Shoot 'Em Up

by Janey Mack

  Why argue what you can’t win?

  I slunk off to my room and lay down on the bed, the cool Matouk pillowcase beneath my cheek. I traced my finger along the double-pleated edging, thinking of Stannis. It was more relaxing to focus on the best friend who’d been ready to put a bullet in my brain, than on Hank and Lee or anything I’d done over the past week.

  Somehow I actually slept for a couple of hours. When I awoke, I slipped out of my bedroom, Lee’s muffled voice echoing through the silent penthouse. He’d left the door to the office open.

  I got out the laptop, inserted the tiny drive from the bone jar, and typed “SENKA” into the flashing password bar.

  It opened.

  The 256G drive was almost full.

  Neat-o. Just to make it easy, everything was in Serbian—Cyrillic alphabet, naturally. Ugh.

  Traversing through the folders, eventually I got a video to open. Loud music, naked women, gambling, drugs, and far too many close-ups of male organs sproinging out all over the place. “Whoa.”

  Cripes.

  And I thought orgies and key parties were dead.

  I tried to scroll through the video, but the drive wasn’t having it. It was hard identifying people through my fingers.

  My eyes need a shower. With bleach.

  “Why, Maisie,” Lee said in my ear, scaring me out of my chair. “I had no idea you were so . . . voyeuristic.”

  My cheeks flamed. “Part of Stannis’s legacy. How about you watch, and I’ll run to the store for some ice cream?”

  “You’re terrific, you know that?” Lee chuckled. “You save—what, forty people from a kill house and earn Special Ops status in a Mexican drug cartel, but you get squeamish in front of a lil’ homemade porn?”

  “Not making it any better,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “I bet you’d rather die than let someone see you pee.” He stopped short. “Oh, hell. That’s why you lost the locator, isn’t it?” He howled with laughter.

  “Gee,” I said. “Thanks ever so much for reveling in my humiliation.”

  “Aww, Bae. Don’t go away mad. But go. Now. I’m hungry.”

  “Just for that, you’re getting Rum Raisin.”

  * * *

  I returned with milk, bread, eggs, and pints of Häagen-Dazs—Vanilla Swiss Almond, Rocky Road, Mint Chip, and one Rum Raisin just to rattle his cage.

  Lee had moved his laptop and the printer out of the office. Sweet of him, but he was still getting the Rum Raisin.

  He took a bite. “Ughhh!” His face screwed up like a little kid’s. “Yuck. Dried fruit in ice cream? It’s the curse of the fruitcake. Almost as bad as Raisinets.” He stabbed his spoon for a bite of mine, but I was too quick for him. “C’mon, please?”

  “No.” I mock-pouted. “I’m sorry you don’t care for your treat.” I took the Rum Raisin from his hand and threw it out.

  “Wait! It’s not that bad. I can spit out the raisins. . . .”

  I opened the freezer and held up the two reserve tubs. After a happy and inordinately long waffle, he settled on Mint Chip and dragged a chair close. He patted the seat. “Check it. Screenshots we need to show to Walt ASAP.”

  I sat down. There were a few of Stannis and Coles. But the ones Walt would want to see were of Coles with his favorite Mexican diplomat, Cesar Garza. And ATF special agent Ditch Broady.

  “Like that?” Lee laid out several more prints. “Here he is again. El Eje kingpin Álvaro Garza’s son, Cesar. And again.”

  A familiar piranha-mouthed face peeped out among the debauchery. “Holy cat! Is that . . . Raúl?”

  “Sergeant Reptile Torturer at your service.” Lee turned in his chair, knee bumping mine. “There’s something we’re missing.”

  I stepped through what we had. “El Eje wants Tampico and the eradication of the Grieco cartel. The strikers were supplied to El Eje via the ATF. The two bombs?”

  “The cooler bomb was either a test and/or an obvious link to the bullet factory.” Lee smacked his fist on the table. “Either way, I was Broady’s bitch. Goddammit.”

  “Let’s keep going,” I said. “The drug raids. They’ve all been confidential informant tips. And only for Grieco stash houses. That’s had to hurt.”

  “So, how do the guns fit?”

  “I think they fit exactly the way El Cid said they did. El Eje is trying to set them up. The ballistic reports should back us up. We need to talk to Sawyer. ASAP.”

