Something was wrong. Lily Raines knew it as soon as the door closed behind her. It was too dark, the only light coming from the street lamp outside her living room window. Hadn't she left the light on over her sink? She set down her purse and keys and listened.
       Nothing.
       The light must have burned out. She puffed her cheeks in a weary sigh, and shrugged out of her jacket, the rustle of silk echoing in the silence.
       Her scalp tingled with that creepy spider-on-your-skin feeling--as if someone were watching her. She'd had it ever since the trial started. Stress. That's all it was. Goodness knew she had enough reason.
       She reached for the living room light switch.
       "I wouldn't do that."
       Lily shrieked.
       A dark figure rose up in front of her.
       She tried to scream but her throat seized. Tried to turn and run but her legs wouldn't carry her.
       Hard hands grabbed her shoulders, twisted her violently and shoved her onto the couch.
       Gasping for air, Lily bounced back up and swung her fist at the dark shape. She connected with flesh.
       "Ouch! Maudit!" The owner of the voice grabbed her and shoved her again, hard. She fell across the arm of the couch and onto the floor, bumping her hip and elbow painfully.
       "Hey--"
       Different voice. There were two of them. Panic clawed at her throat and she scrambled to regain her footing. She screamed for help and tried to get up but her head hit the end table and she saw stars. She tried to crawl away but there was nowhere to go. He--they--were between her and the door.
       "Get her!"
       A different pair of hands closed around her upper arms from behind and lifted her with no effort.
       "Let go of me!" she cried, kicking backward. The hands turned into steely arms that wrapped around her, immobilizing her. This one was big, tall, solid. His breath sawed in her ear.
       She stomped but missed his instep. His hold tightened. She clawed at his forearms, but he squeezed her so tightly she could barely breathe. She gasped for air.
       The first man stepped in front of her, into the faint light from the window. She squinted. He was skinny. Her height maybe. Shorter than the one who held her. She'd need that information later--if they let her live.
Desperately she kicked, using the second man's hold for leverage. He squeezed her until her ribs ached and whispered something close to her ear. She didn't understand what he said, but the feel of his hot breath on her skin sent terror streaking through her.
       The skinny guy laughed as he dodged her kicks. Then his laughter stopped and he grabbed her chin. He stuck his face in front of hers. His breath reeked of garlic. "Calm yo-self, Lily."
       He knew her name? She froze, horrified. These men weren't burglars. This was personal.
       "Who are y--"
       The fingers moved from her chin to her throat. "Good girl. Now you gon' be quiet for me?"
       His fingers bit painfully into her neck as she tried to nod. Tried to stop her brain from imagining what they planned to do to her.
       Frantically, she searched her memory. She didn't recognize the voice or the accent. Cajun maybe. She'd never done anything to anybody.
       "What do you want?" she gasped.
       The Cajun bared his teeth and his fingers tightened painfully. Her larynx closed up. He was crushing it. He was going to kill her.
       "Di'n I tell you be quiet?"
       She struggled for air. She didn't want to die. She made a strangled sound and clawed at the arms holding her. Her vision went black.
       "Careful," the man who held her rasped. "She can't breathe." The punishing pressure on her chest relaxed slightly.
       "You shut your face!" the skinny guy hissed, but he loosened his hold.
       She sucked air through her aching throat. From behind her the rock-hard arms loosened a bit more. Her eyes were beginning to adapt to the darkness, but she still couldn't distinguish features or clothing. There was too little light and she was too afraid. She swallowed, her throat moving against the Cajun's hand.
       "Just tell me what you want. I don't have much money--"
       He released her throat and snagged a handful of her hair, twisting roughly.
       Tears of pain sprang to her eyes.
       From somewhere he pulled out a long, thin-bladed knife. He held it up before her eyes, then touched its point just beneath her chin. She automatically lifted her head, cringing away from the deadly blade.
       "Come on, Lily, don't make me hurt you. I will, and I'll enjoy it."
       The man holding her tensed. His forearms, strapped under her breasts, tightened.
       She strained backward as far as she could. The Cajun grinned at her fear. She swallowed and felt the point of the knife prick her skin. Between the hand clutching her hair, the knife, and the other man holding her, she was totally helpless. Totally at the mercy of merciless men. They could do anything to her. She was powerless to stop them.
