Choked Up

by Janey Mack

  The iPhone buzzed under my pillow. Instantly awake, I swiped the screen. Hank was two hours and thirty-three minutes early.

  “Did he hurt you?” His voice was barely audible over the whump-whump-whump of helicopter blades.

  “No.” My heart started pumping double-time at the sound of his voice. “But he was going to.”

  “Appearance?”

  “White, brown and brown, six feet, one-eighty. Fit, fast. No identifying marks.”

  “Exact words?”

  “ ‘Hank and I used to share everything.’ ” My airway narrowed. “And . . . ‘I’ll leave you recognizable.’ ”

  “Stay in the house until I come for you.”

  “I can’t.”

  The rhythmic drone of the helicopter filled the silence. Hank and I were walking the wire. Always. Da and my brothers were just waiting for a slipup. Me staying home for no apparent reason was raw meat in the tiger’s cage.

  He cursed under his breath. “Two men will arrive within the hour. One you’ll see.”

  And one I won’t. “Okay.”

  “And, Peaches? Wear your Glock.”

  Chapter 5

  3:02 a.m., a faded blue, janky Ford pickup covered in duct tape parked under a streetlight across from our gated driveway.

  Hello, one impossible to miss.

  I pulled on some sweats and snuck downstairs into the kitchen. Nothing garners goodwill like a bribe. Into a paper grocery sack went a couple of Red Bulls, a Coke, a Gatorade, three PowerBars, a big bag of Fritos, and a turkey sandwich. I turned off the alarm and slipped outside to meet my new shadow.

  I knocked on the bed of the pickup before approaching the driver’s side.

  An enormous man with shoulder-length blond hair cranked down the window. “Maisie McGrane.”

  “Yep.”

  He leaned his shaggy head out the window. A ragged scar ran down his cheek into a neck of shiny, puckered skin. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” I held out the grocery bag. “I appreciate you being here.”

  He took it and threw me a two-finger salute. “Randolph Acrey. Everyone calls me—”

  Thor?

  “Ragnar.”

  I can see that.

  He looked inside the bag and nodded. “Fuck me,” he breathed. “Thanks!”

  “How would you feel about giving me a ride around oh-five-thirty? I’ll buy you brekkie.”

  Ragnar nodded. “Cool.”

  “Great. Thanks.” With a wave, I scooted back into the house, reset the alarm, and went back to bed, patting myself on the back over the first step toward keeping my family as deep in the dark as a Russian sub in the Bering Strait.

  Ragnar liked 7-Eleven breakfast burritos, country music, Descartes, lutefisk, Dana Perino, and dropping the f-bomb every third word. “You get up this early every fuckin’ day?”

  “Nope.” I chugged down a third of my second sugar-free Amp. “Do you?”

  He unwrapped another breakfast burrito. “Only for Bannon.”

  “Very often?”

  Ragnar shook his finger. “Off-limits,” he said around another mouthful of burrito.

  My Viking companion had the wily skill set of a back-alley lawyer. Mom would adore him. In the hour we’d been sitting in the 7-Eleven parking lot, the only useful information I’d been able to glean was that he had no idea who Gap Tee was.

  He gave me an appreciative glance. “You two pretty serious, huh?”

  Forget flowers and candy. Nothing says I love you like a double tap. “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t work cheap.” Ragnar put the last of the burrito in his mouth. “You ready?”

  “Sure.”

  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, turned up Lynda Kay’s “Jack & Coke,” and started the truck.

  The energy drinks had all the impact of warm milk. I closed my eyes, leaned back against the headrest, and dozed off.

  “Hey.” Ragnar shook my shoulder with a massive paw. “We’re here.” He put the truck in Park. I sat up, flipped down the passenger-side vanity mirror, daubed on some lip gloss, reached for the door, and stopped short. We were in the circular drive of an industrial building. A beige and white sign read Silverthorn Estates Assisted Living. A Celebration of Senior Life.

  What the—? I snuck a peek at the back of Sawyer’s business card. This was the place, all right.

  “You carrying?” he said.

