Fish & Chips

Page 20

Ty clenched his jaw, anger welling inside him at the sight of the expensive bottle of Scotch. He turned on his heel to leave the room before he got any angrier. He didn"t need his partner"s help to get something done on this fucking ship. All he had to do was head to the computer center and a nice private corner to tap into the secure server, call it in, and inform someone back home of what he"d found. He"d have a translation of the wire taps by morning, and when Zane came stumbling in from his poker party, Ty would tell him all about it then.
He stalked through the casino, pushing through the crowd as he muttered to himself in the British accent he was beginning to hate. He"d just barely stepped out of the casino into the causeway when he was grabbed from the side and pushed with a hand that gripped his elbow tightly.
Another man came up on his other side as the two strangers flanked him, marching him toward one of the doors that would lead to an outside deck.
Ty didn"t protest. He remained calm and forced himself to wait until the situation clarified itself. The moment he saw a weapon he"d be breaking bones, though.
“Taci e vieni con noi,” one of the men said to him under his breath.
More Italian. Ty didn"t understand it, but he was fairly certain the man had just told him to keep his mouth shut and move. The tone was pretty much universal.
They pushed through the exit doors and out onto the deck, where the spray from the sea and the wind assaulted their senses and blew their ties into their faces. Ty almost took the opportunity to break away from them. He even flinched in preparation of the attempt, but he stopped himself. Whatever this was, it had to do with Del Porter, and that was who Ty was right then. Del Porter wouldn"t leave these men bleeding on the decks, and Ty wouldn"t either, if he could help it.
The grip on his arms tightened, and the two men led him to the left, toward one of the lesser-traveled causeways on that deck.
They finally released him once there was really nowhere to run, shoving him toward the railing. Ty stumbled toward it, gripping the slick wood before turning around to look at them warily.
“Che cazzo stai facendo?” one of them demanded.
Ty leaned forward slightly, as if listening closer might actually make him understand the foreign language. It was definitely Italian.
Which was fucking awesome, because Ty still didn"t speak Italian.
Dolce and Gabbana here could threaten him all day long. He still wouldn"t understand what they were saying.
“I don"t….” Ty shook his head helplessly, just barely remembering his own fake accent.
“Do not play stupid with us,” the second man said irritably. He had thin brown hair and a sickly complexion, as if the sea didn"t agree with him. Ty had seen it before. “Why did you miss the meeting?”
Gabbana demanded.
Ty blinked at him rapidly, his mind whirring as he tried to decide how to play this. He had no idea who they were or what they were talking about, and sometimes the best thing to do was just… play dumb.
The first man rolled his eyes and reached into his cheap suit, extracting a small Berretta and stepping forward to shove it into Ty"s stomach. His other hand held Ty"s shoulder as he spoke to him in low tones. “You will not fuck around with us, chiaro?”
“I understand,” Ty answered hoarsely with a jerky nod. The muzzle of the gun dug further into his ribcage, and he winced as his hands gripped the railing behind him. The wind was much stronger here by the edge, and it whipped at Dolce"s black hair and tugged at the sleeves of Ty"s thin shirt.
“Where is the information you were to bring us?” Gabbana asked in a bored voice.
“Information,” Ty repeated as he shook his head. Of course they wanted information. This was exactly what Ty had been worried about: Del"s handlers coming to collect. At least they didn"t seem to know Del Porter personally. Ty wasn"t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing for him.
The man with the gun pushed into Ty hard, using the leverage and the height of the railing to lift Ty"s feet off the deck and push him backward. Ty gasped and gripped the railing harder, reaching with his other to grab onto the lapel of Dolce"s suit.
He was beginning to think his cover wasn"t worth the effort.
“The tapes, frocio,” Dolce whispered into his ear. Whatever that word meant, Ty knew he didn"t like the connotation.
“Tapes,” Ty repeated breathlessly. His toes just barely brushed the wood of the deck, and his fingers wound into Dolce"s tie. If he went over the edge, he wouldn"t go alone. He briefly wondered if Italian loafers could be used as flotation devices, but then the man put more pressure against his ribs, shoving him even farther backward, and Ty gripped the polyester tie tightly. “Tapes,” he said again quickly. They had to be talking about the recordings he"d heard on the iPod. “They"re in our cabin,” he told them quickly. If he didn"t get his feet on the ground soon, he was going to tear them both apart, cover be damned.
