Chapter 18

Bennett

I could fuck Tori all day and night, but eventually, I had to let her go, and letting her walk out of my hotel suite was the hardest thing I'd ever done. Second only to leaving her in Vegas the first time.

"Shit," I groaned, rubbing my hand over my jaw. I just hoped to hell I was making the right decision.

For both of us.

Once Tori was gone, I called Richie's burner phone to try and arrange the meeting. I held my breath as the phone rang and rang. If Richie bailed now, I'd be fucked. The whole sting would go down, and the case I'd spent years building would go up in flames right in front of my eyes.

No. I wouldn't let it. Richie was going to play his motherfuckin' part, or I'd kill him myself.

"Starr?"

My shoulders relaxed back down at Richie's clipped tone. "Yeah. We need to talk."

Something muffled sounded on the other end of the line. Then Richie cut back in, "What's up?"

"I need to move this shit now. Tonight. Your guys ready?"

"What's the rush?"

I raked a hand over my hair, feigning agitation. "I told you. I'm going to the Middle East, and I either move this shit tonight, or it's all going south of the border. I need to get it moved."

"Shit. Feds up your ass?"

"No. Why would they be? You know something I don't?"

"No. Just asking. I don't know how I feel about this yet."

"Well, it's time to make your move. You in or out?"

Take the fuckin' bait, asshole.

Silence spanned over too many long-ass seconds on his side of the call before Richie answered, "All right. I'll make it happen. Give me thirty."

He hung up before I could consent.

He called back fifteen minutes later and rattled off a list of strict, concise instructions. There was no room for error. I was to follow his plan to the letter, or he'd bail, and I'd be stuck holding the shipment.

Once we got off the phone, I used my secure, government-issued line to call my boss with the FBI. Since the job had required me to be in deep cover, it had been several weeks since my last check-in. I briefed him on my whereabouts and the plan for the exchange.

Three hours later, I left my hotel suite with two sets of vastly different plans. And I had to follow both. Or watch the entire op burn.

At nine o'clock sharp,I arrived at Parkston's, pulled into the valet parking, and waited on the valet.

"Shit, this is insane," I muttered, raking my hands through my hair. My eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. I looked fuckin' terrified. My eyes were wide, pupils dilated and so dark they looked black with worry lines around them and creased between my eyebrows. I needed to get it together. I couldn't blow this op. It simply wasn't an option.

For my sake, for Tori's sake, and hell, for the sake of those who'd be affected if the mass destruction weapons reached the black market. The plan was that Richie would transfer the money. We'd go to the warehouse. He'd take ownership, and it would be done.

The only catch was that the FBI had supplied the weapons. Each one had a high-tech, undetectable to the naked eye, microscopic tracking device implanted inside so they could be tracked to whomever Richie and the Sanderson family sold them to. Once they all found their way to their new homes, the feds would move in, scooping up Richie and any of the other Sanderson's involved in the sale, as well as the dirty gun dealers that sell them out the back door to gang bangers, drug dealers, and criminals. Most of whom would probably flip on the Sanderson's and allow us to dismantle their entire network.

As long as everything went off without a hitch—I'd be done with the case and move on.

With Tori.

I wasn't wearing a wire or any other communication device that linked me to the FBI—or anyone for that matter. I was going in without a net. Once the exchange was complete, I'd make my way to a secure location and call my boss. They'd flip on the tracking devices and wait to see where the weapons went.

Then, I'd drive away, with Tori in the passenger seat, and we could both start over somewhere else.

I soothed myself with the images of Tori and me together, cruising the 101 in a convertible, staring up at the big, blue sky and laughing, not a care in the world. We'd find some little beach town, book ourselves into a hotel, and make love on the sand when the sun went down. From there, we could go anywhere in the world.

My fantasies took me away from the stress and anxiety over the meeting with Richie, and I let them carry me as far as they could.

A knocking sound interrupted me, and my eyes snapped open. "Good to see you, Mr. Starr. I'll take your car now."

