Shoot 'Em Up

by Janey Mack

  In my room, I went straight for my backup iPhone in the Ziploc bag under the top layer of sand in Stannis’s bone jar.

  I checked our electronic connection points. Nothing.

  Screw it. With a shaky breath, I called Hank’s office.

  The sultry-voiced secretary wasn’t her usual languorous self. “I’m sorry to inform you,” she said stiffly, “Mr. Bannon has still not been in contact.”

  “Maybe you should rethink using the phrase, ‘I’m sorry to inform you,’” I snapped.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss McGrane. I apologize. Is there anything else?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You tell Ragnar—er—Randolph Acrey I want to see him. ASAP.” I hung up.

  I put the phone back and went into the bathroom. Washing my face, I leaned into the mirror for a closer look.

  Funny.

  Not a mark on me.

  None that showed, anyway.

  * * *

  By the time I pulled myself together, Lee had cleaned up the kitchen havoc, showered, shaved, and changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt. He raised a champagne flute to me. “Sweet pants, Bae.”

  Holding the edges of the flannel Halo-patterned pajama pants, I did a slow pirouette. “A gaming incentive Christmas present. From Cash.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good.” He nodded at the Bollinger in a champagne bucket. “We got less than twenty to drink this swill before dinner.”

  I sat down across from him. “What are we having?”

  “Tacos.”

  I raised three fingers tight together. “Read between the lines.”

  Lee grinned.

  Gee, he’s a doll.

  I took a swig of champagne. “Now what?”

  “Debrief with Walt.”

  “It seems so . . . I don’t know . . . anticlimactic.” I sighed. “The futility of it. I went into this for Cash. To help the cops on the street. To make a difference, and it’s over because El Eje stepped in and blew up Grieco’s bullet factory? It’s like it’s all been for nothing. And I don’t know how to take that.”

  “Hey.” Lee put his hand on mine and squeezed. “You’ve scored direct evidence with the modified 5.7, the handmade steel-core rounds, and have definitive proof Grieco and El Cid are running drugs in Chicago. That’s not nothing.”

  I took a sip of champagne and shook my head.

  “The munitions dump is gone, and you managed to survive.” Lee cocked his head. “Nyx couldn’t ask for more.”

  “That’s just it. He can and he will ask for more. Sawyer, too.” I spun my champagne glass slowly by the stem. “Can I tell you something?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t hold the blackness in another second. “I feel . . . shredded.” I gripped the back of my neck. “These assignments. They each demand their share of heart and blood. I like AJ. A lot. Hell, I even like Grieco. And Jimmy the Wolf and Vi Veteratti. And I really”—I swallowed hard—“really like Stannis.”

  His brown eyes squinted back into mine, mouth compressed into a hard line. “And Hank.”

  “What?”

  “Aren’t we listing all the criminals you care about?”

  My mouth slid to one side, ready to fight, but not sure how.

  The lobby buzzed.

  “Food’s here.” Lee left to pick it up.

  I pressed my eyes hard with the heels of my hands.

  Where are you, Hank? Where are you?

  “Maisie?” Lee said softly, startling me. I hadn’t heard him come back up. “You all right?”

  “As rain.” I looked up and laughed.

  Idiot.

  He really had ordered tacos.

  Chapter 40

  Monday morning, I cracked open one of the few precious sugar-free Amps left in existence from the vegetable crisper, forcing myself not to guzzle down the glorious goodness. “Mmm.”

  Lee came into the kitchen and jerked his chin at me. “Got another one of those?”

  “Uh . . .” Aware that it was the height of churlishness to deny the guy who’d saved my life an energy drink, I said, “Why don’t you try a sip first?”

  He came around the counter and took the can from my hands. He raised the can to his mouth and took a swallow, eyes never leaving mine. “Wow. That’s fantastic.”

  Dammit.

  “Let me get you one.” I got one out of the fridge and offered it to him.

  Lee burst into laughter. “Your face!”

  “What?” Heat flushed my cheeks. “You don’t want it?”

  “No, Bae.” He chuckled. “It tastes like sour Mountain Dew.” He glanced at his watch. “You ready? Maybe I can swing by Starbucks and get a coffee since you’re not a sharer.”

