Sweet Dreams Boxed Set

Dean heard it too. He jumped back into the car and Matt into the passenger seat.

It’s not Alex. Please, it can’t be Alex.

Dean pealed out of the small gravel parking lot and made an illegal turn onto the narrow bridge.





Chapter Seventeen


Jim wanted to shoot his long-time friend. “I told you, don’t shoot her!”

“She needs to die.”

“We have to find out what the feds know. Idiot!”

“You heard everything I did. What more do we need? You aren’t in love with that bitch?”

“No,” he said through clenched teeth. “But we’re burned, Sergei.”

“You’re burned, Jimmy. Sorry, buddy, but they have nothing on me—if she dies. You have to clean up your own mess.”

“My mess? I told you not to get into business with Hart. He’s volatile and stupid.”

“He had something I wanted.”

Sometimes, there was no reasoning with Sergei. “We have ten minutes, tops.” Probably less.

“Then get down there and kill her.”

Jim wished there was another way.

Dammit, Alex. Why’d you have to do this?

“Get out of town, Sergei. Go south on River Road, get to the safe house and stay put until you hear from me. If the feds were close enough to hear the shot, we now have eight minutes.”

Jim didn’t know what other option he had. Alex had somehow figured out he was involved with Sergei’s operation. She knew far too much for him to talk his way out. He could have explained away the schooling he shared with Sergei—but if Alex had John Black and his bitch sister looking deeper into the dead whores, there was no way he’d get out of this unscathed. He would definitely lose his job. But prison? Hell no.

He had something far more valuable that the feds would want.

“Sergei, do as I say. I’ve protected you since we were kids. I have never let you down. Trust me.”

Sergei stared at him, then nodded. “You’re the only one I do trust.”

“Run to the boathouse. Grab a clean car from the garage, drive south—do not come back this way. Go directly to the safe house. Do not call anyone. If you don’t hear from me in twenty-four hours, you know what to do.”

“What about you? I’m not leaving you to take the rap.”

“I said to trust me.”

He clapped Jim on the back. “Thank you, my friend.” Then he turned and ran down the road.

Jim sighed and rubbed his eyes. He didn’t have a choice. Sergei was far too impulsive ... without Jim to protect him, he’d be in prison—or dead—before the end of the year. But that wasn’t going to be on Jim.

For twenty-five years, Jim and Sergei had been inseparable. It started the first day of high school. Sergei was an American citizen, but his parents spoke no English and he had a thick accent. Kids teased him, reminding Jim of when he was in elementary school and stuttered. Sergei was scrawny as well, and after a group of football players beat him up and left him with a broken nose and cracked rib, Jim had taken responsibility for the small, shrewd Russian kid. He’d planned and executed retribution on the football team—because they all deserved to be punished for their crime.

Sergei had dreams; he was going to take over the criminal enterprise of his uncle. And he did—with Jim’s help. Jim had dreams, and that was to always end up on top. He became a cop because having someone on the inside helped keep their illegal business safe. It was a perfect set up, everything had worked beautifully, until Sergei blackmailed Travis Hart.

Jim had wanted to kill him.

The only way their operation worked was because no one—no one—knew about Jim’s business relationship and friendship with Sergei. Tommy Cordell had no clue. Neither did Travis Hart. It was a flawless organizational structure. Jim was the brains, Sergei had the contacts and capital. Sergei was the figurehead, Jim the silent partner.

And to be taken down because of three dead whores.

And one good cop.

Jim walked carefully down the steep embankment. He called out to Alex, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She didn’t respond. Of course not, she wasn’t stupid.

“Alex,” he said, “I heard everything you said on your phone.”

Again, no answer.

“While you were out with Travis Hart last night, I planted a bug in your apartment. When I came over, I bugged your phone. Hard to do when you had eagle eyes on me, but it didn’t take long. I know you went to see Tommy at the jail, and I know he told you shit, and I know you didn’t care because it was what he didn’t say that convinced you. You were fishing about the shooter, wanting to know why he had the same gun that had killed that prostitute three years ago when he was dead before another—fictional, mind you—prostitute was attacked.” He shook his head and almost smiled. “I really didn’t expect you to become such a great liar.”

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