Cat's Paw - Chapter Two

Cat's Paw
​Chapter Two
​

As he dragged the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead, Alex judged that he was two hours into his hike, though he had no watch or phone to verify that estimate. If he was right, it should be about noon. His stomach concurred.

The heat rose off the road in unrelenting waves, baking him like a piece of overcooked meat. He slapped at another bug that had nailed him on the neck. They’d proven relentless. 
​
Just another kind of hell.

The road signs posted near the prison, warning drivers not to pick up hitchhikers, had reduced his chances of a ride to zip. He couldn’t argue with that wisdom, except when it came to him.

According to one of the more helpful guards, he had two ways to get to the town. He could stick to the main highway, which angled north before it cut back south, adding another hour to an already eight-hour hike. Or cut through the Tunica Hills, which would offer fewer chances to be picked up by a passing motorist. He’d opted for the latter, eager to get home. 

It wasn’t long before Alex had regretted that decision. He’d already stripped out of his shirt and stuffed it inside his bag. Right now, he’d commit armed robbery for another bottle of water. Hell, it didn’t even have to be cold.

At this rate, he wouldn’t make St. Francisville until five or six in the evening. Then, if he was lucky, he’d find someone headed for Baton Rouge, where he could catch a bus. At this rate, he wouldn’t be at home in New Orleans until midnight. 

Alex heard the sound of an approaching car and turned, casting a hopeful thumbs-up, though he knew it was a waste of time. As expected, the black sedan flew by him.

“Thanks for nothing,” he muttered, dropping his thumb.

To his surprise, the car slowed and then stopped along the side of the road.

“All right!” he said, taking off at a jog. As he drew near, he realized it was a BMW with tan leather seats. A carjacker’s wet dream.

The passenger window rolled down in a smooth motion. The driver wore tortoiseshell sunglasses, her mink brown hair up in a loose bun with a few tendrils floating down onto her slim neck. He guessed her to be in her early thirties. From what he could see, her body was lingerie-model worthy, with that toned “I will rock your world” vibe. 

A light tan emphasized her subtle curves, from the sleeveless, blood-red silk top that clung to her ample breasts, to the molded pair of jeans. His instincts twitched. What the hell was she doing out in the middle of nowhere? 

Bait. She had to be. Just the kind of thing Vladimir Buryshkin would use to get him on the team. What else would a hot and horny ex-con want? 

The woman flipped up her sunglasses, revealing startling green eyes. “Need a ride?” she asked, her voice low.

But no hint of a Russian accent. For some reason, that made him even more uneasy.

“Do you usually pick up hitchhikers?” he demanded. 

“Depends.”

“It’s dangerous riding around with strangers,” he said, as if that wasn’t obvious.

“I promise to be on my very best behavior,” she replied.

Alex frowned. He could easily become the victim here. This woman could claim he tried to rape her, and then he’d be back in a cell. Or working for Buryshkin to make those bogus charges magically vanish.

“I’ll pass,” he said, and set off again. 

Rather than blowing down the highway, she coasted alongside him.

“Are you crazy?” she said. “It’s hotter than hell out there. Besides, I have a proposition for you.”

His instincts had been right. “I’m not interested. I have my own plans.”

“We know. You want to find out who planted the coke in your house. We can help you with that.”

He ignored her and kept walking.

“Come on, Parkin, don’t be an idiot.” At the mention of his name, Alex came to a halt, as did the car. “We have resources you can’t even imagine. We can make this happen for you.”

“Who are you?”

“Morgan Blake.”

“Okay then, Morgan Blake. The answer is still no. Just stay the hell out of my life.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Go the fuck away!” he shouted. “Tell your boss the same.”

His anger appeared to stun her. “It’s your call. And your funeral.”

The woman left him behind on a road that shimmered in the heat, shimmered with his anger. 

All those years in Angola—having someone tell him when to sleep, when to eat, when to shower—had done a number on his head. 

“This time I do it my own way. Nobody owns me now. Nobody.”

​* * * 

An hour later Alex wasn’t surprised to find the Beemer sitting on the side of the road, Ms. Blake leaning against the vehicle. She had a full bottle of water in hand. More bait.

“Not going there,” he muttered. 

Alex owed Grigori, not Grigori’s uncle. Buryshkin could go screw himself. It was a fine line to walk, but Alex was good at that—or he wouldn’t still be alive. 

