Dark Ops: Hotshot Part 7

Shay glanced back at Vince, large and burly as always. Any irritations she felt would have to take a backseat. She could use his muscle right now. She'd bet Vince knew a thing or two about crowd control.

He joined her at the food table. "Have you heard anything more about the murders?"

"The police aren't talking to me."

"I meant have you heard anything via the grapevine from the kids." He nodded toward Angeline pressing her hand to a pregnant girl's stomach while two boys shuffled their feet behind her. "When I was a teen, everyone knew where the lines were drawn, what went down where, and who pulled it off."

"I wasn't as in the know as you." Even though she'd sure tried her best to fit in with him and his friends. She strode toward the back entrance again.

Vince followed, his words drifting over her shoulder like rumbling thunder. "You were off-limits to all of us because of your old man."

Not all of them. She'd managed to snag Tommy's attention. Vince's best friend. Her payback. "What would you have thought of me if I'd been someone else's daughter?"

"I would have thought you were lucky, spoiled, and ungrateful."

Not a rousing endors.e.m.e.nt. "You thought that anyway."

He just smiled.

She refused to care what he believed anymore.

Eli double-timed past, basketb.a.l.l.s tucked under his arms. "Heads up. Both sides are starting to trickle in."

"Thanks, Eli, got an eye on it." She stole a quick check out into the parking lot before looking back at Vince. He seemed genuinely interested in her work here, in the whole layout of the place, and she couldn't help but be sucked in by that. "Eli is our activities director. Eli, this is Major Vince Deluca, an . . . old friend."

The two men a.s.sessed each other with a territorial manner before Eli moved on. Vince hefted out another tray of drinks. "We never had anything like this back then. The way your dad set up the Civil Air Patrol was revolutionary."

More praise for Pops. Sweat trickled down her neck. "I'm hoping to set up the same sort of thing here, but it's tougher to get recruits these days."

"These kids make everybody back in our day look positively Disney."

"I wouldn't go that far, but yeah, there's a new and scary edge to what's going on with them. They're awash in dark tattoos and multiple piercings. Some people are frightened by their appearance, but actually it's the serious issues beneath it all that make them scary." She eyed four Apocalypse members heading for the hoops. "We've got two main gangs here, cliques or subsets of larger gangs in a big city."

"And they mingle together here without a riot erupting?" Vince scanned the outside rec area, his slow attention more than cursory politeness. "Pretty d.a.m.n impressive."

"We all hold our breath every week, but yeah, so far they've declared these gatherings temporary cease-fires. They're probably scoping out the other side for weaknesses, but we're hoping over time walls will start to fall for at least some of them. The cops step up their presence during the events, just in case."

"It looks kinda like junior high when the girls sit at one table and the boys sit at another." He tucked his hands in his jeans pockets, faded denim pulling taut.

She swallowed hard and looked away. "A kinder, gentler image, but basically there."

"What's the scoop on the two gangs?"

Her need for distance from Vince took a backseat to her fervor to help these kids. "Apocalypse and East Street Mercenaries."

He looked back and forth from the basketball court to the parking lot. "I see the similar clothes, almost like a uniform of sorts. But which is which?"

"Apocalypse wears more traditional gang-style clothes, saggy pants and oversized white T-shirts with a crisp crease down the front. 'Tall tees,' they're called around here."

"So those kids with polo shirts b.u.t.toned all the way to the top are Mercenaries? That boy, Kevin, wore a T-shirt."

"He also had a brand-new tattoo." She forced the image of his slashed chest out of her mind. "The Apocalypse tat is of the Grim Reaper, hood with the eyes."

"Ah, that's why he carried the machete."

She shuddered. "Exactly. Sadly, the clothes, the darkness, aren't an anomaly. East Street Mercenaries tattoo FEAR across their knuckles on each hand. They also wear an arm torc, a leather thong on their bicep. The wider it is, the more important that person is in the hierarchy. The Mercenaries use guns and bra.s.s knuckles with raised letters spelling FEAR, so during a beat down, the bruises leave their tag."

"You really are prepared for this congressional hearing." He stopped her with a hand to the arm. "These kids could be torqued off at you for that."

His callused touch jolted her to a stop and taunted her with a reminder that she hadn't changed so much after all. Somewhere inside her still lived that same screwed-up girl.

She eased her arm free. The neighborhood needed help, but she could well be breaking the thin thread of trust with these kids with her public statement. Hey wait . . . "How did you know I'm speaking at a congressional hearing?"

He hesitated for a blink. "Your father told me."

Her inner lie detector sensed another half-truth. She opened her mouth to push the issue.

Four Apocalypse members abandoned the basketball court and walked toward the back entrance, even though the signs clearly said to enter from the front.

"Nice kicks, Miss Ba.s.sett." Two piercings along his eyebrow glinting, Caden nodded toward her yellow gym shoes, signature low rise Chuck Taylors.

"Thanks, Caden." She smiled until he dipped back into the crowd.

Rickie pulled an Eli move and studied Vince through narrowed eyes, especially his bald head. Vince stared him down, both of them like dogs in a pack, alpha holding the longest, taking this past the more normal exchange with Eli.

Rickie shrugged away with something that sounded like, "f.u.c.k you, old man."

Vince turned back to Shay with an I told you so look. "Kicks are shoes I a.s.sume."

"Oh my, how our own resident bad boy has fallen behind the times."

"Tell that to F-U boy."

"Rickie? Yeah, he's bucking for a higher position in the ranks. But back to kicks." She extended her foot. "Caden's a suck-up."

It helped her tamp down the fear by looking for whatever normal teen behavior she could find in each one.

"So that one is Eddie Haskell busting a sag and packing heat."

