Free Outside the Lines by Lisa Desrochers Page B

Pop’s responsible for his fair share of them. Hell, so am I.
    I keep hoping whoever did this will show themselves somehow—maybe try to take out Pop or Savoca in lockup . . . something public that will clue me in to which side they’re on. But the longer I sit here with my thumbs up my ass, the harder it’s going to be take Chicago back.
    I need answers.
    I pull up my contacts, hit the number I’ve been avoiding.
    â€œCallahan, FBI,” the disinterested voice says through my phone.
    â€œI need information.”
    â€œWho is this?”
    â€œYour worst nightmare,” I tell him.
    â€œDelgado. Just what I fucking needed today,” he mutters under his breath. “How the hell did you get my private cell number?”
    â€œFrom Ulie. You don’t remember your hard-on for my sister, Agent Callahan? When you gave her your card after Pop’s trial and said ‘anything you need, give me a call’? Or have you moved on? Out of sight out of mind—”
    â€œYou know we have nothing to do with any of your WITSEC benefits,” he cuts in. “If you think you need more money, or you don’t like where the US Marshals Service has located you, you need to take that up with their office or the DOJ.”
    It’s the FBI who promises you the world when they’re talking you into Federal Witness Protection. What they don’t tell you is that they’re not the ones who are going to see that shit through. The US Marshals Service are the poor bastards who get stuck with that detail. But this FBI douche has the information I need, so today, he’s going to deal with me whether he likes it or not.
    â€œI need to get my family the hell out of here,” I say. “Who tried to kill us?”
    â€œYou’re in witness protection, Delgado. What is it you think you can do with that information?”
    â€œWho was it?” I press.
    He blows a sigh into the phone. “We don’t know.”
    â€œChrist, you guys are useless.” I drag a hand down my face. “Then who was the goon? Who did I kill at the house?”
    â€œHis name was Andre Yankov,” he says. I hear him bang on computer keys in the background. “He was a gun for hire, but he might as well have been a ghost for all we could tell. His signature was leaving absolutely no trace. So, thanks, Delgado. You did us a huge favor taking him out.”
    I want to pound my phone into the wall. This guy’s a moron. “Follow the money trail.”
    â€œIt’s always the first thing we check. We’ve never been able to trace any payment directly back to Yankov. He handled his money as cleanly as he handled his hits.”
    â€œWho are some of his other marks?” Guilt by association. If he’s taking down Savoca’s enemies, that’s all I need to know.
    â€œIn the last few years we suspect he’s responsible for Nasca, Campo, Riva . . .”
    Those all fall on our side of the line, so this guy was definitely in Savoca’s pocket.
    â€œ. . . Sauro,” he continues, and my head snaps up. Richard Sauro was Victor Savoca’s brother-in-law, which still doesn’t rule out Savoca’s involvement in his hit, but it’s surprising. “. . . Baglio, Gray . . . and the one we’re sure of but haven’t been able to prove is Alderman Carpenter.”
    Shit
. What everyone knows about the hit on Carpenter was that Pop contracted it. The good alderman was trying to tighten oversight and tariffs on the port. Pop wasn’t having any of it. The port is Delgado territory. The increased regulations would have made doing business difficult. He tried reasoning with Carpenter, but when that proved fruitless, the politician went mysteriously missing.
    This asshole was working for both sides.
    â€œSo, you see, it’s not as easy to sort out as you might have hoped,” he says, master of the