not inform you that he was the man we would be apprehending?”
“Who are they? And who are you?”
Darin suddenly realized he had made two grave errors. “You are not FBI?”
She attempted a weak smile. “You have the F and B right, but that would be for Fiona the Bartender.”
He gritted his teeth, braced his elbows on bent knees and lowered his head. Ben had been correct in assuming he was not the right man for this mission. Yet, now more than ever, Darin wanted Birkenfeld to pay.
She came to her feet and wiped her hands over her jean-covered thighs. “Let me get the bartender who just came in to relieve me. He can help me get you inside.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because the bartender was more than likely the real FBI agent, and Darin did not want the man to know what a fool he’d been. Letting Birkenfeld escape had been Darin’s mistake, and he would correct it. But how? He was injured. He could not do this alone. He would need help, something he hated to admit.
Darin leveled his gaze on Fiona, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern. Even if she was not FBI, she was his only ally at the moment. He would be forced to rely on her assistance, if she was willing to give it. “Do you live nearby?”
“I have an apartment a couple of miles away.”
“Take me there.”
She braced her hands on her waist and stared down on him. “First, you have to tell me who you are and what this is all about.”
He would only tell her what he must to reassure her. He would not subject her to more danger by revealing everything. “If you will see me to your apartment, I will give you details. I will say that I am working for law enforcement. The man named Birkenfeld is very dangerous. I’m here to apprehend him.”
Fiona’s expression brightened. “So you’re one of the good guys?”
“Yes.”
She frowned. “How do I know that?”
Darin lifted his arms from his sides. “In the right pocket of my pants, you will find my credentials.”
She crouched down and rifled in his pocket for a few moments. Had he not been in such pain, he might have enjoyed the activity. After she withdrew the black folder, she looked at the fabricated license, looked back at him, then back at the license. “Frank Scorpio? Texas Peace Officer?”
“That is correct.” He shifted his leg and winced from the pain in his ankle. “Could we possibly leave soon?”
“I have to call a cab. My car’s in the shop.”
“I have a rental in the lot.”
“Okay, but I’m driving.” She rose to her feet again. “I’ll have the new guy lock up. It’ll only take a sec, so don’t go anywhere.”
“I promise I will be here when you return. And do not tell him I am here. The fewer people who know, the better.”
“Okay.” She pointed to the gun still in his grip. “Could you put that thing away? It makes me nervous.”
Darin holstered the Beretta for now, but he would take it out again in case Birkenfeld returned. “Anything else I might do for you before I bleed to death?”
She gave him a self-conscious smile. “I’ll hurry.”
Fiona sprinted back into the building, leaving Darin alone in the alley with his pain and the strong sense that getting involved with this woman could be the third mistake he’d made since his arrival in Vegas.
But he had no choice.
Roman Birkenfeld ran into the night. Ran until his lungs burned and his eyes teared. Ran aimlessly through the darkened streets. His throbbing side slowed his progress somewhat and he paused behind an odious commercial trash bin to feel along his ribs where Shakir had kicked him. Nothing broken, only bruised, he suspected. No punctured lung, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to breathe at all.
Damn the woman who’d run into him. He should’ve killed her. He would have, had it not been for that bastard, Shakir. The recollection of his knife slicing through the man’s skin gave him added strength and a good deal of purpose as he continued on at a sprint. He didn’t have to guess how Shakir had found him. The idiot Larry Sutter. The blood-sucking attorney had no doubt ratted him out, setting him up with a promise of money, enough money to purchase passage out of the country. He should have known not to trust him. Should have known that Sutter had lied when he’d said he was leaving the hospital, the meeting tonight a ruse to protect Sutter’s ass.
Damn Shakir and Sutter. If Shakir wasn’t dead, and he hoped he was, he would find a way to take him out. He would take them both out, beginning with Sutter. But how? He couldn’t get close to the hospital; they would recognize him.
Tommy Stokes. The ex-con had escaped from Texas but no doubt he would be back in Vegas by now, frequenting his favorite haunts, keeping company with less-than-upstanding citizens. Places where anyone could get anything, if the price was right. Business was good for a man with a thirst for blood and the absence of a soul.
He didn’t have money to pay Stokes, but one thing was working in his favor—the thug hated lawyers. Stokes would agree to off Sutter for the sheer pleasure of watching him suffer as payback for the attorney who hadn’t saved him from a five-year prison term. Now he would just have to find the ex-con, and he would. Tonight.
As it had been all of Roman Birkenfeld’s life, people had tried to thwart his goals. They hadn’t succeeded until now. His medical career was a bust, all the years of hard work and struggle gone down the tubes because of some determined East Coast loan sharks and a woman who’d enlisted a group of Texas vigilantes determined to destroy him. It always came back to a woman, in this case, Natalie Perez.
Natalie was out of reach this time, but Shakir wasn’t. Someone would have to pay. It might as well be him.
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