by Faye, Amy
"That's why we're prepared to give you enough leash to hang yourself with, Beauchamp. We're going to cut you loose because you're the kind of guy who wants to make a name for yourself, and that makes you perfect for exactly one thing, and one thing only: getting in with McCallister."
"Okay, well, if you think that shit's going to happen, then you're sorely mistaken. But fuck it. You guys want to let me go? Fine, I'll go. But if I get the stink of feds on me, then we're already up shit creek."
"What did I tell you about language, Beauchamp?"
"You finally got that soap you're going to wash my mouth out with?"
"I can, if you're not careful. Is that what you want, Beauchamp?"
"Whatever you say, boss. You got all that on camera, right? You'll let me go when all this is over, when I'm done playing errand-boy?"
I let him see a little smile slip across my lips. "You see, Beauchamp? You can learn. There may be a hope for you yet."
I like the look of annoyance that crosses his face. I like watching him squirm, knowing that I have the control. It's not a feeling that he gets often, with women. He seems like the kind who likes to be in control in bed.
Well, he'll just have to learn how to hold himself back. Because he wasn't in the driver's seat this time, he's going to have to learn to ride bitch some time, and that's how it's going to be.
"Well, if that's how it is, give me that cup of water, and let me the fuck go, and get that big fucker back in here."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I know how this shit goes, and if I come back without a scratch on me, there's going to be some questions I don't look forward to answering, that's what it means."
"Alright," I said, already enjoying the idea of seeing this smug fuck get what's coming to him. "You hear that, Danny? He says he wants to make friends with you."
I hand him the cup, undo one of the handcuffs. His hand goes automatically to his wrist, rubbing the place where it was squeezed down too tight.
As I leave, he takes the cup, drinks deep, and crushes the paper in his large, thick hands. Danny's already there at the door, looking ready.
He was only ever good for beatings. A man from the wrong time, who might have fit in back in the sixties. Now, with all the cameras all over the place, there was no way that a bruiser like Danny would be able to do what he did best.
But if he had permission, well that was a very different thing. I pull the feed on the video camera as Beauchamp fits the key into the other handcuff, releases himself. Danny makes like a nice guy for a minute.
That doesn't last long, though. He pushes the table back out of the way a little, rolling his sleeves up. Beauchamp lifts his arms up, bracing them behind his head and getting ready for the beating of a lifetime.
It had better be a good one, I thought. He might have been the kind of stupid son of a bitch that gets into gun running, but he's right about one thing. It's too dangerous to go back out with nothing to show for his trip in to the station.
If he was never going to see the light of day again, they'd have gone in on him hard, and any one of McCallister's boys would know that. None of them were stranger to the insides of these cells.
They never got anything on them, though. Squeaky-clean. It was all innuendo and bullshit. None of them were strangers to the inside of these rooms, that was, except for McCallister himself.
So like it or not, Beauchamp was the only option, because whatever the fuck the good guys were doing wrong, someone must have been giving orders to the Crazy Horses.
I watched Ryan God damned Beauchamp for a year, and planned that grab for three weeks, and it couldn't possibly have gone one bit better.
Which made it that much more annoying that they were going to let him go, that they were going to give him immunity on that shit. But if it went down that I was the agent responsible for McCallister, then that was about all that it took to salve that pain.
I loosen my hands where I didn't notice them tightening into hard fists as Danny drives his own fist hard into Beauchamp's ribs. He stumbles back a step or two, breathing hard.
A few good hits will do that to a guy, and Danny knows how to hit. Could've been a real good boxer, if he wanted to. But instead, he wanted to be a cop. Like his daddy was, back in the day.
Well, there were no cops like his daddy, not any more. But sometimes it helped to have a bruiser on the squad, regulations or not.
Another shot comes in, batches Beauchamp in the gut. He turns over double for a moment, groaning in pain. Then he straightens back up, his arms locked once again behind his head.
If it wasn't for the breathing, if it wasn't for the way that Danny rubbed the pain out of his knuckles, I might not have been able to tell that he'd been getting hit for the better part of two minutes.
Danny pulls back his fist and jams it into the floating ribs, hard enough that one of them might have broken. He pulls back and watches Beauchamp straighten up again, his hands locked behind his head.
He braces again for the next hit. Danny should have stopped after the last one, but I understand. When you're dealing with a son of a bitch like Ryan Beauchamp, sometimes you bite off more than you can chew.
Chapter Six
RYAN
I'm a free man. The words feel strange in my head. They let me out of the station and I head back, my body aching from the unholy beating that big bastard did on me.
He could've done less, but there's that dedication to the job. You have to respect somebody like that, someone who's willing to go the extra mile. Maybe if some of his boys had been such eager beavers, I wouldn't have gotten caught up in this shit.
McCallister? Shit. There's no way I'm going to run into the guy. I don't even know any of his guys. How am I supposed to get in with a guy like that?
If I could join an outfit with that kind of clout, why the fuck would I even be doing any of this?
I don't need to answer that. I already know that I would do it again in a heartbeat. If I'd had an in with him, then it would have just been a matter of time until I was already sitting in the saddle of an Indian with a raven's head painted on the gas tank.
