Shoot 'Em Up

by Janey Mack

  * * *

  My eyes snapped open at 2:30 a.m. If I was awake, I might as well be driving. I loaded my things in the car and headed for Chicago.

  I braked at every speed limit sign. Like my brother Rory, I, too, was a serial speeder. I set the cruise control and flipped through my playlist to the ridiculously pleasing Spencer Day.

  Somewhere in mid-Missouri I called Gunther Nyx. We agreed to meet the following day at the dry-cleaning drop.

  I showed up at home sometime during the midnight hour.

  Cash was a night owl. You had to be one if you worked SWAT. Most no-knock warrants were served between 2:00 and 5:00 a.m. I let myself in through the garage, backpack and carry-on in hand, and went directly into the bedroom. I slid the backpack under the bed.

  Stannis’s bone jar was in the great room. Nyx’s heroin under the bed. And CPD SWAT was in the kitchen.

  I’m a little out of my depth here, Hank.

  Cash was living large, drinking my boyfriend’s Highland Park single malt Scotch and eating a fist-sized chocolate molten-lava cake. From the debris, it appeared he’d gone through a jumbo shrimp cocktail, Caesar salad, French bread, and a New York strip with a baked potato.

  “Hey, Snap!” he said. “Sit down—I’ll have Wilhelm rustle something up for you.”

  “You’ve met Wilhelm?” I gathered up his dishes and carried them into the kitchen.

  “Well, not exactly. I left him a note, so now we text so he can tell me when everything’s ready and I can come back. I’m pretty sure it’s one of those seen-not-heard British Empire kind of things.”

  “Oh yeah?” Couldn’t possibly be the “imprisoned in the basement of a Colombian cartel boss” thing. “How’d you suss that out, Champ?”

  “He made fries when I asked for chips.”

  “Wilhelm made fries. For you.”

  “Uh-huh.” Cash tossed back a slug of Scotch. “They were great, but I really wanted Doritos.”

  Selfish dog. “Looks like you’re feeling better.”

  “Yeah. Where were you, anyway?” He scraped the last bits of chocolate sauce off the dessert plate with his fork.

  “Working.”

  “Hammering or sickling at the Sentinel?”

  “Hammering.” I gave him a saccharine smile before fibbing. “Didn’t you read my Sunday op-ed?”

  He sucked the chocolate off the fork and shrugged. “Lee wanted to know where you were.”

  “Seriously?” I snatched the empty lava-cake plate from his hand. “You’re living Hank’s life while you’re hiding out from Mom and Da, and you don’t feel even the slightest bit bad about trying to get me to date your SWAT squad leader? What the hell, Cash?”

  He sank back against the leather couch. “I like ’em both.” He let his dark head loll to the side and gave me an evil grin. “And so do you.”

  “Zip it.”

  Chapter 18

  The heroin was in my backpack. I carried it in both arms from the parking lot, not daring to risk slinging it over one shoulder. The door of Giarrusso Cleaners buzzed as I entered. The fifties pin-up girl sat behind the register reading a Star magazine. She didn’t bother looking up.

  Wes clomped partway out of the hallway and waved me back to the open office door. “Hey there, Maisie. Good to see ya.”

  “Thanks.”

  The office was empty. “Where’s Nyx?”

  “He’s a busy guy.” Wes took a seat at the tiny table. “Okay, now. Let’s start the debrief.”

  “Sure thing.” I couldn’t have cared less whether Gunther Nyx was there or not. I wanted to cut this iron anchor free from my neck.

  I sat down, opened my backpack, and set the black-wrapped slab of heroin on the table.

  Wes jumped up and away, his chair tipped over, and he almost tripped over it. He pointed at the parcel. “Wha-what the hell is that?”

  What do you think it is, genius?

  “What I purchased with the DEA’s sixty grand. Pure-grade heroin, from El Cid.”

  “Oh no. Oh no, no, no.” Wes picked up the chair. “You need to distribute this.”

  “What?”

  He ran a finger inside his shirt collar. “You made the buy, see? So now the stuff has to hit the street. If it doesn’t, the Grieco cartel will know it was a plant.”

  “So call Nyx. I don’t have those kind of connections. You guys do. You’re the DEA, for cripes’ sake.” I scoffed. “Call him.”

