Shoot 'Em Up

by Janey Mack

  I squared my shoulders. “I . . . uh . . . have to deliver the money to Juarez. El Cid said he’d help me get the heroin across the border.”

  “Bargain shopping on behalf of the DEA?” He folded his arms across his chest. “How industrious.”

  “He didn’t give me a choice, sir.”

  A Cheshire-cat smile wreathed Nyx’s face. “You’re in.”

  “A toehold,” I cautioned.

  “A test. And one you’ll pass. I’ll see to that.” He sucked his lower lip. “Let’s keep this out of Sawyer’s field of vision. At least until the deal goes down. Or off. No point knocking over the hive if it’s a washout.”

  “Yessir.” The hubris of ego was a remarkable thing. He actually assumed I’d kept Sawyer in the dark. “Umm, Mr. Nyx? Don’t you think you should know my name?”

  He stepped into my space, leaned down, and whispered, “What makes you think I don’t already know everything about you, Maisie?”

  A tiny shiver skittered down my spine.

  Nyx straightened and crossed the room. Wes opened the door for him.

  “Put it in motion,” Nyx said.

  Wes nodded and closed the door behind him. He lumbered over and sat down heavily at a tiny table.

  I took the chair opposite. “Hey—can I ask you something?”

  “You betcha.”

  “What is Liten Soot-ees?”

  “Little Sweetie.”

  “Really? Because the way Nyx says it, it sounds anything but.”

  Wes’s lips twitched.

  “I’m Maisie.”

  “Nice to know you. Alrighty then, you told Nyx that El Cid wants you to fly down on Thursday, right?”

  I nodded. “One-way, first-class ticket.”

  “Which means you can’t carry the cash. Too many variables with the airport. Sixty K isn’t worth stressing our assets.”

  How much does it take to be cost-effective?

  “The money will weigh around seven pounds.” Wes chewed on a fingernail, thinking. “Where will you be staying?”

  “Hotel Lucerna.”

  “No problem, then.” He smiled. “I’ll FedEx it to you.”

  Seriously? “Don’t they have dogs trained to smell out currency ink?”

  “Duh.” Wes rolled his eyes. “That’s why we coat the inside of the FedEx boxes with lynx urine.”

  “Ugh.”

  He gave a high-pitched but good-natured giggle. “The money will arrive scent-free, plastic-wrapped inside activated-charcoal deodorizer bags.”

  Sure thing. “And it’ll just show up, unmolested at the hotel desk, no sweat?”

  Wes looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Of course. It’ll arrive with the Sentinel’s NAFTA certificate of origin and proforma invoice. Customs won’t give it a second look.”

  “A Chicago newspaper has a duty-free custom’s entrance number?”

  “They will by this afternoon.” He shook his head. “You are a green one, aren’tcha?”

  That’s me. The perpetual rookie.

  “I’m betting he’s planning to have you drive the product back. Weekends are the busiest border crossing times. The heavier the traffic flow, the less likely you are to get searched.” Wes leaned forward and put a slightly sweaty hand on mine. “Don’t think about what you’re doing when you come back with the product. You’re just returning a package to the DEA.”

  He gave my hand a damp squeeze.

  I nodded, smiling, wanting to pull my hand away but standing firm. “Thanks for the advice.”

  He finally let go. “Anytime.” He heaved himself to his feet and walked me out to the front of the store. “Have a good day, now.”

  Chapter 13

  I gratefully took the scalp on the taxi limo to the Hotel Lucerna. Even with a spray tan, I stuck out more than a constitutionalist at a DNC rally. Ciudad Juárez had the highest murder rate in Mexico. But travel advisories don’t mean jack to a Chi-town Irish gel working undercover.

  Yeah, right.

  The driver pulled up in front of the eight-story cream-colored resort hotel. I overtipped him and wheeled my black Victor-inox Spectra hard-side into a lobby of marble-tiled arches and wrought-iron furniture with overstuffed cushions.

  At 2:00 p.m., the place was empty except for a woman behind the front desk.

  “Maisie McGrane. I have a reservation.”

  Her eyes were quick and nervous. “You spell please?”

  I did. She typed it into the computer. “I’m sorry. There is nothing.”

