in his truck, he checked the status of the numbered accounts via his smart phone. A grin split across his face. “Oh, yeah. Now that’s what I call equalizing.”
Every single one of the innocent victims Wallace had cheated now had their money—with interest—in a special account waiting to be claimed.
Dakota peeled off the rubber nose and chin, then the meticulously groomed mustache and sideburns. He scrubbed a hand over his face to rid his skin of the adhesive residue and then started the engine. He shifted into first but before he could let out on the clutch his cell vibrated. Sliding his phone open, he eased out on the clutch and rolled into the street. “Garrett.”
“Stellar work, Garrett.”
The boss. “All in a day’s work.” Dakota made the statement with a nonchalance he didn’t quite feel. Though he wasn’t opposed to roughing up the bad guys, the rest was questionable. No matter that Wallace had stolen from the victims. To Dakota, stealing the money back was also a crime. It reminded him way too much of his mercenary days. And a few other incidents he’d just as soon not recall.
He’d walked away from that life…with good reason.
“I have another job for you.”
Surprised, Dakota said, “I’m your man.” That was his stock answer. Work was about the only thing going in his life these days, so the more of it the better. But the enigmatic head of the Equalizers had insisted that no one would be allowed to work back-to-back assignments. The cases brought to the Equalizers were risky in more ways than one. The assignments required exacting attention to detail and unfailing physical readiness. Dakota executed a swift mental and physical inventory. He was good to go. As long as he didn’t end up in jail, or worse, he had no problem with jumping right into the next case.
“A young woman will be delivering a package this morning,” Slade Keaton, the overly secretive head of the Equalizers, explained. No one had even known his name, much less seen his face until a couple days ago. “I want you to follow her. Get the identity of the person who receives the package and report back to me.”
Sounded easy enough. “What about the woman?” Just how far was Dakota supposed to go to ensure he accomplished his assignment? Waltzing into an operation already in progress with no background details wasn’t exactly his favorite dance.
“No contact,” Keaton ordered. “I don’t want her to know she’s being followed. The delivery is for a former spook, Lucas Camp. If he gets wind that his protégée was followed, he’ll be trouble.”
Lucas Camp. Dakota didn’t know the name. “Who’s this Lucas Camp?” Had to be someone significant to an upcoming or ongoing case or Keaton wouldn’t waste time on him. Not that Dakota or anyone else on staff at the Equalizers knew enough about their employer to make a reliable assessment. He merely measured the man by the cases he took and the orders he doled out. So far Dakota couldn’t call him a bad guy, just one who liked to bend and twist the rules.
“He’s irrelevant,” Keaton said, dismissing Dakota’s question. “Report back to me as soon as you have the identity of the person who receives the package. I’m sending a photo of Lucky Malone and her current location to your phone. She’ll be making the delivery soon.”
“Got it covered.” Dakota ended the call. Lucky Malone. The mule, likely nothing more. But this Lucas Camp had to be more no matter that Keaton had played off the question. Dakota checked his phone for the location Keaton sent and headed in that direction.
En route Dakota put in a call to an old contact from his military days.
By the time he reached the clinic where Malone was reported to be, Dakota had the scoop on Lucas Camp. Not just a former spook, the guy was the epitome of what the CIA had once stood for. Dark, dangerous and full of secrets.
This was no casual operation. Keaton was trawling deep, murky waters.
But Dakota had his orders. He parked across the street from the small parking lot fronting the clinic. The clinic was a posh place. Private. No insurance clients seeking treatment at this place. This was where the folks with money went for the caliber of treatment perhaps unobtainable anywhere else.
Malone had to be the daughter of some rich dude. She wasn’t old enough to be rich in her own right unless she’d inherited big money. Twenty-five. Five feet, four inches. Coal-black hair and big gray eyes. The chick was a looker and likely had the ego to go with it.
A woman matching Malone’s description exited the front entrance. Dakota sat up straighter. He watched as she strode toward a waiting car. It was big and black, though less ostentatious than most limos; nevertheless it left little doubt in regards to the financial portfolio of the backseat’s occupant. Malone hesitated at the car door, glanced around as if she feared being watched.
Definitely her.
When she’d settled inside and the car pulled out onto the street, Dakota waited until a full block yawned between them before following. A few turns and twenty-one minutes later and the car stopped at the curb in front of a run-down building. 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
