Shotgun Baby

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  “Good.”

  She glanced up, surprised at the emphatic tone in his voice.

  “You’re too damn good at what you do to be a puppet, saying only what other people tell you to say.”

  Warmth flooded her. “Newscasters are more than that,” she said, laughing to cover her sudden flare of desire for him.

  Con grunted and finished off their beer.

  “You still working on that nursing-home story?” he asked, and got up to throw away the empty bottle.

  Robbie got to her feet, too. “Tomorrow I have an appointment with the daughter of the patient I told you about. She’s having her father examined by another doctor.”

  Con nodded. He didn’t seem surprised by her about-face. Hell, he’d probably known all along it wouldn’t take much for her to figure out where she belonged. He knew her that well.

  “Rick’s having a party on August third,” she told him. “It’s a Saturday. You wanna go?”

  “Can Joey come along?”

  She’d already asked that question herself. “Yep. It’s for families.”

  “It’s not a pool party, is it?” he asked, his back to her as he rinsed a couple of glasses in the sink.

  She’d checked that out, too. Neither of them needed that kind of temptation again. “Nope.”

  “Sure, we can go.”

  Robbie moved to the door. “I’ll tell Rick tomorrow,” she said. “Good night.”

  “Night.”

  “Rob?” She was halfway down the hall when he called her back.

  She stuck her head around the corner. “Yeah?”

  “I was proud of you tonight.”

  AS HE HEADED into work the next morning, Con realized he’d better tell Robbie about Cecily tonight, before they got Joey again for the weekend. He’d been putting off telling her because he hadn’t wanted to spoil the truce they seemed to have reached last weekend. He’d also been preoccupied all week following the paper trail that would nail his local check counterfeiter.

  Several hours later he was standing at the door of the apartment he’d traced his counterfeiter to, his backup in the apartment building next door. The folder beneath his arm was loaded with photocopies of enough evidence to put Tommy Boyer away for years.

  Unless the guy wanted to help Con out by fingering his supplier. Because Con had discovered something interesting the day before. The paper Tommy Boyer was using to print his checks had the same pattern of red squares under ultraviolet light that several of the banks in the valley were using as a means of protection against check fraud. Which meant if a bank teller ran Boyer’s checks under an ultraviolet light to see if the checks were valid, he or she would see the red squares and assume they were.

  He’d only seen that paper fall into illegal hands once before. Nick Ramirez’s. And Con had been certain he’d cleared out every contact in Ramirez’s organization. He’d made it his personal project.

  Holding his folder, which also contained an arrest warrant, in one hand, Con knocked on apartment number 2006. Boyer would be home. He liked to watch the cooking show that was on cable every day at noon.

  “Just a minute,” the young man called irritably through the door. Con heard some shuffling, as if something was being hurriedly put away, and then the door was cracked open.

  “Yeah? Whaddaya want?” Tommy Boyer’s pimply nose was about all Con could see.

  “I have a deal. Martin sent me,” Con said, playing a hunch and naming Ramirez’s personal shopkeeper. Whatever Ramirez needed, Martin had a contact who could supply it, whether it be Uzis or marked paper. Martin was doing twenty years in the federal penitentiary, compliments of Con, but apparently he still had someone on the outside Con didn’t know about. Someone not as smart as Martin. Someone who’d made the mistake of doing business with a small-time crook like Tommy Boyer.

  “You alone?” Boyer’s voice had dropped to a near whisper.

  “Yeah,” Con said, lowering his voice, also. If clandestine was what Boyer expected, then clandestine was what Con would give him. He didn’t want to alarm him by not playing the game the right way.

  Boyer opened his door just enough to let Con inside, then shut the door quickly.

  The young man’s apartment looked like a computer nerd’s dream. Con surveyed the living room, noticing the top-of-the-line equipment, desktop computer, color laser printer, even a scanner.

  “Wow, man, ain’t you hot in that suit?” Boyer said. “it’s 120 degrees out there.”

  “No,” Con said, staring at the young man, who was wearing glasses and a pair of boxer shorts. Period.