"Sure, Josh. I'd appreciate that." I got out, tossed Josh the keys, smoothed my hands down the front of my button-up shirt, and then sucked in one last shaky breath.

It was the last shred of fear I allowed.

It was time.

When I made my way to the VIP entrance to the club, I had a cocky smile on my lips, a swagger in my step, and kept my shoulders down and back. I was a badass motherfucker, and I didn't care about a punk like Richie. I was going to take his money and then take him down.

End of fuckin' story.

Parkston's wasbusy as hell, and I wasn't sure whether or not that was a good thing. Unable to help myself, I glanced at the bar as I passed by on the opposite side of the main room. I'd told Tori to stay away, call in sick or something since she was supposed to be there working, as always. I didn't want her to be in such close proximity to Richie and his goons, and so far, it didn't appear they had any idea who she really was. Besides, if I pulled off the deal, we could get the hell out of this city and never look back.

One more night—but I still prayed to God she stayed home.

Like we'd arranged, Richie was waiting inside the private room flanked by his men and ready to do business. There wasn't a bedazzled bra woman in sight. In fact, there wasn't even a drink in sight. What? Did Richie like to do his business dealings sober? It seemed…off, but I ignored it and swept into the room with the same devil-may-care attitude I'd masked myself with the moment before entering the club.

"Richie!" I boomed; my voice infused with faux confidence.

Richie didn't stand up from the couch where he was seated, legs spread, elbows to knees.

"Jake." He snapped his fingers, and Jake, his bodyguard, stepped forward and grabbed my bicep a little harder than necessary.

"What the?—?"

Jake searched me—roughly, and I kept my eyes locked on Richie. There was something cold in his eyes that had me on edge. Something was wrong. He wasn't himself.

"Precautions, Starr. I'm sure this isn't the first time you've been frisked for a wire."

I forced a smile. "True. But if I recall, the last time you had me searched, you had a hot woman strip me down and fuck me silly to check for a wire. That would have been preferable. Not that Jake here isn't a strapping specimen. He's just not my type."

Richie didn't crack a smile, and a bolt of fear raced down my spine like lightning.

Shit.

"Apologies," Richie said. "I expect my instructions were followed?"

Jake released me, and I made a show of straightening my shirt. "Yes."

"Good. However, we've had a few internal changes."

I glanced up from fixing my cuff to casually scanning the faces of the men positioned behind him. They all looked familiar from my time tailing Richie. So what was he getting at? Internal changes? It didn't make any sense.

"Listen, I'm just here to make the deal. So, as long as we're good on that part, then I don't see why?—"

Richie snapped his fingers. "Sit down, Starr. Take a load off."

Shit. That didn't sound good. Dalton couldn't be backing out of this—not now.

I held back an impatient sigh and sat down in the seat he indicated. I leaned forward and swiped a cocktail napkin from the table between us. Casually, I pulled a pen out of my jacket pocket, clicked the top, and scribbled down a number. An obscenely large number.

I glanced up after I wrote the number down. It was big enough print. Richie could see it from his seat. His expression didn't change.

"So, you transfer this,"—I leaned forward and handed him the napkin. Still nothing. No reaction. I knew he was trying to intimidate me, but I wouldn't let him. I'd come too damn far. Besides, I knew the three-point six million I was asking for was just a drop in the bucket to him. The man was a billionaire—no, multi-billionaire.

"Then we go to the warehouse, and it's all yours. Just say the word."

He glanced down at the napkin for a beat, then back at me.

"So, this is it? This is your best offer?"

Motherfucker.

I leveled him with my stare. "Take it or leave it, man. I told you. I'm selling these for twenty cents on the dollar of what I paid for them. You can't even get close to these kinds of weapons at any price. You'll be the only kid on the block with a laser-guided rocket launcher."

Richie tilted his head and considered me for another long minute.

"We good?" I waited, not daring to break eye contact. The next move was his to make. All I could do was stay calm and keep my shit together. I had to. I was out of options. For me. For Tori. For the future.

