Page 63 of Fury
She extended her hand. He shook it. The deal had been made. There was no backing out now.
“I don’t just scratch,” she said. “I bite.”
That made him smile. How could it not? This was going to be the best undercover job of his life.
Maybe even legendary.
Luciano entered the room, his gaze jumping from one to the other. “What’s the plan?”
“We’re working together,” Carrera replied.
“And it’s going to be ugly and vicious,” Slash added.
Luciano smiled. “Sounds fun.” After a beat, he said, “Carrera, I need to borrow you.”
“I’m out,” Slash said.
After flipping Carrera off, she stopped to kiss Luciano on both cheeks before exiting the room.
Luciano held up his hand until the front door shut. Then, he tapped his phone. “Let’s make sure she gets to her car.”
One more tap on his phone and a screen rose from the credenza across the room. Up popped a live feed of Slash walking to her truck. Rather than getting in, she stood at the lit fountain, staring into the bubbling water.
“Things will get complicated between you two,” Luciano said.
“I got this.”
“I hope so, because she’s very special to G-ma.”
Both men watched as Slash jumped into her SUV and drove away.
“Who’s our target?” Carrera asked.
Luciano set his laptop on the bar. A few quick strokes and he displayed a man’s face on the screen. The man wore a suit, no tie, his dark hair mussed, his eyes beady.
“This is Garren Butler,” Luciano explained. “He was in the area when Mara was killed, but I don’t think he murdered her.”
Mara’s lifeless body popped into his thoughts. Pain and fury flooded him, and he curled his hands into fists.
“Why not?” Carrera asked.
“He’s known as The Red Rose Killer. He leaves a single rose with his victims.”
Carrera’s blood ran cold.
“Law enforcement brought him in for questioning, his lawyer got involved, and he was released. The trail went cold, until now.” Luciano pulled up a video.
Carrera watched as Garren Butler entered a woman’s home in the middle of the night. Luciano fast-forwarded as he sexually assaulted her, shot her in cold blood. Then, he left a red rose on the other pillow.
“Jesus,” Carrera bit out. “I’m in.”
“My jet is waiting at Dulles.”
“Where are we going?”
“Charlotte.”
Carrera had come prepared. He’d swung by his house, changed into a black shirt and pants, pulled on body armor. Beneath his black jacket sat a shoulder holster with his Glock. A second weapon filled his ankle holster.