  “You know Martin?” Boyer asked. The kid was still too cocky with his recent successes to be intimidated by Con’s size. But that would come.

  “You could say that.”

  “What kinda deal you got?”

  Con stepped closer to him. The young man’s glasses slid down his nose.

  So he wasn’t as cool as he wanted Con to think. Con relaxed. This was going to be a piece of cake. “It depends. How do you feel about prison?”

  Boyer’s hands started to shake. “Why?” He backed away. Behind him was an easy chair and an end table with a couple of drawers.

  As Con started to reach into his inside jacket pocket for his FBI badge, Boyer sprung for the top drawer of the end table and came up with a pistol so fast he had to have practiced the maneuver. A lot.

  Con had practice, too. He grabbed Boyer’s arm. “Hold it right there,” he said, his iron grip applying pressure in just the right spot to force Boyer to drop the gun. Then he picked it up, intending to empty it of bullets.

  “You’re a little jumpy there, aren’t you, boy?” he asked, his voice calm, easy.

  “It ain’t even loaded,” Boyer said, his hands still shaking. “What was you goin’ for in your pocket just then?”

  “Cigarettes.” Con verified that the gun wasn’t loaded, dropped it back on the table and pulled out his cigarettes. “You want one?”

  “Lemme see’em.”

  Con held the pack up. Anything to get the kid to cooperate. “See? Just cigarettes,” Con said, pulling one from the pack with his lips and lighting it. “Got an ashtray?” he asked, looking around.

  He knew exactly where Tommy’s ashtray was. Next to his desktop computer, with a half-smoked joint lying in it.

  Tommy grabbed the ashtray. The joint was missing when he held it out to Con.

  “You know, Martin gets nervous doing business with hotheads,” Con said conversationally, leaning back against Boyer’s dinette table. “I don’t like it much, either.”

  “I didn’t mean nothin’,” Boyer said, then his tone turned pleading. “You ain’t gonna tell him, are you?”

  With his cigarette hanging from his mouth, Con reached into his jacket a second time.

  “I’m with the FBI,” he said, flipping out his badge.

  He’d never seen the blood drain from someone’s face so quickly. Tommy Boyer turned white and then a sickly green. “I didn’t want to do it, man. They made me,” he whined.

  “Who are ‘they’?” Con asked. This was going to be easier than easy.

  Boyer’s gaze darted around the room. “I don’t know. They just have me collect information over the Internet.”

  He was lying. Con wasn’t sure why.

  “How do you contact them?”

  “Someone comes here. I never know who or when.” The words were coming too quickly, like they’d been practiced as many times as pulling the gun had been.

  “Those old guys in prison, they’ve been locked up so long they’re really hungry for fresh young guys like you, you know that?” Con asked. He wanted the truth. He wanted to know whether Martin and Ramirez were back in business. Or still in business.

  Boyer started to tremble. “Really, man, I don’t do nothin’ but surf the Net.”

  Con had no idea what the kid was talking about. He had Boyer on check counterfeiting. Small-time sloppy check fraud. On professional paper. He stared silently at
the young man.

  “You said something about a deal. Was that just to get in here?” Boyer blurted.

  Con’s eyes narrowed through his cigarette smoke. “No.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “I want Martin.”

  Con saw relief flash across the kid’s face at the same time as he heard a key in the door behind him. He wondered if maybe he should have brought some-one inside with him, after all.

  Feeling for the gun in his shoulder holster with the side of his arm, he gauged the distance between Boyer and the door.

  “Hi, baby, I’m back,” a woman called, coming inside. She didn’t see Con right away. But the man right behind her did. He had his gun out and trained on a spot between Con’s eyes as quickly as Con had drawn his own gun.

  Con held his weapon steady, waiting for someone to move, swearing under his breath. The kid hadn’t had a single visitor all week. Suddenly he had a damn houseful. And Con had some quick thinking to do, a new game to play.

  Three against one.