  My mouth opened in mock indignation.

  He tapped his cheek. “C’mon. Pay up.”

  I felt shy and silly and . . . light.

  I leaned in and he turned his head, taking it on the mouth. He caught my face before I could pull away and he was kissing me so hard and it felt so good.

  Stop. I need to stop. I need—

  He edged me back against the counter, and yanked my shirt out of my pants. Knocking over the can. He swore against my mouth, trying to right it.

  Energy drink flooded the counter and dripped down the back of my pants. “Gah!”

  What the hell am I doing?

  I ducked under his arm, grabbed my satchel and coat off the bar, and ran for the elevator.

  “Maisie. Maisie, wait. Goddammit!”

  * * *

  I leaned against Lee’s Steve-McQueen-Highland-Green Mustang. Before we’d left, I’d called down to the concierge, and without his knowledge or permission, had it washed, waxed, and detailed.

  I’d meant to be sweet, but I could see how it could be taken as presumptuous. Especially after what had just happened.

  Oh God.

  Maybe he won’t notice.

  Nine minutes later, Lee came down, smart as hell in his new black Nicholas Joseph suit, white shirt, and charcoal tie. Duffel bag of heroin slung over his shoulder, black 5.7 gun case in one hand, sugar-free Amp in the other. He halted. “What happened to my car?”

  Feck.

  I stared at the ground. “I had it cleaned.”

  He popped the locks and the trunk. Inside were five cardboard file boxes. Three filled with gear and clothes and the last two with the paper tiger he could never seem to tame: mail, work, and magazines.

  God only knew how many bags of trash the car wash guys threw out.

  Lee put the drugs and the gun in and closed the trunk. Without a word he came around and opened my door. I slid in and set my purse down.

  “Ahem.” He wagged the can in front of my face.

  I took it and he closed the door on me before I could thank him.

  I shook the can. Things were looking up. He’d managed to salvage more than half of the energy drink.

  Lee started the car. We were halfway to the Sentinel for the debrief before I shook the blur from my brain. “We should have driven separately,” I apologized. “My schedule’s gonna hamstring you.”

  “I don’t think you understand, ma’am. We’re in full undercover mode. What part of Stannislav Renko would let you drive to work solo?”

  He had me, and he knew it.

  “Whatever,” I muttered.

  He dropped me off in the front of the paper. It was one thing for the hammer-and-sickle crew to think I had a love-sodden, muscle-head boy toy, something else entirely for them to think I had a bodyguard.

  I rode the elevator up, checking my reflection in the silver doors.

  In seconds I’d know whether my attempt to social justice warrior-ize Phillip Lim slim pants with a boxy cropped Tokyo sweater was successful. I figured the Soviet Bloc vintage wool gray military long coat prepaid the points my kitten heels would cost.

  Because girls cannot live on Goth alone.

  I couldn’t bear the idea of a debrief with
the suave Sawyer while wearing high-tops.

  “You’re in early,” Jenny Steager said as I passed by her desk. “Didn’t you get my e-mail that Renick bumped the weekly meeting to this afternoon?”

  “Yes, thanks,” I fibbed. “Lots of busywork to catch up on.”

  She nodded, glossy chestnut hair tumbling into her eyes. “Speaking of which, I brought up your . . . ah . . . fan mail. The response to your ‘More Guns Mean Less Crime’ op-ed was insan-o.”

  “Ughhhhh.”

  Goddammit, Renick.

  Publicity was not the goal here. One more thing to talk to Sawyer about. “Thanks, Juice.” I said. “Keep an eye out for my guy, Lee, will you? He oughta be coming up any minute, and I could use a few to get my gear together.”

  Her face lit up. “You bet.”

  I cut toward my office.

  “Lurv the coat!” she called to my back.

  I raised a hand and unlocked my door. As soon as this gig was over, I’d invite her and her pals over for the great Goth closet cleansing. I hung up my coat, took my satchel and the black case with the 5.7, and trotted to the conference room.

  Sawyer was waiting at the conference table. “How are you, Maisie?”

  He’d seen my report. And Lee’s. And I hadn’t.

  “Not a mark on me, sir.” I closed the door, set the case in front of him, and sat down.

