Damaged. Debra Webb
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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