Shoot 'Em Up

by Janey Mack

  I put a hand to my cheek. I hadn’t realized I was crying. I slipped the card back into the envelope and set it aside. I scooped out the top layer of packing material and jerked my hand back when my fingers felt the familiar thick lead-glass and wooden lid.

  Oh no. Please, no.

  I lifted the lid, even though I already knew the contents.

  Human finger bones.

  More than two hundred ivory pieces filled the jar. Some taken in warning, others in retribution. Stannislav The Butcher’s legacy. His everything.

  My ticket in or out of Slajic’s organization.

  Because Hank always had my six.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried not to think. About anything.

  Everything went back in the box, my fingers numb and clumsy as I knotted the string.

  Jaysus Criminey.

  By weight, those bones equaled a metric fuck-ton of evidence. Talbott Cottle Coles’s finger aka traceable DNA was in there.

  A rivulet of revulsion oozed down my spine.

  Hank had trusted Violetta Veteratti to keep it safe.

  Last time I checked, I lived in a house with four policemen and a former prosecutor.

  Where the hell am I going to put it?

  * * *

  The twins—Declan, the devil, and Daicen, the saint—drew the short straw and came straight from court to pick me up at the hospital. Declan, perpetually in need of a haircut, maintained a style of mischievously rumpled. He snagged a Royal Verano pear from the fruit basket and left to hit on a pretty RN.

  Where Declan was haphazard, Daicen was precise. Impeccably tailored, dark hair slicked back, shoes polished to a mirror shine. He pulled the cards from the flowers and noted what they were on the backs with his fountain pen so I could write thank-yous. Then he sent the posies via candy striper to the cancer ward before helping me pack.

  “What’s in the box?” Dacien asked.

  A world of hurt.

  “Candy jar. From work.”

  Daicen shook his head. “Not content to be bit once, stepping on the adder’s tail surely will make it happen again.”

  What the hell kind of proverb is that?

  My face scrunched as I deciphered the riddle. “Oh. Yeah. The Sentinel.”

  He laid a finger against his nose and winked. “I’ll fetch the car.” He picked up the fruit basket and gestured to the box. “Shall I ?”

  “Sure,” I said, as casual as all get-out.

  An orderly got me into a wheelchair and we waited.

  Declan reappeared with the RN. She dismissed the orderly and dumped a plastic bag of my admittance belongings—clothes stiff with dried blood—and the folder of postop instructions into my lap, flirting as hard as she could with my brother.

  Why yes, chopped liver IS my middle name.

  The elevator ride was worse than an eHarmony commercial. Poor kid. She wouldn’t rate more than two dates.

  Daicen waited patiently next to his Audi in the circle.

  He helped me out of the wheelchair and into the passenger’s seat, closing the door behind me. Skirting the car, he took the suitcase from our brother’s hand and put it in the trunk while the RN gave Declan her number.

  Stannis’s legacy sat on the floor next to Declan and the Chicago Syndicate’s fruit basket.

  Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

  “We’ve got you quite a present, Snap. Haven’t we, Dai ?”

  Daicen’s lips tightened.

  “Oh?” I said.

  “Christo Keck is our new client.”

  “Who?” Jaysus Criminey. Can’t a girl catch a break around here?

  Declan leaned forward and nuzzled his chin into my neck. “Tsk-tsk. Mustn’t fib when we’re going to take the heat off of you getting stabbed. Tell us about him.”

  Gee, let’s see. Christo Keck ran Renko’s prime chop shop. Oh yeah, and a couple of weeks ago, he helped me dispose of a body.

  I swallowed hard. “He’s guilty.”

  Declan laughed. “They always are.”

  “I can see why Mom has difficulty reconciling your aversion to law school.” Daicen gave me a sideways look. “While collaborating with the same criminal element, we receive significantly higher compensation and suffer far fewer workplace injuries.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “Point!” Declan ground his knuckles into my head. “You know we’re here to take you home home, not Bannon’s place, right?”

  I nodded. Nicer to be coddled by the clan than hobbling around Hank’s place, alone, fretting over him. “Uh . . . Hey guys? Do you think we could swing by Stannis’s penthouse and pick up my car?” I let my voice go soft. “I’d rather not tempt Flynn and Rory with the chance to nose around.”

