The Suppressor by Erik Carter (best free novels .txt) 📗

resumed their revelry. Shouts and laughter. Clinking tumblers and beer glasses.

Jake looked through the window again, across the courtyard. He found C.C.’s eyes waiting for him.

And they still bore that look of concern.

Chapter Six

Marvin Tanner slapped a hand against the wall of communications equipment in the back of the van, rocking the entire vehicle.

“Hell yeah!” he said. “We got ’em now! The Farones and the Rojas. Two for one.”

Harrison, from his position seated behind a bank of small monitors and gauges and multiplex LCD number displays, scowled up at Tanner’s hand, where it was planted next to a series of switches.

Harrison was a young guy, black like Tanner, though much lighter skinned, with wild, overgrown hair. He wore an enormous pair of glasses and a blue T-shirt with a logo that Tanner didn’t recognize—some rock band, no doubt.

Tanner didn’t care for Harrison, and, really, he didn’t care for any of the tech guys. But they held a significant bargaining chip—their esoteric knowledge of specialized and entirely necessary equipment—and they weren’t afraid of flexing that bit of power, as evidenced by the disdainful look Harrison was giving to Tanner’s hand.

The insolent little shit.

Tanner removed the hand, but, not to be outdone, he moved it, along with his other hand, to the back of Harrison’s seat.

Harrison inched away as Tanner leaned forward, getting closer to the round metal speaker cover that sat next to a row of dials.

“Can we clear up that interference?”

Harrison shook his head. “It’s, um…” He paused, making a few tweaks to the dials. “It’s rubbing against his shirt, I think. He’s on the move.”

Tanner looked at the black-and-white video monitor, the one directly linked to the tiny camera on the outside of the van.

The Farone mansion was an old-fashioned, stone-sided behemoth with lush green lawns. People leaving, going to the brick-paved driveway, walking toward the dozen or so cars parked around the fountain—old, worn-in vehicles that looked terribly out of place.

Tanner leaned back and turned to Agent Pace, the other man in the back of the van with him and Harrison.

Pace was a big guy, late thirties, with a square head and dark, parted hair. Tanner knew he was of Hispanic heritage, but if he hadn’t known, he would have pegged Pace as a Native American.

“The Rojas are the principle rivals?” Pace said.

Tanner nodded. “For the last six years or so, yeah. Another lower-level gang like the Farones. Joey Farone was kicked out of New York decades ago when he couldn’t cut it with the big boys. He just didn’t have it in him to sever thumbs and break skulls. But since he fell into rapidly progressive dementia the last couple years, the son runs the show, and he’s just the opposite of his old man. Sylvester loves the bloody stuff, got a real penchant for torture.

“The Rojas just arrived a few years ago—a splinter of a bigger outfit in of Colombia. They get the heroin shipments from down south, cut it, package it, and ship it. And it’s been putting a cramp in the Farones’ style since they got here. They’ve collided more than once. The powder keg will be tonight.”

Pace pointed to the monitor. “With your undercover man right in the middle of the explosion. Real nice, Tanner.”

Tanner clenched his jaw. Damn fed. Pace’s personality had begun to grate Tanner’s nerves within five minutes of meeting him, which made Tanner regret his decision to contact the FBI for a consultant.

“I’m pulling Rowe out. Tonight. Before the shit hits the fan,” he said through his teeth.

Pace shrugged off his brown sport coat, folded it over his arm. “If we can get him out. He’s too stuck on that girl.”

“‘That girl’ is bringing down the Farone family.”

“Maybe so, Lieutenant,” Pace said. “Or maybe our guy’s in too deep. Maybe Cecilia Farone is playing him. Don’t see him leaving yet, do you?” He pointed at the monitor again.

Tanner looked.

The guy was right. Jake was not among those people leaving the mansion.

Pace shoved his hands in his pockets, jingled his keys. “And Rowe kills the feed every time he talks to her. Do you really trust him?”

The agent was awfully insistent, awfully pushy for someone who was little more than a glorified temporary assistant.

More insolence from a younger person.

Was there any respect left in the world?

Tanner stared him down. “You’re a consultant on this case, Agent Pace. You’ve been here two weeks. You don’t know Jake Rowe like I do.” He narrowed his gaze. “You’re damn right I trust him.”

“Isn’t the guy, like, a spaz or something?”

Now Tanner was really pissed. Few things bothered him more that gossip—particularly misguided, dangerous gossip about the people he cared about.

Tanner hadn’t taken Jake under his wing simply because of his brilliant—if not tumultuous—mind, one that had detective written all over it. Jake was a good damn dude, too.

Jake, with his genuine smile. The gym-sculpted physique. His penchant for sharp duds. Unexpected tenacity and grit.

Tanner wasn’t about to let some dirty fed just breeze in here and disparage the guy.

“He has some focus issues, but he passed his psych exam with flying colors, for your information. We all have our quirks, shithead.”

Pace chuckled, not looking away. Nothing bothered the guy.

A staticky noise from the speaker. Then silence.

Pace snickered, shook his head. A told-ya-so grin came to his lips.

Harrison looked up at Tanner. “The feed died.”

Chapter Seven

Jake looked down at the small plastic slide switch on top of the device, his finger still resting on it. It sat to the left, the OFF position.

He sighed and put the device back in its spot at the front of his pants, beneath the elastic of his boxer briefs. He was in a small bathroom off the great hall, and he checked his reflection in the mirror as he straightened his shirt around the device.

This was going to piss Tanner off, his killing the audio feed. It always did. Jake’s go-to retort was that he was the one putting his life on the line, that if