Shoot 'Em Up

by Janey Mack

  I’m sure that’s not all she’s saved.

  “Thanks,” Lee said. “You’re a sweetheart. Miss Coonan.”

  “Mary Beth,” she corrected.

  Ughhh. Bat those baby blues at him on your own time, sister.

  We made our way back to the lanes, Lee discussing the upcoming drills as he unpacked the Herstal FNs and an excessively delicious number of loaded magazines.

  “How’d you get a hold of these?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say, if you were my girlfriend, I wouldn’t mind pimping you out to Ditch Broady every now and again.”

  “I’d rethink ticking off a girl with a loaded gun, Champ.”

  “Aww, Bae,” he said. “I’d never sell you out.”

  I rolled my eyes and put in my earplugs, muffs on top.

  “Ladies first,” Lee said.

  I moved up to the counter. Da’s voice in my head from the very first time he took me to the range. “You’re not shooting at the target; you’re shooting into it.” I took an isosceles stance, feet square, face flat to the target. Concentrating on keeping every action consistent and tight.

  We started with a timed reload drill. Three shots, reload, three shots, reload, three shots.

  Next up, the malfunction drill to clear a jammed weapon while shooting. We moved onto Delta and Chaos drills. Pouring through the ammo like water through a sieve.

  When time gets small and stress goes up, you have to work as smart as you can.

  We ended the drills with Mozambique—two shots to the chest, one to the head. Close-in shooting, using both hands as much as possible.

  “Pretty sweet, aren’t they?” Lee said.

  “Pure sugar.”

  I cleaned up brass while he packed up the gear.

  “Strong groupings, tight times.” He gave a low whistle. “Not bad for a girl.”

  “Gee, thanks. You’re not so sucky yourself.” I felt that satisfyingly good kind of tired, looser and happier than I’d felt in months.

  It must have showed in my face.

  He laughed and held up his hands. “Glad I called?”

  “Yeah. Thank you.” I caught sight of the clock over his shoulder. Holy cat. We’ve been here almost three hours. “Uh, Lee? Any way you could drop me at the Sentinel?”

  “Sure thing, Smiles.”

  * * *

  Lee drove with a lead foot. I walked into the Sentinel a half hour before my sit-down with Walt. Which worked out perfectly, because I needed information. And fast.

  I found Jennifer Steager working at a wall of file cabinets. “Juice?”

  She turned. “Good morning, Maisie. How are you?”

  “Living the dream.”

  “Aren’t we all?” she said wryly.

  “Hey, I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of an experienced researcher.”

  “Sure. What kind?”

  “Mexico. Cartels. Specific. In-depth about a person.”

  Juice’s nose crinkled, agate-brown eyes narrowing. “We have an expert on staff.”

  “Who?”

  Juice tucked her chin and her shoulders hit her ears. “Lennon.”

  Totes awesome.

  “He speaks fluent Spanish and he has a ton of connections.”

  “Lost cause?”

  “Don’t be silly.” She waved me off. “It takes Lennon a long time to warm up to someone. You can’t take it personally.”

  “Any ideas how to get him to help me?”

  “Money.”

  Now that, I can do. “Lead the way.”

  I followed her trim figure down the hall to his office. She knocked on the open door. “Hi, Lennon. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “For you? Sure.”

  “How about me?” I asked.

  I saw Juice’s reflection in the window, as she mouthed, “Be nice” and then left.

  Lennon, gaunt enough to hang glide off a Dorito, turned back to his computer. “What do you want?”

  “Research. I’ll pay you fifty dollars an hour. Cash. Twenty hours, tops.”

  Just think, you could buy yourself a sandwich.

  His side of the office was a pit. Portishead and The xx stickers, indie band fliers, and take-out menus were tacked up all over his wall. Every surface was covered in empty coffee cups, papers, and Post-its. The whole place reeked of vape and Febreze.

  Grey Gardens’s side, however, was spotless. The only ornamentation was a framed photo of her and Lennon.

  He clicked his mouse, uninterested. “What kind?”

  “Four Mexican drug cartel sicarios. Enforcers. Torture killers.”