  “Certainly,” Daicen said.

  I opened the sealed plastic bag of the stuff I’d had on me at the time of the accident and rummaged around the bloodstained clothes and gear until I found the key fob to the Dodge Hellcat SRT. I handed it back to Declan.

  “Whoa. It’s true?” he breathed. “You let Bannon buy you a car?”

  No, I hadn’t, actually, but after the knife-in-the-leg incident, the chances of getting Hank to take it back were nonexistent.

  “When’s the wedding?”

  “Funny how you guys are in such a rush to marry me off to a man none of you want me to date.”

  “Dai and I aren’t on Team LEO, Snap. I, for one, welcome the opportunity to represent your future husband in any and all of his mercenary misadventures.”

  Cute.

  I directed Daicen to Stannis’s penthouse and told him the underground garage entry code.

  Declan whistled as we pulled up next to the car. “Hell-o, Black Beauty.”

  “Easy, pally,” I warned. “She’s got a stonking V-8 Hemi and more guts than you.”

  He grinned and gave me a salute that ended in one finger. He got into the car and gunned the engine.

  Daicen turned to me. “Would you rather I drive it home?”

  I put my hand on his arm and squeezed. For Daicen to even offer was akin to loaning me a kidney. Declan drove like he dated: completely out of control. “Thanks, but one accident a week is about all I can handle.”

  “Are you all right, Maisie?” Daicen asked softly.

  “Everything’s aces.”

  He didn’t believe me.

  I didn’t believe me, either.

  * * *

  It took me a solid six minutes to make it up the stairs to my bedroom. Thierry, our housekeeper/cook, offered to set up the guest room on the main floor, but I wanted to sleep in my own bed, and the more I walked, the faster I’d get back to one hundred percent formidable.

  Yeah, baby.

  Because what I was going to bring to Walt Sawyer was the brass fecking ring.

  My room, pin-neat from my absence, was still wonderful; midcentury modern in rich taupes and grays with splashes of yellow. And I felt like a stranger in it.

  I hobbled over to the bed and eased down. Stupid ambulance driver.

  For the last month, I’d lived at Stannis’s penthouse. Before that, Hank’s. And now I was returning to the hotbed of Irish Catholic guilt and overprotective guard dogs. It was going to take some damn fancy footwork to keep my clan in the inky black bliss of unawareness.

  Daicen, who kindly let me navigate the stairs solo, knocked on the door frame and came in with my suitcase and the box. He rolled the suitcase into the walk-in closet. “And this ?”

  The box.

  “Nightstand?”

  He tucked the box beneath the table farthest from the door and took a seat in one of the mushroom-colored microfiber armchairs. He adjusted the crease in his suit pants and waited.

  I dry-swallowed an Oxy and closed my eyes. I wasn’t sure for how long.

  “One helluva car, Snap.” Declan grinned from the doorway. “I wouldn’t be giving it back, either.”

  Daicen glanced at his Rolex but said nothing.

  “Funny thing . . .” Declan came
in with a cardboard carton. “Aside from a pile of new clothes with the tags still on, I found this in your trunk.” He dumped it out on the foot of my bed.

  Time to lace up the ol’ tap shoes.

  As expected, I saw my Kimber-solo and Flashbang holster, ammo, and spare magazine, document scanner pen, signal detector watch, Swiss Army knife, and Chicago Sentinel credentials.

  It was the pair of Belgian FN Herstal tactical Five-seveN MK2 handguns with additional mags and laser sights that popped my eyes saucer-wide. Well, that and the bank-wrapped stack of hundred-dollar bills.

  Hank’s Law Number Two: Respond to threats with complete confidence.

  “I asked you to drive my car home. I don’t recall giving you permission to toss it.”

  “Quid pro quo.” Declan dropped his hands onto the bed and eyed me like an Eskimo over a baby seal. “You’re an untapped resource of useful information about our new client and his relationship with your butcher boy toy.”

  Shite.

  “I’m sensing a conflict of interest,” Daicen said mildly.

  “Huh?” Declan frowned at him.

  “I have a fiduciary duty to protect my client’s rights and interests.” He turned to me. “I advise you not to answer any questions.”

