THE ENFORCER (The Gafanelli Mob #4)

2. Too Much Too Late

Too Much Too Late

JAVI

The beast inside my body is on hiatus. Today, at least.

The suit on my shoulders feels tight as s**t. I hate wearing these fuckers, honestly—particularly when someone expects me to, but when the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Associate Director of the Criminal Investigative Division calls you in for a briefing, you wear the goddamned suit and shut your even more damning mouth.

And my mouth has been plenty damning. I can’t seem to keep it from getting me into trouble.

I’m craving a cigarette. Badly. In the bathroom of DC’s local FBI building, I stare back at my reflection, taking in my father’s face, and as I leave, walking through the gray and white-walled hallways of the headquarters, the building around me buzzes, the slight smell of nicotine and an anxious energy permeating through the stale air, infecting it with a quiet nervousness that makes my skin thrum. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I turn each corner. My fingers flick at the air—a nervous smoker’s habit I can’t quite quit, and the inside of my stomach begins to clench as a new agent I recognize almost runs past me, speed-walking over the marble-colored tile.

I reach out, grabbing his arm, and he stops, shifting on his feet like a toddler who’s had too much to drink. He crosses his legs.

“Whoa there, Edgecomb,” I grunt. “Bladder a little weak these days? Or is there an Olympic track try-out in the hallway that I missed?” I let the young guy go, eyeing him closely. “What the hell is going on?”

The younger associate meets my eyes, his stare darting between me and the rest of the hall. He blinks as if he doesn’t understand a word I’m saying. “What? Didn’t you hear?”

“So, the try-outs are real.” I nod. “Looks like I picked the wrong day to forget my spandex and cleats.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head, his thin nose scrunching. “The senator. Robert Fletcher. He’s awake.”

With those two words, my blood runs cold. A chill runs down my spine, making it stiffen to straight-rod levels and I flex all five fingers in my right hand into a small ball, my fist struggling to keep from squeezing. My voice lowers.

“Show me.”

He ushers me into one of the nearest rooms. On the screen runs a breaking headline, bolded in red, its text running across the screen at a neck-breaking pace. I read it.

“Fletcher awakes; NY senator wakes from bullet-ridden coma.”

My stare tightens on the screen as a “talking head” appears, a ruddy-faced reporter clearing his throat. I look back towards the open door I just walked through, choosing to ignore it. Meeting be damned.

The reporter begins to talk:

It’s been a year since Robert Fletcher, the often-controversial senator hailing from the great state of New York, was shot in a Manhattan opera house, rendering the vocal and very social member of Congress unconscious as he lay in a hospital bed fighting for his life.

Today, sources close to the senator do confirm that the congressman has indeed regained consciousness. A source of much debate over the last few years due to the mystery surrounding his missing daughter and alleged ties to infamous New York-based Gafanelli mob, Fletcher is said by officials to be doing well, recovering in his new ward at New York Presbyterian, which has been sealed due to media frenzy and overwhelming…

“Mondello.” A voice nearby barks my name. “You’re late for your meeting. Mr. Langley has made it clear that there won’t be another if you miss this one. In fact, something else will be missing if you do not attend… Your badge.” Thomas Turner, a man I likened to a bull—flared nostrils and all—beckons me, and this time, I follow, fighting the urge to punch the pigheaded prick in the back of his thick neck. My fists squeeze and I can feel the blood pumping through my fingers, the vessels begging to burst.

I turn into the dimly lit meeting room less than sixty seconds later. Turner takes off, leaving me alone with him. Langley. Decked out in a navy suit that could double as armor. His stare is blue ice—a cold, serrated steel.

I sit at the table, glaring.

“Langley. You look good. I see you’ve got coffee. I could use one of those. Hope yours has a laxative this time. Looks like you could use one.”

“Shut up, Mondello,” he snaps. “My patience with you is at an all-time low.”

I nod, looking at the older man. “Likewise. It’s not everyday the television tells you something that your boss should have. A shame. I like surprises. Just not ones that kick me in the teeth.” I raise an eyebrow. “Good to know you’ve still got my back.”