"Bingo."

Vince waited while she lifted out a bag of paper plates and cups. "I've heard the baggy pants originated from prison life."

"You heard right. Prisoners can't have a belt in jail, and the clothes are often ill-fitting. Prisoners have to make do with what they get. When they leave jail, they continue to wear their pants low as a testimony to the time served, to garner respect. They went to prison for something they did for the gang."

"d.a.m.n." He watched her intently.

"What?"

"You sound just like your father."

"Are you trying to rile me up?" Good G.o.d, could she make it any clearer to him that she and her dad were on the outs? "Just because Don and I have both worked with teens does not make us alike in all other ways."

He held her gaze, not as he'd done with Eli and Rickie, but with an elemental buzz all the same. Forget playing the stare-down game. Her ego was just fine.

Vince stepped back into her line of sight. "While you unpack those bags, how about I unload the rest from the car?"

They would spend less time talking that way. Less tumult. "Sure."

"Do you mind if I look around the place after I finish? Check out what you've got going on here?"

All interest in her job aside, his request struck her as odd. "Is this another excuse to play bodyguard to make my daddy happy?"

"I'm just genuinely impressed and curious."

Why couldn't she accept his words at face value rather than a.s.suming he had some sort of hidden agenda?

Suddenly Vince smiled. "Go ahead and say it."

"What?" she snapped this time.

"What Rickie said. Tell me to f.u.c.k off. You know you want to."

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from accommodating him. Denying him access would sound petty. His looking around wouldn't harm anything. "Feel free to wander around. And thank you for your help. People are showing up sooner than we expected."

"You're welcome." He sauntered away, his b.u.t.t looking too good in jeans that fit.

A baggier fit to those pants would go a long way toward reining in thoughts she did not want when it came to Vince Deluca.

She had other concerns tonight. She looked out over the sea of teens and wondered. Was the boy out there? The one who'd called her earlier this week? No one else on the staff had heard from him. She'd dealt with other calls in the interim. Why did he stick in her head so? Because of her own past? Or Vince's?

Regardless, she had to accept she might well never have closure on a kid who faced machetes and bra.s.s knuckle beat downs.

Vince ducked out of the Cleveland Community Center, the listening device in place and ready for flight. He'd done his job.

So why did he feel like that bee was stinging him all the way back to the parking lot?

He scanned past the cars to his Ducati loaner. He tensed. Two males were checking out his bike: adult males. Vince relaxed.

A shorter man he didn't recognize stood beside the center's activities director, Eli, the dude with the head full of blond dreadlocks. Vince tucked around the last car between him and them. He needed to make this quick and get to the hangar.

"Anything I can help you gentlemen with?"

The stranger turned first, a young guy in khakis and a yellow polo shirt. Given his uptight haircut and prep school look, the preppy would probably be horrified to realize he wore anything hinting of a gang "uniform." Of course that open top b.u.t.ton saved him from totally fitting the bill.

Eli stuck out his hand. "Hey there, Major Deluca. Remember, we met earlier during setup?"

"Eli, right?"

"You got it. And this is Anthony. He's an aide for Congressman Mooney from California." Eli's chest puffed as he hooked his thumbs in his khaki pockets, sporting an outback look. "Anthony's here to check out the lay of the land, gather more information for the congressman to take back to the congressional committee."

The preppy guy thrust his hand forward. Vince clasped back, careful to stay clear of the bandage he noticed on the guy's wrist. "Nice to meet you."

"Cool ride." Stepping away, Anthony stroked the handlebars. "Where did you pick this up? I thought all us public servants made poverty wages."

"A good friend hooked me up with a loaner while I'm on vacation." Vince tied his do-rag over his head, itchy to get to work.

Eli whistled low. "Generous friend. You have a sugar mama?"

"Afraid not." He strapped on his helmet, hoping they would get the hint.

"Ah," Eli answered. "I wish I had your connections. My bike tends to stay in my garage, but I enjoy just owning it, showing it off on occasion. The women do go wild when you crank the engine."

Vince stifled the urge to tap his boot restlessly. "Well, I should be-"

Anthony stroked the leather seat. "What kind of ride do you have?"

Eli shrugged. "Nothing as cool as this. Just a 1098 S Tricolore."

Vince paused. "Not too shabby."

About a twenty-five-K bike, if he remembered right. He eyed the activities director-an activities director for an underfunded community center.

Eli winked. "I do have a sugar mama."

Anthony shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his loafers. "I need to start taking notes from you two."

Eli glanced over his shoulder. "I think I hear Angeline calling for my help. Anthony, get your notepad ready." He nodded to Vince. "Nice meeting you, Major."

The duo walked away.

Vince muttered, "Waxer."

Guys like Eli spent more time washing and waxing the bike than riding it. For guys like that, the bike was all about impressing the babes, not honoring the ride.

And h.e.l.l no, he wasn't jumping to snap judgments just because the activities director seemed to be exactly the kind of guy Shay admired.

They'd made him come to this stupid "party" even though he might run into her.

He wanted to go home, but he couldn't wimp out. n.o.body was here for the forced fun. They came to scope out the other side. Get the lowdown in order to make the next hit for their own.

He bounced the ball three times fast before arcing it at the net for . . . a miss.

His fellow banger snagged the rebound and shot. "How lame is this?"

"Food's good." Better than anything at home. Except Shay Ba.s.sett had come to restock the tables, and he'd been forced out here in case she recognized his voice from that suicide hotline call. He'd disguised his voice, and it wasn't like she knew him that well. Still, he wasn't risking jack s.h.i.t when it came to her.

So he continued to shoot hoops with the jag-off he called his brother. He shot again, ball rolling around the rim.