  “We’re meeting with him tomorrow. It’ll keep.”

  I slipped my phone into my pocket and gathered the ice cream detritus. My half-eaten pint went into the freezer, while his empty one hit the trash.

  “Maisie . . .” he warned. “Don’t.”

  I rinsed the spoons and put them in the dishwasher. “Don’t what?”

  “Call.”

  “Who?”

  Lee dug his wallet out of his back pocket, fished out a hundred-dollar bill, and smacked it on the table. “A hundred bucks says you were slinking off to call El Cid.”

  “Oh . . . shut up. I’m going back to bed.” I went and got into bed, waiting forever for Lee to walk past my room before grabbing my phone and dialing.

  “Señora Renko,” El Cid said. “Carlos and I were just talking about you.”

  “All good, I hope.” But my flirting fell flat. El Cid wasn’t someone I knew anymore. “Would you mind if I spoke with Carlos directly?”

  “Why?”

  “Please.” The hitch in my voice must have swayed him, because Carlos came on the line.

  “Hello?”

  “Carlos, I’ve come across some information that could be . . . misconstrued. I’m concerned that El Cid’s objectivity may not be as it was.”

  “Yes. An astute observation. What is it?”

  “Photos of Raúl. With Mayor Coles. An ATF agent. And Cesar Garza.”

  “Situation?”

  “Drug and sex parties mostly.” I hesitated, not sure whether I was up for signing Raúl’s death warrant. Although I was becoming more certain by the second that he was behind our hijack and kidnap. “Two parties prior to the assassination attempt. One post.”

  “And you have seen these pictures with your own eyes ?”

  “Yessir. It will be difficult for me to get copies, but not impossible.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Thank you.” He disconnected.

  I switched off the light and tiptoed into the kitchen. Lee had cleaned up.

  On the table lay ten full-color prints of Raúl in flagrante delicto, paper-clipped with a Post-it:

  You owe me $100.

  Chapter 46

  The following day at the Chicago Sentinel, we went to present our evidence to Sawyer. But he had questions he wanted answered first.

  “Gunther Nyx seems quite bullish on you entering the narcotics market.” Sawyer handed us each a folder. “Feeling the pressure from the U.S. Department of Justice, no doubt.”

  “You think?” Lee paged through the report. “Chicago’s the only U.S. city to rank in the top five for all four major drug categories. First for heroin, second for marijuana and cocaine, and fifth for methamphetamine.” He looked at me. “Nyx isn’t going to let her go without a fight.”

  Sawyer cocked his vulpine visage. “Any thoughts on this last assignment, Maisie?”

  I didn’t have enough left to play it cool. “To be honest, sir, I feel pretty damn lucky to be alive. My connections with Grieco and El Cid are as tight as they can be with known cocaine abusers, but they won’t be the ones doing the deals.” My hands twisted in my lap. “And I don’t want to be, either.”

  “Yes.” Sawyer tapped a pen against his lip.

  “However, I have no problem continuing Nyx’s heroin distribution with Dafinest Johnson, aka Mr. Peanut, as long as Poppa Dozen is operating as go-between.”

  “Interesting, wouldn’t you agree, Lee?”

  Lee shrugged.

  “The man she fe
els safest dealing narcotics with is the same gentleman felon who blew the back of Juan Echeverría’s head off with a Taurus 85 revolver to ‘save’ our illustrious mayor.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Lee, remember the other day? You were standing in the kitchen and Coles was on TV. What did you say?”

  “Uh . . .” His face screwed up in thought. “He’s such a self-righteous fuck he won’t wear a vest after a goddamn assassination attempt?”

  “That’s it.” I hammered my finger on the tabletop. “That’s the answer, right there.”

  “What?”

  “Where it started.” I grabbed my laptop from my messenger bag, booted it up, and typed Coles Assassination Attempt into the YouTube search bar. I played the video, then played it again.

  “Watch. There!” I pointed at the screen. “Coles raises his arms just before the gunman raises his gun. He knew. He knew it was coming.”

  “Explains why his private security team demanded full control,” Lee said. “And why he hasn’t worn a vest prior or since.”

  “Easily illustrated, difficult to prove,” Sawyer said. “Flip to the ballistics report, please.”