He was getting seasick.
Gabbana reached out and backhanded him, hard enough that Ty felt blood trickle down his chin from his newly split lip, and then the man pulled a gun and blatantly shoved it at Ty"s face. Ty felt his heart rate pick up even more, the adrenaline making him a little lightheaded as his upper body hung out over the open sea below. Of course, if the guy shot him in the face, it wouldn"t really matter how far the drop was.
Gabbana"s gun pressed against his cheek, and Ty didn"t try to regulate his reaction, his breathing becoming harsher. Del Porter would be scared shitless, right? Well, Ty figured he was doing that pretty well right about now. Two guns were hard to contest no matter how much ass you could kick.
“You had better hope they are closer than your cabin,” Gabbana said quietly. His gun moved until it was in Ty"s mouth, scraping against his teeth and sending a horrible shiver up and down his spine, like nails on a chalkboard. The man"s dead fish eyes didn"t give much away, and Ty believed he just might pull that trigger. He nodded against the gun, and the man pulled it back just enough for Ty to speak.
“In my pocket,” he said, cursing himself for handing over the one piece of information that might have been worth anything to them so far.
Dolce released his shoulder, and Ty felt himself waver. The railing was thick enough to stop him, though, and his feet hit the deck with a thump as the man dug into his pocket for the iPod. When Dolce pulled it out, the two men backed away, letting Ty"s knees go weak.
Again.
“Do not forget who you are working for,” Gabbana said as he slid his weapon back into the folds of his coat. Ty resisted the urge to ask the man to remind him.
“We shall be in touch,” Dolce said almost cordially, and then the two men turned and left him alone, slumped at the railing and breathing hard. He put his hand to his lip, wiped blood away from it, and looked down at it on his fingers.
“I hate this fucking case,” he murmured to himself.
A GOOD two hours after Ty"s interruption, Zane tucked a credit slip for a modest amount of money into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
He"d pretty much broken even at the table with Armen, Bianchi, and two other high rollers on vacation, staying enough to the positive that he"d not been able to shoehorn in an excuse to leave until now.
He"d used the time to study his supposed business partners, looking for tells and nervous twitches, tracking how much they won and how much they lost. Bianchi was eternally jovial and content, a personality quirk that almost took its toll on Zane"s patience. Armen was quite the opposite, approaching somber, even after winning a hand.
He was not delightful company.
Zane knew Armen had been watching him carefully; he"d been particularly attentive when Ty had shown up. Zane had been on a roll at the point, having won three hands in a row, and a whining spouse seeking attention simply wouldn"t register as important to a high roller.
Despite his show otherwise, the problem had registered with Zane after the fact. Ty just didn"t get that agitated without reason. But Zane had not been concerned until after he"d summarily dismissed Ty. At the time, he"d been more focused on the job, on getting Bianchi or Armen to talk about themselves or their mutual business than he had been on his partner"s state of mind.
So now he walked out of the casino, forcing himself to make his way casually back to their cabin as he grew more and more worried.
The warmth of the expensive Scotch lapped through him, making everything around him false and bright. Zane had nursed the first glass as long as he could, but there had been a second, and a third, and then it had been too late. He could still taste it now, the burn of the ultra-premium liquor on his tongue and at the back of his throat.
Seeing Ty had gotten Zane"s attention, and he"d consciously stopped emptying his glass. But it had been long enough since his last fall from grace that his tolerance had suffered. He knew how to operate under the influence in the line of duty; it just couldn"t be avoided in the alcohol-soaked underworld. He"d already slipped into that cold and detached state of mind before Ty had arrived, and Zane hadn"t even recognized it. It was like sliding on an old, comfortable disguise, and remembering Ty"s earlier words about his drinking, Zane was worried now.