       "Understand?"
       She nodded jerkily. Tears slid down her cheeks. They were going to kill her and she didn't even know why.
       "You're on the jury for Sack Simon's murder case."
       She stiffened in surprise. The trial! Her pulse thrummed in her ears.
       "Aren't you!"
       "Yes," she whispered. Her fists clenched automatically and her fingernails dug into the arms holding her.
       "My boss, he wants the trial over. He don' want Simon convicted."
       Lily stared at the shadows of his face. Sharp chin. Long nose. Eyes that were nothing but black holes.
"I--don't understand." She didn't. The trial was half over. The prosecution had presented ample evidence to put Simon away for life.
       "Den I make it simple, Lily. The jury can't convict Simon."
       The way he kept saying her name terrified her.
       "Can't convict--?" she repeated, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Her brain wouldn't work. How could they not convict? "But he's guilty."
       The Cajun pressed the knife blade harder, just enough to sting her neck. "Damn it, woman. I know you ain't that stupid. 'cause if you are, I might as well just kill you now."
       Suddenly, she got it. They wanted her to hang the jury. "But I can't--"
       He let go of her hair and grabbed her throat again, squeezing.
       She coughed.
       "Pay attention, Lily. The only thing you can't do is tell anyone we was here. My boss wants to know that you will vote not guilty."
       "Not guilty? That won't work. There's too much evidence. There's DNA."
       "Shut up." He tightened his hold on her throat.
       She gagged and lost her footing as the man holding her pulled her away from the little guy's punishing hold. "Stop choking her," he snapped.
       "Hey, bioque. You don' give the orders. I do." the skinny Cajun turned his attention back to Lily. He grabbed her jaw again.
       "Evidence can be wrong. Do you understand, Lily?"
       One juror out of twelve. A hung jury. They wanted her to force a mistrial. She nodded.
       "Tell me!"
       "You want me to vote not guilty." She coughed again, her throat raw and sore.
       "You understand why?"
       "To deadlock the jury. A mistrial," she croaked.
       "Good girl." He patted her cheek. His fingers smelled of garlic and cigarettes--a nauseating, stomach-churning mixture.
       By contrast, she had a vague sense of soap and mint from the man behind her. He'd bathed and brushed his teeth before coming here to terrorize her? She almost giggled hysterically.
       The garlicky fingers slid down her neck and past the vee of her shirt to touch the top of her breast in an obscene caress.
       Lily's stomach turned over. She recoiled, straining backward against the other man. "Please--please don't hurt me."
       The man holding her backed up enough to pull her away from the Cajun's probing fingers.
       Of the two of them, she'd rather be at the mercy of the bigger man. He seemed to be trying to keep her safe from the little Cajun's pawing.
       "Wh-why me?" she stammered, turning her head away from the man's leering gaze.
       "My boss, he's a very smart man. He studied the jury. Then he picked you. You the perfect juror."
       She didn't have to ask why. She knew. It was because she lived alone, and her interior design business was at a virtual standstill since her biggest client had declared bankruptcy. She'd cleared her schedule to design the interior of their high-rise, and now she was out of a job.
       There were eight men and four women on the jury. The other women had children, husbands, jobs. The attorneys had asked each one about family.
       Family.
       "Oh God." Her eyes widened in horror as the real reason she'd been chosen dawned on her. Her father. He was in a nursing home, helpless to defend himself. They could hurt him if she didn't cooperate. Her knees buckled. Only the big man's arms kept her from crumpling to the floor.
       "There you go. Now you figured it out. I knew you weren't stupid, Lily." His voice lingered over her name, sending chills down her spine.
       "You be hearin' something very soon. Then you'll understand how serious my boss really is." The Cajun backed toward the door. "Take care of her," he ordered the man holding her.
       The tall man released his tight hold on her and grabbed her wrist. She barely had time for a breath and a fleeting glimpse of his profile before he flipped the afghan from her couch up and over her head.
       He spun her around a few times until she stumbled dizzily. Then he lifted her in his arms.
       "Don't mess with these people," he whispered. "Do what he said." He knelt and set her gently on the floor, then pushed her. She slid across the hardwood and hit the wall.