  “Will you check again, please?”

  She looked away.

  “Señora Renko?” asked a man’s voice from behind me.

  Uh-oh.

  The woman at the desk had moved farther down the counter, refusing to look at me.

  I slipped my right hand into my jacket pocket and gripped the roll of quarters that served as traveling brass knuckles, before turning, blank-faced.

  Three men in thick-rimmed spectacles stood behind me in jeans and plaid Western snap-shirts. The one in the center stepped forward. “You will come with us.”

  Not so fast, pal.

  I eased my carry-on between us and widened my stance slightly. “Do I know you?”

  “Sí.” He nodded. “I am Chac.” He pointed at the other men. “Jefe and Esteban. We are the Hanseen brothers.”

  It took a minute to register. Han-son not Hanseen.

  Feck me.

  I grinned. Slap Shot. AJ had watched it. And sent his men with a coded message only I would understand.

  “Yes,” I said, realizing AJ had “married” me to Stannis for my own safety. “I am Mrs. Renko.”

  Jefe started for the door. Esteban took my suitcase and Chac moved toward me.

  “Señora Renko—” The woman at the desk put two FedEx boxes on the counter and held out a clipboard. “Your packages.”

  Gee, thanks.

  I signed.

  Chac picked up my innocuous packages filled with sixty thousand dollars and we walked to out to the waiting black Acura MDX in the lobby turnout.

  * * *

  All three men replaced their fake, thick-rimmed glasses with sunglasses as soon as we were in the car. Jefe, the driver, and Chac sat in front. I was alone in the middle row with the FedEx boxes, while Esteban, his AK and my carry-on rode in the far back.

  “Phone,” Chac said. I leaned forward and handed him my iPhone, getting a nice look at his rifle, a Serbian Zastava M21. Jefe had one, too.

  Chac popped the SIM card tray open with a paper clip and handed me the card back. “Music, sí?”

  I nodded. Mexican rap filled the air.

  Even with the heavily tinted windows, the bright desert sun had me reaching for my Ray-Bans. I couldn’t seem to get my fingers to work the zipper. I set the messenger bag to the side.

  Hank’s Law Number Five: Make it look easy.

  I was freaked. And while they knew it, that didn’t mean they got to see it.

  We drove through the frenetic anthill of traffic and smog toward the northwest side of the city. The street sign—BOULEVARD MUNICIPIO LIBRE—reminded me that I hadn’t been blindfolded.

  Gonna take that the best way possible.

  Which wasn’t easy, especially as we passed a graveyard jam-packed to overflowing that seemed to stretch for miles.

  I settled back in the leather seat. Unlike me, Hank would have evaluated the strengths and weaknesses of the men in the car, memorized the terrain, running scenarios—hijacking, roadblocks, police, land mines, and planned contingencies.

  Somehow awareness of my lack of situational awareness didn’t make me feel real chipper, either.

  “Pila de la Chaveña.” Chac pointed out the window at a large, dry fountain.

  I nodded, absently sliding a thumbnail beneath the shipping label of one of the FedEx boxes. The edge raised. Maybe I shouldn’t leave this on there.... I lifted the sticker carefully, a third of it raising neatly off the box.

  “Not long.” Chac frowned at me ov
er his shoulder.

  I pressed the sticker back down, resealing the adhesive.

  The atmosphere in the car eased once we got past the center of the town. The men conversed but only briefly. They needn’t have worried. With less than a semester of high school Spanish under my belt, I could barely order a burrito at Chipotle.

  We left the city.

  Barren mountains of scrub stretched out for miles. “Sierra de Juárez,” Chac said. The MDX navigated a series of dirt roads until we arrived at a beat-up old cabin. Two men with identical Zastava M21s and glowering faces stared down at us from the wide wood porch.

  AJ came out of the house looking tough as casing nails in mirrored sunglasses, black T-shirt, cargo shorts, and boots. He ran a hand over his shaved head, a good two-day beard covering the lower half of his face. “Maisie!”

  I couldn’t remember a time when I’d felt quite so happy to see someone. I mean, I had, but not recently.

  AJ threw an arm over my shoulder and turned us toward the cabin. “How was your trip?” He raised his free hand and snapped his fingers at the Hanson brothers behind us.