No way out of what I've done, not for me. Not a chance in hell. So I do what I always do when I'm in trouble. I pull out the phone.
Logan answers the phone the second time I call. Like he always does. The son of a bitch has a modern phone. He knows who's calling. But he still plays some fuckin' phone-call screening games. Like if it's important I'll call back.
"Yeah?"
"I got trouble." I can practically hear him start moving through the phone. The sound of his pistol racking a round into the chamber sounds through the earpiece. "Meet me at the bar."
Logan grunts his understanding. I hang up first. The next call is to Brian. The third is to a cab. They pick me up ten minutes later, and I'm checking the paint on my Indian.
The cops were about as gentle with it as you'd expect. They knocked the fuckin' thing over on the way in. God damned typical. Did they not realize how much it cost to repair this fucking paint job?
The raven, though, is fine. Not scraped at all. I let out a breath of relief. It looks good, the whole thing. If it weren't for finding it laying flat on the asphalt, I might not be able to tell I hadn't just driven it off the lot.
Brian's bike beside it tells me that he already saw it, and walked right on by. I had to thank him for that. Logan drives up just as I kick the stand back down and lean the old girl over.
"You're going to have to move into the twenty-first century at some point, little brother."
"Fuck you," I tell him reflexively. He's watching me pick up my bike and giving me shit about it?
"What's the trouble?"
"Not here."
I guide Logan inside to find Brian already pouring out a drink for himself. I signal for him to pour two more, and he reaches down for the glasses from the freezer.
"You look like hell, man," Brian remarks as I turn to lock the door behind me,
the sun already down. If this were someone's usual spot, he'd already be sitting at that bar across from Brian, but it isn't.
"You look great, too, Brian. You going to spend all day talking about my looks, or what?"
"Hey, man, I'm just saying. You look like you got run over by a truck."
"Great, then give me my fuckin' beer."
I take it off the table and swallow a heavy mouthful, enjoying the bitter taste and the burn on the way down. Jesus, we should get out of moving drugs, I think. If someone actually came in to drink this stuff, we might be able to sell some of it.
"How long you going to keep us waiting, man? What's got you riled up?"
I suck a breath through my teeth. "We got trouble. Cop trouble."
"Then we go down south."
"I didn't get the impression it was the kind of problem that would go away any time soon. Nor the kind of problem that they'd have any problem solving south of the border."
"Okay, what, then?"
"This don't go outside this bar, or outside the three of us. That much clear?"
"Come on, man, I don't have time for this shit. I got places to be. Spit it out or fuckin' keep it to yourself."
"I got picked up today. They got nothin', cut me loose. But they said that McCallister is going to try something. Unless we want to get our shit cut off, we need to make sure that we get him first."
"When that shit happens—if it happens—then we'll figure out what to do about it then, but I ain't jumping for the cops."
"Then do it because I asked you to."
"Look at this, Brian," Logan said, his voice already holding more laughter than I liked. "Little bro's getting ideas in his head. Thinks we do what we ask him to."
I burned hot, but I drank another mouthful and kept my mouth shut. If this was what it took to get my brothers to listen to me, then I'd deal with it.
"Look, you going to help me or not?"
"McCallister's boys are taking plenty of our business," Brian said, more to their older brother than as an answer. "We could probably do a lot better for ourselves without him causing trouble for us."
"I don't know why the fuck you're asking me. I ain't even part of your god damned club."
"Oh, is that the problem? Brian, reach down behind the bar, get Logan that Raven I have back there for him." I waited for Brian to grab it and drop the patch on the counter. "You know you can have it the minute you want it. Founding member and everything."
"Won't that cause trouble with your boys?"
"Man, fuck that."
Logan's thinking about it, and I can tell he is, but then he pushes the patch away. "Let's say I help you."
"Let's say you do," I offer.
"What do you need my fuckin' help for, anyways? What are we supposed to do that big, bad Ryan Beauchamp can't do himself?"
"You can be a real fuckin' asshole, you know that, Logan?"
Brian laughed at Logan's jab, and then laughed more at my response.
"Well, if you think we can help, you know you got our help."
"First thing we need to do, I figure, is get his attention," I growl. There's more to the plan, but we need to keep an eye on something close. Short goals, things we can complete easily. Nothing too complex or far away.
"And how, pray tell, do you figure we do that?"
"We get him interested in us, and we get him interested by moving some stuff for him."
"You know he's got his own boys moving stuff, right? No way he needs some outside freelancers to come in and take over his business for him."
"That's what he thinks, sure. That's what anyone would think, a club his size. The business part of his club probably only takes a tenth of his members, and then they don't even probably work all the time."
"Are you going to be the one to tell him he's fuckin' wrong?"
"That's exactly who I'm going to be." I can feel the smile already twisting across my face. "I'm going to steal his dope from him, and I'm going to make damn sure he knows who did it."
Chapter Seven
MAGUIRE
I can feel the heat of the coffee cup in my hand. A rare treat. Usually the swill that they brew at the office has to suffice, but I'd say I did well enough to earn myself a trip out. They wrote my name wrong on the cup.
