Bulletproof Billionaire. Mallory Kane
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burned her feet through her thin-soled, high-heeled sandals. Every noise, from a laughing couple passing on their way to their car, to a rustle in the garbage bags that lined the alley, grated on her raw nerves.
She was scared and tired and hungry. She had no idea how long she’d been hiding, but she knew she couldn’t last much longer. She’d spent the last of her folding money on a burger and fries a couple of hours ago.
Her mouth was dry. Her throat hurt. She was so thirsty. The guy who owned the seedy hotel across the street was getting tired of her using his bathroom.
She twisted her hair up off her hot neck and tried not to cry.
She could call Mum.
No. She couldn’t. Not with three quarters and a dime, not all the way to England. And Mum’s disgusting boyfriend had warned her weeks ago when she’d threatened to run away not to come crawling back. As if she would, after he’d put his filthy hands on her. He’d refuse to reverse the charges on her call anyway.
Lily’s eyes burned. She couldn’t call her dad, either. She didn’t know where he was.
That was nothing new. Special Agent Tanner Harrison was probably off on some top secret CIA assignment, just as he’d been on her sixteenth birthday, and when she’d graduated, and when she’d arrived in New Orleans. He was never around when she needed him. His job had always come first.
Carefully inspecting a section of wall, she leaned against it, tears filling her eyes.
She was in such big trouble.
She never should have listened to that tart, never should have followed her into that fancy club. What a stupid twit she’d been to believe the girl was actually offering her a free meal.
Once Lily had walked into the opulent establishment, she’d been denied the freedom to leave. Someone was always watching her. Horrified, she’d quickly discovered the gentleman’s club was a front for a drug and prostitution ring. Most of the girls were her age or a little older. If it hadn’t been for Pam—an older hooker who’d tried to help the underage prostitutes escape—taking her under her wing, there’s not telling what would have happened to Lily.
The tears spilled over and dribbled down her cheeks. Pam wasn’t the only one who’d tried to protect her. Undercover government liaison Gillian Seymour had promised to get Lily to her father, but Gillian was nowhere to be found when pimp Maurice Gaspard drew a gun on Lily when she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. So she’d run.
In the alley behind the McDonough Club when she’d fled, she had come upon a grisly sight.
She’d watched in horrified disbelief as a man had shot Jack, the bartender, and Madame Dupre in cold blood. The images of their shocked faces and the splatter of blood would never leave her. But even that hadn’t been the worst of it.
The shooter had removed his mask and stared right at her. Lily shivered as she recalled his creepy scarred face and the deadly look in his eyes. Those few seconds had seemed like a slow-motion video. Then he’d swung his gun around and aimed it right at her.
Without thinking, Lily had turned and sprinted away, her high heels clacking on the streets, not caring where she ended up, just running to get away from that awful man and his deadly gun.
She knew he was looking for her. And when he found her, he would kill her.
Footsteps sounded on the sidewalk beyond the darkness of the alley. Lily shrank back into the shadows as a couple walked by arm in arm.
She’d been so sure she could take care of herself. So sure she could find a job and make her own way alone. Well, she didn’t feel grown up and independent now. She wanted her mum, or her daddy.
Clutching the last four coins she possessed in one grimy fist, Lily crouched down in the alley, so tired she didn’t even check around her for rats.
SETH WOUND HIS way through the main offices of Crescent City Transports and unlocked his office door, stepping inside and locking it behind him. On the opposite wall, behind his desk, was another locked door with a security camera mounted over it. The camera was similar to the ones located throughout the offices of Crescent City Transports, but this one was much more high-tech. Seth looked directly into the lens, staring intently until he heard a faint click that indicated that the specialized security system had scanned his retina and found him authorized to enter the secret headquarters of New Orleans Confidential.
He pushed on the door and stepped into a silver metal corridor. At the other end, another door swung open, revealing the main briefing room.
Conrad Burke stood in front of a bank of plasma-screen monitors. Alexander McMullin, the undercover operative who had engineered the raid on the bordello, stood next to him. Phillip Jones, Seth’s contact and partner for the operation, lounged with his hip propped on the edge of a table.
Without turning around, Burke spoke. “Lewis, I want you to see this.” His Southern drawl was at odds with confident stance and commanding presence. There was no doubt that he was the leader of this elite, secret organization.
Seth nodded at the other two men.
“How’s it hanging, Mr. Billionaire?” Jones said, grinning. “Was the lovely widow everything you expected?”
Seth shot Jones a quelling look, but the young former private investigator was undaunted.
“I hear you’ve got a date with her today. Way to move right in.”
“Jones. Lewis.” Burke’s voice commanded attention as the door behind Seth opened. Burke nodded at the tall, imposing man who entered.
It was Tanner Harrison, an ex-CIA operative in his early forties. Seth had met him during his interview. Today, Harrison seemed distracted and tired, as if he hadn’t slept.
“All of you have met Tanner Harrison.”
Seth shook Harrison’s hand and met his strange, silvery gray eyes.
He gave Seth a quick assessment. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you. Nice work with that bank robber.”
Seth shrugged. “He ran into me. I had to do something.”
The corner of Harrison’s mouth lifted. “I understand you were with Special Forces. Last time we met, you had a lot more hair. You cleaned up pretty well. Wouldn’t have recognized you.”
“My sisters have been after me for months to get a haircut and ditch the beard.”
Harrison nodded as Burke turned back to the monitors.
“We caught a break,” Burke said. “One of the prostitutes picked up in the raid the other night has pleaded. She seems to have a lot of good information.” Burke indicated the monitors.
Each monitor showed a similar establishment. Seth looked closer. “Those are Cajun Perk coffeehouses.”
Burke nodded. “The prostitute, whose name is Darlene Green, told the police that Cajun Perks are the distribution points for Category Five.”
Jones stepped closer. “Category Five. Supposed to be the greatest thing since Ecstasy and the little blue pill,” Jones said. “Doesn’t even give you a headache.”
McMullin grunted. “No headache. Just a stroke or a heart attack.”
“Cajun Perk?” Seth said. “That explains something Tony Arsenault said last night at Mrs. DeBlanc’s house. He was checking out the crowd. I mentioned hearing about the charity auction at a coffeehouse, and he got real interested real fast.”
“How so?” Burke turned around.
“He seemed suspicious of me at first, but then I said something about wanting to meet the major players in town and introduced myself. He’ll remember me.”
“Good. Be careful with these guys though, Lewis. Arsenault isn’t known as ‘The Knife’ because he can chop onions.”
Jones