Shoot 'Em Up

by Janey Mack

  I stood.

  He marched over to the bed and whipped back the covers. “Get in.”

  I obeyed and slid under the sheets.

  Like an angry parent, he pulled the covers up under my chin, brisk and firm, before switching off the light. I watched his silhouette push the door between our rooms all the way open to the wall and disappear into his room.

  I stared at the ceiling, humming. Legs restless beneath the sheets.

  “Maisie?” Lee called.

  “Yes?”

  “Be quiet and go the fuck to sleep.”

  * * *

  Lee leaned against the doorway a scant five hours later, waking me from a light and fitful sleep. “Grieco wants to see you.”

  “Okay. What about?”

  Lee shrugged and went back into his room, closing the door behind him.

  I got up, brushed my teeth, and took stock.

  Bing, bing! Two steps ahead. Hair and makeup still passed muster.

  I put on a Halston Heritage asymmetrical pencil skirt in a soft lead gray, matching Pliner wedge booties, and pale blue work shirt knotted at the waist.

  Casual chic.

  I grabbed my Louboutin clutch and knocked on the adjoining door, pushing it open at his grunt.

  Lee, fully suited up, was in 100 percent bodyguard mode. “You packed?”

  “Not at all.”

  He closed his eyes in that long-suffering way he wasn’t close to owning. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  A maid waited for us in the foyer. “Señora Renko, please come this way.”

  We followed her out to the front drive, where an empty dark-green two-seater LandMaster Utility Vehicle waited.

  “Mr. Grieco is at old barn,” the maid said. “You know the way, sí?”

  “Sí.” I climbed in. Two unopened water bottles waited in the cup holders.

  Lee got behind the wheel, and we zipped off down the drive. It was sunny. Searingly so, even at nine. I opened my clutch, dug out my sunglasses, and took stock. Travel bottle of Excedrin, camera/scanner pen, package of Dentyne Fire, two lip glosses, and a travel mascara. Add to that Hank’s volcanic glass knife beneath the liner, and we were talking save-the-world travel kit.

  I opened the Excedrin, peeled off the foil, pulled out the never-ending wad of cotton bigger than the bottle itself, and shook out two tablets. “Want some?”

  Lee held out his hand. I shook out two more.

  He dry-swallowed while I opted for the Evian.

  “It’s pretty creepy when you think about it,” I said. “Obviously the whole idea of a kill house, of course, but the fact that we were like, what, less than an hour and change away? That’s pretty damn close to the estate. I mean—”

  “Grieco is going to ask you about the locator tag,” Lee interrupted. “I told him Renko insisted you carry one at all times.”

  My knee started bouncing. “Okay.”

  “You should have never fucking left.”

  Great. A parental lecture from a non-parent. Whee!

  “Yeah,” I said, “but—”

  “Zip it,” he barked.

  My mouth disconnected from my brain and I blurted, “I can’t help wondering if Raúl had anything to do with this.”

  Lee jammed on the brakes and stopped the UTV short. He glared at me. “You need to lock it down, sweetheart. Right fucking now.”

  Congratulations! You’re a shoo-in when it comes to the pissed-off partner taking on the father figure role.

  He wasn’t done. Not nearly. “No chirping off like little robin redbreast when you meet with Grieco. Do you follow?”

  I nodded.

  “No helpful comments. No friendly suggestions. We clear?” He jabbed a finger at me. “Grieco is a fucking drug kingpin, and the shit that went down in that kill house—well, guess what? He and your buddy El Cid have done that same shit to other people. For real. Do you get that?”

  I tried to take a sip of water, but it wouldn’t go down, so I sat there with it in my mouth as Lee drove us to the barn.

  We came around the bend and I gasped, swallowing the water into my lungs, choking and coughing. The barn was a charred skeleton, one where a death-eating monster had taken a jagged bite out of the center.

  Lee steered the UTV through the sodden sandy soil up to the repurposed stable. The coastal breeze coating us in the stink of charred wood, burnt rubber, and plastic.

  “There was a fire last night?” The lights and men all over the estate last night fell into place. It hadn’t been only about AJ.

  “Looks like it,” Lee said.