'Sara,' I told them. 'Sara, no H.'
But there's the fucking H, right there. I roll my eyes and set the coffee-sugar concoction down on the table to answer my phone.
"Maguire," I answer.
The voice on the other side of the line is frantic, and one I recognize well.
"Sarah? Sarah, I have to come in."
"Hawkins?" I pretend not to be sure who I'm talking to.
I bring the cup to my lips for my first delicious sip, but I get a look from some college student who thinks I give a shit that she's trying to study here.
"Can you take your call outside?"
I can feel my face twisting up in frustration at her, but I made a New Year's resolution not to curse at civilians this year, and I haven't managed to break it yet.
So instead I take the call outside. I'm not going to get into this with some snotty little shit, anyways.
It's not until the door closes behind me that I remember my cup sitting there on the table. I forgot to bring it with me. I curse my bad luck as Hawkins talks into my ear.
"Maguire, you said you were taking him in. You said I was—"
"Is this a secure line?"
"What? Fuck no. That's what I'm trying to tell you. A year, you told me. No, you told me six months. I need out."
"I'm sorry, did you think you get to tell me what to do?"
"Don't play fuckin' games with me, Maguire, so help me—"
"It sounds," I tell him, "like the life's rubbed off on you. Maybe you'll be just fine out there."
"Not a chance. They know something's up. I don't know what the brother knows, but Ryan's going on a manhunt. It won't take him long—"
Hawkins shut up real quick, all of a sudden. He's probably not in a safe place to talk. I smile at it, smile because he took me away from my coffee and because I can't bring myself to give a shit about him.
"I don't understand what the problem is, Spider."
"You bitch. You fucking bitch. I can't believe you're trying to pull this shit right now."
"Pull what?" I use my most innocent voice, but he apparently isn't convinced by it.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about, you fucking harpy. If you don't pull me, I'm going to—"
I click my phone off and step back inside. I pick my coffee cup up off the table and pull it to my lips again, hoping to just God damn enjoy one sip of something for myself.
My phone rings again. I check the I.D., not planning on talking to Hawkins again. Maybe when he's learned who wears the pants in the relationship, I can pull him.
Until then, I'm going to let him stew a little. That should teach him. I jab the answer button when I see it's not him.
"What do you want?"
"Maguire," the voice on the other end. Danny sounds like a movie star on the phone. Too bad he's never going to have movie star looks.
The snotty-looking college student's mousy hair practically stands on its end in fury that I would dare take my call inside. I heft my cup to show her I came back for a reason, give her a look that could kill, and head back outside.
Fucking college students, think they own the place just because it's right by campus and open 24-hours.
"Yes, it's me, did you have something you needed to talk to me about, or is this a social call?"
"You can be a real ass, you know that?"
"Sure, why not?"
"You heard from Spider yet?"
"No," I lie. It's easier that way. Life's easier that way.
"He says they've started executing guys."
"And he wants out, is that right?"
"That's exactly right, Maguire. It's your call. What do we do?"
"We leave him. We can't exactly extract him guns-
blazing, everyone would know something was up. And if he just disappears, then they know that the cop's gone."
"Jesus, Maguire. He's going to get himself killed." I try to pause long enough to get a sip of my coffee, already feeling the heat seeping out of the cup into my hands. Danny prods me before I can get my drink. "You listening?"
"Well, we'll have to figure something out. But getting him out isn't in the cards. We need eyes on the inside of that organization, and you—and Hawkins—know it."
"That's a crock of shit, Maguire, and you're the one who knows it."
"I'm the lead on this operation, and I'm not going to be questioned."
Hawkins fit in better with those drug runners than he ever did with cops. It was a feat that he'd managed to keep his nose mostly clean in the year that he'd spent there, but I've seen his file.
He doesn't always keep his nose clean, and they rarely find out how bad he's been hitting the dope until they start debriefing him. He's an addict, and worse, he gets too close to the fucking cases he works. I miss my chance to take another sip again, fuming about Hawkins.
"Well, you may be the lead, but you might not be lead of anything for long, if we get our informants fuckin' killed, Sara. You know that."
"Don't call me that."
"Sorry. Maguire."
"Better." I suck in a breath and put the coffee to my lips, already imagining the taste, imagining how much I'm going to enjoy it. A thought shoots through my head, distracting me from what I'm doing. "I'm not just trying to be a bitch, you know. It's not like I enjoy giving people shit, Danny. You know better than that. But just—I don't like being called Sara, not at work."
"I know. You're right. I should've thought it through."
"You don't blame me, do you?"
"Not at all, Maguire. I'm going to give Spider a call back, tell him to dig in. We still need a man on the inside, like you said."
"And if we pulled him, it would only be painting a target on his back, and showing Beauchamp our hand. We keep this close to the chest."
"Exactly right. Sorry to bother you, boss."
"It's fine," I tell him, jabbing the button on my phone. I put the plastic cup to my lips and wait for the phone to ring again. It always comes in threes, I think to myself. Could I just be lucky enough to get away with only two calls?