  The FN Herstal 5.7MK2 used in the assassination attempt matched the 5.7 lot and rounds that Carlos Grieco had presented to me. It also had the name of the patron saint of drug dealers, Jesús Malverde engraved inside the back strap.

  The 5.7 used to shoot Cash, as well as other pistols recovered at other sites, had neither the back strap engraving nor were from the same stolen shipment.

  Just as damning were the ballistic markers. The Grieco cartel’s hand-loaded cartridges were a match to the assassination attempt, but the other shootings had used mass-produced 5.7 armor-piercing rounds acquired from Honduras.

  “Excellent work.” A small, self-satisfied smile tipped Sawyer’s lips. “Broady’s in the vise. Theft and sale of explosive components to the El Eje cartel. Multiple federal offenses, falsified police reports, breaking ATF department policy.”

  That didn’t sound little.

  “He’ll never go to trial. Even with the Fast and Furious whitewash in the rearview mirror, it’s virtually impossible for the ATF to survive the scandal of a special agent selling classified striker detonators for criminal enterprises abroad that could be used in Mexico, the United States, or God knows where.” Walt gave a cavalier flip of his wrist. “We’ll sweat him for Coles.”

  He stood up. “Time for the big guns. A third party not connected to the city of Chicago. A special federal prosecutor. Go get some lunch and be back here in two hours.”

  * * *

  Special Prosecutor Jon Gabriel was five-foot-nine, 165 pounds, with sandy brown hair, piercing eyes, and a short, tidy beard. He sat down, pulled out a legal pad and pen, and said, “Tell me everything you just told Walt.”

  When we’d finished, he turned to Walt. “I’ll take it from here. Baby steps and bread crumbs. I don’t want these two anywhere near me until the trial.”

  Guess that’s our cue. Lee and I looked at each other and got up. As we hit the door, we heard Gabriel say, “Broady may be a dirty cop, but he still knows how this goes down. And he’s an independent witness.”

  “You’re going to start a probe?” Lee asked.

  “Of course. Gonna see what we can shake free from the banana tree.”

  * * *

  Two days later, Lee and I sat at a Formica table in a tiny room ready to watch Special Prosecutor Gabriel sweat ATF Special Agent Ditch Broady via video feed.

  Lee pulled a small Styrofoam cooler from beneath his chair. Inside it, an icy six-pack of Budweiser. He popped one and handed it to me.

  “Jaysus, you’re a prince of a guy,” I said.

  “Don’t you forget it.”

  On-screen, Walt Sawyer and Special Prosecutor Jon Gabriel sat at a conference table talking quietly. Gabriel’s massive goon, aka “Investigator Snyder,” waited inside the door, while a cameraman and stenographer had set up in the corner.

  Ditch Broady entered the room knowing something was afoot. “How ’do, Walt?” He was a pretty cool customer, until he took in, per Gabriel’s request, the long wall covered in the El Eje cartel’s organizational chart and photos of their horrific handiwork.

  Gabriel nodded at Investigator Snyder, who stepped forward and cuffed Broady behind his back with unexpected speed.

  “Easy now, no need to—” Broady fell silent as the investigator patted him down, taking his piece and backup.

  “Special Agent Broady, I’m Special Prosecutor Jon Gabriel with the Federal District Court. Take a seat, please.”

  He did. Uncomfortably.

  “You have two options. One, immediately lawyer up, forfeit pension, and proceed directly to prison.” Gabriel opened a folder and laid out the physical evidence of Broady’s signature on the striker detonator requisitions, the Elmhurst destruction forms, and the capper—photos of the strikers from the cabin in Juárez and Carlos’s Lincoln Navigator.

  Ditch Broady turned to stone.

  “Or two,” Gabriel said, “you give a full confession and signed affidavit, and we put you in Witness Protection. But to do that, you roll on someone influential.” Blank-faced, the special prosecutor folded his hands and waited.

  Broady sighed. “Door number two.”

  “Read him his rights,” Gabriel said.

  Investigator Snyder did, carefully enunciating every word. He unlocked one cuff, so Broady could move his arms forward, and relatched the cuff. Gabriel pushed a Miranda form and pen in front of Broady, who signed awkwardly, steel handcuffs clinking.