  WORD CAME OVER the police radio at the television station that an FBI agent was trapped inside an apartment in Phoenix with three suspects, at least one of them armed. The agent’s partner was set up in an apartment facing it, watching everything through an unadorned window.

  Rick Hastings heard the news first. And immediately sent George Nelson out to cover the unfolding drama. “Take Darrin with you,” he yelled, naming the station’s star photographer.

  “I’m going along,” Robbie said, her voice full of steel.

  “No.” Rick didn’t even look her way.

  “Yes, Rick. I’m going,” she insisted. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hardly breathe, but she had to go. She knew most of the local agents.

  “No.” Rick still didn’t look up from the filing cabinet he was thumbing through.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, grabbing her things, hoping to catch a ride with George and Darrin.

  “It’s Con, Robbie.”

  Rick’s words stopped her in her tracks.

  HE WAS GROCERY SHOPPING, figuring out which sugared cereal was cheapest, when the music being piped over the loudspeaker was suddenly interrupted. “FBI Special Agent Connor Randolph is inside a west Phoenix apartment believed to be occupied by at least one member of the Nick Ramirez organization. Ramirez’s professional crime organization was broken up by Randolph’s team almost two years ago. Randolph’s partner on the investigation, FBI Agent Steve Corrinth, reports that two more individuals entered the apartment just moments ago. It is believed that at least one of the individuals is armed, though as of this report no shots have been fired. Agents have been called in and are surrounding the building…”

  Damn! He let loose a string of expletives that would have made his mama cringe, left his half-full cart in the cereal aisle and walked out of the store. He had to get to a television. Find out what was happening.

  They couldn’t have him. They didn’t deserve to have him. He was going to get Randolph. He was going to squeeze every last bit of anguish he could out of the bastard. The man didn’t deserve a quick death. He was going to kill him slowly.

  His plans were well under way. He was in the process of making the place real nice. He’d brought his mattress from home and bought some new sheets at the flea market. He was stocking up on food and soap and other stuff a woman might want or need. He’d bought some coffee, though he couldn’t stand the stuff. She was going to be real comfortable. He’d even sprayed the place so the crickets wouldn’t bug her. She wasn’t going to suffer while he kept her. She’d never done anything to him. Randolph was the one who’d suffer, bit by excruciating bit. And at the end, of course, he’d have to kill her, too. To make it right.

  But that was a long way off. First he was going to love telling Randolph he was balling his woman. He was making lists of all the things he was going to let Randolph think he was doing to the babe. Things he hadn’t even known a guy could do till he started his research. He’d be ready by the end of the month. Ready to teach Randolph all he’d learned.

  Provided, of course, they didn’t kill Randolph first. Rage filled his soul as he thought about losing this chance. They couldn’t kill him. Randolph was his.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SITTING IN RICK’S OFFICE, a paper cup filled with brandy held between shaking hands, Robbie heard it all. Her boss was there, his wife, Joan, too, and every-one else not otherwise occupied at the station. She sipped the brandy slowly as she waited for news over the police radio, getting only a scrap of information at a time. She heard descriptions of the suspects, which agents were on the scene or close by. She heard Con’s credentials.

  She held herself together until reports came that a shot had been fired.

  And then her whole body started to shake. All she could think about was Con lying in a pool of blood. The life seeping out of him.

  She was hardly aware when Joan took her hand. If Con was dead, so was she. Con. Dead.

  Stop it! she cried silently. Con was the best there was. He always got his man, even if there were three of them.

  A second shot was reported and Robbie thought about Joey. He needed Con. He deserved to know him. To learn from him. To be loved by him. Huge tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

  Letting go of Joan’s hand and putting down the cup of brandy, Robbie wrapped her arms around her middle, holding on for all she was worth. She just had to wait a little longer. Shots had been fired. The other agents would have moved in. Soon everyone would know what was happening. Soon they’d tell her Con was all right. She just had to hold on.

  “No! I’M NOT DOING TIME for murder!” Boyer yelled, interrupting the threats that had been passing back and forth between Con and Perez. Both men still had their guns trained on each other.