  “Yeah.” The Kimber Solo in my FlashBang bra holster, while undetectable beneath my navy Tahari suit coat, felt like it weighed thirty pounds. The holster was a birthday present from my brothers, who thought it was hilarious. They wouldn’t be laughing now.

  I hopped out. “My friend . . .” I jerked a thumb at the building and raised a shoulder. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be.”

  “Fuck, kid.” Ragnar ran a hand through his tangled blond hair. “I got nothing but time.”

  The inside of Silverthorn Estates was just like any other upscale Swedish-style medical facility. Light and airy with blond wood, stainless-steel railings, and terrazzo floors. Six thirty a.m. and the place was a bustling hive of activity. Staff members in solid jewel-tone scrubs with silver name badges wove in and out of groups of cheerful, well-coiffed seniors in various stages of decrepitude.

  I waited in line at the reception desk. A woman in a bureaucratic gray suit greeted me. “Good morning.”

  “I have a six forty-five with Danny Kaplan.”

  “Yes.” She gave me a practiced smile. “Welcome to Silverthorn Estates, Ms. McGrane.” She typed rapidly into the computer. “I see the Kaplan estate has granted you unlimited family access. Please step this way.”

  I walked around the arc of the desk to a small alcove where a tan X had been painted on the floor. “Stand on the X please. Look up and smile.”

  I did. She snapped a picture and then spun the monitor in my direction. “Is this satisfactory?”

  I nodded.

  She returned to the computer and typed, talking nonstop. “Here at Silverthorn Estates, we strive to provide a high-security concierge experience for our guests. Our facility consists of five floors of ten wings of guests and a state-of-the-art in-house emergency operating room with helipad. Aside from providing a full physical rehabilitation center, we have a pool, spa, various outdoor courts, and we sponsor an ever-changing variety of off-campus activities.”

  I yawned discreetly into my fist.

  She ran a plastic card through a couple of machines, continuing her recitation. “Each floor has its own recreational and dining facilities. Each wing is named after a precious stone and is color-coded both by door, floor tile, and staff uniform for ease of recognition. Ruby, sapphire, emerald, and so on. Each wing, as well as individual apartments, are accessible only by key card.” She affixed my ID card to a lanyard, handed it to me, and smiled. “Danny Kaplan resides on the fifth floor in our Onyx wing.”

  I put the lanyard over my head.

  “As today is your first day, floor nurse Erickson will arrive shortly and give you a tour of the facility. From then on, as long as the estate agrees, you may come and go as you please.”

  “Okay. Thanks very much.”

  “Our cappuccino coffee bar is complimentary.” She pointed across the lobby with one hand and waved the next guest forward with the other. “You look a bit peaked, Ms. McGrane.”

  Gee, thanks. I stepped out of the way. More caffeine was the last thing I needed. My face was already itching from too many energy drinks. I snagged one of the few empty armchairs in a sunshine yellow grouping and waited.

  And waited. Knee bouncing, fingers drumming.

  This had to be one of the smartest “drops” ever. The perfect place for regular or sporadic visitors. Checking on an elderly relative was definitely low on the list of suspicious behaviors.

  A well-dressed older woman sitting next to me gave me a sympathetic smile, reached over, and patted my arm. “Relax, dear. Remember them as they were, but accept them as they are today.” />
  Is she on the game? “I beg your pardon?”

  “Onyx.” She pointed at the black square on my ID card. “The Alzheimer’s and Dementia wing.” She shook her head and tsked. “Black. Such an unfortunate choice of color.”

  “It certainly is.” I picked up a pamphlet, putting an end to chatter. A new pal wasn’t part of my cover. Not yet, at least.

  I watched the rainbow of nurses and aides and tried to fall asleep. A petite, curvy, Italian-looking woman in solid black scrubs stopped next to my chair. “McGrane? You’re up.” She spun on her little rubberized clogs and took off.

  I trotted after her into the southern elevator bay. “Onyx, huh? A little somber.”

  “It’s all subliminal, you know? We chose it because the last color old bones want to be around is black. Reminds them of funeral homes and last rites.” She walked to the farthest elevator. “This is ours.” She waved her card past the elevator button. It opened instantly. “Move it.”

  I hustled after her, the doors closing almost before I was inside.