       Kicking and struggling, she tore at the fuzzy material that blanketed her. Her limbs were weak with fear. She was shaking so badly she couldn't catch hold of the afghan. She sucked in a deep breath, and lint and dust choked her. She coughed, then moaned at the pain in her throat.
       Her front door slammed.
       Finally she fought her way free of the tangle of knots and yarn. For an instant she crouched there against the wall, hugging the afghan to her breast. Were they really gone?
       She held her breath and listened. Silence. She looked around. The apartment was dark. It felt empty. Barely daring to breathe, she tried to push herself to her feet, but her knees gave way. She collapsed back to the floor, her sore throat contracting around the sobs that erupted from her chest.
       She gave up trying to stand and crawled over to her couch, expecting at any moment to be grabbed again. With shaky fingers, she switched on the lamp.
       Nothing. They were gone.
       She huddled in the corner of the couch, hugging her knees to her chest, unable to stop shivering. She was chilled to the bone, although it was September and still summertime-hot in Biloxi.
       She didn't know how long she sat there staring at the front door, terrified that they'd return. Sick with the knowledge that they knew where she lived.
       Still afraid to trust her trembling legs, she crawled over to the door and reached up to throw the deadbolt. The useless gesture was almost funny. They'd gotten into her apartment once. They could do it again. They could come back any time they wanted.
       She pulled herself to her feet, her body aching with tension, her head woozy with fear. Leaning against her kitchen counter, she chafed her sore arms. Her throat and jaw hurt. She couldn't stop trembling.
What was she going to do? They'd threatened her. Threatened her father.
       Dad! The little Cajun hadn't said anything specific, but his implication sent icy fear surging through her veins. His boss had chosen her because she was alone and vulnerable--and so was her father.
       She had to check on him. Carefully she walked over to the couch. Where was the phone? It had been knocked onto the floor when she'd bumped her head on the end table. It was halfway across the room. She moved unsteadily toward it as pain shot through her shoulders. The man who'd held her had been strong. Thank God he wasn't as cruel as the Cajun.
       Just as she touched the handset, it rang. She jerked away with a startled cry and covered her mouth with both hands to keep from screaming.
       It rang again. Her temples throbbed. Her heart raced. She forced herself to pick it up.
       "Mrs. Raines? This is Mary Bankston, night supervisor at Beachside Manor."
       Horror clutched at her chest. No, please!
       "Ms. Bank--" Her voice wouldn't work. She swallowed painfully and tried again. "Ms. Bankston. What's wrong?"
       "Don't worry. Your father is fine. But I need to let you know that there was a small incident a few minutes ago. Somehow, some papers in the trashcan in your father's room caught fire. The nurse on duty put them out immediately, and made sure your father wasn't injured. I can't imagine how he managed to get matches, or light a fire. But it's all under control now."
       Lily's hand cramped around the phone. "You're sure? You're sure he's okay? I can be there in twenty minutes. "
       "I don't think he even realizes anything happened. You certainly don't need to drive over here--"
       "Yes. Yes I do." She hung up the phone, old familiar guilt squeezing her chest.
       Her father, a cop, had once been so vital, so big and strong, so courageous. But a gunshot to the head during a liquor store robbery had turned him into a bewildered, docile shell of the man who'd raised her. He'd survived the shooting, but the loving father who had taught her right from wrong, who'd stressed the importance of truth and justice, was gone.
       Unable to speak and barely able to understand rudimentary conversation, Joe Raines seemed to look forward to her visits, but the times were fewer and fewer that his brown eyes lit with recognition.
       The intruder's Cajun twang echoed in her ears. You be hearin' something very soon.
       Bile burned her throat, and nausea bent her double. They'd made their point. They'd already gotten to her father.
Suddenly her head spun and acrid saliva filled her mouth. She stumbled into the bathroom, making it just in time.
Collapsing onto the cold tile floor she bent her head over the toilet giving in to the spasms. She gagged and coughed until there was nothing left inside her.
       Tears streamed down her cheeks as she flopped back against the wall and wiped her face with unsteady fingers. For a few moments she just cried. She was so scared. So tired. It was amazing how fragile humans were. And how fast hope could turn to despair. In an instant, everything could change.
