Choked Up

by Janey Mack

  Angry? Within the last eight hours, he’d scared the iridescent panties off Leticia, got me unlimited unpaid leave, dropped ten grand on clothes, and had a stellar meal. The very last emotion I’d have considered was anger. I reached down and very gently put my hand on his head. He nestled into me and I stroked his hair. He gave a quiet groan of pleasure.

  I traced my fingers over his skull and the nape of his neck, feeling his muscles slacken. “Why are you angry?”

  “Your nails too short. I fix tomorrow.” He sighed. “Chyornyj yastreb ended what was not meant to be stopped.”

  “Cheeronee yah-streb?” I said. “What’s that?”

  Stannis chuckled. “Chyornyj yastreb is Black Hawk. Russian. Goran Slajic chooses him for operation. But now Chyornyj yastreb is friend. Good friend.”

  I traced a line around his ear. A new player. Did the BOC know? “What did he stop?”

  “Me.” He put his hand over mine, pressing it to his cheek. “But now I have you, mali anđeo. My angel. So, perhaps the devil does not deserve my anger at Black Hawk.”

  “Perhaps not,” I said, smiling. He let go of my hand and I smoothed the lines on his forehead, waiting.

  “I was born with the veil, yes?”

  Born with the amniotic membrane intact. “Sure.”

  “A sign of bad magic in my village.” He gave a bark of bitter laughter. “Perhaps true. Sandžaklije filth murder our parents. My sister and me, we are alone. Is difficult.

  “A year later, the Sandžaklije return for my sister.” His voice grew hard. “The men on the farm . . . They could have saved her. Kill the Muslim filth. Yet, they are cowards. They do nothing.”

  “Oh, Stannis. I’m so sorry.”

  “She fight very hard.” He shook his head against my stomach. “Her blood is on all things.”

  A bubble of a sob rose in my throat.

  “Head severed. The Sandžaklije leave bayonet between her legs.”

  Sweet Jesus. The evil of this world ...

  “Later . . . I take bayonet.” Stannis stilled for a long moment. “Barefoot, wearing blanket, I go to farm. But I am boy. I know these men. Is no good. They will kill me before I can kill more than one. They are laughing and drinking, searching for courage to sleep as they had none to fight the Sandžaklije for my sister.”

  Tears tracked down my cheeks and dripped onto my collarbone.

  “Superstitious peasants.” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “I see the great bull sleeping in field. And I know what I must do. I throw blanket over the beast’s head. Cut its throat. I open its belly, take innards out, and climb inside. The men find me with the sunrise. I am reborn from the bull. Baptized in the devil’s blood. And my sister is with me.”

  He sounded so victorious it broke my heart.

  “The men fear me and call me Bik. The Bull. They did not yet know I will come for them one by one. Next I kill the Sandžak-lije. I take very special time with each.”

  And who could blame you?

  Hank’s Law Number Eighteen: Even savage actions have explanations.

  He leaned back, looked up at me, and frowned. “Do not cry, mali anđeo.”

  “But—”

  “No.” He reached up and brushed my wet cheek with his knuckles. “Each life has a path. Uncle Goran hears I am Bik. He brings me to his world, makes me important man.”

  “Is that what they call you? Bik? The Bull?”

  “No.” He yawned and nestled his arm under my body, hugging me to him. “Not since I was boy. As man, I am called mesar. The Butcher. Is not elegant but is truth.”

  I lay with his head on my lap for a solid ten minutes. Trying without success not to let the horror of his life sink as far into my heart as it had into my brain. Eventually, Stannis rolled off me and onto his stomach. His back rose and fell. Steady, even.

  If I didn’t go now, I knew I’d never find the courage.

  I felt slimy and traitorous just thinking about it.

  I slid off the bed and tucked a chenille throw around him. He didn’t move.

  Time to strike.

  I got the document scanner pen out of my purse and stuck it down my bra. On tiptoe, I made my way to his office. At the doorway, I clicked the watch button three times and waited. The display lit up. Basic Wi-Fi signal, no devices transmitting from inside.

  Don’t look at the aquarium. Jaysus Criminey, don’t look, don’t look . . .

  I went straight to the desk, pulling the scanner from my bra. A thin pile of papers lay atop it. Invoices from the CEC Intermodal Transport Company. Commercial descriptions of goods, quantities and estimated worth. Weight and lading bills. Shipment and container numbers.

  Holy cat. Talk about taking candy from the devil’s reborn baby . . .

  My fingers were frozen, numb as I tried to activate the document scanner. Adrenaline overload messing with my fine motor functions.

  Come on, Maisie. Put your Donnie Brasco pants on and do this.

  I slid the top paper off, copied it, and hit the next one. My ears pulsed with Stannis’s voice, “The Butcher. The Butcher. The Butcher.” I scanned the next and the next.

  Halfway through the pile I got the yips.

  Bad.

  Hank’s Law Number Twenty-Four: Never ever ignore your gut.

  I replaced the papers exactly as they were and slipped the document pen back down my dress.

  “Maisie? Mali anđeo?” Stannis called from the hallway.

  Cripes.

