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Chapter Two

Frustration and panic sat like balls of lead in the pit of Gina’s stomach. If it weren’t five in the morning, she would have slammed her front door shut to ease the tension stretching her muscles tighter than a bowstring, but that would have woken half the tenants in her East River high-rise.

The voice of reason won out, and she flicked on the crystal chandelier, holding the door open for Margo , Kinsey , and Annabelle to follow her inside.

She locked the door behind them, then leaned back against it.

The breath she exhaled sounded more like a rumble of thunder.

Any second now and Zeus himself would blast her with a bolt of lightning for all the heinous crimes she’d committed in the last three hours.

J . Edgar Hoover , or whoever was in charge of the FBI these days, would have her head on a platter for running down one of his G -men in the middle of the street like he was roadkill. Special Agent Roadkill .

The idea she could joke at a time like this made her sick to her stomach. The man was their victim, and he had a name. They’d all seen it on his government credentials. Now it was permanently etched into her brain.

Jack Gates . Special Agent Jack Gates .

A lump as big as a grapefruit clogged her throat.

After draping the cloth tarp over the hunky fed, they’d hauled ass from the alley and dialed 911 on a disposable, untraceable cell phone to anonymously report an unconscious man lying on the side of Mullet Street in Union , New Jersey .

Then they’d returned the rental car back to the lot, picked up Gina’s personal vehicle, and raced through the Holland Tunnel back to Manhattan .

God , she hoped he was all right. They’d made sure he hadn’t been lying in the middle of the road where someone else might run over him, but his face had been so pale, and they’d left him there. Alone . Bleeding .

She could practically hear the judge’s gavel slamming onto the bench as he pronounced them guilty.

Where did people who crushed FBI agents with rented Dodges go?

She could already see her and her friends toiling on their knees, doomed to scrubbing stinky prison latrines in the federal lockup for the next twenty years.

Even the normally soothing tick tock from the grandfather clock wedged in the corner of the foyer gave no sense of peace.

Tonight , it reminded her of a death knell. Theirs .

The black duffel bag slid off her shoulder, smacking the floor as it landed. Empty except for the utility belt she’d stuffed inside.

She took a steadying breath and inhaled the scent of lemon polish her housekeeper had used.

With the adrenaline overload beginning to ebb, every muscle in her body—even her bones—felt as if they were about to melt into a giant puddle on the floor.

Rational thought was impossible. Not with the long list of emotions stacking up fast.

Worry . Fear . Anger . Not to mention total disbelief. They’d just stepped into a mile-high pile of poop.

Annabelle plopped onto the long white sofa and turned on the Tiffany lamp perched on the end table. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Kinsey . “ I can’t believe you ran over an FBI agent.”

Gina noted Annabelle’s thick “ New Yawk ” accent intensified whenever she got emotional, which had been pretty much nonstop for the last hour.

“ How many times do I have to tell you it was an accident?” Kinsey plunked down on the opposite side of the sofa. “ And I didn’t run him over. He ran into me .” She stabbed a finger at her chest.

Likewise , while Kinsey’s Kenyan lilt was normally a lyrical blend of British English and Swahili , now it also took on a slight New York punch, courtesy of living in the Big Apple for the last ten years. And from Annabelle getting under her skin.

Annabelle rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “ What’s the difference?”

“ Stop it, you two.” Margo took up her usual mediating position between the two women. “ This isn’t helping matters.”

Annabelle huffed. “ Fine , but we still need to talk about what happened.”

Gina clenched her hands, fighting the urge to smash something expensive to pieces. If she hadn’t already sold every luxury knickknack in her apartment to help the woman’s shelter, she would have.

The sounds of her best friends bickering made the stabbing pain in her forehead and temples worsen. There was only one remedy.

She pushed from the door, kicking the black duffel aside, then stormed through the living room. Her friends’ voices followed her as she beelined for the kitchen.

“ Where’s she going?” Annabelle asked as Gina blew past.

“ Duh ,” Kinsey said. “ Where she always goes when she’s pissed off and needs to calm her nerves.”

“ Let her go,” Margo interjected. “ She’s on a mission.”

