Cold Comfort (16 page)

"If they come here, it means they don't expect any kind of security to be at the shop. They wouldn't chance it if they did, so if we stay out of sight, we might be able to get to them before they spot us. We have to keep Claire at the back of the shop, make it difficult to get a shot off right away. It's most likely to be about closing time, after dark—if that ever comes." He rubbed his hand over his face. "I'll be back out there soon."

* * *

Just before closing time, they slithered in the door with a couple of women and their children, maybe trying to blend as a family. Riley didn't buy it. Big coats with the collars turned up, hats, hands in their pockets
—
yeah, right.

Riley heard the faint sound of an asthmatic wheeze escape the larger man and nodded to Ray from behind a tree. He wanted to let them get away from the women and children before he moved. The men hadn't spotted him yet; they were focused on finding Claire, craning to see over a display of nutcrackers. They would split up, he knew. One to get Claire and one to watch the door, keep the customers out of the way if possible. They would try not to hurt anyone else, but if trouble came, Riley knew the men would use the shoppers in any way necessary. He hoped he and Ray could get close enough to take them without gunfire. He hadn't planned on all these people being around, especially the children.

The trick was to get right up to them before the men realized they were there. Riley reached under his shirt and retrieved the Glock he'd kept hidden all day, held it down against his right leg where it wouldn't be noticed. He didn't want to use it—too many customers.

The bigger man, closer to Riley, rose on his toes, peering over the gingerbread house. Riley crept up behind him, trusting Ray to do the same with the one who lingered near the door.

He'd almost reached the guy when a small voice piped up. "Is that a real gun, mister?"

Jesus.

The big gunman spun around, clapping his hand against his coat. He thought the kid was talking to him, but only for an instant. The red-haired boy's round eyes led the man directly to Riley. The thug pulled his gun.

Riley was already moving in front of the child. "Claire, down!" He lunged, leading with his left fist. He connected an instant before the man fired, deflecting his aim. A second shot rang out from the front of the store.

Riley plowed on, took him down in a tangle of fir and breaking glass, let go of his own gun to grab the other one. The two men struggled, thrashing about on the floor, with the guy's Sig waving between them. Riley could hear sounds of another struggle
—
Ray.

Then Claire's calm voice carried over the frightened screams of the customers, telling them to stay down and move toward the back of the store. From behind came a woman's terrified cry. "Jeremy!" The small boy stood frozen to the floor.

Wheezing, the man twisted and grabbed at the boy's ankle, pointed the gun at him. The mother screamed, but he hung onto the child. "Back off and shut up, lady. Don't make me shoot him."

Riley tried to ease forward on his knees, but the man spotted him. A loud crash from the front startled them both. Riley hoped Ray had his man.

"You. Freeze or I'll kill him." The wheezing gunman held the boy in front of him as he lurched to his feet.

Riley hesitated, poised to spring. He couldn't risk the kid. Then his heart stopped. He sensed rather than saw Claire creeping toward them. He didn't dare look her way or call out, draw attention to her. What the bloody hell was she doing? He coughed, trying to keep the gunman focused on him. The man watched but kept the gun aimed at the child. In his head, Riley roared at Claire to run, get away. He heard a faint hiss from her direction. He crouched, just enough movement to hold Wheezer's attention. The hiss came again. A flash of blue
—
Claire's dress. Damn her! She crept up right beside the guy. He coughed again, watching the gun.

"I said shut up." The man wheezed and gasped, still holding the boy.

Riley's nose twitched. A sweet, flowery scent filled his nostrils. He sneezed. Claire
—
the hiss. She must have some kind of perfumed spray.

Wheezer lifted the boy in front of him and pointed the Sig at Riley. He started toward to the door, his breathing labored. Suddenly he released the kid, shoving him at Riley, and fumbled in his pocket with his free hand. "Stay back," he rasped, producing a small inhaler.

Riley caught the boy and shoved the small figure behind him, snagging his gun from the floor at the same time. "Run, kid. Find your mother."

"I've got him." Claire scooped the boy into her arms and fled.