  I smiled innocently at the older twin and shrugged.

  “Like hell!” Declan’s cheeks flushed. “This isn’t over.”

  “Yes, it is. My duty to my client comes before your ambition. If you’d like me to stay on as your partner, I advise you to let this lie.”

  Talk about a line in the sand.

  Declan left, slamming the door behind him.

  Daicen straightened his French cuff. “Would you like to talk?”

  God, yes.

  “No.” I croaked.

  With an inscrutable look, he nodded and stood. “Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m fine, really,” I said.

  “Perhaps.”

  After he was gone, I riffled through the packet of hundreds. Ten thousand dollars. I was starting to appreciate Special Unit’s “to the victor go the spoils” mentality. The Five-seveN pistols were bad boys, cocked and locked. I stashed everything in the nightstand drawer and pretended I didn’t see the box.

  If you can’t be content with what you have received, be thankful for what you have escaped.

  With a groan, I dragged the comforter over me. “Where are you, Hank?”

  Chapter 4

  My iPhone bleated a short alarm.

  Sawyer. Beating me to the punch.

  I grabbed it, checking the time before answering. Six-oh-two a.m. “Good morning, sir.”

  “There’s been a development in the assassination attempt on Coles. A driver will pick you up in an hour. Wear your Sentinel credentials.”

  “Yessir.”

  He hung up.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed and cracked my neck.

  Where the hell am I going to hide Stannis’s legacy?

  I stood up, gingerly, fetched the box, and limped into the bathroom. I set it on the counter and got in the shower. Normally hot water drumming on my head would have sent me into a Zen state of mental preparation for Sawyer. Today, my mind was running the infinity loop of where to hide the damn jar.

  Ugh.

  I couldn’t make it into the attic, not like this. The garage was a no-go. So was Da’s workshop. Hank’s house was a fortress, but he’d chosen Vi to hold it. So that was out.

  Into the closet, then. I stashed the bone jar inside a suitcase inside a suitcase inside a suitcase. The Russian doll horror-style of traveling.

  Until I thought of something better.

  Goddammit.

  * * *

  Going down stairs was far easier than going up. My pace had improved from radioactive beta decay to glacial.

  Mom and Thierry were in the kitchen. Since the bastards at Amp energy drinks in their infinite wisdom had swapped out original sugar-free for the horrific blueberry-white-grape and equally awful watermelon flavors, I was a girl without a go-to breakfast.

  Thierry slid a Go Girl energy drink across the counter.

  “Thanks.” As far as over-caffeinated drinks went, it was okay, but the name and hot pink can killed me.

  Mom looked up from the stack of case files she was reading at the counter. She slid her reading glasses down her nose and gave me “the look.”

  “I have to check in at work,” I said.

  “In a Marc Jacobs original? A bit gauche for the communist collective, don’t you think?”

  “What can I say?” I popped the top of the energy drink. “I’m an ambassador of ever-expanding horizons.”

  She took a sip of green tea, eyes never leaving mine. “I seem to remember Dr. Williams mentioning something about light duty. . . .”

  “I’m wearing flats.”

  “You’re not driving.”

  “Already have a ride.”

  She pushed her glasses back up in resignation. “Thierry? Be a dear and bring Maisie her crutches.”

  For the love of—

  Thierry came around the counter holding a pair of forearm crutches. And to my supreme irritation, fitted them to me.

  “Gee, thanks, guys.”

  A horn sounded from the driveway. A driver stood waiting next to the passenger door of a black Chevy Impala. I shambled out of the house looking like the girl version of Jimmy from South Park.

  Let’s g-g-go g-g-get ’em, Tiger.

  * * *

  I crutched into the slogan-tee, skinny-jean, hipster hotbed of the Chicago Sentinel, lanyard ID around my neck. I waited my turn at reception and then again for Mr. Renick’s assistant.

  A dish of a girl in skinny black jeans, open-necked white blouse, cropped red blazer, and kitten heels came toward me. “Jenny Steager. Call me ‘Juice.’ You must be Maisie McGrane, the new Op Ed.”

  Op Ed? WTH? “Er . . . yes.”

  “Paul’s reserved a conference room. Let’s go.” She led me to the elevator, swiped her pass, and pressed the Up button.