  He turned his chair around. “What? Why?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  He thought that over for a long while. A petty smile creased his face. “Sixty an hour. Take it or leave it.”

  I pretended as though I was actually giving it a second thought. I rubbed my forehead. “Okay. Deal.”

  He grabbed a Post-it Note and a pen. “Any specifics?”

  “Chilo, The Weeping Beast, Kah, and Águila. I want everything you can get on them. Neighbors, social workers, teachers. Real background from the day they were born until today.”

  “What are you going to do with the info?”

  I’d been waiting for this. “I don’t think I’m a good fit at the Sentinel. I’d like to move out to LA, but a handful of op-eds doesn’t open doors.”

  He nodded happily. “Glad to help.”

  “Great. Thanks, Lennon.” I left his office and went to see Walt, feeling a little weird to be so openly disliked.

  My phone buzzed. I dug it out of my messenger bag. “Hello?”

  “Snap!” Declan’s voice, “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Working.”

  “Maisie?” Daicen said. “We have you on speaker.”

  I figured as much. “Go ahead.”

  “We’d like to have a meet regarding a mutual acquaintance.”

  “Huh?” I glanced at my watch. Four minutes. I stopped in the hallway.

  “Our client. Keck. Christo Keck,” Declan interrupted. “Your pal Stannislav Renko is one helluva a heavy hitter—”

  “Maisie,” Daicen cut him off. “You are my uppermost priority. As this case has progressed, unsavory connections and events have come to light. Both Declan and I are deeply concerned for your safety.”

  “You’re in the shite, Snap. Big-time.”

  “Guys, I’ve got a meeting. Can we talk about this later?”

  “Sure,” Declan said. “But don’t wait too fecking long.”

  I disconnected and trotted down the hall into the conference room.

  Nattily attired in a slim-fitting Armani windowpane gray wool suit and chestnut John Lobb shoes, Sawyer waited for me at the window. “None the worse for wear after an encounter with a binary chemical bomb, I see, Agent McGrane.”

  “Yes, I’m fine, sir. Thank you.” We sat down.

  “How is your assignment for Gunther Nyx proceeding?”

  “Almost finished, sir.” I traced the wood grain of the table with my finger, opting not to flesh out the undistributed-as-of-yet heroin angle. “Um, sir? I’m not sure that the Grieco cartel was involved with the assassination attempt on Coles.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They’re aware that one of their soldiers’ guns was used. And El Cid assumed Renko sent me to see if they were really responsible. He swears they aren’t.”

  “That’s . . . unexpected,” Sawyer said. “What else?”

  As I filled him in, his eyes focused on a far-off place over my shoulder, processing and evaluating the information.

  “El Cid’s men were armed with Serbian assault rifles,” I said. “I’m not so sure that—”

  A quick rap sounded, and the door opened. “Hello, Walt. Am I late?” Lee stepped inside and closed the door.

  That sonuvagun played me like a chump all morning.

  He’d changed from his jeans and tee from the range into navy suit pants and an open-necked
blue dress shirt that had to have been custom-made. No off-the-rack shirt would fit that large a chest and shoulders and taper so closely to his waist.

  “Not at all.” Sawyer gestured toward the table. “Take a seat.”

  Lee took the chair next to mine and scooted too close.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, more abruptly than I meant to.

  “Lee Sharpe’s agreed to be your new partner.”

  You’ve gotta be kidding me.

  I propped my elbow on the table just in time to catch my chin so I didn’t pound the brains out of my head on the table.

  Lee riding around in my back pocket was the very last thing I needed.

  “Let’s get you up to speed, Lee,” Sawyer said. “Maisie has made significant progress fostering a relationship with AJ ‘El Cid’ Rodriguez, the Grieco cartel’s number-one lieutenant. With the recent spate of diamond-chipped Five-seveNs recovered, we are critically concerned about the potential influx of the black-tip SS190 steel-core, armor-piercing rounds similar to those discovered at the attempted assassination site, as well as the SWAT bust in Little Village.”