  I stepped away from the desk and popped into the armchair nearest the aquarium, tucking my feet up beneath me.

  “Maisie?” Stannis padded into the room on bare feet. He flipped on the dim recessed lighting over the fireplace, a confused smile on his face. “Why are you here?”

  “I wanted to . . . see.” I dropped my face in my hands. “But then, I just couldn’t.”

  Stannis walked over and dropped to one knee. He peeled one hand from my face and clasped it in his. “Is good. Curiosity feeds cat, yes?” He pressed his lips to my knuckles. “Mmm. Cold fingers.” He smiled and tugged me to my feet. “Do not fear.”

  We walked to the granite plinth holding the darkened glass cage. He leaned forward and hesitated. “Is different inside now. Yes?”

  The beetles have cleaned Raw Chicken’s finger up shiny and new? I raised my shoulders in accord.

  “Black Hawk stopped me but not at first. You know this. Yes?”

  I nodded, having no idea what he was talking about and not really wanting to know.

  Stannis flipped the light.

  My free hand flew to my mouth.

  In the case were six fingers, five far fresher than the driver’s. But it was the fingerless man’s hand, severed at the wrist, that had me biting the insides of my cheeks to keep from screaming.

  Chapter 26

  Stannis and I spent the early evening playing backgammon and watching The Quiet Man. “The Butcher” liked John Wayne and cuddling, which was especially disconcerting, as I couldn’t stop thinking about the hand in the aquarium.

  “I go out tonight,” he said.

  “Yes.” To Atlantis for another strip club rendezvous with Coles. “I should go home.”

  “I call driver?” His eyes searched mine.

  I gave him a big smile I didn’t feel in the slightest. “Yeah. It’s copacetic.”

  The driver, Raw Chicken, was no less repellent. But at least his skeevie glare had been replaced with a perma-frown.

  When we arrived home, the Dodge Hellcat was parked on the street in front of my house.

  The sickest, coolest muscle car ever.

  Hank.

  Six-feet-three-inches of steel and sex appeal ready to marry me, and yet, I spend the day with a guy into carrion beetles and severed fingers.

  Because I’m a selfish idiot.

  I wanted it all, everything, wrapped up in brown paper and tied with string. For Hank to love me as fiercely and desperately as I loved him. And a place at the Table Club.

  Raw Chick
en pulled up next to the Dodge, hit the hazards, got out, and opened the door for me. I stepped out and he held out his gloved hand, the key on his palm. I took it, pretending I didn’t notice the little finger of his glove was empty, and walked slowly up the drive to the gate.

  Thankfully, he saw no need to wait. The Range Rover receded into the night, and I turned around and trotted back down the driveway, got in the car, and sped to Silverthorn Estates.

  I pulled into a visitor’s spot, collected my gear, and went in to see who was around to debrief me. Anita met me at the elevators. “Looking sharp, Rook. What gives?”

  “Thanks.” I was still wearing the exquisite black Gucci dress and heels Stannis had bought me that morning. “Walt, Danny, or Edward around?”

  “Sawyer’s out.” Anita jerked her head down the hall. “Kaplan and Dunne are in the dining room.”

  I found them in the empty room in the corner, whiskies at the elbow, papers and laptops covering the table. “Me-oh-my, look at this fine bit o’ stuff.” Edward stood up, hands out. “Hullo, Maisie, me gel.” I put my hands in his and he kissed me on each cheek. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “Debrief?”

  “Take a seat, McGrane,” Kaplan said.

  I took a seat in the club chair between them and took the document scanner pen from my purse and handed it to her. She plugged it into her laptop and pushed it slightly away from her so both Edward and I could see the screen.

  “Where did you get these?” Kaplan scrolled through the invoices and bills of lading.

  “From the desk in his office.”

  Ever the skeptic, Kaplan gave me a bitter smile. “Renko just let you in?”

  “He fell asleep. I took the chance.”

  “And won the lottery.” Edward whistled, reading the screen over the tops of his glasses. “The lad’s brazen, I’ll give him that. Christmas came early, Danny. A paper trail.” He grinned and held out his hand. “Give it over.”

  Kaplan removed the scanner and handed it to Edward, who plugged it in and downloaded the contents.

  “Ready for a lesson in shipping?”

  “You bet,” I said.

  “Trains move billions of tons of freight annually. Every possible thing you can think of is shipped by rail.” He waggled his brows and pulled up an invoice from ShipCEC. “This is a service schedule, representing the CEC portion of the trip.”

  He pointed to the screen. “CEC is an intermodal transport company. Intermodal freight containers are the lifeblood of business. They’re the same cars on trains, which are then pulled by semitrucks. You want to sell car parts, you need to ship them across the country. Using only semitrucks, the cost would be so exorbitant, you’d be out of business before your parts arrived at their destination. Instead, you load your container at the warehouse and have a semi transport it the short distance to CEC.”

  I nodded, listening hard.

  Edward continued, “At CEC, a crane picks up the container or your semi’s entire trailer—wheels and all—and loads it onto a railroad car. A few days later, it arrives at the destination, where another crane takes the freight container off the train and puts it on your other semi, which transports it the short distance to the freight’s final destination.” He clasped his hands across his stomach.