  The Five-seveN who’d sat by me in the Humvee on the drive back to the estate, approached. “Señora Renko? You come with me, yes?”

  Clutch in hand, I stepped out.

  He said to Lee, “I will see to her, personally.”

  Lee started up the UTV and took off.

  The Five-seveN walked me to the near edge of the barn. “You wait here, sí?”

  “Sí.” I surveyed the yard. The stucco on the stable was scorched, surrounding trees blackened on the side closest the barn. There had been a fire all right, a big one.

  And an explosion.

  The rusty diesel fuel tank was a distant memory. Shiny bits of debris were scattered as far as four hundred yards away.

  The closest of the two Lincoln Navigators appeared to have taken the brunt of the explosion’s blow back. The SUV was peppered with shrapnel and spall, and sticking out like a knife in the armor plate, was the three-inch butt of a metal striker.

  Scarily similar to the one that I’d dug out of the porch in Juárez.

  His back to me, the Five-seveN waited patiently at the edge of the barn to notify Grieco of my arrival.

  When gifted with a NY minute, you sure as hell had better take it, because there isn’t a return policy.

  Nearing the SUV, I dug out the camera-pen I’d made fun of and started clicking away. Finishing with a couple tight shots of the striker, I slipped the pen behind my ear.

  I grabbed the wad of cotton from the Excedrin bottle and tried unsuccessfully to pull the striker from the door. It needed pliers and some serious muscle.

  Maybe the cotton collected a little residue.

  I shook out the rest of the aspirin and jammed the swiped cotton back into the bottle, keeping an eye on my Five-seveN, who still hadn’t moved. The ground was littered with pieces of wood, bits of plastic, tiny shards of broken glass, and brass casings everywhere.

  Five-point-seven casings to be exact. I grinned.

  Looks like my work here is done. Obligatory hat tip to Raúl and/or El Eje.

  I pocketed some of the 5.7 casings. A ribbon of aluminum lay inches from my foot. At the bottom, a black letter W sat on a “warning” yellow background.

  “Señora Renko?” The Five-seveN waved at me.

  I waved back and dropped the piece of metal into the clutch, then gingerly picked my way around the edge of the barn. Black, wet dust drifted through the air, settling into my lungs.

  Carlos stood in the middle of the barn talking to an old man as weathered and creased as an old tractor tire.

  The old man examined a machine that resembled a drill press and shook his head. There were a half dozen other machines, including a grinder, all bent and warped and burnt.

  Carlos gripped his temples, listening to the old man. He caught sight of me, gave the old man a clap on the shoulder, and strode over.

  “Maisie Renko, I see how you bewitched Stannislav.” He kissed me on both cheeks.

  “Thank you, Carlos. What happened here?”

  “Un regalito.” He spat. “A gift from El Eje.” He took my elbow. “Come, let us go into the other building.”

  The Five-seveN followed behind at a respectful distance.

  We entered the repurposed stable through an old wooden door. I followed Carlos through a short hallway to another set of glass doors, into his private showroom.

  Six of the fiercest muscle cars ever were parked on a glossy terrazzo floor.<
br />
  “Good Lord,” I breathed as we passed a rally-red Corvette L88. “Is that a 1969 Chevrolet Camaro ZL-1?”

  Carlos’s chin lifted. “Yes. Only sixty-nine were made.”

  Stretching behind the cars, almost as an afterthought, was a six-foot-high, curvaceous S-shaped wave of polished steel. I was pretty sure it was a Richard Serra sculpture.

  And from the vivid paintings of pills and capsules on the far gallery wall, it was safe to assume he was a Damien Hirst fan, as well.

  A faint humming droned overhead.

  Carlos pointed at the ceiling. “A computer-controlled HVAC system maintains twenty-one degrees Celcius and fifty percent humidity environmental conditions year-round. Special filters remove the sea salt from the air.”

  “ Wow.”

  “Do you know they told me you cannot store muscle cars this close to the sea? They will rust out before your eyes.” He gave a snorting chortle. “I told them science and money makes everything possible.”

  We walked to the archway at end of the showroom. It opened into the ultimate man cave. As if any man needed more than that showroom full of fury.