  Lee’s face hit high alert. He took Cash’s shooting personally, too. “What’s Maisie’s involvement with El Cid?”

  “At this point it is difficult to predict El Cid’s intent with Maisie. He believes her romantic connection to Stannislav Renko is still intact. As does Violetta Veteratti.”

  Lee’s chiseled features turned stony. He knew who the mob princess was, too.

  “Special Unit’s preference is for Maisie’s relationship with him to continue, but remain limited to an auxiliary partnership,” Sawyer continued. “Which brings us to Special Unit’s and your primary directive. Operation Summit. The Bureau of Organized Crime has decided to take on the single bastion left to the traditional Mafia. Their trade in drugs, human trafficking, and stolen goods wanes in comparison to the influence they wield over politicians and governmental services.”

  Lee and I exchanged glances.

  “Over the course of the next several months, Maisie will operate as Renko’s de facto proxy. During this time, she will establish you as her lieutenant,” Sawyer said. “The two of you will move forward rebuilding Renko’s chop trade with Violetta Vet-teratti and further cementing connections with the NY Syndicate.”

  “Sir,” I said, “I was wondering if you’ve had time to read my report?”

  “In regard to Christo Keck?”

  I nodded.

  “Who’s that?” Lee said.

  “Stannislav’s business manager,” Sawyer answered. “Currently represented by Declan and Daicen McGrane against pending indictments.”

  Lee scoffed. “Christ, I knew you were a close family, but this is ridiculous.”

  I ignored him. “Keck’s a critical player. I’ll need him.”

  “That will be the trick, won’t it?” Sawyer glanced at his watch. “Rest assured Special Unit is prepared to leverage the necessary assets.” He looked from Lee to me. “I fully expect this assignment to last several months.”

  Lee held out his hand, with a smile that was more scowl. “Looking forward to working with you, partner.”

  We exchanged a short businesslike shake. “Me, too.”

  Not.

  “That’s all for now, Maisie,” Sawyer said. “Thank you.”

  I guess that’s my cue.

  * * *

  I left Walt and Lee—the sandbagging bastard—and walked back to my office.

  Cash ought to be able to play taxi driver and give me a ride home. Since I was here, appropriately dressed, I might as well serve my time.

  As I cruised past the aisles of cubicles and Formica desks, Juice, on the phone, spied me and raised a finger. I nodded and stopped. She wedged the phone between her ear and shoulder, and scribbled furiously on a yellow legal pad. After a minute, she glanced up at me. I gave her the “I’ll wait” palm.

  I shook out my arms, flexing my fingers, trying to figure out exactly why I was so angry with Lee. Special Unit was a dream come true for an adrenaline junkie. And what was SWAT but for that?

  Juice hung up and came over. Her neoprene sheath clung to her like exactly what it was: a wet suit. The knee-high boots kept it civil. “Hi, Maisie. Let’s go pick up your mail.”

  “Oh? I thought it was delivered.”

  “Regular mail is. Uh . . . fan mail isn’t.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “The Sentinel mail room opens everything. When they find . . . um . . . aggressively interested mail, they scan and copy it. You need to sign off and file it.”

  “Are you saying I have hate mail? Me?”

  Her mouth moved as she looked for a delicate way to say it. Finding none, she nodded.

  How can that possibly be? I don’t do anything here....

  Oh geez. The op-ed pieces Paul is writing under my name.

  Juice led me down the hall. We got into an elevator. As the doors closed, the six-foot-one, 220-pound bulk of Ditch Broady passed by.

  What the heck is he doing here?

  And why aren’t I included?

  Juice and I got off two floors down and stopped in front of a large counter. “We’re here for Maisie McGrane’s fan mail.”

  The squat bottle blonde behind the counter rolled her eyes and waddled behind the counter. Juice schooled me during the insanely long wait.

  “You need to do this a couple times a month. Most of the columnists prefer to do it weekly. That way you feel less . . .”

  “Reviled?”

  Juice smiled. “Exactly!”

  The stack of letters the blonde slammed on the counter was quite a bit larger than I’d expected.

  There were colored paper slips in between. Reds mostly, with some pink, orange, and a couple of blue. I thanked her and scooped it up.

