Choked Up

by Janey Mack

I sipped the Stoli. Slowly.

  Halfway through, I started to worry I’d overplayed Renko.

  He slid into the booth. A sleek navy suit jacket now covered his pale blue Kitsuné shirt, open at the throat. “I don’t like to chase.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  His eyes went shark-flat.

  I swallowed convulsively. “That wasn’t a good place to talk.”

  The waitress returned, ready to give my assumed abuser the what for. But she got a look at a real live killer and deflated. “Can I get you something, sir?”

  Stannis’s eyes never left mine.

  I pointed at my glass and she scurried away.

  He didn’t speak, just stared unnervingly at me until he’d been served. “Explain tonight.”

  Hank’s Law Number Twenty-Three: The strongest lies are built on truth.

  “I was almost off shift. My brother, a Vice cop, asked me to go out for drinks after they busted Swag.” I raised a shoulder. “I went there to meet him and saw your car.”

  “Ah. Fast to think.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “Too fast, maybe?” A shadow of doubt crossed his face. “You betray your brother for a stranger?”

  “A friend, I thought.” I switched the ice pack to my other hand. “You saved me from . . .” For a split second, I felt Mant’s hands on me and twitched.

  Hello, PTSD.

  I picked up my drink. My hand shook hard enough to set the ice rattling. Blood rushed to my cheeks and I downed the rest of it in one go. I set the glass down with a sharp click and cleared my throat. “Anyway, nobody likes to get arrested.”

  Stannis tipped his head to one side and nodded. “This is so.”

  I sat back, waiting. But apparently the ball was still in my court. “Why’d you help me?”

  “I see you fighting. Good, but not pro. I see in your face you know this.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “Still you try. You show no fear.” He gave a wistful smile. “I know someone else like this, one time ago.”

  “Thank you.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. According to Mom and the twins, small confessions build confidence with a subject. “I’m the black sheep of my family. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes.” Stannis squinted and tapped his chest. “I also.”

  “Most of my family are police.”

  “Is that why you do this work?” He gestured to my uniform. “To anger them?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What is Coles to you?”

  “I saved his life once,” I said. “He can’t get past it.”

  “He is significant man. Connected.”

  “I’m not looking for trouble, Stannis.”

  His lip raised at the corner. “You don’t need to look when you wear it on your person as a dress.”

  You’re not the first guy to tell me that.

  “May I?” He reached toward my chin.

  I lowered the ice pack. Before I could flinch, he took my lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, gently pulled it out and surveyed the damage. “Is not bad.” He let go. “Still . . .” He shook his head and his fingers curled into a fist. “A man should not hit woman with closed hand.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I dead-panned. “Remind him a little sooner next time.”

  Stannis pointed at me and laughed. A deceptively humanizing sound, charming and boyish. “Is funny.”

  I grinned.

  He ran his thumb across his lower lip, thinking. “You interest me, Maisie.”

  I sure hope so, because I’m about to press my luck. “So, you and Coles?”

  Stannis squinted at me. “Coles? He likes to be in love. Me? I like to fuck.” Stannis leaned across the table and grinned. “And there’s nothing better than to fuck significant one in love.”

  I can see that. My phone buzzed. Incoming text. “Excuse me, please?”

  Stannis raised his drink. “Yes.”

  It was from Cash.

  WTH RU?! On way to Hud’s.

  I flipped the phone around. “My brother. Want to come?”

  He caught my wrist and pulled me in close. His electric eyes intense, forehead inches from mine. “What is this game you play?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  Stannis thought that over. So close to me I could see the faint blue veins and heavy black whiskers just beneath his pale skin.

  I forced out a tinkling laugh. “I guess a date’s out of the question.”

  His black brows met in a momentary frown.

  I was about to pull my hand away when he turned it over and raised the underside of my wrist to his lips, eyes glinting. “Is it?”

  Uh-oh.

  He stood up. “One must be in darkness for another to experience light, Maisie.” And then he was gone.

  Chapter 12

  Jaysus, Mary and Joseph.

  I drove the Interceptor back to the Traffic Enforcement Bureau, riding the roller coaster of simultaneous nausea and exhilaration. I clocked out, cuted up, and yawned, trying to release some of the ache in my jaw.