  He perused the 5.7, the modifications and extended magazine, while I explained about the engraved back straps, the handmade ammunition.

  “I’ll have ballistics standing by.” He closed the case and slid it back to me. I put it at my feet and set out the evidence bags I’d pulled from the explosion. The Excedrin bottle, bullet casings, aluminum ribbon.

  I handed Sawyer the camera/pen. “The bomb was set off with a similar striker to the one in the cooler. But it was embedded in the side of an armored Lincoln Navigator. There was no way it was coming out without a blowtorch and a pair of pliers. But I did get pictures.”

  “Of the scene.” He pressed the tips of his fingers together.

  “And the striker.”

  “Excellent.” His cognac-colored eyes seemed to glow as he secreted the pen inside his breast pocket. He picked up the bag with the aluminum ribbon and tapped the pill bottle. “And this?”

  “Whatever residue I could get off the striker. Unfortunately, there was aspirin dust in the cotton.”

  “Nicely done, Maisie.” The two bags disappeared into the flap pockets of his suit coat.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “As for Operation Summit,” Sawyer said. “Renko’s ghosted. Goran Slajic and the Srpska Mafija don’t seem concerned he’s in the wind. Thoughts ?”

  “He’s gone to ground with the Russians ?” I guessed. Or, more exactly, Hank and his two Russian mercenaries.

  “My thoughts exactly. Lucky for us, they’re proving to be a cagey bunch and I plan on using every spare second to our advantage.”

  “Yessir,” I said. Just hearing Sawyer agree that Stannis—and Hank—were dug in was a fifty-pound weight off my chest.

  Sawyer checked his watch. “I’d prefer Sharpe takes the lead in the group debrief.” His slim, foxy face gave nothing away. “We’re going to play this close to the vest.”

  “Sir?”

  The door swung open. I put the gun case at my feet. In strode Lee with ATF agent Ditch Broady and the DEA’s Gunther Nyx, all sharp-suited and skinny-tied, Kray brothers style.

  I was, yet again, underdressed.

  Lee took the seat next to mine, then turned it on and turned it up. Way up. “The mission objectives were met.”

  “I hear you acquired a gun,” Broady said. “Definitive proof of the Grieco cartel’s involvement in Coles’s assassination attempt.”

  “Maisie did.” Lee put the case on the table and opened it. “This one’s been modified to the same extent as the one used in the attempt on the mayor.”

  “Damn!” Broady held up one of the boxes of cartridges. “Golly-goddamned if you weren’t right, Nyx. Y’all catch more flies with honey. Bears, too. Nice work.” Excitement crossed Broady’s face. “I think we have what we need to proceed.”

  “Yes,” Lee said. “It was good working with you, Ditch.”

  “If either of y’all get a wild hair and want to work for the ATF down Mexico way, you gimme a call, you hear?” Broady closed the case, flipped the locks, and stood up.

  Sawyer put his hand on the case. “The handgun and its accoutrements will remain with the CPD, for the time being. Multiple open murder cases, as well as the attempted murder of a dedicated SWAT officer, using 5.7s and steel-core rounds, demand it.”

  “But—”

  “Mayor Coles and the ATF know better than to disrupt open murder cases because someone wants a trophy.”

  Nyx shrugged. “The price of doing business, Ditch.”

  “I don’t think y’all realize how important this evidence is to the ATF.”

  “Perhaps not,” Walt said. “However, I personally guarantee the gun will be under guard at all times, not merely locked slapdash away in Evidence.”

  Ditch’s smile turned to treacle. “Good. Warms my heart to hear you’re on top of it. See you around.” He left the office, closing the door a little too firmly behind him.

  Gunther Nyx’s straight blond hair fell forward. “There is the little matter of the heroin—250K dollars’ worth. Where is it?”

  I started to answer. Lee thumped his knee against mine.

  “Special Unit has taken custody,” Sawyer said smoothly. “The most advantageous route for Operation Summit would be to allow Agent McGrane and Agent Sharpe to further establish an obvious stream of income by continuing to move product within West Englewood and Burnside. The DEA can consider the distribution a consistent measureable control within those zones. Plus, it’s a bit of a luxury to have an operation you can clamp down on when needed.”

