Page 33 of Jonas (Silver Team #4)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Three hours later and my dick still hadn’t recovered from seeing Derrika bent over, head in the kitchen sink.

Never in my life would I have guessed I’d get hard watching a woman wash her hair.

Sure, a lot of it had to do with how good her ass looked in her jeans, and most of it had to do with me wanting to strip her out of those jeans and fuck her again.

But the fact I wanted to fuck while she was lathering up her hair was not a fantasy I’d thought I’d ever have.

Yet there I was driving through an upscale neighborhood in Great Falls, Virginia with a three-hour-old softie that just wouldn’t fucking behave.

“Stakeouts suck,” Derrika mumbled from the passenger seat, snapping pictures of all the cars parked on the street and in the driveways.

“You’re not wrong,” I agreed. “My least favorite part of a job is the sit and wait.”

“More of an action man.”

“Yup.”

I was driving slowly down the street so Derrika could get her pictures, but not slow enough anyone looking out their windows would think twice about an Escalade rolling down their street.

“So this is how the other half live.”

“More like the top five percent,” I corrected. “There’s not a house on this block under six mil.”

On our drive over, Derrika had spent time researching the neighborhood.

This included looking over old real estate listings.

With no effort at all, we now had the layout to Lou Peterson’s thirteen-thousand-square-foot mansion, thanks to the 3D tour.

The aerial view showed there was no easy point of entry without being seen.

The houses might’ve been huge but the lots were small and there was no fence or shrubbery blocking the house to the left from a clear view of the Peterson house.

There was some coverage from the neighbor to the right but not from the house at the rear beyond the Petersons’ pool and tennis courts.

“Who needs eleven bathrooms? And seriously, two islands and three sinks in the kitchen, that’s absurd.”

She wasn’t wrong. The picture of the kitchen she’d shown me while I was driving was absurd, and I’d only been able to give it a cursory glance.

“Though,” she carried on. “I can’t lie; if I had Lou Peterson’s money, I’d definitely have that closet.

Not that I have a use for a closet the size of a normal person’s living room, and not enough shoes to fill all the racks, and I’m not even sure what the cedar alcove is used for, but it looked badass.

And the vanity, makeup, sitting area space would never be used but it sure would be pretty to look at while I’m tugging on my ratty-assed jeans and boots.

“And the outdoor kitchen. That’s a must, but not the marble countertops. That’s a waste of money. But the rest, hell yeah. But I’d also add an outdoor shower on the other side of the wall since there’d already be plumbing out there.”

Outdoor shower.

Damn, the woman was full of surprises. Though it shouldn’t’ve been surprising a woman who grew up on a ranch, loving the outdoors, would want to shower outside.

“No shade to East Coast architecture and building materials. People like what they like and I suppose a lot of it has to do with where they grew up, but the ginormous pillars out front are not my thing. And who wants an enormous house when your neighbor can look into your windows?”

“Don’t know. I’d rather spend my money on the land and have a small house smack in the middle.”

“Yeah.”

I didn’t miss her wistful tone.

“As soon as this is over, baby, we’ll hit my place and you can get out of the city for a while,” I reminded her.

Just like the first time I’d made the suggestion, I waited for the unease to hit at the thought of her in my space.

And just like the first time, none came.

Instead, I wondered what she’d think about my house.

Knowing her, she wouldn’t give it much headspace, except for the huge fireplace and stone hearth that went clear to the vaulted ceiling.

I had a feeling she’d dig that, and maybe the bathroom.

Unlike Cash, who was loud and proud about his love for baths, I wasn’t a fan.

Yet, I’d allowed the builder to talk me into a big, jetted tub—he said it was for resale value.

I’d never filled that tub. With Derrika there, we’d break it in.

She’d be all about the land, the privacy, the view of Piney Creek.

I was so wrapped up in my thoughts about being able to give Derrika some of the peace she’d talked about, I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings.

But I didn’t miss Derrika’s hissed, “Holy shit.”

I cleared my mind of playtime with Derrika and focused on the Petersons’ house in front of us at the end of the cul-de-sac.

I quickly pulled over in front of the house just before the curve, reached for the dial, and put the SUV into park, longing for the day when there were still gear shifters. The turn of a dial didn’t have the same satisfaction as slamming a car out of gear.

“Well fuck,” I muttered, taking in the black Merc parked under the portico.

Before I could do it, Derrika snatched my phone off the center console charging station and unlocked it. I’d barely processed she’d remembered my code before she finished scrolling through screens and the interior of the Caddy was ringing.