  Asshat Coles.

  The passenger door swung open as I approached Ragnar’s truck. I tossed my bag on the floor and hopped up into the cab.

  He waited until I latched my seat belt. He twisted in his seat and leaned in until we were nose to nose. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

  “Easy now.” I kept my voice gentle. “No problem here.”

  “Yeah? What the hell am I supposed to tell Bannon?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “You sure ’bout that?” The pink puckered scar on his cheek twisted in a mirthless smile. “So you coming out of a strip club with no shirt on is A-okay?”

  “I may be your responsibility, but you’re working for Hank,” I said, neatly laying the dilemma back in his lap.

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Ergh.” He ran a rough hand through his hair. “Christ.” He flopped back against the driver’s seat. “Where to?”

  “Hud’s.”

  The drive was short and strained, barely long enough for Dwight Yoakam to cover “I Want You to Want Me.” The parking lot of Chicago’s top cop bar boasted a show of security as impressive as the Traffic Bureau’s. Because you don’t become the ultimate cop hangout if police cars are vandalized or worse, stolen. Ragnar weaved his pickup between rows of plain-wrappeds—unmarked Tauruses, Crown Vics, and Mustangs and the usual blue and white Explorers and Impalas. A security guard patrolled with a German shepherd.

  “It’s been a lousy night, Rags. My brother Cash and his best buddy, Koji, finally made SWAT. C’mon. Let’s go, let them buy us a beer or three.”

  For the barest instant his face softened. If I’d have blinked, I’d have missed it. “Go ahead,” he said. “But do me a favor, will ya?”

  “Sure. Name it.”

  “Keep your goddamn shirt on.”

  Even at a quarter to three in the morning, Hud’s was packed. Smoky as hell because John Wayne cowboys don’t cotton to no e-cigs and the CPD is above the law, baby. The entire floor between the tables and the bar had been taken over by a badge bunny rendition of a high school dance. Drunken groping and swaying; the only things missing were cheap carnation corsages.

  I spied Cash in a corner booth in the back of the bar, a crowd of über-fit tough guys on his left. His new team members. I started threading my way through woozy, slow dancers. A hand circled my wrist, then slid down to grip my fingers before raising my arm and tugging me backward.

  Koji Hattoro. Cash’s partner and the only cop in Chicago who could dance. Really dance.

  I let him twirl me backward, to the awe and dismay of the zombie-treading badge bunnies. I grinned and relaxed as he dropped me into a floor-sweeping dip. Only the face I smiled up into wasn’t Koji’s. It was the sharply planed cheekbones and white tiger teeth of SWAT commander Lee Sharpe.

  “Maisie McGrane,” he said. “Looking worse for wear and hotter than hell, as per.” He raise
d me upright.

  Whoa.

  “Hi, Lee.” Sharpe was a charismatic, happy-go-lucky badass and an also-ran in the anorexic love diary of Maisie McGrane. His hand moved to the small of my back as he led me back to the SWAT team corner.

  “Here she is, lads!” Cash yelled in delight, hoisting himself up onto unsteady feet before kissing my cheek. “Me wee baby sister.”

  Sweet Jesus, the drunken brogue.

  “Sit the feck down.” Rory landed a heavy hand on Cash’s shoulder and forced him back into his seat.

  Bad cop’s here. Good cop can’t be far behind.

  “Christ,” Flynn said from behind me, carrying three bottles of beer in each hand. “He’s so bad he makes Paltrow’s Brit sound authentic.”

  Even Rory smiled at that one. Aside from Da, Rory was the sole McGrane with the legitimate call of the Celts. He’d spent his childhood summers in Ireland on our grandparents’ farm.

  “The twins coming?” I asked.

  Cash shook his head. “Defense attorneys are only slightly less welcome at Hud’s than meter maids.”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny.” I elbowed him. “Shove over.” He scooted. I slid into the booth, Lee behind me, throwing his arm across the back of the seat. A move that was met with approval by all three of my brothers as well as Koji, who arrived at the table with a tray full of Jager shots.