  “Well?” Gabriel said.

  Broady pretended to think. “I can give you Cesar Garza.”

  The special prosecutor’s mouth set in a firm line. “Strike one.”

  “I don’t know,” Broady hedged, eyes darting around the room. “Raúl Grieco.”

  “Strike two,” Gabriel said.

  Unmoved by Broady’s distress, Sawyer leaned a casual arm over the back of his chair. “Coles, Ditch. We want Talbott Cottle Coles. I suggest you start talking.”

  And Broady did.

  Lee turned the monitor down. “What’s that all over your face?”

  I touched my cheeks. “What?”

  “That chipmunk grin.”

  I shook my head, bashful. “It’s stupid.”

  “C’mon.”

  “I finally feel like a cop. For, like, the first time.”

  “You’re killing me.” Lee groaned and ran a hand over his eyes. “Slowly.”

  I pointed at the screen.

  Broady finally picked up a pen and signed the confession and affidavit. Investigator Snyder pulled him to his feet and spun him toward the door before Broady’s signature had dried.

  “Hey!” Broady said. “What gives? We cut a deal.”

  “That’s right,” said the special prosecutor. “We did. You no longer have any ties to the state of Illinois. You belong to the U.S. Department of Justice. And as such, we need you accessible at all times while we build our case.” Gabriel turned to Investigator Snyder. “Get him out of here.”

  We watched as Investigator Snyder led Broady off to parts unknown forever. Sitting there, we finished our beers, laughing at the sheer inanity and desperation of Broady and the half-assed state of the world.

  A rap sounded on the door.

  Special Prosecutor Gabriel stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He glanced at the video feed, then to us. “Satisfied?”

  We nodded, instantly solemn.

  “Then get the hell out of here. You two have plenty of paperwork to fill out.” He shut the door smartly behind him.

  “Ready, State’s Witness Number Seventeen-ten?” I asked.

  “Roger that, State’s Witness Number Twenty-one-twenty-four,” Lee answered.

  We rode the cavernous freight elevator down to the loading dock, then hiked the block and a half to his Mustang. Lee popped the doors and we got in, eyes locking as we slammed our seat belts home at the same time.
r />   “Gee . . . Is that . . . all there is?” I said.

  “We got a solid week of connect-the-dots paperwork, but . . . yeah.” He rubbed the back of his jaw. “Isn’t it enough?”

  “Sure.” I tried to play it straight, but my giggle-cough ruined the effect. “It’s plenty.”

  We laughed all the way back to Stannis’s penthouse.

  Chapter 47

  Lee knocked on the bedroom door and opened it without waiting for an answer. “Hockey game tonight, Bae, and I’m feeling hat-tricky.” He leaned against the jamb. “Come watch me. I’ll buy you all the beer you can drink.”

  “Aww. And I was feeling so thirsty.” I zipped up the garment bag over my Monday work outfit. “Can’t. Busy.”

  “Doing what?” Lee folded his arms across his chest, looking like a recipe for disaster. One I would not be cooking tonight. “Where are you going?”

  “Home, Lee. I’m going home to Hank’s.”

  “Why?”

  How exactly do I explain that living with you like this is as easy as rubbing alcohol on a rug burn? That your casual hands on me all the time are making it hard for me to see straight?

  “I need a weekend off.” I jammed my underwear into the gym bag. “And so do you. Have a party. Go crazy. I’ll help you clean up when I get back.”

  “You haven’t heard from the guy in two months.”

  Three, but who’s counting?

  Lee’s voice went flinty. “Is Bannon back?”

  “No.”

  “So you’re going there to do, what? Sit in the dark, eat ice cream, and bawl your head off?”

  He looked brawny and angry and . . . sad.

  I didn’t trust him, didn’t trust myself.

  “Lee . . .” I said, careful to keep the bed between us. “I’m wildly attracted to you. You’re funny and handsome and smart and sexy. But . . .” I had to force the words out. “I’m in love with Hank.”

  A cold light glinted in Lee’s eyes. “Sure you are.”

  “Even if I wasn’t, which I am, I respect him too much to sleep with someone else before our relationship is over.”

  “Hard to break up when he’s not around.”

  “Please, don’t . . .”