He could hear them scrambling toward the rear of the shop. The man in front of him turned to run. Riley sprang and hit him full in the back, bringing him down hard. He clipped him once under the ear, using the side of his hand. Wheezer sank to the floor, stunned. Then, remembering Claire's shoulder, Riley used the side of his hand again and chopped the man at the top of his shoulder. He heard a satisfying crack, and the man yelped in pain. "Didn't anyone teach you not to hit women?"

Wheezer snarled, holding his hand to his shoulder, and struggled to rise. Riley drew back his fist and thumped him hard on the chin. Wheezer sank back to the floor, unconscious.

"The other guy ran, Mr. Riley," Damien called out.

Where was Ray?

Claire materialized at Riley's side, clutching a heavy brass candlestick. "I'll watch him. See about Ray."

Wheezer should be out for several minutes. "Clobber him and yell if he so much as twitches." Riley knew he could count on her. He'd seen her face when she grabbed the kid.

What the hell happened to Ray?
Riley snaked around the trees to the front and found Damien bending over his uncle. The gun in the boy's hands wavered alarmingly. Ray pushed himself up on his knees, holding his head. Riley took Ray's Sig Sauer from Damien. "Where is he? The other one."

"I'm sorry. Uncle Ray started to get up and I leaned over to help him. The guy ran out the door." His face crumpled.

"Don't worry about him. Ray?" Riley reached for him, offered him a hand up.

Ray grabbed it and groaned, pulled himself up and staggered to his feet. "What happened?"

"It was my fault." Damien, shame-faced, hovered beside his uncle. "Are you okay? I'm sorry."

"Later, son." Ray leaned against the doorframe, holding the side of his head.

"We got the other one." Riley gave the gun back to Ray. "Here. Can you handle it?"

At Ray's careful nod, Riley wound his way back to Claire. Only about fifteen feet separated them, but he couldn't see her through the greenery and displays until he rounded the trees. Wheezer lay sprawled by a fallen tree with Claire on her knees, holding the inhaler under the man's nose with one hand, the brass candle holder in the other.

"I found it on the floor. He couldn't breathe." She relaxed her grip on the candlestick. "Is Ray all right?"

He nodded, pulling Claire to her feet as sirens wailed. "Get up front with Ray. Be sure the cops know which one's the bad guy. I'll be right there."

Alarmed, she dashed to the shop door. Riley reached down and grabbed Wheezer's coat collar, began dragging him through the aisles. If the movement dislodged the bastard's collarbone, so much the better. Riley preferred to be with Ray when the boys in blue arrived.

One of the first uniforms in the door was Bobby Parsons. Claire seemed to know him. Following a lengthy discussion and everyone's explanations, the injured man remained mute after mumbling his name. Fortunato. The cops led him away in handcuffs.

Ray, holding his head and squinting, said, "The other one. Gray overcoat. Heavy aftershave. Didn't get a good look at him."

"Forget him—he's long gone by now. What put that dent in your head? I thought you were ready for him."

Ray fingered the bloody cut above his ear. "So did I, until someone sneaked up behind me."

"I'm sorry, Uncle Ray," Damien said, hanging his head. "He turned around to me, and this dude jumped him." The sheepish look faded with the telling. "Uncle Ray fired
—
bam!" The boy whirled and pulled an imaginary trigger. "But the guy whopped Ray upside the head with his gun, and then I hit the guy with a paperweight and grabbed the gun." Damien, his voice rising with excitement, demonstrated his blow. He'd begun to look proud of himself until he turned and saw his mother watching with eyes like lasers, arms akimbo.

"Damien. I told you to get to the back of the store
—
you could have gotten Ray killed
—
or yourself." Mary's voice broke, and Ray put his arm over her shoulders, still holding his head with the other hand.

"Take it easy. We're both okay." He shot Damien a dirty look.

Mary wiped her eyes with a tissue. "I heard those gunshots
—
I couldn't see anything, and I didn't know what happened."