  Wes’s cheeks flushed a painful pink. “I can’t.”

  “Then I will.”

  “He’s out of the country.”

  “So?”

  The chunky guy plopped back down on the chair and heaved a sigh thick with chagrin. “I’m less an agent than a glorified secretary, Maisie. Gunther Nyx doesn’t let anyone too far in the loop for security purposes. I know more than most, but unfortunately, that’s not saying much.”

  Super-duper.

  “Let’s start the debrief. The sooner you’re out of here, the better.” He removed a small notebook and a pen from his suit coat and set them down, careful to avoid contact with the package on the table. “How did you possibly know it was safe to leave the hotel with those men?”

  “AJ Rodriguez—El Cid—sent a message.”

  “What message?” he asked, pen poised to start scribbling.

  “They identified themselves as Chac, Jefe, and Esteban Hanson, the trio of misfit brothers from the movie—”

  “Slap Shot!” Wes said. “No way. Now, that is fucking funny.” The cuss word seemed to change our entire dynamic.

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “Is there a hockey player alive who hasn’t?”

  I grinned. “Fake glasses and all.”

  “No shit?” Wes laughed. “I’d give anything to be in the field.”

  I raised a shoulder. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  The look on his shovel-wide face said, Sure, it is. But I get that you’re trying to be nice.

  I told him about the money and transporting the bull from Mexico into El Paso. He was laughing so hard he had tears at the corner of his eyes. “And you’re telling me that’s not awesome?”

  “It’s slightly more fun on the retelling.”

  He laid his pen down on the notebook. “What haven’t you told me?”

  “El Cid’s actively building Carlos Grieco’s private army. They’re known as Los Cinco-Sietes. The Five-seveNs. They’re recruiting the most violent soldiers they can find from South and Central America. El Eje is trying to take over Tampico.”

  “We’re aware of the current political situation.”

  “Thing is, the Five-seveNs are badass Black-Ops kind of guys. El Cid admitted their man tried to kill Coles, but claims Juan Echeverría hadn’t earned the Five-seveN MK2 pistol, much less the black diamond in the safety. He says they were set up by El Eje to fracture their relationship with the Srpska Mafija.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s so outlandish I almost do.”

  “Huh.” Wes’s brows knit together and he scribbled a note. “Anything else?”

  “El Cid believes the gun was stolen from Bolivian national Diego Rivero Lavayén. They found his head in a cooler at the shipyard, naked body hanging from one of the Tamaulipas entry arches. The torture Lavayén suffered was . . . extensive. Lasted for several days.”

  “Barbarians at the gate, McGrane.”

  “El Cid said he had been damned by the blessing of la Bestia que Llora.”

  Wes stilled. “What does that mean?”

  I thought you spoke Spanish. “According to Google Translate, ‘The Weeping Beast.’”

  “That’s . . . a weird kind of colloquialism.” He started writing again, not meeting my eyes. “Are you . . . ah . . . are you sure you heard him correctly?”

  “Probably not.” I shrugged.

  Sweet. Wes is lying to me.

  And Nyx left me holding the proverbial bag.

  So, how much time do I ha
ve before they hang me out to dry?

  “Okay . . .” I tapped the heroin. “What normally happens in this situation?”

  Wes closed his notebook and slipped it in his inside breast pocket. “The mule hands off the drugs to the dealer, who will cut or ‘step on it’ with anything from powdered milk to Benadryl to inositol to dilute the product and make it go further. Next, the cut product is measured out and packaged in tiny waxed paper envelopes with a ‘brand’ name and design stamped on it, hence the term stamp bag.” Wes raised a palm. “Then it’s out to the street for distribution.”

  “What’s the timeline?” I asked. “How fast does this happen?”

  “You have seventy-two to ninety-six hours max before the new stamps should be ready for sale.”

  Lovely.

  My jaw slid out in full pissed-off mode as I returned the plastic-wrapped slab to where it didn’t belong—my backpack.

  Goddammit!

  “I’m sorry,” Wes said. “I really am.”

  The tips of my fingers shot to my forehead. I snapped him a stiff salute.

  Aren’t we all?

  * * *

  I got back into the rental car, which now I couldn’t return, because with the way my luck was running, I couldn’t risk a cab not getting into an accident.