       About the same time as her father was shot, she'd found out her husband was cheating on her. He'd always been controlling, but she believed in marriage and so she'd tried desperately to make hers work.
       He'd asked for a divorce and moved out.
       Then, because of the time she had to devote to caring for her father, her fledgling interior design business had suffered. Still, she'd survived. She'd started over, like so many others.
       Then just last week, she'd begun negotiations to design the interior of a new high-rise being built in Biloxi. She'd begun feeling hopeful once again. Strong and safe.
       But no more. Today, her life and her father's had changed again. Their lives were threatened.
       Her dad's beloved confused face rose in her mind. He was all she had. And she was all he had. She had to get to the nursing home, to see for herself that he was all right.
       She struggled to her feet, her muscles stiff from the cold tile, her stomach fighting the nausea that still clung to her. She splashed water on her face.
       How would she face her father, knowing what she had to do? Vote not guilty. Let a murderer go free.
       It went against everything he'd stood for all his life. Everything he'd taught her about justice and truth. To protect him, she would have to betray everything he believed in.
       She looked at her pale face in the mirror. How could she do anything else?
                                                                                    * * * * *

BRANDON GALLAGHER tossed down the straight shot of Irish whisky and grimaced. The burn felt good, but it didn't wash the taste of self-disgust from his mouth. He slapped the glass down on the counter and nodded at the bartender, then got up and headed for the bathroom.
       He splashed cold water on his face. When he did, his senses were filled with the scent that clung to his fingers. Vanilla and fresh coconut. He held out his arms and examined the scratches. A ghost of a smile crossed his face.
He turned on the hot water and scrubbed his hands with soap, then rinsed his face. Lifting his head he met his eyes in the flaking mirror.
       "Can't wash away your own stench with whisky, nor her perfume with soap, can you Gallagher?" he muttered. He patted his face and hands dry with a paper towel, then he wet a corner of it and wiped the specks of blood off his forearms. She was a thug. That was good. She'd need to be.
       Foshee had carped at him all the way down the stairs and back to GIO's. This ain't good cop, bad cop, salaud. You too soft. Mais yeah, I better tell the boss you can't handle it.
       Brand hadn't reacted, although his insides had clenched with worry. He'd prayed he was reading the little Cajun right. Foshee was merely flexing his nonexistent muscles. He wouldn't really go to Castellano.
       Feigning unconcern, Brand had just grunted and muttered that there were better things to do with females than rough them up.
       To his relief, Foshee had laughed.
       You better watch her. Make sure she don' turn tail. You watch her and I watch you. Boss wants to hear how you handle this job. You try something with her, I be waitin' my turn, yeah.
       As soon as he'd gotten free of Foshee, Brand had driven back to Lily Raines' apartment. He was surprised to see her car still there. But just about the time he cut his engine, she'd rushed out and taken off in a spray of gravel. He knew where she was going. To Beachside Manor. Her father's nursing home.
       She'd definitely gotten the message.
       Satisfied that she'd understood the threat Foshee had made, and relieved that she hadn't been hurt by his manhandling, Brand had turned his car around and headed straight here, to the neighborhood bar. He sent his reflection a disgusted glance.
       The local watering hole. God love it. His dad would have been proud. Grimacing at that thought, he pushed his wet hands through his hair, and went back to his seat at the bar.
       He faced down the shot glass filled to the brim with pale brown liquid. The sight of it made his mouth water.
No. He rubbed a hand across his face, feeling the day's growth of stubble and smelling the last faint whiff of Lily Raines's perfume.
       He'd come too close too many times to sinking into a bottle, just like his old man. Just like his oldest brother. There were better ways to die.
       And there'll allus be worse ones. His dad's slurred Irish brogue echoed in his ears.
       "Shut up, Dad," he muttered.
       As much as he'd like to use a quart of Irish whisky to drown the look of terror in Lily Raines' eyes and forget the reason he'd been there to see it, he couldn't afford to. Three years and thousands of hours of undercover work were on the line. And as of tonight, his career probably was as well.
       Because Giovanni Castellano, the King of the Coast, had ordered "Jake Brand," with Armand Foshee to watch over him, to make sure Juror Number Seven held out for acquittal in Theodore "Sack" Simon's murder trial.