  A sleek marble bar with a dozen stools, lounge area with big-screen TV, and a rectangular marble-topped conference table. Six of the Five-seveNs, all in black, stood waiting. Carlos led me to one end of the table. A Five-seveN pulled out the chair for me. After I was seated, the men followed suit, Carlos at the head.

  AJ walked into the room, wearing tan pants and a loose raw-linen shirt, two more Five-sevenS at his heels.

  I could see the square shape of bandages beneath his shirt as he moved. His face was a rainbow of bruises. Tiny strips of skin-colored stitch tape were above his eye, on his cheekbone and chin. His earlobes had been reattached.

  But as rough as he looked, it was nothing compared to the dead in his eyes. He was El Cid. AJ was no more.

  “Maisie Renko,” El Cid said. “I am in your debt.”

  He reached into his pocket and stepped behind me.

  I closed my eyes as a shard of pure irrational fear stabbed my lungs.

  Something cold and heavy went around my neck, sliding down my décolletage.

  I opened my eyes. Spanish Reals. Pieces of eight, each one wired in white gold, strung together in a thick and powerful web. “Gracias, El Cid.”

  Carlos set a heavy case onto the table. “I, too, am in your debt.” He pushed the case a foot in front of him. The two Five-seveNs each laid their left hands on the case and crossed themselves. They pushed the case to the next men. It happened twice more before the case was in front of me.

  El Cid put his hand on it and crossed himself, then popped the locks. “You are one of us now.” He lifted the lid.

  An FN Herstal 5.7 MK2 pistol.

  Hank’s Law Number Twenty-Four: Never, ever ignore your gut.

  I stood up. “It is a great honor you bestow upon me.” I put my fist over my heart and kept talking. “Retaliations must be made. This, I understand. But I urge you to move forward with caution and deliberate intent.”

  El Cid scowled. But Carlos’s lips pursed. “Why do you say this?”

  “I believe more than El Eje are involved.” Like your other nephew, Raúl. “But I have no proof.”

  “Ahh, the evidence of a woman’s intuition.” El Cid chuffed.

  Geez. Could you act a little more like a dink, AJ?

  Carlos stroked his chin. “A bendición from la Santa Muerte.” He nodded. “This we will heed.”

  Chapter 39

  Lee slid into the seat next to me in the Lincoln Navigator on the way to the hangar. A Five-seveN rode shotgun. After the kidnapping and the loss of the munitions factory, the Grieco estate was locked down, on high alert.

  Lee gave my throat a slow going-over. “Nice necklace.”

  “Spanish Reales,” I said. “Pirate treasure.”

  He scoffed. “Fitting.”

  The necklace was heavy, but I liked it that way. Armor.

  Instead of the flight attendant, Grieco’s dapper private pilot met us at the hangar entrance. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Renko, but I’m afraid our departure will be delayed.”

  “Oh?” Lee said.

  Captain Hester nodded. “Seems we’re missing a couple halon canisters. Which, if they were hoping for nitrous, are gonna make those poor bastards very unhappy.”

  “What’s halon?” I asked.

  “A liquefied, compressed gas that stops the spread of fire by chemically disrupting combustion. Aviation law—you can’t fly without them. The Lear has three tanks. One in the nose for the electrical system, and the missing two, which were stolen from the storage hold.”

  “Oh?”

  “Exactly. Stealing from Carlos Grieco on his estate?” Hester said. “Had to be drug addicts. No one else is that out of their mind.”

  Lee squinted into the horizon. “Any idea how long of a delay?”

  “Shouldn’t be more than an hour. Would you prefer to return to the house?”

  Lee and I exchanged a glance.

  Hell, no.

  “I’m quite all right to wait here,” I said and we boarded the jet.

  Across the table, Lee watched me with a raised brow as I unpacked and set up my travel ritual. Something was niggling at me, and it wasn’t the bits I’d recovered from the bombed barn. I was tired, that was all. It’d come to me if I let it alone.

  “I called in your missing phone to Walt,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  He offered me his phone. “Want to check your messages?”

  “I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less,” I lied, aching to check on Hank, but unwilling to give Lee a traceable record.

  Eventually the halon arrived and we took off. A new, equally attractive attendant came over for our drink order. “Stoli on ice, three olives.”