And she imagined the worst. Adrenaline shock, Riley thought, watching her. He glanced at Claire, who looked ready to draw blood herself. He'd have a hard time keeping her in the background after this. The bastards messed with her friends.

Even without real casualties, this was the worst job since Romania. He knew his way around ugly scenes, but they usually took place in dark, isolated areas, and the participants were grown men. They didn't involve children. It was a sacrilege to bring violence into this fairytale setting.

Mary continued haranguing her son. "As of this minute, you're grounded. We'll discuss parole when you're twenty-one." Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Damien put his arms around her. "I'm okay, Mom, and so is Ray. It's over."

Ray, still holding his head, squinted at him, clearly doubtful.

* * *

A cuckoo clock announced midnight as Riley watched Claire sink into a chair by the fake fireplace, turning a gold angel over in her hands.

"There's blood on it." She tossed it into a box of debris with the other remnants of today's attack. "It must be Ray's," she said with a shudder and leaned against the cushions. The police finished with them, and Mistletoe had finally been restored to order. She rested her head on the back of the chair and closed her eyes. "Let's sleep here. I don't think I can move again."

"I've been paralyzed for the last hour, but I couldn't let you outdo me. If this chair were a little bigger, I'd agree with you," he said. Her face was tight with strain, exhaustion. She'd shown astonishing strength so far, but he knew things would get worse. The man who got away, the aftershave man, remained a mystery, waiting for a chance at Claire. That couldn't happen—Riley couldn't let them get to her. No matter what, he wanted Claire protected and safe while he went on the hunt, starting with the wheezer.

He reached for her hand. "Come on. Haul ass."

Her eyes popped open. "
Haul ass
? You're a pig, Riley." Laughing, she let him pull her from the chair.

She could still laugh. She amazed him.

Taking out her car keys, she said, "I'll follow you to your house. I'm not leaving my car here. No one's going to do anything tonight."

He knew better than to argue.

* * *

Riley sat at his computer absently scratching the cat curled on his desk when she wandered in from the bedroom, puffy-eyed and rumpled from sleep.

He handed her the coffee he'd just poured for himself and related what he'd learned. "The wheezer is Joey 'The Horse' Fortunato, a low-level Mob soldier, occasional enforcer. He's reputed to work for the Geminelli family. His health knocked him back down in the ranks, although he was never very high in the organization. He usually works with the gambling interests, more as a bouncer these days." Riley keyed in a new command and continued. "He refused to say anything about the other guy, most likely the boss. Fortunato's not bright enough. I'm searching for Geminelli and gambling now, just to see what turns up." He scrolled down the list of search hits. "Nothing about anyone Fortunato works with—but it's always Mob business. The other man could be anyone."

"'Mob' as in 'Mafia'?" She pulled a kitchen chair up to the side of the desk and sank into it, took a sip of the coffee and grimaced. "Ugh. How can you drink this?" She got up and added water to her cup. "I've got to get some sugar packets to carry with me."

"Wimp." He could call her that because she was as far from it as anyone he knew. For months to come, he'd have nightmares about her attacking a hit man with air freshener. He swore he'd never again work with women or children.

"Okay, macho man, back to work."

"Yeah." He couldn't resist pushing her hair back from her face. He'd damn well better, he thought, snatching his hand back and focusing on his computer. "The Geminellis are one of the Sicilian Mafia families."

"This can't possibly be connected with me." She leaned toward the desk, studying the screen with the list of search results. "Look. That one mentions Elton Burley, the slimy developer. See what it's about. Is he connected to the Mafia or gambling?"

"The article says Burley canceled a contract with a construction company when he found the Geminellis owned it. The Geminellis are big into construction and gambling, among other things." Riley scrolled down to a picture. "This was taken in one of the casinos supposed to be partly owned by Vince Trigoni, who's linked to the Geminellis. It's the Trevi Casino
—
see the fountain in the background?" He pointed to a column of water off to one side. "It's a replica of the Trevi Fountain in Rome. The article says Tony Trapp
—
the guy in the picture
—
is Burley's nephew. Trapp must be a frequent visitor to Atlantic City. That's Trigoni with his arm around him."