  I pulled out of the parking garage, thinking hard. Where in the Sam Hill did one find a drug dealer who’d be willing to buy five kilos from a cop’s kid? And not rip off or try to kill me?

  The only person I knew with the organization and ability was Violetta Veteratti. And she was out. As far out of bounds as I could possibly imagine.

  Going to Veteratti would jeopardize Special Unit’s organized crime directive, not to mention the very real and horrific possibility that it could force me into becoming a drug nag for Nyx. I glanced at the backpack on the passenger seat, stomach churning.

  I am now actively helping to destroy people’s lives.

  Malignant guilt gnawed at me from the inside out.

  I drummed my hands on the steering wheel. Fecking Nyx. After he cut me off at the knees, there was only one person in the world I’d like to work for less than him.

  A limo pulled out in front of me at the stoplight.

  Bingo.

  * * *

  Wearing a smart and sexy For Love & Lemons lace-embroidered black mesh cocktail dress, I pulled into the drive of the University Club of Chicago. I gave the valet the keys to the Hellcat and asked for a cab.

  “Snap Gala, Ms. McGrane?” he asked and motioned for the cab to pull up.

  “Yes.” I climbed in the taxi.

  “Chicago Art Institute,” the valet told the driver and closed the door behind me. I probably could have walked the block and a half up Michigan Avenue, but I needed to be able to make a fast getaway.

  Tonight was the Photography Department’s Annual Snap Gala. My mother and the twins were hosting two $7,500 tables of their six top clients. The evening consisted of an overexposed whirlwind of who’s who in fanciful “get snapped” moments that flashed across every social media platform within seconds of being taken. The place was an absolute crush.

  Fine by me. I have no ticket and no intention of going inside.

  “Pull up behind the limos, please.” I held up a fifty. “I need to talk to someone, and I’m not sure for how long.”

  “You got it.”

  I got out of the taxi and walked down the line of limousines. There, leaning against a mini-stretch Escalade, smoking a Camel, was Percival “Poppa” Dozen. Talbott Cottle Coles’s offensive lineman–size chauffeur. He looked equal parts ridiculous and intimidating in jodhpurs, jacket, high boots, and cap.

  I raised my hands up. “Look who’s comin’ to Poppa.”

  “Damn, McGrane!” Poppa Dozen gave a low whistle. “You a dime piece.”

  “Got a minute?”

  He took a final drag, considering. “A’ight.” He flicked the cigarette onto the sidewalk.

  I reached for the passenger side door. He caught my wrist. Shaking his head, he opened the door for me, closing it after I got in. He loped around the nose of the limo.

  My stomach clenched.

  Gee, I hope this isn’t as bad of an idea as it feels right now.

  Dozen slid behind the wheel. “Thass one serious-ass look on your face, girl.”

  I nodded. “I have five kilos of premium uncut Mexican heroin. I need to move it, fast.”

  “So you come lookin’ for me. Cuz all black people sell drugs, right?” He poked me in the chest with a thick finger. “And I’m the only black mutherfucker you know.”

  “No,” I said. “But you are the only criminal I know well enough who won’t merk me over it.”

  Dozen threw back his head and laughed, streetlights reflecting off his gold crowns. “I’m just fuckin’ with you, sweetness. I got it gully. A’course I can move that shit.” He looked down his nose at me. “Question is, do I want to?”

  “I want $115K for it. I’ll pay you ten percent off the top. You able to move it for more, the gravy’s all yours.”

  “A hunnert fifteen? Better be some beasty shit. Whose is it?”

  “Er . . .” I squinted at him. “Mine?”

  “Damn, McGrane.” He shook his head, chuckling. “What’s the stamp?”

  “Doesn’t have one.”

  “They all have a stamp.” Dozen fingered his soul patch and said very slowly, “Who’s sourcing it? Where’d it originate?”

  “Grieco cartel.”

  Which was apparently the right and wrong answer simultaneously.

  Dozen adjusted the brim of his driving cap, then the sleeve of his coat. Getting fidgety. “They the ones running Tampico.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Grieco’s causin’ a shitload of troubles in Señorita Land. You heard about that bloodbath? Goddamn. Grieco’s death squad piled up twenty-two El Eje soldiers outside of La Burra. That ain’t no small-time shit.”