“Changed your mind yet?” she called out.

“No.”

“God, you’re a stubborn SOB.”

He didn’t bother to reply. As he walked by her, he grabbed the bottle out of her hand and kept going. And couldn’t help but notice the line of sweat that had rolled down into her cleavage.

“You were a very special snowflake while you were in prison,” she said. “You had Russians guarding you as if you were a rare Fabergé egg. If not for that, you’d be dead, or messed up so bad you’d have to drink your food through a straw.”

“So?” 

“So that means you’re important to them. That intrigues us, Mr. Parkin.”

Us?

​That hit home and he halted, turning back toward her. “You don’t work for Buryshkin?”

“Hell no.” She spat the words as if she’d gotten a taste of road kill.

As he thought this through, he unscrewed the cap and took a massive gulp of water to wet his throat. It didn’t matter who she worked for. 

“Still not interested,” he said. 

“Not interested enough in knowing who put you in prison? Not interested in why you lost all those years of your life?”

She had his full attention now. “You know who it was?”

“People talk to us, and we pay attention to what they say. There were those who wanted you out of the way because you were causing trouble. You were too gung ho, and drug lords hate that sort of thing, especially if you’re good at your job.”

“What’s the catch?”

“We want you to help us put Vladimir Buryshkin behind bars.”

Well, hell. “Why me? Besides the fact that I’m a special snowflake, as you put it.” 

That got him a wry grin. “Because your cellmate was a Russian who excels in wet work, and you’re best buds with Buryshkin’s nephew. That gives you a leg up in their organization.”

“And?” 

“Since Grigori watched your back all these years, there’s going to be a quid pro quo for that protection. We want you on our team when his uncle insists you join his organization. Because he will.”

“You sound really sure of that.”

“We are.”

“So who the hell are you people?” he demanded.

“We’re the people who are going to keep you and your sister Miri alive.”

Miri. He hated hearing her name from anyone’s lips, especially someone who had their own agenda. 

“That isn’t an answer,” he said.

“I work for Veritas,” she replied. “It’s Latin for truth. You might have heard of us.”

He had heard of them. They were a private shadow agency known for taking huge risks, the kind that law enforcement folks avoided. They’d put several big-name criminals out of circulation in ways that made the alphabet agencies envious as hell.

From what he’d heard, they were financed by a consortium of folks with incredibly deep pockets. Veritas was chummy with the kind of VIPs who could smooth things over when they colored outside the lines, which was most of the time. 

Rumors said they had a friend in the Oval Office, one at 10 Downing Street, and others in rarefied offices across the globe, including the Vatican. But no matter their connections, they weren’t part of any government and that made them even more dangerous. 

“You work for us,” she continued, “and we’ll give you all we have once Buryshkin is in custody. Or dead.”

It was a sure bet the drug lord would try to recruit him. Could he parlay that into a takedown and restore his reputation? Was it worth the risk? A sharp flash of hope ignited in his chest, then went out just as quickly. Even if the courts found he’d been set up, no one in the DEA would welcome him back. He was tainted goods. 

No way. 

It was suicide. If the Russians thought he was working for Veritas, they’d kill him. No matter what this woman said, he couldn’t trust her or the people she worked for. If he did, he’d be putting his sister in danger, and nothing was worth that risk. 

Alex drained the last of the water. He tossed the empty bottle at her and she caught it effortlessly. “No deal.”

“Huh. I thought you were smart. You could have at least strung me along until I drove you to the next town.”

He set off again, ignoring her. 

“You will regret this,” Morgan called out. “The Russians won’t ask. If you turn them down, they’ll go after your sister. We can keep her safe.”

He caught the threat and spun around. “You go anywhere near Miri, I’ll break you. You got that?” 

“You won’t get the chance, not once Buryshkin is done with you.”

“Just stay the hell away from her.”

Morgan got in her car, then caught up with him. The passenger window went down again. 

“If you ever grow a pair, let us know. Maybe we’ll still be interested.” 

A full bottle of water landed at his feet right before the Beemer zoomed away, kicking up dust. He resisted the urge to flip off the driver. As the car vanished from view, his gut told him he might have made a big mistake.

Chapter Three
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​​Cat's Paw
​Veritas Book 1
(c) 2016 Jana G. Oliver
 All Rights Reserved

Available on Amazon