       With a sigh, Brand threw some cash down on the bar, turned his back on the brimming shot glass and headed for his car. He maneuvered the dark streets to a private pack-and-mail store that rented boxes. The store was closed, but he had a key to the alcove where the boxes were located.
       He parked at the entrance and took a moment to roll up the leg of his jeans. Gritting his teeth, he ripped the tape off his ankle and with it the miniature tape recorder that had been a part of him for the last three years.
       He massaged his skin where the tape had abraded it, ejected the tiny cassette and inserted a brand new one. He stuck the tape recorder in his shirt pocket. His ankle could use a rest. He'd tape the device back on his leg first thing in the morning.
       He pulled his sock up and his cuff down.
       Then he wrote the date on the used tape's label and dropped it into an envelope, unlocked the box and shoved it inside, just like he'd done three or four times a week for the past three years. His fingers encountered a note. A single sheet of paper, folded once. He stuck it in his pocket and grabbed the untraceable prepaid cell phone his contact had left in the mail box.
       He dialed the only number programmed into it. The cell phone of FBI Special Agent Thomas Pruitt.
       "Pruitt. Its Gallagher." He could hear voices in the background. It sounded like a ball game.
       "What's up?"
       "I got an assignment today from Castellano."
       "No kidding? Hang on."
       Brand heard Pruitt tell someone he'd be right back. After a few seconds the background noise lessened.
"Sorry. My kid's baseball game. Go ahead. What happened?"
       "Castellano put me with a ratty little skel named Foshee. We paid a visit to a juror in the Simon case. Leaned on her hard. Foshee threatened her to vote not guilty, to hang the jury, or something would happen to her father."
       "Wait a minute. Castellano gave you this assignment himself?"
       "Yep. I got called into his inner sanctum--his table at GIOs. Foshee was there, along with a couple of muscle-heads with machine pistols."
       "I'll be damned. Finally! We've waited for three years for a break like this. Who is she? The juror?"
       "Name's Lily Raines. She's juror number seven."
       "Raines. I wonder if she's the same Raines I used to know. There was a Raines got shot on the job a couple of years ago."
       "That's him. He's in Beachside Manor Nursing Home. Something happened there tonight. Foshee didn't tell me what, but it was enough to send Lily tearing over there about twenty minutes after we left her apartment."
       "I'll check on it."
       "How do you want me to handle this? You going to let the DA know Castellano's tampering with the jury?"
       "How'd you handle it tonight?"
       Brand made a rude gesture toward the phone. He didn't like Pruitt. "How the hell do you think? I went along. I didn't know any specifics until we got to her apartment." It had sickened him to have to hold her still while Foshee manhandled her and threatened her. "I tried to keep Foshee from being too rough."
       "You did right. You've gotta play along. Three of you undercover for three years and this is the closest we've gotten to Castellano. We had a feeling he would try something during the trial, but this is better than we'd hoped. We can't risk any screw-ups at this point."
       Brand's gut clenched. His lieutenant, Gary Morrison, who had been his contact for his first year undercover, had stressed the importance of not going outside the law any more than necessary. If an undercover cop was going into a situation where he would be forced to commit a felony, his commanding officer had an obligation to extract him.
Brand and the other two officers working inside Castellano's operation were protected up to a point, but they were required to report any illegal activities in which they were involved.
       "Yeah well, you haven't been working with the damn mob for three years. I don't want any screw-ups either, but I'd like to know you've got my back once this is all over."
       "You do the assignment. I'll protect your back."
       Brand blew out a frustrated breath. Pruitt was FBI, and there was no love lost between the Feds and local law enforcement. He wondered if he was being set up to take a fall.
       He pulled the micro-cassette recorder out of his pocket. With his thumb he pressed RECORD and held it near the phone. Never hurts to have insurance.
       "Gallagher? You there?"
       "Yeah. Just thinking. Make sure you understand, Pruitt. I've worked too hard to end up getting my badge yanked for committing a felony."
       "Listen to me. The Justice Department is behind this operation one hundred per cent. They've given us carte blanche. Any means necessary. Have you talked to Springer or Carson?"
       His fellow officers working undercover. Brand frowned. "Nope. Hardly ever see 'em."
       "Well, Carson is working the docks. He's convinced Castellano's moving weapons and explosives in. Springer agrees. Plus, he says they're bringing in illegal aliens."