“Yeah?” Kira answered.

“Can you run a plate for us?” Derrika asked. “There’s a black Mercedes, same model as before in the driveway of Lou Peterson’s but the plate is different than before.”

“Ready,” Kira returned.

Derrika rattled off the information.

Within seconds Kira came back with, “Lou Peterson is the registered owner.”

Daryl Barnes’ story checked out. The question was why would a man of his status take the chance of his driver getting pulled over with a fake plate? Not to mention he was on the BOD of Delcon; his car being seen there wouldn’t be a red flag.

“What do we have on the driver?” I asked.

“Nothing. Les Stevenson. No priors. Not married. No real debt other than the Toyota 4-Runner in his name. Nothing out of the ordinary on his credit cards or charges using his debit card, no influx of money coming or going out of his account. Decent savings, but not enough to raise any eyebrows. Parents are still married and nothing out of the ordinary in their accounts. I can dig deeper?—”

“No. If he’s in there, we’ll scoop him up, too. Zane’ll have a place ready…hang on a second.” I glanced at Derrika. “Did you hear that?”

She nodded and cracked her window.

“Was that a gunshot?”

As soon as she asked, there were two more pops.

“Suppressed,” I muttered. “Stay in the car and?—”

“That’s a big fat, fuck no,” she argued and grabbed my arm. “I’m going with you.”

“Mind cluing me in?” Kira snapped.

I didn’t clue her in, nor did Derrika. I was too focused on watching a man and woman exit the Peterson house, both carrying duffle bags. Thankfully, Derrika had her cell up and was recording the duo.

“What’s—”

“Shots fired,” I quietly told KK, then quickly filled her in on what was happening and finished with, “We’re following the Merc. Need you to pull any security footage from the Peterson house and the neighbors.”

“Copy that.”

I heard Kira disconnect. Watched the Merc backing out of the driveway. Then turned to Derrika.

“Down, baby, as low as you can get.”

She lowered her phone, put her head on her knees. I shifted and ducked across the console.

“You think they’re dead?” Derrika inquired.

“Yep.”

“One of them is a woman,” she unnecessarily noted.

“Yep.”

“The only woman we have on radar is Karen White.”

What she didn’t say was that Karen was in her sixties and the woman walking out of the Petersons’ house wasn’t in her sixties, but too far away to get a good look at her or the man.

In all of their searches no women had come up.

Seeing a woman exit the house had been unexpected and frankly unwelcomed.

“Hopefully, Kira will get us something.”

I heard the car roll by, gave it a few more seconds, then sat back up, checked in the mirror that the coast was clear, and flipped a U-turn.

Derrika was back up in her seat, face tipped down, doing something on her phone, likely sending the pictures of license plates from the street to Kira.

“Baby, use my phone and call Zane.”

She dropped her phone into her lap and grabbed mine.

I watched the Merc make a right onto Georgetown Pike and slowed my speed, wanting more distance between us before I made the turn.

“Kira told me,” Zane said by way of greeting.

“Right. We need someone to hit the Petersons’ place. Don’t know who’s driving the Merc. Could be Lou’s driver, Les, or it could be the Keith guy. And if it’s Keith, where’s the driver?”

“Already thought of that. I called Nixon Swagger, asked him if any of his guys are available. He’s sending Jameson Grant and Holden Stanford out to the farm.

They’re only forty minutes away. I’ll send them out to the Petersons’ once they’re briefed.

The rest of his team, including him, are tied up until tomorrow. ”

Nixon Swagger ran an outfit called Gemini Group. Over the last year, I’d met all of them. Good, solid men whose focus had turned from government contracts to private security.

“Is Kira tracking me?”

“Nebraska is.”

“Is she able to pull up traffic cameras, see if we can get a clear picture of who’s in the car?”

“I heard that,” Nebraska called out. “And yes, I can. But you’re in a residential area.”

I glanced at Derrika to ask, “Baby, do you know where we are?”

“Yeah.”

I looked back at the road. The Mercedes was three car lengths in front of us. Not ideal on a two-lane road without much traffic.

“Any stores or banks or anything like that coming up?”

“Yeah, in a few miles there’s a post office and a few banks.”

“I see them on the map,” Nebraska confirmed. “There’s a stoplight at the Walker Road intersection but no camera. I’ll see if I can get anything, but all the businesses are set off the road.”

Well fuck me .