They’d all used the murder weapon—the Dodge —to quick-change into sneakers and warm-up suits to cover their black stealth garb. Now , Gina’s sneakers squeaked as she stepped onto the kitchen tile and flipped on the lights.

She charged to the pantry and snapped open the folding doors with a loud whack .

She grabbed one of several slim, red foil-covered boxes from a lower shelf and tore off the wrapper.

The box’s cover came next, and she flung it onto the kitchen’s island.

A tall copper pepper mill toppled and clattered as it smacked onto the black granite counter.

The heavenly scent of deep, rich chocolate flooded her nose.

With shaking fingers, she plucked out a chocolate-covered lychee nut from the plastic tray and shoved it into her mouth, barely chewing it before swallowing, then stuffing in three more.

She squeezed her eyes shut, savoring the smooth, creamy chocolate slithering down her throat and contrasting with the juicy, sweet tartness of the lychee.

After a few more seconds, the ability to think clearly returned. Marginally , that was.

During their post-op briefings, they normally discussed how the op went and ways they could improve their tactics, and all while counting the money they’d stolen.

Tonight there would be no money counting and no post-op briefing.

Postmortem , maybe . On top of which, now there was that other teensy, weensy little problem crawling up their asses.

Assaulting an FBI agent and abandoning him in a freezing cold alleyway.

He’d probably be okay. He was breathing fine, and she could clearly feel his pulse—after she’d stopped freaking out. Still , they never should have left him there. Guilt and more worry gnawed at her insides. She’d be going straight to hell when she died. Maybe sooner.

She snapped open her eyes and glanced longingly into the pantry, three shelves of which were fully stocked with every grade and variety of chocolate known to womankind.

Within twenty-four hours, she’d have to restock at least one entire shelf.

It was her cross to bear. When her life turned into a chaotic mess, she gorged on chocolate.

Gina grabbed another box of chocolate-covered lychees, anticipating with dire certainty the need for a second fix long before the sun peeked over the horizon.

With the two boxes of chocolates balanced in her hand, she turned to face her friends for what would surely be their most depressing post-rip-off briefing yet.

At the doorway between the kitchen and shabby chic–inspired living room, she paused and looked at each of her friends’ worried faces, feeling even more like crap because this whole crazy scheme had been her idea from the beginning.

One minute they’d been laughing and drinking martinis while watching the old Robin Hood movie with Errol Flynn , and the next they were plotting how to steal from the mob and give the money to their favorite charity.

One thing had led to another, and here they were two years later with their first notch in the failure column.

Add to that a vehicular hit-and-run—on a federal agent, no less—and they were batting oh-for-three tonight.

Tears burned her eyes, and she blinked them back. She’d learned the hard way that relationships didn’t last and were a waste of time. People she loved always left. But these women had become the closest thing to family she had, and she’d really screwed things up.

Could things possibly get any worse?

She mentally chastised herself for even thinking such a stupid question. Things could always get worse. The FBI can make it worse. She knew that from firsthand experience. If the FBI hadn’t arrested her father, Franco wouldn’t have murdered him.

The blinking red light on Gina’s answering machine caught her eye, and she frowned.

She’d recently broken it off with Paul , a stockbroker at the Wall Street investment firm where she worked, so the message wouldn’t be from him.

The only other person she’d ever given her home number to besides Margo , Kinsey , and Annabelle was Linda Hernandez of the Manhattan Women’s Crisis Center .

She gripped the boxes of chocolate tighter. This couldn’t be good . With a sinking feeling, she pushed the button and listened as Linda’s urgent message echoed off the kitchen walls.

Gina , this is Linda . Marilyn’s husband found the safe house and beat her up pretty badly.

Her nose is broken along with two ribs. He was about to start in on the children when the police showed up and arrested him.

He won’t stop until he gets Marilyn back or kills her and the kids.

Please , if you were successful in getting that large donation you mentioned, call me right away. It doesn’t matter how late it is.

She didn’t need to copy down the number Linda recited.

She knew it by heart. Linda had been her contact with the Center and the grateful recipient of the anonymous cash Gina and her friends provided to abused women and their children to help them escape and make a better life. A life that cost money.