  No, it certainly isn’t. “How do you know that?”

  “Girl, I drive this limo ’round all day and night. You think my ears is busted?”

  “That’s why this is a one-shot. An in-and-out.”

  “And if I wanted an introduction?”

  Jaysus. I folded my arms across my chest. “I can try and arrange a meet, but no guarantees.”

  “How’s a lil’ piece of Wonder Bread like you get hooked up in the first place?”

  “You sure you want me to say it?” I asked, not waiting for an answer. “Renko.”

  Dozen traced his fingers over the glossy Cadillac emblem inset in the steering wheel. “Goddamn, I was glad to see the back of that lil’ badass mutherfucker.”

  “About that . . .” I sucked in my bottom lip. “I’m hoping to step in for Stannis, keep things copacetic until he comes back.”

  “Ahh. So that’s why you needin’ the lettuce.” His fingers returned to the soul patch, plucking at the hairs on his chin. “No stamp means Grieco don’t want it on the street you is working together, neither.”

  Hank’s Law Number Ten: Keep your mouth shut.

  He thought for a while, nodding slowly, grooving to an invisible rhythm in his head. “A’ight. You got a sample on you?”

  “Yeah.” I handed him an envelope.

  He opened it and removed a Ziploc bag that held about a teaspoon of the white powder. “Fuck. This like, four grams, girl. Way too much for a sample. And you gotta wrap that shit in waxed paper, not fling it around in a sammich bag.”

  Well, you know what they say—once you stop learning, you start dying.

  He took out his phone. “Gimme your digits.” We exchanged numbers. “All we got left to do is come up with one kickass fuckin’ name.”

  “Uh . . .”

  “For the stamp bag. Sumpin’ hot like, Criminal Damage, Pac Man, Raw Dope.”

  I tucked my hair behind my ears. “How about Sugar Skull?”

  “Yeah! Sweet and deadly. That’ll move like a mofo.” His smile froze on h
is face. He pointed at me, eyes narrowed. “What happened to your neck?”

  “Coles needed a place to stub out his cigar.”

  “Thass some faulty-ass shit, right there.”

  You got that right. “We good?”

  “I’ll call you,” he said.

  I opened the car door and got out. He whistled after me. “You got cake, McGrane. Yes, you do.”

  I spun around and leaned back in the limo. I jabbed a finger at him. “Watch it, pal!” I said in my best cop voice.

  Poppa Dozen hooted with laughter. “You think you know what you’re doing?”

  I rolled my eyes skyward. “Not sure yet.” I dragged a hand though my hair. “I know a lot about a little and a little about a lot.”

  “That may be,” he said, “but you better recognize. You don’t know shit about shit.”

  Chapter 19

  My phone pinged from the nightstand. I grabbed it and squinted, the screen too bright in the darkened bedroom.

  Lee Sharpe.

  Range and shine, Bae!

  Got 2 FN5.7 M2Ks locked & loaded

  Pick you up at 0600

  I flopped back onto the pillow. God, he was exhausting. I took a couple of breaths with my eyes closed, then sat up and looked at the clock.

  Five fifteen a.m.

  I rolled off the bed and hit the shower. The Hot Topic–style outfit I’d picked out to wear to the Sentinel was sitting on the chair. I put it on. It was always good to practice in real-life situations.

  Lee arrived with two cups of coffee.

  “Thanks, but I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Really?”

  “I hate the taste.” I shuddered.

  He leaned in across the armrest, slow and close. “Better kiss me now, then.”

  I raised my can of Mango-Guava Xenergy in between us and popped the top.

  He let his eyes drift slowly down, over my old Chris Cornell concert tee, short red plaid skirt, and leggings tucked into Caterpillar steel-toe work boots. “Nice shirt.” He sat back, clicked his phone, and said, “Play ‘Nearly Forgot My Broken Heart.’” He grinned and pulled out of the driveway.

  We hit the freeway as Cornell’s whiskey yowl throbbed against the acoustic guitar.

  Lee pulled into the lot of The Second Amendment. He grabbed the gear and we walked into the range. The delicate brunette behind the counter in an I HEART MARK LEVIN sweatshirt, was falling all over herself for Lee. “I saved the two end lanes for you, Mr. Sharpe.”