  “Easy.” We took the six rickety steps up onto the high porch. “I like what you did with the guys. The glasses were a nice touch.”

  “Anything for you, baby.”

  The guards didn’t look real friendly. There were a couple of chairs on either side of the door, a table on one end, a big blue Coleman cooler on the other.

  AJ led me past them into the house. He gestured to an open bedroom on the right. “You want to rest? Take a shower?”

  Gee. Let’s see. I’m in a house with five men I don’t know and one I kind of do. I think I’ll pass.

  “Nah. Let’s get to it.”

  AJ laughed. “No hurry, Maisie. Your package won’t be ready until tomorrow.”

  Esteban took my carry-on into the bedroom.

  Yay, slumber party.

  The living room opened onto a large kitchen. Chac followed with the FedEx boxes. “Those are for El Cid,” I said.

  He set them on the kitchen table. AJ pulled out a chair for me, as Chac, Jefe, and Esteban all tromped through the house and right out the back door. AJ sat down across from me. He slid his hands over the invoice sticker. “The Sentinel has a tariff number?”

  “Of course they do,” I said. “They publish Sin Perjuicio.”

  “No shit?” He yanked the cardboard zip, pulled out one of the activated-charcoal black bags, and unwrapped it. The plastic-wrapped packets of cash slid out. He sliced one open and flipped through the bank-wrapped stacks of twenties. He smiled. “Nice and easy.”

  Together we sliced through all the plastic-wrapped packets and moved on to the second box. AJ scanned each one. I replaced them in the black bags.

  “We’re good.” He called something at the front door. The two men from the porch came inside, M21s slung over their shoulders. Each man put the contents of a black bag into a backpack. A lot of Spanish crossed between them. The men took the backpacks and left. I was pretty sure they were done for the night.

  The smell of burning charcoal wafted into the room. “C’mon,” AJ said. “Let’s go have a beer.”

  Or three. Or six.

  We stepped out of the rear of the cabin into a flat yard, overlooking the arid scrub and mountains. The sun was just starting to set, the sky awash in vibrant orange and golden yellows.

  Chac and Jefe were grilling beef on a makeshift open-mesh grill. Esteban disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Beer or something stronger?” AJ asked.

  “One of each.” I took a seat at the picnic table.

  “My kind of girl.” He raised the lid on a sister ice chest to the one on the front porch and brought out a couple Negra Modelos.

  AJ popped the caps off the edge of the table. Esteban came out with a bottle of Cava de Oro Extra Anejo and shot glasses, filling one for each of us.

  AJ raised a glass. “¡Salud, pestas y amor y tiempo para gozartos!”

  We drank. The tequila went straight to my shoulders, the easy, warm glow matching the sky. I sucked a lime and concentrated on the horizon. Getting tipsy with AJ was not the wisest course of action, but with no alternative, might as well enjoy the moment where the world was a laid-back and happy place.

  Hank’s Law Number Twenty-One: Never confuse politeness with civility.

  Esteban went back into the kitchen and turned on some music. The tequila kept flowing. And with it, movie talk and the inevitable James Bond argument over our dinner of carne asada.

  The Hansons were more disappointed than surprised when I sided with AJ that Sean Connery was and would be the only Bond, ever. Grumbling, they started clearing up.

  “I was hoping we might talk about a couple other things tonight,” I said as the Hansons milled around the table.

  “Sure.” AJ poured out two more shots of tequila.

  No more, please. The tequila throat scorch isn’t really my gig.

  He reached into his pants pocket for his wallet, and took out a hundred-dollar bill. “Boys,” he said. The Hermanos Hansons’ heads swiveled toward him simultaneously like a pack of meerkats. “A hundred American for whoever kills the most scorpions in thirty minutes.”

  It was like he’d rung the school bell.

  In seconds they were silhouettes in the twilight, their black-light penlights and blades glinting in the moonlight as they moved into the desert.

  AJ shook his head. “I recruit the mutherfucking Cinco-Sietes. Some of the most badass killers in the world for my uncle Carlos. And what do I get? His half-retarded second cousins as my personal security force. Madre de Christos.” He gave a bark of laughter. “Okay, Maisie. Shoot.”