  We walked down the hall. “So what’s with the colored paper?”

  “Sliding hostility scale. Red hostile, blue friendly.”

  “Jaysus Criminey,” I said, flipping through the folder as Juice pushed the elevator button. A lot of red.

  “It’s really not that bad. Our insurance company demands we print out all the e-mail responses, too, after we had that one reporter get stab—er . . . never mind.”

  Neato.

  I kept flipping.

  Juice’s perky pace slowed to a slither. “Oh my God. Look at him.”

  Lee Sharpe, my own personal bad penny, leaned against the doorjamb of my office, grinning. In rolled-up shirtsleeves, hair slightly mussed, he looked positively rakish. “Waited for you downstairs. Thought you might need a ride home, Bae.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “No thanks. I’m good.”

  “You don’t mind if I hang around, just to make sure.”

  “Lee?” I grabbed Juice by the arm. “This is my pal, Jenny Steager.”

  “Uh . . . Hi!” she said. “Everyone calls me Juice.”

  Lee took her hand in both of his and stared in her eyes. “Nice to meet you, Juice.”

  For a second I thought she might swoon. “Easy, Captain Charming.” I ducked past him, tossed the thick file in my in-box, and started searching through the drawers for a pen.

  Lee followed me right in and made himself at home, taking the visitor’s chair and rummaging through my in-box.

  Juice stood in the doorway. “Later, Maisie.” She pointed at Lee, fanned herself with a file folder, mouthed, “Wow!”

  I threw her a small salute and she closed the door to my tiny office.

  “I’m gonna kill you, you fucking corporate shill.” Lee’s forehead creased in a deep frown. “You can get down on all fours and suck my . . . er . . . whoa, you got some haters, kid.”

  “Admirers come in every stripe.” Four colors of Post-its, seventeen mini-boxes of paper clips, manila folders, Scotch tape, and scissors. Not a pen to be found in the place.

  He shook his head. “What is this shit?”

  “Fan mail. From my op-ed pieces.”

  “Why isn’t it on
a police desk?”

  “It’s waiting for me to initial, and—if I decide not to notify the police—file. The red cover slip indicates high hostility. Blues are friendly.” I gave up looking for a ballpoint and dug a couple of Ultra Fine Sharpies out of my messenger bag.

  “I don’t think this is as harmless as you make it out to be.” Lee mashed through the stack of papers. “Christ. They’re all red.”

  “Lee. I’ve got bigger fish to fry than a militant greenie living over his parents’ garage who disagrees with the guy who’s writing my column’s stance on the EPA.”

  Although it might be prudent to ask Paul to tamp it down a bit.

  He read through another one; this time the helpful fellow had glue-sticked the column to his angry letter. “I see this brave social justice warrior forgot to write his return address.” The set of Lee’s jaw was only slightly disturbing. “Might be fun to track Junior down, pay him a visit.”

  “Logic and facts have a tendency to anger and confuse those who pass feeling-based judgments.” I handed him a blue-tagged letter before he started getting any ideas.

  He scanned it and laughed. “Which one of your brothers wrote this?”

  “Cute. You’re assuming they can spell.”

  Lee drummed his palms on my desk. “So. Can I give you a lift home, partner?”

  “Sure.” I threw him a pen. “Start initialing.”

  Chapter 20

  “That was smooth. Real smooth, by the way,” I said as Lee slid behind the wheel.

  “Yeah? Which part?”

  All of it. “Signing on to work for Sawyer as my secretary.”

  “Partner,” he corrected. “But if makes you feel better, go right ahead and dictate something.”

  My iPhone pinged. Poppa Dozen.

  Sweetness

  CU 2nte @ 11

  Dawes Park, S. Hoyne

  Dawes Park was on South Damen Avenue. A mere five blocks away from West Englewood.

  Because today just can’t get any better.

  Lee leaned in for a look. “Who’s that?”

  I clicked my phone off. “None of your business.”

  “Try again.” He changed his grip on the steering wheel. “Tell me about the bomb.”

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant to your angle on this case.”