Page 6 of Perfect Vengeance

His words: You have no idea what you’ve walked into.

Why he didn’t want to get caught in Rocco’s apartment.

Why he didn’t shoot her on the spot, and why he was chasing her down as if she were a common thief. To him, she was.

Annabelle ran over. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Kinsey angled the wallet for Annabelle to see.

Annabelle’s eyes went as wide as serving platters. “Oh. My. God.” She clapped a hand over her mouth.

“He ain’t God,” Kinsey muttered.

“He’s worse.” Margo shook her head. “Much worse.”

“FBI.” Gina swallowed. Hard. “We are so screwed.”

Chapter Two

Frustration and panic sat like balls of lead in the pit of Gina’s stomach. If it weren’t five in the morning, she would have slammed her front door shut to ease the tension stretching her muscles tighter than a bowstring, but that would have woken half the tenants in her East River high-rise.

The voice of reason won out, and she flicked on the crystal chandelier, holding the door open for Margo, Kinsey, and Annabelle to follow her inside. She locked the door behind them, then leaned back against it. The breath she exhaled sounded more like a rumble of thunder. Any second now and Zeus himself would blast her with a bolt of lightning for all the heinous crimes she’d committed in the last three hours.

J. Edgar Hoover, or whoever was in charge of the FBI these days, would have her head on a platter for running down one of his G-men in the middle of the street like he was roadkill. Special Agent Roadkill.

The idea she could joke at a time like this made her sick to her stomach. The man was their victim, and he had a name. They’d all seen it on his government credentials. Now it was permanently etched into her brain.

Jack Gates. Special Agent Jack Gates.

A lump as big as a grapefruit clogged her throat.

After draping the cloth tarp over the hunky fed, they’d hauled ass from the alley and dialed 911 on a disposable, untraceable cell phone to anonymously report an unconscious man lying on the side of Mullet Street in Union, New Jersey. Then they’d returned the rental car back to the lot, picked up Gina’s personal vehicle, and raced through the Holland Tunnel back to Manhattan.

God, she hoped he was all right. They’d made sure he hadn’t been lying in the middle of the road where someone else might run over him, but his face had been so pale, and they’d left him there. Alone. Bleeding.

She could practically hear the judge’s gavel slamming onto the bench as he pronounced them guilty. Where did people who crushed FBI agents with rented Dodges go? She could already see her and her friends toiling on their knees, doomed to scrubbing stinky prison latrines in the federal lockup for the next twenty years. Even the normally soothing tick tock from the grandfather clock wedged in the corner of the foyer gave no sense of peace. Tonight, it reminded her of a death knell. Theirs.

The black duffel bag slid off her shoulder, smacking the floor as it landed. Empty except for the utility belt she’d stuffed inside.

She took a steadying breath and inhaled the scent of lemon polish her housekeeper had used. With the adrenaline overload beginning to ebb, every muscle in her body—even her bones—felt as if they were about to melt into a giant puddle on the floor. Rational thought was impossible. Not with the long list of emotions stacking up fast.

Worry. Fear. Anger. Not to mention total disbelief. They’d just stepped into a mile-high pile of poop.

Annabelle plopped onto the long white sofa and turned on the Tiffany lamp perched on the end table. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Kinsey. “I can’t believe you ran over an FBI agent.”

Gina noted Annabelle’s thick “New Yawk” accent intensified whenever she got emotional, which had been pretty much nonstop for the last hour.

“How many times do I have to tell you it was an accident?” Kinsey plunked down on the opposite side of the sofa. “And I didn’t run him over. He ran into me.” She stabbed a finger at her chest.

Likewise, while Kinsey’s Kenyan lilt was normally a lyrical blend of British English and Swahili, now it also took on a slight New York punch, courtesy of living in the Big Apple for the last ten years. And from Annabelle getting under her skin.

Annabelle rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “What’s the difference?”

“Stop it, you two.” Margo took up her usual mediating position between the two women. “This isn’t helping matters.”

Annabelle huffed. “Fine, but we still need to talk about what happened.”

Gina clenched her hands, fighting the urge to smash something expensive to pieces. If she hadn’t already sold every luxury knickknack in her apartment to help the woman’s shelter, she would have.