You Are Mine (Bad Boy 9 Novel Collection)

by Amy Faye

  Another long look to Ryan. He raises his eyebrows, as if he's commiserating with me. I shrug.

  "Get this mess cleaned up, Agent. And get your man back to Washington yesterday. Am I being sufficiently clear here?"

  "Crystal clear, sir. I'm sorry for any confusion."

  "Good. Be sure that everything stays crystal clear, Agent."

  He must have clicked the phone off, because before I can hang up, the line goes dead in my ear. I set the phone down on the counter and start reaching for my clothes.

  I don't hear Ryan come up behind me, but I feel it when he puts his powerful arms around my waist, turning me around and pulling my still-nude body in close to him. He looks serious, and for a moment I'm afraid that things are going to get ugly.

  Instead he presses a kiss against my lips. It's almost surprising, the tenderness in the kiss.

  "Everything alright, babe?"

  "I can't discuss it," I tell him. Part of me wants to see if he can figure out some kind of solution to my little problem. Another part of me is fairly certain that he can't, and so I don't bother to ask him to try.

  He presses another kiss against my lips, then starts tracing the line of my jaw. Part of me wants to let him continue. Even through the exhaustion, my body aches for more.

  I push him away. "I can't. We've got to hurry now."

  "So something is wrong, then."

  "I've got until Monday morning."

  "Monday morning? That's going to be a challenge."

  I don't tell him that he doesn't know the half of it. I certainly don't tell him that the two-day limit isn't to get McCallister. It's to get him. I have to hope that if I turn up McCallister in that time, and get rid of Beauchamp, that my insubordination will be buried under my success.

  It's a fragile and fleeting hope. I pull my trousers back up. I catch Beauchamp watching as the waist catches on my ass. I lean over a little to give him a show. It's the least I can do. Even still, I pull the pants up and button them, then reach down for my bra.

  "Two days, then," he says, moving back to sit down on one of the bench-seats. "That's a damn fine time crunch."

  I can excuse him repeating himself. People have been looking for McCallister for years. No pictures of him in the last three years. For all we know, he could be dead of throat cancer, or buried in an unmarked grave.

  Finding the leader of the Crazy Horses is a job for a task force, and it's a job that takes years to do. I had hoped for months to get Beauchamp to turn him over. Now we have a handful of trusted people, and all of two days.

  Calling it a time crunch doesn't begin to describe what we're going to have to do. 'Impossible' is more appropriate. Nobody could do what I'm hoping for. But there's no other choice, because there's no way in hell that Donaldsen is going to give me the chance to prove myself.

  I have to take what I want. Of all the reasons I've learned to hate Donaldsen, I have to thank him for teaching me that. If there's something I want, then I have to take it or I'm not going to get it.

  I want to sit in his office, I want to sit in his chair, and I want to be the one who has interns kneeling between her knees, hoping for the chance at a fucking job.

  I cut that thought off as quickly as I can. I don't have time to let myself get upset. I have to plan, and it has to be a good God damned plan. I finish buttoning my shirt and turn back toward the bar to grab my phone and slip it into my pocket.

  "I'll call you tomorrow and let you know what the plan is."

  "You don't have a plan, then?" Beauchamp's voice seems to imply something that I don't pick up on.

  "I'd better have one, if we're hoping to get something done in two days."

  "That's about right," Beauchamp agrees. I have to stop myself snapping at him. I don't.

  "What's your fucking point?"

  "Sit down, Agent Maguire. If I'm going to get my ass off the hook, then we need to plan, and you're not going to get anywhere sitting in a room full of cops."

  I give him a long look and sit down on the other side of the booth.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  RYAN

  I swallow hard. I don't like anything about this plan, but my least favorite parts are all coming right at the beginning. Part of me would rather go back with her, get the prison time and be done with it.

  At least in that case, I know the Feds won't just kill me right off. There's a certain amount of respect between criminals. A knowledge that the other guy is doing the same shit you're doing.

  That tends to go out the window when you kill a half-dozen guys and blow up their truck.

  But if two days is the cutoff, you don't take your time with risk assessment. It's just a reality. The plan is a non-starter if I can't get a meeting with whoever's leading the Crazy Horses. If it's not McCallister, that's news in itself, but I can accept it. I swallow hard and walk into the bar.

  It looks the same as it did yesterday. In fact, it looks downright quiet. I shouldn't be surprised, but then again, it won't be quiet for very long. I walk up to the bartender.

  "Call your boss."

  He looks up from the counter. "I own the place."

  "Perfect," I tell him. I don't like being lied to, and it makes the next part easier. I grab a bottle and smash it on the wooden bar top. It leaves a perfectly convincing dent in the thick polyurethane finish.

  "Hey—what the fuck are you—"

  The gun that comes out and into his face convinces him to be a more forgiving citizen.

  "You'd like me to stop? Call your boys. I'll wait."

  He doesn't turn his back on me, even as it takes three or four steps to make it to the phone hanging on the wall. As he moves I set the gun down in easy reach.

  "Hey, I got a guy here causing trouble—"

  "Tell him it's Ryan Beauchamp!"