  “Look who’s rejoined the land of the living.” An impish smirk curled on Koji’s thin, pointed face. “ Wolfenstein’s not the same without Cash and me stepping over your dead body every thirty seconds.”

  “Ha!” Cash popped Koji in the chest.

  “Aww.” I tapped my watch. “Almost fourteen seconds without a video game reference. Our little Koji’s growing up.”

  “You’re vibrating,” Lee said into my ear.

  “Huh?”

  “Your leg.”

  I reached between us and dug the pulsing BOC iPhone out of my cargo pants pocket, opting to turn away from Cash and toward Lee to read my incoming text from Danny Kaplan.

  Thursday. 5:00 p.m. sharp.

  Cripes. What kind of boss sends a 3:00 a.m. weekend reminder for a weekday meeting? The buzz-killing kind.

  I’ll be there, I typed, wondering if she’d be as irritated by my instant response text as I was to receive hers.

  I ran a hand over my face. Dammit. I hadn’t even considered my debrief might not include Walt Sawyer.

  “Who’s Danny?” Lee said. “I thought his name was Hank.”

  “And I thought SWAT guys weren’t as nosy as regular cops.”

  “So much to learn . . .” Lee gave the ends of my hair a playful tug. “But I’m willing to teach. How about dinner? Wednesday night.”

  I secured the phone back in my pants pocket and said archly, “I’d rather kiss a puppy with the flu.”

  Lee laughed and leaned forward, drumming his hands bongo-style on the table. “Hey, Cash. Your sister shot me down. Again. Come Monday training, you’re gonna find payback’s a warrior princess bitch.”

  “Chill, sir.” Koji slid a Jager shot to Lee and another in front of me. “A couple more of these and she’ll think you are Hank.”

  “Lee”—I pointed at my brother and his best pal—“I’ll take it as a personal affront if you don’t ride these mutts harder than everyone else.”

  Cash, Koji, and Lee kept ribbing each other. I picked up my shot and surreptitiously handed it off behind Lee to Rory, who sat glaring off into space.

  “I hate this shite.” He drank it and made a face. “If we’re going to get drunk, let’s do it properly.” He pushed away from the table and stomped off toward the bar.

  “What’s eating him?” I asked Flynn.

  “He’s still pissed over the BOC swooping in and snatching our pod of connected homicide cases.” Flynn moved over onto Rory’s chair.

  Lee’s hands went around my waist. “Hey,” I said.

  “Allow me.” He dragged me across his lap, careful not to bang my knees on the table, and set me down on the other side.

  “My, how chivalrous,” I said.

  “Can’t have you talking behind my back.” Lee winked and returned to Cash and Koji.

  “Jaysus.” Flynn rolled his eyes. “You through?” He motioned for me to lean in.

  I did. “Spill.”

  “Rory hit pay dirt with some mook—this Serb kid who says he knows who capped two of our four vics.”

  Holy cat. “And?”

  Flynn rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. “Rory and I aren’t so sure Walt Sawyer’s all he’s cracked up to be.”

  My spine stiffened. Stay casual. “Meaning?”

  “We don’t feel like sharing. This isn’t the first time the BOC preempted us. Last time, poof.” He blew across his fingertips. “Never again did those cases see the light of day.”

  “Seriously?” I said. “The CPD’s cleared murder case rate is at a gutterific twenty-five percent and you guys want to hang on to four more?”

  That hit Flynn where it hurt. “The force is down three hundred officers. And those were real cases, not din’t-see-nuthin gangbangs.”

  “Yeah, well. Only a matter of time until Chicago’s the new Detroit, right?”

  Rory returned with a bottle of Jameson and three glasses. Getting properly drunk didn’t include Cash, Koji, or SWAT. He filled one glass all the way to the rim, set the bottle down, raised the glass, and threw back the entire contents.

  Flynn and I exchanged raised brows. Rory sloshed too much into our glasses before filling his own again. “Drink.”

  Rory slugged down the whiskey and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He reached for the bottle. I got there first. “Don’t feck with me, Snap,” he said.

  I let go. “Awfully thirsty, aren’t you?”

  “Mebbe you’d be, as well,” he scoffed, eyes shining, “if you’d found the poor bastard with not a feckin’ finger left on his hand.”