  “Shut up, kid,” Perez growled. The woman moved across the room, hovering by the easy chair and end table.

  Con stood frozen, waiting for his moment. Then Boyer, eyes wild, lunged at Perez. “No, I didn’t agree to any murder!”

  He grabbed at the arm holding the gun, and Con made his move. He dived for Perez, grabbing the man’s gun hand in a viselike grip above their heads as they started to fall. Con’s gun dropped to the floor beneath them. Perez’s gun went off.

  Screaming, Boyer backed away. Con was vaguely aware of the kid sinking to the floor by the easy chair, mumbling incoherently. One down.

  Con rolled with Perez, turning to take the knee intended for his groin in the thigh, instead, still holding Perez’s gun hand above their heads, applying pressure for all he was worth. He’d lost track of the woman. The gun went off a second time, the acrid smell filling the air.

  Con landed a couple of good blows, one with his elbow, one with his fist. Perez wasn’t as big as he was, but he was younger, and strong as an ox.

  Rolling back on top, Con slammed the other man’s arm to the floor. Perez still didn’t lose the gun. Con pulled him up, then smashed him back to the floor. Perez doubled back with a fist to Con’s nose and right eye.

  “Hold it right there.” Both men froze as the woman’s voice came from right beside Con’s head. She was holding a gun about a foot from Con’s temple.

  “Oh, God, no. He’s FBI,” he heard Boyer whimper. “You know what happens to you if you kill an FBI agent?”

  “He’s the scum who put your father behind bars,” Perez said, relaxing his grip on his gun slightly as he saw the battle about to end in his favor. Con slammed Perez’s hand against the floor one more time, knocking the gun loose—just as the gun in the woman’s hand clicked quietly.

  Boyer’s gun.

  Con flipped Perez over onto his stomach before the other man knew what was happening, then grabbed his own gun from the floor just as the door burst open to half a dozen FBI agents.

  He got to his feet, wiped the blood from his nose, straightened his jacket and walked out of the apartment, leaving someone else to mop up—for now.

  The world was full of Boyers an
d Perezes, Martins and Ramirezes. They just kept coming at him. And he just kept nailing them.

  He found it one of life’s cruel ironies that the only thing he was really good at was something he’d grown to hate.

  ROBBIE WAS STILL trembling inside and out as she gripped the steering wheel, heading home after word had come that it was all over. Con was all right. Logically she knew that. He had a couple of bruises, that was all. He’d be on his way home soon.

  But until she saw him, until she felt his warm body with her own two hands, her heart was afraid to believe. She’d almost lost Con today. Dear God, she’d almost lost him.

  And once she’d assured herself that he was really all right, she was going to kill him for putting her through this hell.

  CON WAS BEAT when he pulled into his driveway. His nose still throbbed and his muscles were going to be sore as hell in the morning.

  But Ramirez was out of business again. Before Con had even known the guy was back up and running.

  What had started out as a small-time arrest had turned into something with international ramifications. He’d gone after Tommy Boyer, curious about the small-time check counterfeiter’s paper supplier, unaware that the kid was Martin’s illegitimate son. Boyer had been working as Martin’s Internet connection for the rebuilding of Ramirez’s organization ever since Martin and Ramirez had gone to the slammer. Boyer had been passing information gleaned from hacking to Martin’s girlfriend, who then passed it on to Martin during her weekly visits with him at the penitentiary.

  But Martin had made a critical mistake when he’d trusted the son he’d run out on a decade before. A two-bit punk, Tommy Boyer had thought he was smarter than his father. He’d been running his own little check-counterfeiting business on the side with no one the wiser, using Martin’s suppliers.

  Which is how Con had become suspicious that Ramirez was back in business and made the decision to go after Boyer himself. Going in alone had proved more dangerous, but it had been the surest way to enlist Boyer’s trust—to ultimately get Ramirez.

  And no one had died, at least not yet. He didn’t hold out much hope for Tommy Boyer. If the punk lived long enough to make it to prison, Ramirez would get him there. The stupid greedy kid had just handed the feds an entire organization.