Out of Sight. Michelle Celmer
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Her hand trembled on the pay phone receiver as she worked up the courage to dial.
If Vince were to catch her, she would be dead for sure. Once again she cursed herself for not realizing sooner the kind of man he was. She’d been seduced by his expensive car and thick wallet—by his power.
She fingered the two-karat diamond studs in her lobes. She had a case full of precious gems, a closet full of designer clothes—and for what? By the time she’d begun to suspect who Vince really was, what he’d done, it was too late. She was in too deep. He owned her.
She had to do the right thing. Before she could talk herself out of it, she picked up the receiver, dropped in two quarters and dialed. It rang four times before someone answered in a gruff voice, “FBI.”
She had to do it. It was the right thing to do. “I want to report a murder.”
Out of Sight
Michelle Celmer
MICHELLE CELMER
Bestselling author lives in southeastern Michigan with her husband, their three children, two dogs and two cats. When she’s not writing or busy being a mom, you can find her in the garden or curled up with a romance novel. And if you twist her arm real hard you can usually persuade her into a day of power shopping.
Michelle loves to hear from readers. Visit her Web site at: www.michellecelmer.com, or write her at P.O. Box 300, Clawson, MI 48017.
To my grandma Irene, my most loyal fan.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Prologue
New York City, Four Years Ago
“Time to go, Gantz.” Special Agent Will Bishop hoisted his prisoner up by the arm from the motel room chair. “You’ve got a date in court.”
“They ain’t gonna let me testify,” Gantz said. Sweat dripped from the man’s meaty face and soaked through his Italian silk suit. A suit that probably cost him more than Will made in a month. “I’ll be dead before I get to the courthouse.”
“You’re breaking my heart.” Ryan Thomas opened the door, letting in a blast of hot, humid air and early-morning sunshine. He signaled to the men standing guard around the perimeter of the lot.
It wasn’t often Will got to work with Ryan these days, but with his regular partner still out on maternity leave, they were paired for this case. It had made the long shifts in this sleazy little motel guarding Gantz easier to stomach. But he was glad it was finally over. His wife was really nagging him about the long hours he’d been working. Which meant she’d been nagging him only slightly more than usual.
“Looks clear,” Ryan said.
“Time to roll.” Will cuffed Gantz and shoved him toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“I’m telling you, man. The family ain’t gonna let it happen. And don’t think they’ll stop at me. You guys are as good as dead.”
Ryan held the door open. “There are five agents in that parking lot. If someone was out there waiting for you, we would know.”
“What are you worried about Gantz? In a week you’ll have a new face and a new identity,” Will said, unable to mask the disgust in his voice. Lou Gantz, a hit man responsible for the deaths of at least thirty men—many of whom had been waiting to testify in court—was getting a walk in exchange for his testimony against the Sardoni family, New York’s most vicious organized-crime organization. Until now, nearly every member of the family had managed to avoid prosecution. Witnesses either recanted their claims, were found floating in the river or simply disappeared without a trace.
Not this time. The family’s top associates were under indictment, and the bureau had taken every possible precaution to keep Gantz’s location secure.
This time they were going down.
“Move it.” Will gave him another shove, out the door into the parking lot.
Full-fledged panic crept into the man’s tone. “I’m tellin’ ya, we’re all dead.”
Ryan opened the sedan door and heaved Gantz in the back, then turned to Will. “Call and let them know we’re on the way.”
Will reached in his jacket pocket, but it was empty. “Hell, I left my phone in the room.”
“What’s with you and that phone?”
Will shrugged. He was always forgetting the damned thing.
“I think it’s subconscious. I think you forget it so you don’t have to talk to your wife.”
He laughed. “Yeah, could be.”
His current wife—bride number two—called him constantly. She was making roast for dinner, was that okay or would he prefer chicken—he would be home for dinner, right? Or she saw a dress on sale in the weekend paper that she’d like to buy, did he mind? And by the way, the mechanic said it would cost an extra fifty dollars to fix the car, should she tell him that was all right?
It was as if she couldn’t make a single decision without first consulting him. Sometimes he wondered if he would have been better off staying single. Of course, if he divorced her, he would be paying alimony to two ex-wives. Between that and legal fees, it was probably cheaper to stay married—and miserable.
Ryan on the other hand had one of those perfect marriages that made even the hardest of characters ripe with envy. He had a gorgeous, supportive wife, three beautiful children. Five years more and he would be retiring from the bureau.
He had the kind of life Will had always wished for. Yet somehow Will kept ending up with clingy, dependent, whiny women. They had yet to hit their first anniversary and already his second marriage had begun to feel like a heavy chain around his shoulders, dragging him down.
“Hurry up, we’re gonna be late,” Ryan said and slipped into the driver’s seat.
Will shouldered his way back through the hotel room door, spotting his phone on the table next to the window. As he reached for it, he heard the car start. Then there was a flash and an earsplitting rumble. The window imploded and he was flung back against the bed. Too late he threw up his arm to shield himself from the blast, screaming in pain as shards of glass and debris tore into the left side of his face. For a second he sat there, stunned. What remained of the curtains hung smoldering in the window, and thick black smoke belched in from the parking lot. Then the reality of what had happened hit him square in the chest.
Car bomb. And Ryan had been inside.
Noxious black smoke filled the room, gagging him, and through the ringing in his ears he heard people shouting. He slid to the floor, where the air wasn’t so thick, trying to get his bearings. Keeping his body