Even through the worry, Zane felt the relief and succor of the alcohol, the allure that welcomed him, called to him. In the past, alcohol had given him an edge, and it still burned in him, allowed him to slough off the nerves and distractions and brought the most important things into focus. Zane knew himself when he was deep into the drink while undercover. He"d spent too many years living it not to appreciate it. He"d also learned how destructive it could be. How destructive he could be under the influence.
The concern for Ty ate at him as he left the promenade, rode up the elevator, and entered the hallway leading to their stateroom. Zane had thought at the time he was handling the situation the right way; now he wasn"t so sure.
When Zane entered their cabin, he found the place entirely upended. His heart skipped a few beats, and instinctively he dug under his shirt at the small of his back and drew his gun. He shut the door without a sound and silently made his way into the dimly lit room.
Suitcases lay turned upside down and emptied, their possessions scattered all over the floor. The mattress was hanging off the bed and still cocked sideways, the bedcovers a shambles. The pillows of the couches littered the floor, and the doors to the balcony stood open.
Either Ty had thrown a temper tantrum, or they had a problem they hadn"t expected. Zane was inclined to choose option A, remembering the look on Ty"s face when Zane had turned his back on him.
Zane winced.
He moved on through the bedroom to check the balcony and then walked to the bathroom, where the door was ajar and one of the sinks was running.
Ty was bent over the sink, shirtless, letting the water run into the palm of his hand and then repeatedly splashing his face. Relieved, Zane looked him over: Ty"s face was pale and drawn, and the shirt he"d been wearing when he"d come to see Zane at the poker table was on the marble counter beside him, a single drop of blood on the collar clearly visible.
Ty abruptly jumped back, his hand going to the knife on the countertop. He jerked to a stop, his back against the marble tile of the bathroom wall, weapon in hand, breathing hard as he stared at Zane.
Zane let out the breath he"d been holding and looked Ty over while slowly lowering his gun. He felt his focus snap into place: on Ty now, rather than Bianchi and Armen like before. “What happened? Are you all right?”
Ty lowered his head slightly, glaring at Zane as his hazel eyes flashed with anger. “Had a party,” he answered in a deceptively calm voice as he straightened up and stepped back over to the sink to turn off the water. “Sorry you missed it,” he added as he set down the knife, picked up a washrag, and dabbed at his lip gingerly.
“I should have been here,” Zane said as he reached out to lightly touch Ty"s chin and turn his head so he could look at the split lip.
Ty flinched away from him and smacked his hand away, snarling wordlessly at him. The calm façade was gone just as quickly as it had come. He shoved Zane away from him and followed to shove him again, right out of the bathroom. He balled his fist as if preparing to take a swing, but then he gritted his teeth and flexed his fingers, snorting loudly. It always took Ty a lot of effort to rein in his temper once he"d lost it, and he visibly struggled with it now.
Now Zane knew what had happened was serious. He tried to study Ty more closely to see if he was hiding an injury. He appeared to be unharmed aside from the bloody lip. “What happened?” Zane asked him again.
“Fucking Italians!” Ty blurted with a wave of his hands, launching into another threatening temper tantrum, and Zane actually leaned back in surprise. Ty"s next words were shouted. “They tried to toss me over the railing! I don"t speak Italian, Garrett!”
“The railing,” Zane repeated blankly. Then it clicked. “The railing? As in into the ocean railing? What did they want?” Scenarios began playing out in Zane"s head, every one of them ending badly…
because he wasn"t there. Zane felt ill, all that lovely Scotch suddenly threatening to make an appearance.
Ty just seemed to grow angrier in the face of Zane"s belated concern. He stood fairly trembling as he balled his fists at his sides, trying to calm himself. That was an exercise in futility, in Zane"s learned opinion, but no way was he voicing that now.
“They didn"t say anything to give you an idea of who they were?”
Zane asked carefully.
“I think they were Guardia di Finanza,” Ty said through clenched teeth, the Italian words rolling off his tongue as if he did speak the language. “Even Italian cops wear cheap suits. Del was supposed to meet with them, and when I missed it, they came looking for me.” He waved his rag at the trashed stateroom. “They took the fucking wire taps I found. I"m guessing they flipped the place, then came after me when they didn"t find them here.”