark, after we get this dished out, I want to hear everything you have planned for what's in that bag."





Chapter 8





Mark





The pre-dawn hours are one of the few times when the city's pulse was at its nadir. The city never really slept, but the time between four and five thirty in the morning or so was as close as it got. Most of the nightlife was done, and except for some newspaper deliverymen and bakers, the morning hadn't started yet. It was the best chance I had to do what I needed to do.

Of all the spots that were slow around the city, the airport was one of the deadest at four in the morning. Other than a few cargo flights and air mail, there were few flights going in and out. Security was lax, especially where I was going.

Taylor Broadwell was perhaps the richest member of the Confederation. If it wasn't that he didn't enjoy bloodshed, and that he was a first generation gangster, he probably could have run the whole damn thing. As it was however, he was fourth in power to Sal Giordano. Taylor's money came from the simple fact that he controlled trafficking in the city. Whether it was drugs, guns, or anything else; if it came by plane, by train, in a semi truck or buried in the trunk of a 1979 Oldsmobile, Taylor Broadwell was the man who controlled over ninety percent of it.

The only weakness that Broadwell had, besides his hesitancy to get his hands personally dirty, was that his operation was just a bit too loud. As such, even though he was a major player in the Confederation, he was paying just as much money to Owen Lynch for his police and other people to look the other way. As such, it hurt his standing, as some of the other Confederation members didn't trust him as much as they could have.

The plan was simple. Broadwell had a very unique schedule among the criminal element, in that he actually worked banker's hours. I got access to the airport by going through the marshes, which bordered the airport on its southern edge. The entire airport had been reclaimed marsh from the World War II era, and had in fact once been a B-17 crew training site. Afterwards, a lot of the old Quonset huts had been converted into the first generation of warehouses and privately owned buildings as runways were expanded and regular air traffic started up in the nineteen fifties.

Taylor Broadwell had bought them, giving him a secure cargo area. The southern edge of the airport however had been mostly ignored, being deemed too wet and too difficult to finish reclaiming. It was along that edge that most of Broadwell's warehouses were, along with the one he used as his office.

The biggest danger of penetrating the airport perimeter from the south was the snakes. Ten workers had died in the nineteen thirties in the initial construction of the airfield from copperhead bites, a subspecies that had adapted to the marshy land and stagnant water. They were smaller than your average copperhead, but because of the fact that the marshes contained a lot of other large predators, they were especially venomous. I don't mean yellow bellied sea snake venomous, but not something you wanted to mess with. I wore high hip waders and thick clothing making my way through the marshes, along with night vision goggles that helped.

I started my trek through the swamps at midnight, going slow. Broadwell knew that the southern edge of his warehouses were undefended, so in addition to normal airport security, he had his own security patrols that went around all of his warehouses. Still, I had good training, and slipped out of the water at just after three in the morning. The narrow blacktop road was quiet, and I ditched the heavy waders and outer heavy waterproof jacket for what I carried in my backpack, a pair of wrestling shoes that gave me both grip and flexibility.