  “Silverthorn general staff and patrons are unaware of our existence. Your ID has a microchip that activates this elevator and this one only.” The nurse put a fist on her hip. “Every elevator car will get you to the fifth floor with your ID, but use only this one.”

  “Okay.”

  “You paying attention? This is important.”

  I nodded.

  “Swipe your ID card and press the 4 and 5 buttons together. That means your car is not compromised and you go straight to the fifth floor. If you swipe and press only 5, we receive a message that your car is compromised and prepare accordingly. Understand?”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Yeah? ’Cause it’s a real pain in the ass when you forget.” She pointed to a tiny strip of lights in the corner. “See that blinking light?”

  A tiny light near the ceiling blinked twice, then paused, then twice again. I nodded.

  “The scanners picked up two weapons.” She stared at me. “I know I’m carrying.”

  “Me, too.”

  “What and where?”

  “Kimber. Bra holster.”

  “Yeah?” She squinted at my chest. “How do you like it?”

  “Okay.” I flipped my hand back and forth. “I haven’t had a reason to justify getting my jackets recut.” Until now. “You?”

  “Ankle holster. Out of reach of the old bones. God knows the boobs aren’t.” She laughed and held out her hand. “Detective Anita Erickson, RN. Welcome to the BOC.”

  I shook it and the doors opened.

  “Got your wits about you?” Anita waved her ID at the sensor in front of a pair of black steel doors and hit the round Door Open button with a hip. “Let’s go see the Scorpion.”

  An elderly woman scooted past us, zipping for the door, propelling her wheelchair with fancy velvet-slippered feet. Anita caught one of the wheelchair handles just as the woman jammed her cane between the steel doors. “Not so fast, Lady Elaine.” She jerked the chair around and gave Elaine, her cane, and her chair a shove toward the nurses’ station.

  “C’mon.” Anita’s clogs squeaked on the industrial flecked high-gloss linoleum. An old man in pajamas scolded an invisible truant.

  Special Unit clearly preferred live window dressing.

  We stopped at the end of the hall. She knocked and we waited a five-count until a small red light above the door turned white. She slid her card through the sensor and pushed open the door. “Look sharp, Grims! New blood walking.”

  Chapter 6

  The Grims were a team of eight middle-aged men and women wearing black scrubs working glowing phones and computers inside tinted glass cubicles. A few looked up. No one smiled.

  The semi-darkened room had been plucked from an NCIS/CSI television handbook of what secret law enforcement headquarters ought to look like. Mesh-paneled floors were interspersed with strips of textured carpet, LCD monitors and tables laden with electronic equipment were illuminated by high-powered micro task lights.

  The farther I walked into the L-shaped room, the larger I realized it was. It spanned the entire end of the Onyx Alzheimer’s wing. Six black steel doors, each about twenty feet apart, ran the length of the rear wall.

  Anita stopped me in front of the fourth door, rapped twice, and left.

  A mechanical click popped the door open a sliver. I pushed it wide and stepped inside. My feet sank into luxe carpet as I faced a floor-to-ceiling expanse of windows overlooking the Chicago skyline. The door closed and locked on its own behind me.

  An insect-thin Japanese woman sat behind a scarlet lacquered desk the size of a Fiat Abarth. Her heavy dark hair stopped a precise inch above the shoulders of her celadon silk suit. “I’m your handler, Danny Kaplan.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “For what?” She folded her arms across her chest. “Your surprise at my unisex name or the archaic mind-set that an American named Kaplan should be Caucasian?”

  “Neither, ma’am,” I said mildly. “I thought Mr. Sawyer was my handler.”

  “Walt Sawyer?” Her laugh was as harsh and sharp as the whine of wet birch through a wood chipper. “Lord, save me from yet another recruit as raw as steak tartare.”

  Hank’s Law Number Ten: Keep your mouth shut.

  I smiled politely and glanced around the room, letting her have her fun. Whoever had designed the outer office had pulled out all the stops. The remaining three walls were filled with black lacquer bookcases and file cabinets. The only break in the shiny ebony were six art-lit pottery pieces encased in glass boxes. I recognized one—an Oribe ware dish and lid that probably belonged in a museum.

