Beverly Barton - Grace Under Fire

Rafe wasn't in the habit of sticking his nose into other people's affairs, but he knew what it was like to be a kid in trouble, going down the wrong path, headed straight for a life of crime. Anybody who knew him would tell you that Rafe Devlin was a bad-ass, a guy who didn't take any guff from anybody, a man who minded his own business and expected others to do the same. But a few of his friends were aware of another side to Rafe and even suspected his one weakness. His Achilles' heel was kids in trouble. Looking back now, he realized that if Detective Roy Dutton of the Knoxville PD hadn't interceded in his life when he was eighteen, he'd probably be in the pen by now. Either that or dead.

Before hunting down Troy Leone in the apartment he shared with his twenty-six-year-old waitress girlfriend, Rafe had put in a call to Sawyer McNamara to okay it with him. After all, Rafe was on an assignment and Dundee 's wouldn't look kindly on him doing anything that screwed up his undercover work in St. Camille. And the Feds would hang him out to dry if he messed up their well-laid plans.

He wasn't sure why he felt compelled to have a talk with a boy he didn't even know. Hell, admit it, man, he told himself. It's because of the sister. Elsa Leone. And it really had nothing to do with the fact that he was attracted to the woman. After all, he'd probably never see her again. But knowing she had practically risked her life just to talk to her little brother, to try to persuade him his new high-paying job was a first-class ticket to the world of organized crime, reminded him of Sandy. His big sister had done her level best to help him, but all he'd given her was grief. God, what he'd give to be able to do that relationship all over again. But he'd never have the chance. He'd lost his only sibling just as he'd begun turning his life around.

Rafe parked two blocks away and strode through the rundown neighborhood on the east end of town. The citizenry was a mixture of black, white and Hispanic. 1212 East 7th Street was a two-story house, probably at least seventy-five years old, with peeling white paint on the exterior and a few cracked windows. From the row of mailboxes near the front entrance, Rafe surmised there were six apartments. Damn small apartments would be his guess just from looking at the building. The minute he entered the foyer, he smelled cabbage cooking, a none-too-pleasant odor. He checked the numbers on the three downstairs apartment doors. 121 2-E was, as he'd figured, upstairs. As he made his way up the rickety, scuffed staircase, he heard the loud shouts of a couple fighting in one of the downstairs apartments.

1212-E was on the left. Rafe raised his hand and knocked loudly several times. A long-haired, barefoot boy in tattered jeans and no shirt came to the door.

"Yeah, what do you want?" The kid glowered at Rafe.

"Troy Leone?"

Giving Rafe his I'm-a-tough-guy glare, Troy said, "Who wants to know?"

There was only one language a cocky, smart-mouthed kid like this knew. Rafe punched Troy in the middle of his chest, pushing him backward as Rafe moved into the apartment and, using his foot, slammed the door shut behind him.

"Hey, man, what's this all about?" Troy took a defensive stance. One hand slid into the pocket of his jeans.

"If you've got a knife, let it stay in your pocket," Rafe advised. He whipped the Beretta 8000 Cougar from its resting place beneath his belt, shoved Troy up against the wall and rammed the nose of the pistol under the boy's chin. "You've got a nosy sister, Leone. The boss doesn't like nosy women. She's gonna cause you trouble."

"I'm not responsible for my sister. I've told her to stay out of my life, but she's been like a mama to me, so she won't leave me alone."

"There's no place for mama's boys in our organization."

"I ain't no mama's boy."

"You willing to prove it?" Rafe eased the gun away from Troy 's face, but kept it in his hand.

Troy puffed out his skinny chest. "Yeah, I'm willing. Aren't I a good worker? Just ask Mr. Poarch."

"Mr. Poarch isn't involved in this. I'm bringing you word from Booth Fortier himself."

Troy 's eyes widened in shock, and if Rafe interpreted his expression correctly, a healthy dose of fear. "The Booth Fortier."

"That's right. Mr. Poarch didn't tell you who his boss was, did he?"

"Hey, look, my sister isn't involved in any of this. I don't want Mr. Fortier to go after her or nothing. Okay?"

There might be hope for this kid, Rafe figured. He was scared at the thought of working for Fortier and he still cared about his sister.

"Mr. Fortier has a little job for you to do. If you're interested, it'll mean some extra cash," Rafe said. "But if it's not your thing, then we need to know now so we can terminate your employment."

"What-what sort of job?"

"Have you ever killed anybody?"

Troy Leone turned chalk-white. "Nah." He shook his head.

Rafe figured the kid was shaking like a leaf inside.

"If you're interested in being part of the organization, you've got to be capable of following any order you're given. Now's the time for us-" Rafe pointed his Beretta at Troy "-and you to decide if you're in or out."

"And if I'm out?"

"As long as you keep your mouth shut, then we're square. You go your way and don't look back." Rafe gave him a few minutes to consider his only two options. "Well, kid, what's it gonna be?"

"I-I'm not sure I could kill somebody."

"Okay." Rafe put away his gun, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope that held five hundred dollars in crisp, straight-from-the-bank, hundred-dollar bills. This wasn't the first time he'd used his own money to help out a kid in trouble. "Consider this severance pay. And don't show up at the warehouse ever again."

"And that's it? You'll leave my sister alone? And you won't come after me?"

"That's it. Keep your nose clean, kid." Rafe saluted Troy, then left him standing there with his mouth gaping open and a stunned look on his face.

Rafe's con wouldn't have worked with a tougher, meaner kid. Making a boy decide immediately whether he was willing to kill, willing to become a murderer, separated the redeemable from the hopeless. Once a boy had no qualms about murder, he was usually lost forever. Rafe was glad that Troy still had a conscience, not only for Troy 's sake, but for Elsa Leone's sake.

Getting anything accomplished at the office this afternoon had been impossible. Every time Grace had heard a phone ring, she'd tensed. Why hadn't he called back? She knew what Jed thought-that the man had been found out and silenced. After all, if he was still alive, why hadn't he shown up at the designated time and place? After hours of waiting, trying desperately to hold on to the least bit of hope that the opportunity to get her hands on documented proof against Booth Fortier wasn't lost to her forever, she'd finally given up and let Jed drive her home.

They had eaten a late supper of tossed salads and cold cuts, but she hadn't had much appetite. The adrenaline rush she'd experienced at Terrebonne Park had depleted her energy and left her stomach tied in knots. After nibbling at her food, and assuring Laverna that everything was delicious, all she'd wanted to do was take a long soak in her bathtub and go to sleep.

Jed had hovered over her, as if he thought she was so fragile that the day's disappointment might shatter her. He had offered her his strength, but she'd turned him away. She didn't dare chance a repeat of last night's intimacy. Not that the idea of making love with Jed didn't appeal to her-it did. But she'd never been a woman for casual affairs, for going-nowhere relationships. Until Jed, she'd never had sex without being in love, and something told her that, given half a chance, she'd fall head over heels for her big, rugged bodyguard.