I breathed deeply through my nose, hoping he couldn't hear it. My heart pounded in my chest. He had to say something.

Richie gave a fractional nod. "Okay. Let's get this taken care of." He stood up and turned toward Jake. I noticed a piece in the back of his pants. I always carried mine in my boot when shit was about to go down and was surprised he was so blatant about it. Surely, Reed Parkston wouldn't appreciate having people coming into his club locked and loaded. Would he? I still wasn't sure where he fits in this whole puzzle.

Richie gestured at me. "Come into my office."

I gave an awkward chuckle, glancing at his two goons. "I thought this was your office."

"Nah, too many ears and eyes, follow me."

He started toward the door. I had no choice but to follow. But my senses were on red alert. Something was up. Why were we leaving the red room? Jake was on our heels, and Richie grunted for him to stay behind. He led me through the door and made a sharp right into another door. Once inside, Richie locked it behind us.

From what I could see, it was a small office. It was fairly plain, with a desk, two chairs, and a couple of filing cabinets. A large computer dominated the small desk. Was this really Richie's office? What the fuck did he need with an office inside Parkston's? It didn't make any sense. All I knew was something felt off, and I was trapped.

"You got the bank info?" Richie said, his clipped tone snapping me from my observations. I fished a card from my back pocket and handed it to him. He took it and started to punch information into the keyboard.

"I'll get a text from the bank when it's done. Technology shit, ya know?" I explained without looking away.

After that, the room fell silent. Each second seemed to span on for minutes as Richie stared at the screen and occasionally clicked at the mouse under his beefy hand. The glow from the screen was the only light in the room and made me even more uneasy. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, feeling like a kid waiting for his allowance. This was not how I expected the deal to go down. Fucking bastard loved to show who was boss. Hah! If he only knew.

My phone chimed, and I knew it was the bank. I'd set the notification to a unique tone for deposits over three million dollars. Richie straightened and came around the desk. He clapped me on the shoulder and said, "It's done, Starr. Let's go get my shit. I'm anxious to see all my shiny new toys."

A chill went down my spine at the tone of his voice and the almost gleeful look on his face. What a sick fuck. Weapons weren't toys, and people like him were the fuel behind all the bad shit in the world.

I had to stop him and his ilk. If it was the last thing I did.

Richie paused, his hand on the doorknob, and leaned in a little closer, "I swear to you, Starr, if you fuck with me—I'll fucking cut your dick off and choke you with it."

"Damn, Richie, is that how you talk to all of your business partners?" His expression didn't change. He kept me pinned with his fierce glare. Shit, this guy's dead serious. "I already told you, there are no feds. It's just me. Why would I risk fucking you over? If you like the goods, I can get you more. It doesn't make sense for me to roll ya. So chill the fuck out. We're square."

Richie jerked open the door without a word, went back into the red room and nodded to Jake and the other goon. "Let's go."

They started toward the door, and Richie turned and walked straight through the dance floor. The people on the floor separated like the Red Sea. He acted like he owned the place. Damn! Did he? Was that what Reed was talking about last night?

I didn't appreciate the lack of communication that was going on over this business deal. Jake and Mr. Thug were hot on my tail. Finally, I turned back to them and said, "Hey guys, it's cool. I don't need an escort."

What the hell were they doing? One of them grunted, and I slowed down, waiting for one to slip up. I wanted to put a bullet in his fucking head. Richie was nowhere in sight. I scanned the club, looking for his short fat frame, wondering where the fuck he went. I stopped, turned around, and my thugs-times-two stopped right behind me.

"Call your boy. This is bullshit."

I'd dubbed Jake Frankenstein in my mind because of the way he looked and his height. He said, "Keep moving," as he gave a slight push on my arm. I wanted to fuck him up so bad.

"Be cool, man. There are people here." He was pissing me off. As we walked through the doors of the club, I spotted Tori leaning behind a pillar—the same one I'd leaned against the first night I saw her.

And the look on her face was sheer terror. Did Richie get to her?