  “Special Unit is funded from a variety of private sources as well as federal and state. Our results are exemplary, and as Special Unit finds discretionary income to be the better part of valor, we are amply rewarded.” Kaplan raised a chic pair of rim-free glasses and after a long and careful inspection of me, set them down with a sniff. She picked up a micro-digital recorder. “Maisie McGrane. Five-seven, one-twenty, natural redhead currently a bottle-blonde, eyes green, small frame, fit. Twenty-four. Could pass for nineteen. For now.” She lowered her hand. “Fresh-faced naïveté doesn’t last long in our business. Sit.”

  Sweet. My new boss is a praying mantis and I’m the baby bee.

  A single straight-backed chair held several oversized black binders labeled O-S-T. I picked them up.

  “Those are yours to memorize.”

  And sat down with the ten-pound homework assignment on my lap.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ms. Kaplan tipped slightly back in her chair and tapped her pewter-polished nails together. “The Italians are outsourcing. They’ve green-lighted several of the Belgravian clans of the Srpska Mafija, the Serbian Mafia, throughout the United States. The Srpska aims to become a leader in the lucrative world of arms trafficking. And they’re financing their expansion in part via car theft. The Slajic Clan is working Chicago, Minneapolis, Kansas City, Milwaukee, St. Louis.”

  A spark of excitement jumped in my chest. Oh yeah. Welcome to the Majors.

  She continued, “Auto thefts are already up twenty-three percent from last year’s watermark of shame. The ripple effect of these thefts is hundreds of millions of dollars, hence insurance companies are crawling all over the CPD, demanding federal investigations.” Her dark red lips twisted in a cynical smirk. “Never mind the body count, which, in the low teens, remains relatively unnoticed.”

  Kaplan raised a remote control from a desk tray and pointed it at the bank of windows. A large screen slid down. “The Srpska are cloning, shopping, and chopping simultaneously.”

  She clicked through several slides. “Cloning. Thieves change the VIN numbers, apply for title with fraudulent docs, and resell them. Shopping means they steal an order of desired vehicles, load them into containers, and ship them overseas. Chopping is the process of completely dismantling and selling the parts, or partially
hijacking vehicles for high-dollar items such as air bags and side panels.” Danny Kaplan leaned forward, a smile just shy of a sneer on her lips. “So why do you think the CPD’s Auto Theft Department is so incredibly inefficient?”

  Neato. A pop quiz. “Three guys can strip a Honda Accord down to frame in eight minutes.” I shrugged. “You don’t need an operational base for eight minutes. Steal a car or truck, drive it a couple of blocks away, and strip it in the back of an outfitted semi or an abandoned building.”

  “That’s . . . correct.” She tapped the remote and the screen lit up with the words Operation Steal-Tow. “The common denominator of all three methods is the theft itself. They’re using tow trucks—some rogue, some from legitimate companies.”

  She pressed the remote button and a photo of a gray-haired man with a cruel and bloated face flashed on the screen. “Goran Slajic.” The picture had been taken through the window of a Serbian restaurant. “Never leaves Serbia. His Chicago proxy is his nephew, Stannislav ‘The Bull’ Renko.” The pale face of the man who rescued me from Gap Tee appeared on the screen. “Cruel, capable, and competent. A triple threat.”

  “Stannis,” I whispered.

  “What?” Her voice snapped like a whip. “What did you say?”

  “I know that man as Stannis.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Heat crept up my neck. “I was working and some mope on the street assaulted me. Stannis stopped him.”

  “Renko? Really?” Her fingers separated then intertwined. “How unlike him . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you pals now?”

  “No. But you could say I owe him a favor.”

  “Which you’ll repay, by showing him the error of his ways.” She took a folder from the desk drawer and opened it. “Ground intelligence has been difficult to amass. We have enough evidence to arrest a few of the low-level members of Renko’s crew, but not enough to flip anyone. Yet.” She scribbled a note as she spoke. “Your assignment is to collect photographic evidence of every possible illegal tow. Nothing more, nothing less. This is not an infiltration.”

  Stakeout City, here I come!