  Nyx tossed his head. “The proceeds?”

  “Well,” Sawyer demurred. “Special Unit’s agents are doing all the work.”

  “The collar?”

  “All yours, Gunther,” Sawyer said silkily. “Did you even have to ask?”

  Nyx’s smile turned snakelike. “I suggest the next transaction is reduced to half of McGrane’s last sale. Essentially, that will secure at least eight fifty to sixty K deliverables.” He squinted at Sawyer. “I look forward to a series of successful arrests.”

  “As do I,” Sawyer said, shaking hands with Nyx. “As do I.”

  * * *

  Lee, not saddled with a Sentinel weekend magazine meeting, took off and hit the gym. He returned wearing jeans, boots, white tee, and a SWAT nylon baseball jacket, which I assumed had been retrieved from one of the boxes in the trunk of his car.

  He came around my desk and hiked a hip on the inside. “Just think, Russkie—we start going out and maybe I’ll let you wear my jacket.”

  “Gee, I’m pretty sure I have a cuter one that says Homicide across the back.” I slid through the final setup screen on my new BOC iPhone. “Finally.”

  It buzzed immediately with Mom’s preset text ring, scaring me. I tapped on iChat. “Ughhhhhh.”

  “What?”

  I flipped the phone to show him Mom’s text:

  Dinner. Tonight. Or else.

  “I’m in.” Lee threw his arm around my neck in a jocular hug and kissed the top of my head. “Thanks for the invite.”

  “That wasn’t—”

  “Of course it was.”

  * * *

  We drove to my house. “Thanks for cleaning my car,” he said, eyes focused straight ahead. “Sweet of you.” He stopped at a red light and tapped his phone. Bobby Hebb’s “Sunny” came on.

  One of Mom’s favorites. It always made me smile.

  With no small amount of chagrin, I could admit I was rather pleased Lee had invited himself along. There would be far less of the clan giving me the what for with a fellow CPD member seated next to me.

  The driveway of my pare
nts’ enormous house was filled with cars.

  Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.

  Cash met us at the door. “Hey, man! Good to see you.” He clapped Lee on the back, steering him toward the great room, and called over his shoulder, “Snap, heaven and hell are waiting for you in Da’s study.”

  Yippee!

  I dumped my coat in the hall closet and walked to the den. Daicen and Declan were kicked back on the couch, drinking and arguing.

  “Hiya. What’s up?”

  “Our client,” Declan said. “Pacing the floors.”

  “Oookay.” I knew a sandbag when I walked into one. “So, what does that have to do with me?”

  “Why don’t you tell us ?” Declan said.

  “Tomorrow.” Daicen stepped in. “At the office. There are a few discrepancies that you might be able to shed some light on. Say, a quarter to nine?”

  About time to find out how Sawyer was progressing on Christo Keck’s case.

  “Certainly,” I said. Because really, why the hell not?

  Talk done, we joined the party.

  “Okay,” Flynn said. “We get the call last week. Sixty-eight-year-old guy killed as he’s getting ready to go to work. His wife finds out he’s been two-timing her, and is out in the driveway, trying to cut his brakes. Only the guy sneaks up on her, grabs her, and spins her around. She trips and falls, stabbing the bastard in the lower ventricle of the heart.” He snapped his fingers. “Guy dies instantly.”

  “Accidental,” Declan said. “She was only going to cut the brakes to scare him.”

  “Boo!” Cash zinged a beer cap at his head. “Premeditated.”

  Declan ducked, and it caromed off the lampshade.

  Mom toyed with the loose cork on the bar. “Lee? I apologize in advance for the uncouth and savage behavior on display here.”

  “No worries, ma’am,” Lee said.

  Da winked at Mom. “Cash?”

  He turned to look at Da and Mom hurled the cork, nailing Cash in the back of the head.

  “Hey!” he said.

  My phone buzzed with “If I Had a Heart” by Fever Ray.

  Ragnar.

  “Excuse me, I have to take this.”

  Lee started like he was going to follow me. Mom put her hand on his forearm. “If you thought Flynn’s story was funny, you ain’t heard nothing yet.”