  "He says it's Ryan Beauchamp. Yeah. He's got a gun."

  "I just want to talk!"

  I push the gun across the counter. It's still near me, and we both know it. But now it's out of easy reach, unless I want to race the bartender for it.

  He looks quick, for some nobody. He certainly doesn't look strong, so he'd better be quick, or he's just totally incapable. Well, I can't blame him if he is. It's not as if he has some kind of responsibility to be a tough son of a bitch.

  He watches me, his eyes wide. I let him watch me, then toss the bottle onto his side of the bar as well. I flatten my hands against the bar, and get real still. If I move too much or too fast at the wrong moment, then no amount of honor among thieves is going to count for much.

  I don't have to wait long. I can hear them coming from a ways off. Please don't let them notice the Indian out back, I think. Between the cops trying to fuck with me and the rush I'm under, I don't know that I could handle having them trash my bike, too.

  They come through hot, guns already drawn. Smart of them. But I don't move. I don't even blink if I can help it. They grab my arms and get me in a lock. I let them. I might be able to slip it, maybe. But with four of them there, and three of them with guns drawn, it wouldn't be smart.

  "What the fuck are you doing here, Beauchamp?"

  I can hear one of the other guys, slipped behind the counter, talking to the bartender in a hushed voice. Calming him down, I figure.

  "I thought, well, you know who I haven't seen lately?"

  He cuts off the answer with a heavy fist. The guy's built less like a bodybuilder and more like a beer keg, but he doesn't let that get him down. He still hits harder than a son of a bitch.

  "We know you did that job at the Franklin street warehouse."

  "You know about that, huh?" Another fist finds my floating ribs. I feel them start to protest, threatening to break. Maybe they already have broken, and the next hit will just make it worse.

  "I don't need your fucking sass, Beauchamp. What the fuck are you here for?"

  "Same reason I did the warehouse job. I'm looking to get your attention, shit-for-brains."

  The next hit doesn't have as much
fire in it, but he makes up for it by hitting the same spot again. I feel a rib go for sure that time, but the guy behind me holds me pretty firm, so I can't exactly do anything about it.

  "How you liking that attention so far, bird-boy?"

  "You've taught me so much about boxing, I think it's already paying off."

  He takes the compliment reasonably well. Doesn't even hit the same spot this time. I think the guy's starting to like me. Maguire doesn't even remotely realize how much she's going to owe me for this.

  "So you're not hiring, then?"

  The guy doesn't bother hitting me this time. It's as if I'm watching evolution occur in front of me. The man can think, all of a sudden. It's as if he's just crawled out of the primordial ooze.

  I can see from his face that he's not great at it, though. They didn't send their smartest guys, they sent the guys who hit the hardest.

  "What the fuck do you mean, hiring? No, we're not looking for help from some two-bit outfit—"

  "Better than those guys you had watching that warehouse. Honestly, if my guys had the kind of kit your boys had—"

  That hits a sore spot. He doesn't hold back much, and he catches me under the arm, where my ribs aren't really supposed to get hit. It feels like I would expect it to, which makes my vision more than a little blurry.

  "What are we gonna do with him?"

  I can barely keep my eyes open, but I don't need to be able to see to know that he's not talking to me. The big son of a bitch behind me shrugs. I can feel it in the way that it makes my own arms shift.

  "We can't kill him here, can we?"

  No, they obviously can't. Anyone could see that. First of all because it's just a fucking bar. Which is why I came here in the first place.

  It's their territory, and they're not going to have a problem coming out here to get me. But they're not going to kill me, because it'll bring the wrong sort of attention down on the place where they make their money.

  That's what I'm hoping for anyways. A third voice, probably the guy who went behind the bar right away, chimes in.

  "You fuckin' stupid? No, you can't kill him here. Poor Mark's suffered enough already, you dumb bastards. Get this fucker out of here. We'll ask the boss what to do with him."

  There's the magic words. I need to get inside the organization, and fast. I need a face to go with the name. And I can't do that if I don't get noticed and picked up.

  If I can piss them off enough, McCallister will come out. Has to come out. Because there's no way in hell that he's going to let this stand.

  Once the connection's been made, I can work my ass off to stop him from killing me dead right, right there on the spot. But first I need to meet the guy, and I need to meet him now.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  MAGUIRE

  I don't know how long I'm supposed to wait, but it already feels like it's been too long. He should have gotten back by now, or if he wasn't going to, he should have given some kind of signal.

  Then again, we both knew that the job involved some risks. Not, I think to myself, that he had much choice in whether or not to take them. It doesn't matter now, though. Nobody has any choice in the matter.

  I take a deep breath. Nothing I can do but wait. If things go well, then we're in the game. If they don't go well—

  I don't think I'd rather think about that. I can still feel a little buzz of arousal at the thought of what happened earlier that night.

  The warehouse was a setup. It was a strange setup, in my opinion, but a setup nonetheless. If it was a setup, why waste your men, knowing they're going to die?

  That part makes no sense to me, but then again I suppose it's not as if I'm a gangster. Maybe they needed people there to play it to the hilt.

