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

history. Study the face. Memorize it. He won’t put up a fight. Cuff him. Protect him. Bring him in. He’s done us all a great service. It’s time to thank him for it.”

Chapter Eleven

The woman calling herself Christie Mosley stared in disbelief at the person she’d just captured, the man lying on the floor beneath her, struggling, going red in the face, as she crushed the lower corners of his rib cage between her thighs.

She’d expected it to be one of Burton’s “illustrious” visitors. Instead, it was possibly the last person she would have imagined.

It was Pete “Loudmouth” Hudson. And he was damn lucky she hadn’t killed him.

Hudson’s gaping mouth and wide eyes said that he was equally amazed that she was the person with whom he’d been struggling.

Which made sense.

An hour ago when he’d last seen her, she’d been in the slut dress and high heels, swaying her hips for the benefit of every man in the Farone mansion. Now she wore a pair of loose Levi’s, an oversized linen shirt, and a black ball cap with her ponytail sticking out the back.

Plus, she’d kicked his ass. That was probably a shocker for him too.

When she’d slipped into the office, Hudson’s back had been turned enough that she hadn’t been able to see who it was. She’d watched as he searched the desk, finally grabbing a short stack of stapled paper from Burton’s letter tray.

The document was Delbert Patterson’s twisted manifesto. She knew this because she’d held it herself only minutes prior to Hudson, having centered the document on Burton’s desk and taken a photograph of each page with a state-of-the-art camera—digital with an LCD screen on the back, small enough to fit in her pocket. It wasn’t yet available to the civilian public, one of many such technological advantages her organization possessed.

The efficient way Hudson had cleared the house and his beeline for the desk had told her the guy was a pro. No doubt.

But what kind?

She lessened the pressure between her thighs, and Hudson sucked in a couple deep breaths, the red color in his face receding.

Her fist remained in the air, wound-up and ready.

Pete Hudson was more than a mere car thief, this tall, cute, sheepishly charming “Loudmouth.”

And she’d known it the whole time, from the moment he first appeared in the Farone syndicate several months back.

But she’d assumed he was some sort of con artist, a faker who wanted the good life but didn’t have the credentials to back it up. He was charming, after all.

Clearly, her assumption had been a dangerous oversight.

Stupid!

She really pissed herself off sometimes.

Below, Hudson wiggled his sides, shaking out the tension. Even with her fist still raised above him, it was clear that he understood the confrontation was winding down.

He’d seen violence before.

A pro.

What the hell was this guy?

She could beat it out of him. That’s what her quivering fist was telling her to do.

But that fire of hers was what had landed her in this life to begin with. It had taken her years, but she’d learned how to control it, when to defer to diplomacy. She couldn’t stumble now. Not when she’d worked so hard for so long.

Not when she was so close to being finished.

Don’t screw this up.

She slowly lowered her fist. Exhaled. And with one swift movement, she rolled off him and to her feet.

Hudson coughed and rubbed his sides. Bloodshot, wet eyes looked up at her. Then a tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—a look of understanding.

In the same way that she recognized him as a professional, his expression said that he recognized the same quality in her.

He grimaced as he rubbed his ribs harder, but the smile remained. “So you’re Burton’s girlfriend and his watchdog.”

The Loudmouth could be a coy little smartass when he wanted to. More of that charm of his.

“What the hell are you doing here, Hudson?” she said.

Hudson slowly climbed to his feet. More grimacing. More rib-rubbing. He pointed. “I saw the broken door. What are you doing here, creeping around in the dark with what looks like a break-in downstairs?”

She reached out suddenly, pulled up his shirt, revealing the small bulge she’d perceived, the tiny break in the line of his shirt.

A digital audio device, its square top peeking out the top of his underwear.

“I knew it. You’re undercover. PPD?”

Hudson narrowed his eyes, still a hint of the bemused grin on his lips. A pause. And he nodded. He slowly reached into his shoe, keeping his other hand in the air for her benefit, and retrieved a badge.

“You got me,” he said. “Now, tell me—why does the girlfriend of a smalltime criminal lieutenant know where to find a listening device on an undercover cop and have the hand-to-hand combat skills to incapacitate a man twice her size? Who are you?”

Double-speak. And that grin, which became a bit more serious.

I gave you something. Now give me something, he was saying.

Undercurrents of diplomacy in a standoff between two competent forces, unacquainted but aware.

Should she, or shouldn’t she?

A half moment passed, then the warring thoughts in her mind reached a compromise: she’d give Hudson a creative bit of semi-truth.

“I’m undercover too,” she said.

“No shit. What precinct?”

“I’m not with PPD.”

“Escambia County?”

She shook her head.

“Wait a minute!” Hudson said, pointing a finger. “There’s a manifesto from some goddamn lunatic on Burton’s desk … You’re FBI, aren’t you? You’re here to—”

“Burton isn’t just trying to take over the Farone crime family,” she said.

It was time to give the guy a bit more. He knew too much now to keep him completely in the dark. She’d bring him into the mix, allow him to think she was FBI.

“There’s a lot more to it, Hudson, and … Wait. What’s your actual name?”

Hudson’s mouth twisted to the side, and a moment passed before he replied.

“Rowe. Jake Rowe. PPD narcotics. Who are you?”

“You can continue to know me as Christie Mosley.”

Rowe opened his mouth wide in feigned offense. “Well, that’s not fair. Give a little, get