  Flynn’s jaw tightened. “What?”

  “The goddamn idiot called me. For help.” Rory poured another. “Stupid feck almost bled to death”—fury scalded his voice—“tryin’ to fashion a tourniquet from a tube sock.”

  “Where’s the kid now?” Flynn said.

  Rory cracked his neck. “Safe.”

  Flynn frowned. “For how long?”

  “Shut it,” Rory said.

  We drank in silence, ignoring the merry end of the table.

  At the rate Rory was putting it away, he’d be unconscious before I’d be able to get anything out of him. He’d drunk more than a fifth already and showed no sign of stopping, his temper increasing exponentially.

  There was only one way this night was going to end.

  Bloody.

  Lee nudged me with an elbow. “Hang on,” I said.

  “Your five o’clock.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Why do I think he belongs to you?”

  I turned. A familiar six-foot-seven, 340-pound hulk pushed his way through the bar and stopped at our table. “Let’s go, Maisie,” Ragnar said.

  Uh-oh. “Hey, guys,” I said. “This is my friend—”

  Rory kicked back his chair and stood up, a slight sway in his stance, a dangerous light in his eyes. The table went quiet. “Me sister won’t be goin’ anywhere with the likes of yeh.”

  And here we go again.

  Drunk, Rory had the devil’s share of anger and half the common sense of a capuchin monkey.

  The Viking squinted at him, taking in the half-empty bottle of whiskey and the resignation in my face. “Outside, then?”

  “Why for?” Rory said.

  Flynn got to his feet. “You want to brawl? Take it outside.” He tossed a wad of twenties onto the table. “The rest of you, stay inside and chill the feck out. Please.”

  Cash raised a beer in acquiescence. “Don’t let him hurt that pretty face of yours, Rory.”

  “Best of luck,” Koji said.

  “Maisie?” Lee said.

  “Gotta go.” I flipped him a salute.
“Keep an eye on Cash, will you?”

  He leaned back hard in the booth, frowning, not liking it. “Sure thing.”

  Ragnar was already outside, Rory close behind, taking overly deliberate steps. Flynn grabbed me by the arm as we hustled out of the bar. “Who’s the giant?”

  “I told you. A friend.”

  “Can’t say I’m disappointed.” Flynn gave a bark of laughter. “At least it won’t end with me, Cash, or SWAT mixing it up with Rory.”

  Rory would be taking my medicine. No doubt Ragnar felt the need to beat the crap out of somebody after tonight’s strip club adventure.

  They faced off in the gravel secondary parking lot, under the weird orange-yellow lights. Ragnar’s fists went up.

  An unholy smile of glee crossed Rory’s face. But his eyes had gone glassy, his sway more pronounced. The whiskey was taking over. He took a lurching hop forward, and his jab glanced off Ragnar’s chin. He followed with a gut shot, hard and heavy.

  The Viking returned a combo of his own. And another.

  Rory’s sluggish right nicked the Viking’s nose. Ragnar flinched in surprise and with a speed I hadn’t seen yet, shoved Rory hard in the chest.

  Rory stumbled backwards, tripped over a parking block, and landed hard on his back, knocking the wind out of himself. He rolled onto all fours, stood up, and wiped his hands on his pants, laughing.

  Ragnar started laughing, too.

  Rory rushed him, tackling him around the waist. The Viking brought his fists down hard between his shoulder blades. Rory hit the gravel in a cloud of dust.

  “Stay down.” Flynn dragged a hand over his face and muttered, “For the love of Christ, stay down.”

  But our brother, the human bobber, popped up on his feet.

  They stood there hammering it out like Godzilla and Mothra. Taking and inflicting damage points. Something to see, maybe, if Rory’d been sober.

  Only he wasn’t.

  Idiots.

  “I’m tired, Rags,” I said, giving him the nod to end it.

  He nodded and threw two short jabs to Rory’s face. Bright red blood spurted from his nose like something from a viral video. Ragnar followed up with a pair of heavy body blows that doubled Rory over. My brother swayed in place, panting and spitting, smearing and dripping blood on his shirtsleeves.