  “Funny you should say that, AJ. I’m actually in the market for some of those, as well.”

  “Some what?”

  “Guns.”

  AJ rubbed his lower lip with his thumb. He got that really unpleasant fake-pleasant look that a smart guy gets when the wheels click and he knows he’s being screwed with.

  Only I couldn’t figure out why he had that look.

  “You got guts, Maisie. Ironclad, I’ll give you that.”

  Uh-oh.

  “That was sweet.” His mouth split in a mean smile. “That little sob story about trying to save Renko. Coming here to deal with me all on your own?”

  Shouting came from the desert. We turned. One of the Hermanos Hansons held up his knife. Something large on the tip. The other men yelled back.

  “AJ—”

  “That’s El Cid to you, baby.”

  “El Cid, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You tell Renko, he wants to know if we’re buying guns from someone other than the Slajic clan, then he best pick up the fucking phone and answer my goddamn calls.”

  “I don’t know where he is.” I put my hand on his. “Everything’s in flux in Chicago. Eddie V’s in rehab and Vi’s cozying up to the Syndicate who’s moving in on Renko’s interests. The heroin was my idea.” My voice splintered from the tequila-induced huskiness. “I’m just trying to keep it together.”

  He grabbed me by the back of my neck and brought my face in close, velvety eyes searching mine.

  Oh Jaysus. “I’m not Fredo,” I said. “I didn’t break your heart.”

  “No.” AJ grinned at the Godfather reference and slapped my cheek. “You’re not.” He put his index fingers in his mouth and gave a short whistle. “Time’s up!”

  The Hermanos Hansons jogged back to the table and presented their knives—Jefe with four, Esteban two, and Chac with a winning seven scorpions impaled on his blade. Some of the scorpions were still moving.

  Eeew.

  I excused myself, pushed open the cabin’s screen door, and went into the tidy bathroom. I was half-cut, the kind where you grab the sink for a minute before you splash water on your face.

  Steady on. Cartel killers aren’t the type to hold your hair back when you’re sick.

  I checked myself in the mirror. My p
onytail was tidy, mascara still fine after the face bath. But my pupils were dilated and my face wore a bad and reckless excitement.

  “Settle down,” I warned my reflection. “Just settle the feck down.”

  I stepped back into the kitchen and heard AJ’s voice. “Get the cooler off the front porch.” He was talking to his men, but carrying a cooler might give me a little desperately needed centering.

  “I got it!” I called from inside the kitchen, then spun toward the door and bumped my wrist hard on the back of a wooden chair. “Gah! Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph.” I shook my hand out and walked out onto the front porch.

  It was just as bewitchingly lonely in the front yard as the back. I could live in a place like this.

  With Hank.

  Moths flung themselves against the hot porch lights. Singeing their wings from their uncontrollable attraction. The air felt warm on my skin. Which meant, as a happy but chilly drunk, I was toasted. The big blue cooler was gone.

  Huh. We must’ve cleaned that one out already, too.

  Focus.

  A battered red Playmate cooler sat at the top of the stairs. It didn’t seem all that heavy.

  Hermanos Hansons will be making a beer run if this is all we have left.

  It was buzzing.

  Like my head.

  I carried it over to the wood table on the corner of the porch and set it down. The faint droning continued. I pressed in the white button of the cooler and pushed the lid up.

  It stuck.

  The stench was immediately recognizable. Through the three-inch strip of open cooler, a human head, corneas fogged to gray marbles, stared sightlessly outward. Flies buzzed at the nostrils and mouth.

  Oh God.

  I shoved the lid all the way back.

  And heard an ominous, metallic snick.

  Followed by a long hiss and a sharp crack.

  The burning acrid reek of chemicals seared my nose and mouth. I turned to run and fell off the porch. Landing hard on my stomach, I rolled underneath, scrambling to tuck up tight against the house.

  The explosion ripped above. The concussion jammed my eardrums into my head as it squashed the air out of my lungs.

  Dust and splinters and shards of plastic and metal rained down on the porch above me. I felt it more than heard it.

  I didn’t realize I wasn’t dead until seconds after.