  We got off on the thirty-second floor.

  “Don’t mind Lennon,” she whisper-warned with a glance at the end of the elevator bank, where a guy so skinny you could grate cheese off his ribs leaned against the wall. “Dickheads make surprisingly good reporters.”

  Clad in a camel-colored V-neck sweater tucked into brown-belted, brown tapered trousers, he pushed off the wall as we approached.

  “’Morning, Lennon,” Juice said. “This is Maisie, the new Op Ed.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I lifted a crutch in greeting.

  He started at my feet and let his eyes calculate everything from my Stuart Weitzman flats, to the David Yurman earrings, lips crimping in a sneer at the total. “And what have you penned besides your signature on Daddy’s checks?”

  Other than parking tickets? Not much.

  I gave him my best wide-eyed and innocent. “Is that Lenin with an ‘i’?”

  Hipster no likey.

  “Friendly tip, Miffy”—he leaned in and I could smell the faint stink of chocolate vape from his e-cig—“stay out of the way of the real reporters,”

  Juice gasped. “Geez, Lennon!”

  “Sure thing,” I said evenly. “I’ll keep a close eye out.”

  Uncertain, he took a tottering step backward on his black ankle boots, then brushed by us to the elevator buttons and smacked the Down button.

  A giggle escaped Juice. “No wonder Paul likes you.”

  I hope he knows who I am . . . I followed her into another reception area. This one far nicer.

  “Conference Room D?” she asked the girl behind the desk.

  “Yes, Ms. Steager.”

  I followed Juice to an unmarked door. Behind it, Walt Sawyer stood gazing out the window over the city. He turned as she closed the door, the small smile sliding off his fox-like face at the sight of my crutches. “Prognosis?”

  “Another week of light duty,” I said. “Fourteen days to get back to full
strength.”

  I hope.

  “Can’t be helped,” he said in that uncanny way that made me feel it could have been. Sawyer pulled out a chair for me to the right of the head of an oval table of four. He stowed my crutches behind the door. “You’ve seen the attempt on Coles.”

  “Yes, sir. On television.”

  “Your thoughts?”

  “It wasn’t Stannislav Renko. If he wanted Coles dead, he’d do it himself. In a place where he could take a good long time.”

  Sawyer exhaled a slow breath through his nose. “Mayor Coles apparently concurs with your assessment.”

  Huh?

  “Coles has galvanized his contacts within the Justice Department. Special agents from the DEA and ATF will be here shortly. Do not volunteer any information.”

  No wonder Sawyer was so stiff-lipped. Special Unit was being shut out of the investigation.

  I nodded. “Sir—” The door swung open and the words “I was hoping to talk to you about Violetta Veteratti” died on my lips.

  A six-foot-one, 220-pound man wearing a black suit with a maroon- and charcoal-striped rep tie carrying a matte-black aluminum briefcase strode into the room. His brown hair, cut high and tight, was flecked with gray. “Walt.” He shook hands with Sawyer, caught sight of me in the chair, and strode over. “Ditch Broady, ATF.” He took my fingers in that Southern gentleman’s way and smiled. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miz—”

  “We’re waiting on Gunther Nyx,” Sawyer interrupted.

  Looks like no name for me.

  “The Swede’s never on time.” Broady cracked his neck and rounded the table to the seat across from me. He unbuttoned his suit coat. “I do love a lil’ nip in the air.”

  “Hard to beat early October in Chicago, sir.”

  “We do not experience this type of autumn in Texas, no, ma’am.” Broady flashed me a husky smile. “Call me Ditch.”

  Even nameless, I figured I was about four questions away from getting asked out to dinner when Gunther Nyx walked in.

  The Swede looked more drug dealer than DEA agent. He had the lean, acerbic shape of a cross-country skier. His shoulder-length hair was the color of sun reflecting off snow, eyes as bleak as a January sky. “Sawyer. Ditch.” He gave me a brief nod and took a seat.

  “Let’s get to it.” Broady opened his briefcase, removed a black tactical pistol, and set it on the table with a clunk. “The shooter’s. Recovered from the assassination attempt. One of five hundred FN Five-seveNs MK2s hijacked from a Belgian shipment to Ukraine last year.”