Langley blinks, his face furrowing. “Fletcher was a need-to-know basis.”

“And didn’t I need to know this? Know that a man I’ve been investigating, as the chief officer of our Criminal Gang unit, was alive and, apparently, very well.”

“We just found out.”

“Bullshit. By my calculations, from what I know of the prick who was reporting this, the Bureau’s probably been sitting on this information for about a week. Which means I’m behind the eight-ball and Fletcher’s already put some pieces in motion. If this were a game of chess, that would mean that my opponent has already taken my Bishop and Knight, and my Queen is about to get f****d in the ass.”

“Nice imagery, Mondello. We’ll leave talk of your love life out of this conversation for now, don’t you think?” He crosses his arms. “I want you in New York.”

My eyes slant. “New York?”

“Yes. Reach out to your old contact. You know the one.” He glares at me unblinkingly, and the shiver that ran down my spine in the hallway turns into a shot of ice. Frozen. Full of untapped fear.

“You mean the one from the Gafanelli mob?” I mention the notorious crime organization casually, knowing that Langley won’t—saying what he dares not say, the subtle suggestion that ties Fletcher to the murderous Manhattan mafia syndicate.

I need no subtlety. Everyone in this building—hell, in the States, now know of Senator Robert Fletcher’s foray into Hell as well as the gang of demons he’s taken with him.

Langley nods, as if the words won’t come out.

“Can’t. He’s dead.”

“And what about your father’s connections? Know anyone who…?”

“No.” I sigh, blinking slowly. My eyes blaze, a subtle heat simmering behind my irises. It makes my skin grow hot. “Next suggestion.”

Langley leans forward. “Why don’t you come up with something then, Mondello? We can’t afford another assassination attempt on Fletcher. We need to keep our ears to the street.”

The navy suit across his shoulders stretches as he silently regards me, and the air in the room grows still. The smell of expensive cologne-soaked cotton reaches my nostrils, and through the collar of Langley’s white button-down shirt, I sense the undertow of sweat, the tension thickening in the room from the unspoken statements.

Langley’s ass is on the line. And that means so is mine.

Mafia-affiliated or not, the Feds can’t afford another assassination attempt on Senator Fletcher, and my thoughts take a tumble, reaching for the recesses of my mind. The parts that I’ve secreted away, the doors I’ve closed.

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“I’ve got a contact.” I watch Langley’s gaze lift. “In San Francisco.” My pulse begins to pick up. The suit on my frame seems to shrink to stifling levels, and a grit grinds into my voice, making each word grate as it comes out. “I’ll explain.”

Twenty minutes later, I exit back into the hallway from which I came, the word “f**k” flying from the edge of my lips. I take the tie from around my neck and throw it to the tiled floor. My phone almost follows but then I open the text browser before I can flip the rest of my s**t. I start typing fast.

Ang, how soon can you book me a ticket to San Francisco?

Angie takes two minutes to write back.

Angie:

San Francisco? What’s in San Francisco?

My throat tightens as I type back.

ME:

The Golden Gate Bridge, nosy. And a witness. An important one.

I hesitate to write the next part.

If a person you didn’t trust told you that your life was in danger, would you believe it?

Angie:

Depends.

She writes back.

Is this person my waxer? Because the last time I saw her, she told me that my upper lip was fine and I went to my high school reunion looking less like Charlize Theron and more like Charlie Chaplin…

She lets the letters trail off. I message back in under a minute.

ME:

Never mind.

Her text comes back just as quick.

Angie:

Seriously, though. It depends on who the source is. If the untrustworthy person you’re referring to is my waxer then, no. Absolutely not.

If that untrustworthy person is you, then I have to be honest …

The answer would be hell no. I know that you’re one of my oldest friends and I’m your assistant, but I have to tell you the truth, Javi.

You might be the biggest liar I know.

I mean, I know it’s necessary. For your job. Your livelihood. But between you and my waxer, when it comes to trust… I’d take my chances with a Charlie Chaplin upper lip any day.