Shoot 'Em Up

by Janey Mack

  Frowning, Lee rubbed the back of his neck and leaned against the doorjamb. “You really are a good girl,” he said softly.

  “Yeah.” My vocal cords knotted together. “I am.”

  He pushed off the jamb and came toward me, not stopping until our chests were touching. “I’m a good guy.”

  My lips curled in a sad smile. “Lee—”

  He put his mouth to my ear. His breath made me shiver. “Right now you need to think that Bannon’s not a bad guy. But he is. And that’s okay. You’re a smart girl. You’ll figure it out.”

  Lee’s mouth, hot and soft, edged with the faint rasp of scruff, slid down my jaw from my ear to my chin.

  My lips parted.

  His mouth hovered above mine. “Because I’ve got all the time in the world.” He flicked his tongue across my upper lip, then turned and went down the hall without a second look.

  I licked my lip.

  Cinnamon.

  * * *

  I drove home to Hank’s with a headache and a heartache. Just because Lee was coming in hard and fast and uninvited, hurting him was never something I signed on for.

  Ragnar’s janky blue pickup truck waited in Hank’s driveway. I turned in, heart dancing.

  For once I wasn’t in trouble.

  While it was possible Hank had heard from Vi that I was trying to get Stannis’s band back together, it was far more likely he’d ticked somebody off. And he wanted me safe.

  He’s coming home.

  I pulled the Hellcat into the garage stall, took my Kimber out of the holster, and slipped it into my purse. Grinning bigger than I knew my mouth could go, I swiped on a coat of lip gloss. I got out of the car and trotted to the front of the house.

  Ragnar swung open the door of the pickup and stepped out. His beefy, six-foot-seven frame and shaggy, shoulder-length hair was pure Viking.

  “Hiya, Ragnar!” I threw him a chipper salute.

  He raised a palm, face blank. Not happy, not sad. I somehow had the strange sensation he was furious. It seemed to superheat the air between us.

  I couldn’t think of anything that would make him angry, except for having to babysit me again. Which absurdly pleased me to no end.

  My little black heart skipped a beat.

  Hank.

  Ragnar stared at me for a long while, his stormy blue eyes boring into mine. He gave a slight bob of his head, and his hair fell in front of one side of his face. From behind his back, he brought out a thick, brown expanding legal folder with a red cloth tie.

  We stood there, locked in a silent, motionless moment. My hands hung at my sides, Ragnar’s arm extended, statue-still.

  It’s just a legal file. Chill.

  I stepped forward and took the folder. “Thank you, Randolph.” My use of his Christian name surprised us both.

  He pressed a massive hand against my cheek, then turned and walked stiffly to his truck. He got in and the truck growled to life. I watched him drive away, irrationally expecting him to turn around and ask to come in for a beer.

  The folder was smooth and heavy in my hands. Awash with the feeling that I didn’t want to bring whatever was inside into the house, I undid the tie and slipped my hand inside. A card read:

  M—

  If

  H

  The corner of my mouth quirked up. Rudyard Kipling. Always Kipling. Because Hank believed what moved you should be remembered.

  And I remembered.

  Light-headed and fuzzy from missing him, my knees went soft. I dropped down onto the slate landing. Setting the card aside, I reached into the folder and pulled out a binder-clipped stack of credit cards.

  On top of the stack was an Illinois driver’s license with my picture, Hank’s address, and the name Maisie Bannon.

  The six debit/credit cards each bore the foil name stamp: Maisie Bannon.

  I slid out the thick sheaf of papers. The cover sheet was a notarized legal document. Breath coming in short pants, I skimmed the text until I read:

  . . . failure to make contact within any specified continuous 90-day period, Hank Kimball Bannon’s estate reverts in its entirety to his wife, Maisie Bannon . . .

  I turned the page.

  Hank Kimball Bannon and Maisie Moira McGrane’s marriage license.

  Backdated to the first night we spent together.

  Blood pulsed in my ears. I rifled through the stack of documents. The deed to the house, titles to the cars, bank accounts, financials. Everything in my name.

  Doesn’t mean a thing.

  I shook my head hard and returned the entire contents to the file. Smoothly, neatly tying up the cloth tapes.

  Nope.

  Not Hank.

  I got up and turned to go inside. The cardboard file flew from my nerveless fingers and skittered across the sidewalk.

  I stood staring at it.

  Ought to pick that up.

  But I couldn’t seem to make myself.

  I’d know if something had happened to Hank.

  If.

  If.

  I covered my eyes. And heard him. Impossibly.

  His deep bass reverberating in my chest, his voice inside my head. “If you can fill the unforgiving minute. With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—”

  I felt so full of him I was sure my heart would burst.

  I dropped my hands.

  And ran.

  Photo by Jeph DeLorme

  JANEY MACK grew up always wanting to be a cop, but her dad wouldn’t let her, so she did the next best thing and created Maisie McGrane, who gets to do everything she can’t. She lives with her husband and children in Scottsdale, Arizona, within driving distance of her brothers.

  Please visit her at janeymack.com.

  TIME’S UP

  The police academy gave her the boot—and knows how to use it.

  All her life, Maisie McGrane dreamed of following in her father’s and older brothers’ footsteps and joining the force. But when she’s expelled from the police academy, she’s reduced to taking a job as a meter maid. Now, instead of chasing down perps, she’s booting people’s cars and taking abuse from every lowlife who can’t scrape together enough change to feed the meter.

  McGranes weren’t put on this earth to quit, however. When Maisie stumbles across the body of a City Hall staffer with two bullets in his chest, her badge-wielding brothers try to warn her off the case. But with the help of her secret crush, shadowy ex–Army Ranger Hank Bannon, Maisie’s determined to follow the trail of conspiracy no matter where it leads. And that could put her in the crosshairs of a killer—and all she’s packing is a ticket gun.

  CHOKED UP

  She’s working undercover—and she’s in way over her head.

  Scrappy Traffic Enforcement Agent Maisie McGrane has finally landed her dream job as a Chicago police officer. There’s just one catch: She must remain undercover as a meter maid to gather evidence against Stannislav Renko, a charismatic Serbian mobster running a brutal multimillion-dollar mobile chop-shop operation.

  When Maisie is targeted by a killer who leaves a body slumped against her car, Renko comes to her rescue and takes her under his wing. From her perch inside the crime boss’s inner circle, Maisie sets up a daring sting operation to take down Renko once and for all. But can she pull it off before her family of overprotective Irish cops and her sexy ex–Army Ranger boyfriend blow her cover?