       "Terrorist activities."
       "Right. So you're covered on all sides, by Justice, Homeland Security--you know the drill."
       Brand did. Job one was to protect his fellow officers. Job two, earn Castellano's trust.
       "You think we can get Castellano on terrorist charges?"
       "I think so." The excitement in Pruitt's voice was obvious through the phone line. "If we can, he'll go away for a long time and the careers of everybody involved will be assured."
       Yeah, Brand thought. You mean your career. But he didn't say anything.
       "So do what Castellano wants you to do. You'll be protected. We'll have plain clothes watching you and the skel, what's his name?
       "Foshee. Armand Foshee."
       "Right. Foshee. The task force will step in before the verdict. We'll probably pull Foshee in on some lesser charge. You too, so your cover isn't blown. The trial will end in a mistrial, but it won't come down on you. Trust me, we've got plenty on Simon. We can pick him up on another murder charge before he sets foot outside the courtroom."
       Pruitt made it sound easy. But then he wasn't out in the field. He didn't have to worry about who got hurt.
Brand's thoughts returned to Lily Raines. Terrified, trembling, her soft breasts pressed against his forearms, her dark shiny hair tickling his nose.
       He grimaced as his body began to stir. "What about the girl? What about her father?"
       "They're not your concern. We'll take care of them."
       "The hell they're not. I'm the one leaning on her. I don't like it. I don't like the threats against her father either. Can't the police give him protection?"
       "We don't want to blow your cover or endanger your juror. We can't afford to let Castellano see any change in her father's care. You just do your job."
       Damn. He didn't like working with the FBI. They played everything too close to the vest. He rubbed his neck.
        "Should I call you back to confirm?"
       "No. You've got the go-ahead. I'll take care of making it right with Justice." Pruitt disconnected.
       Brand turned off the cell phone and stuck it in his pocket. Then he stopped the tape recorder, ejected the cassette, and held it between his thumb and forefinger.
       Like he'd told Pruitt, he'd worked like a dog to pull himself out of the chaos of his childhood. He was not going to let anything ruin his career as a police detective. It was all he had.
       He tossed the cassette a couple of inches into the air and caught it in his fist. Insurance. He had Pruitt on tape promising to cover his butt.
       As he walked back to his car, he stuck the cassette in his pocket. His fingers encountered the note he'd picked up from the mailbox.
       After climbing into the driver's seat, he scanned the note and cursed. He shook his head as he crumpled the note in his fist. His request for two days' leave to go to Alexandria, Louisiana, for his father's funeral had been denied.
He'd expected it. He was in too deep with the Gulf Coast mob to risk disappearing even for a day or two. Especially now that he had finally penetrated the impenetrable armor surrounding Giovanni Castellano.
       His eyelids stung and he blinked rapidly. Pop had been dying for a long time. But his death dredged up memories of another death, that of his oldest brother Patrick. There was nobody to blame for Pop's death except Pop himself.
But Patrick was another story. Brand's brother had gotten in too deep with gambling and drugs. He owed Castellano more money than he could ever pay. So the mob boss had order his execution as an example. For all Brand knew, Sack Simon had pulled the trigger.
       Patrick was the reason Brand had become a cop. The reason he'd volunteered for this particular assignment in the first place.
       He sighed. Now to catch Castellano, he had to let the assassin who may have killed his brother go free. God, he hoped Pruitt was telling the truth when he'd said Simon wouldn't walk out of the courthouse before they arrested him again.
       He cranked his car and pulled away. He had to be up early tomorrow to go to the courthouse with Foshee.
As he drove back to his apartment, the remembered scent of vanilla and coconut filled his nostrils and he relived the feel of Lily's soft breasts against his arms and her firm round butt against his loins. He squirmed as his body reacted to the memory of her slender, sturdy body.
       The Justice Department had damn sure better protect his badge, because he had no choice but to do this. For more than one reason.
       Sure, he was doing it to avenge his brother's death and to protect his fellow undercover officers.
But there was a third reason. His body tightened and a thrilling ache throbbed in his loins. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the pressure of the tight denim.
       Lily Raines needed him. She had no one else to protect her.

* * * * *

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created 02/15/07