  “Ginger ale,” Lee said.

  I hit my head against the seat back in exasperation. “Oh, for God’s sake, Lee. Have a drink.”

  “Ginger ale.”

  It took him a half can of ginger ale before he asked in a quiet voice, “What did Carlos say to you?”

  “You know, the ol’ ‘You’re awesome. Wanna take some drugs home for free?’”

  He popped his cheek out with his tongue. “Very funny.”

  No harm in showing him. I wriggled the black molded-plastic case out of my satchel, popped the locks, and slid it across the table to him.

  Lee raised the lid.

  Inside was the 5.7 MK2 complete with a black diamond chip in the safety. Mine had also been modified to fully automatic, exactly like the one used in the assassination attempt on Coles. The case also held two standard-load twenty-round magazines, as well as a modified forty-round magazine, plus two hundred rounds of the Five-seveN’s handmade steel-core black-tipped armor-piercing cartridges.

  Lee’s lips pursed in a low whistle.

  “I’m an honorary Five-seveN. And get a load of this—” I reached over and showed him the detachable back straps. The smallest one, just my size, had been engraved with two microscopically delicate pictures. One face with the name Jesús Malverde. The other was a skull of La Santa Muerte. “The patron saint of drug dealers and the angel of death, blessed by the local priest. Pretty neat, huh?”

  “Slick,” he said, but he didn’t sound like himself.

  He didn’t look like himself, either. The skin across his cheekbones seemed stretched too tight, and he’d missed a spot at the back of his jaw shaving. Bone weary.

  It made my throat hurt. “You all right?”

  “We won’t be honeymooning here, if that what’s you’re asking.”

  “Yeah.” I looked out the window.

  I don’t think I need to visit Mexico again. Ever.

  * * *

  We landed, went through Customs, where we got the salute-wave and rubber stamp while Grieco’s jet with our guns and heroin was towed back to the hangar, unmolested.

  AJ had a limo waiting. The driver loaded our luggage, then drove u
s over to the hangar, where Lee retrieved the contraband from the Lear and loaded it in the trunk.

  The car returned us to Stannis’s apartment.

  “Stay in the car,” Lee said. He came back with a bell cart, and he and the driver loaded it with our 250K worth of heroin, my new 5.7, and the rest of the luggage before opening my door.

  I stepped out into the cold black Chicago night and shivered. Frigid wind whipping my cheeks never felt so good.

  Lee and I rode up the elevator in silence. Stepping into the black granite foyer, I felt overwhelmingly sad. Lee rolled the cart in behind me and unloaded it.

  “Are you in for the night?” I asked.

  “What?” Lee squinted. “Of course.”

  “I’ll set the alarm.”

  “Wait.” He yawned. “Lemme run the cart down.”

  Rocking on my heels like an empty cradle, brain numb, my fingers and the tip of my nose turned to ice.

  Lee came back up and picked up my things. He shot me a sideways look. “Get me a beer?”

  I went into the kitchen. The only thing in the Sub-Zero was water, sugar-free Amp, and Bollinger.

  If Miller High Life is the champagne of beers, does that make Bollinger the beer of champagne?

  I giggled and got out two flutes, wincing as I knocked them together too hard. The miracle that they hadn’t shattered made me giggle more. But the sound of me—so odd to my own ears—had me laughing for real then, while I peeled the foil and untwisted the wire cage over the cork.

  Maybe it was because my hands were too cold, or I was laughing too hard, but the cork would not come out of the bottle. Holding the bottle between my knees, I pulled harder and felt the cork turn slightly.

  Bang! It popped like a 5.7. The cork whizzed past my cheek, shattering the hanging task light over the counter.

  Scaring the shit out of me, making me laugh even harder.

  “Christ!” Lee’s eyes were saucer-wide.

  The champagne ran over my hands, pouring onto my shoes and the floor in a waterfall of foamy wine. “There wasn’t any beer.”

  He dropped the duffel bag of heroin on the table. “I can honestly say I’ve never known a girl like you before.” He came into the kitchen and yanked the bottle from my hands.

  I took off the sodden suede wedge booties, my bare feet sticky on the smooth floor. “I think I’ll change.”