  The problem being, even from what I was able to tell, the plan had never been to hit them so soon. It was barely six hours between when they'd changed the plan and when they'd hit the place. Barely six hours to warn them, and barely six hours to get the plan in motion.

  The car bomb by itself takes a while to set up, especially so that nobody will notice. With the rush they were in, there was always good odds that nobody would even check for something like that.

  But why leave it up to chance? It seems like a big risk for surprisingly little reward. Too much of the plan was left up to chance, no matter how the setup was supposed to work.

  Say they took their own truck, and loaded it that way. What would have happened then?

  Suppose that they'd found the bomb. What would have happened then? The whole plan relies on nobody checking anything, and sure—it had worked out. This time.

  Something about it was nagging at me, and it had been all night. Now, as the sun sits high in the sky, I have nothing but time to think about it, and it isn't making any more sense than it was before.

  Unless they knew the details of the plan, there was no way to be sure. There simply was no way that they could have found anything.

  I know I didn't report the job in. I couldn't have. I only had twenty minutes to myself the whole time, and if I did, there's no way that Donaldsen would have given me the go-ahead on pulling a job like that.

  He'd have given me an unfathomable amount of grief about it, and then told me to just pick Ryan up and come back.

  Of course, that wouldn't have killed his gang. It never does. But that's exactly the sort of thinking that they have on Capital Hill—you can't win the war, so you might as well not try.

  I suck in a breath. I don't think that way, that's for fucking sure. If I can take one off the street, I will. But if I can cut the head off the whole snake, it doesn't matter that another one will just take its place eventually.

  That's time where, even if it's only for an instant, a girl won't have to cope with her mother's dope habits. That's not nothing. It's not a win, not completely, but it's a damn sight better than just getting rid of one low-level guy.

  I can't believe that Ryan did it himself. Not with the way that he reacted. Though, I've seen people's own problems come back to bite them in the ass before, and they always take it damn hard. So maybe I shouldn't take him off the list.

  Another instant, and I take him off the list again. No, he couldn't have. Wouldn't have. He's clever enough, sure. But I don't believe he'd sacrifice a man just to play off a charade for me.

  Which leaves three others. Hawkins, the brother, and the guy who got burned up.

  If he knew about the job being a setup, he wouldn't have gone into that truck. I've been on the inside of setups before. Maybe you don't know everything, but you know something's fishy.

  And the first thing you learn, nobody even needs to tell you: don't go first. Not ever.

  It doesn't take long to wipe Logan off the list, either. He's Beauchamp's brother, and he's got about as much pull with the gang as anyone. Maybe as much as Ryan. Maybe more, even. I can't say for sure, but I know that he's well-respected. I was able to see it in an instant.

  Hawkins, on the other hand—

  He'd have gotten the call before long. There's no way that he wouldn't have reported it in. He has to. Every job that he does gets called in. Danny takes the call, and that gets passed along. Double quick, no doubt, because Donaldsen is breathing down his neck.

  My face starts to twist up in annoyance and frustration. There's a leak somewhere. Command is a big totem pole, and things get shouted up and down it. Not much in the Bureau is a secret, not when orders are getting passed around.

  So I have to figure, anyone who wanted to know about the job knew that Hawkins was going on that job. They wouldn't necessarily know that I was going, especially since I kept quiet about it.

  No doubt there wasn't any reason to communicate to Hawkins. He looked as surprised to see me as anyone. Unlike me, he didn't have the benefit of being there for the change-of-plans meeting.

  I suck in a breath of air. If there's a leak, it could be anyone. But someone must be in contact with the Crazy Horses. Someone inside A.T.F., someone who apparently decided
that the money was just too good to pass up.

  It's not hard to understand the reasoning. I wouldn't go for the money. Not in a hundred million years. But not everyone who gets into the business we're in, does it because they're true believers.

  You run into a lot of big damn heroes, as well. People who want recognition. They want to get famous, to get ahead. Money doesn't just grease palms in the Capital building, it works the same way in the Bureau.

  I can't get around one thing, though. I personally vetted every one of the people under me. There's always a chance that someone's dirty. Always, especially when there's boys working undercover.

  But you always know. I had feelings. Plenty of times, I thought that I knew a guy was dirty. I get rid of them. It's not as hard as it might seem, especially when you're dealing with stone-cold killers day in and day out.

  I always knew, every time. Every time someone was dirty, it didn't take more than a long, hard look at them to know that they were playing both sides of the field.

  I imagine every face in my unit. All fifteen of them.

  Not a one of them stands out to me. They're clean. Each and every one of them. And that's what bothers me the most.

  I can't think of a single person who might have done it, not in my unit. Which means that there's someone who's much smarter than I'm giving them credit for, out there fucking with my operation.

  Someone who is looking from the inside, out, and nobody knows that they're a snake in the grass.

  Someone who's got me totally outsmarted.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  RYAN

  I don't know how long they had me in there, but the question of whether or not I'd die from it had been bothering me as long as I could remember. I can barely recall a time that someone wasn't putting the screws to me.

  My entire body hurts. It feels strange to say that I've gotten used to it, but I had, like you got used to the cold during an Ohio winter. One day you just wake up, and you're sitting in a room ten degrees colder than you'd like and it's fine.