  Kaplan nodded. “The system works just as well for criminals transporting stolen goods. With so many cars, only the smallest fraction are ever inspected. And of that fraction, even fewer have a reason to be checked.” She brought up a bill of lading on her computer. “Renko is using standard transmodal shipping containers.”

  “Those are twenty feet long, eight and a half feet wide and high,” Edward said. “The space per load is twelve hundred cubic feet and could weigh fifty-five thousand pounds. So, lass, how are you as a single inspector going to check the freight of even a single car in one day?”

  “It’s impossible,” I said. “The containers have only one opening, so you’d have to unpack the entire thing. For one person to unload even a fifth of the car—”

  Edward tapped the side of his nose. “Exactly. So a smart chancer would . . .”

  “Pack a false front.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “Load the first two or three feet with what you said you were shipping and then fill the rest with whatever you wanted.”

  “Precisely.” Danny nodded. “If the load was inspected, the odds of even the most dedicated inspector going deeper than three feet would be nonexistent.”

  “The railroads have crack teams of bomb and drug dogs, as well as thermal detectors.” Edward raised his glass and took a sip. “But for stolen goods? Without a tip-off from law enforcement, it’s a drop of water in the whiskey.”

  “But what about CEC or the other intermodal companies?” I asked.

  “Any monkey with a computer can open an account. All they have to do is pay the transport and arrange for container dropoff and pickup.” Kaplan clicked onto a separate ShipCEC invoice. “Renko’s upcoming shipment.”

  Edward opened the same document and turned his laptop to me. “Five cars, carrying ten twenty-foot containers.”

  I pointed at a code to the left. “What is q300?”

  “A sly dog, our Renko.” Edward chuckled. “That’s the freight code for slow ship. Kind of like the bulk rate at the post office. Low insurance rates. Even lower inspection rate.”

  “And that number there?” I asked.

  “STCC: 8066602,” Edward read aloud. “That’s code for Company Material-Misc. Car Parts. It means scrap metal.”

  “The simplicity of it is pure cunning,” Kaplan said. “Why, even if he didn’t preload it with scrap, all the inspector will see are chopped car parts.”

  “Cocksure, as well, this one. Do you see”—Edward tapped at a coding on the bottom of the bill—“he’s insured his five cars are locked. Traveling together in a ‘five packer.’ Taking no chance that one load of his freight ends up somewhere else.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “Pay a little extra for the assurance you’ll be treated better.”

  “And that’ll be his fall from grace, me gels.” Edward rubbed his hands together. “I’ve the perfect plan.”

  “Not so fast,” Kaplan said. “There is a very real possibility The Bull is setting her up.”

  Hardly. He’d seen me half-naked, took me shopping, showed me his legacy, messed up my meter maid cover, and is a massive cuddler.

  Instead I said, “The nickname ‘The Bull’ is from his childhood. They call him mesar now.”

  “Oh?” Danny said. “Mesar?”

  It took a lot to keep the smirk from my mouth. “The Butcher.”

  “Lamb of the Lord Jesus. I don’t care for that. Not a wee bit.” Edward slipped his hands in his cardigan pockets. “Sawyer needs to know.”

  Kaplan gave him an impatient wave. “If this is legitimate, and that’s a very big ‘if,’ this is the best intel we’ve had to date.” Her bony fingers flew across the laptop’s keys. “From a cursory glance, Renko’s running a shell game with the company ownership, but it’s been properly recorded.”

  “Exposing his operation? For a test?” Edward snorted and shook his head. “May the cat eat you, and the devil eat the cat. The ten trailers he’s shipping to Newark are chopped parts.” He collected his papers and laptop. “Well, I’m off to track down Walt. According to this, Renko’s containers begin their journey tomorrow.”

  Edward gave a pleasant good night and left the dining room. Kaplan and I were alone.

  “What happened to the boy from the hospital?” I asked. “The kid with no fingers on his left hand who was an eyewitness to two murders?”

  “WITSEC.” Danny rolled her eyes. “Again, not your concern.”

  “Why? We could have arrested two murderers.”

  “Frankly, McGrane, I find your naïveté tiresome.” She closed her laptop. “Aside from the fact that they’re killing thieves and other killers, we can close those murder cases whenever we wish. Special Unit’s pr
iority is and will always be Operation Steal-Tow. We cannot afford to jeopardize our objectives.”

  I’d had my fill of runaround. “Which are?”

  “To cripple Goran Slajic’s chop-shop operation, to remove as many of Don Constantino’s men as possible, and lastly and perhaps most importantly, to stop Renko from starting a small arms trading empire in Chicago.” She pulled a pile of folders in front of her and opened one. “Your direct orders are to uncover and relay the maximum amount of information possible.”

  I smoothed a wrinkle from the skirt of my dress. “Are you going to stop the train cars?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Are you feckin’ kidding me, lady?

  She glanced at my face. “If you know, you’ll show.” Her lips split in a frosty smile. “The idea of working undercover is to remain seamless in the face of surprise.”

  Chapter 27

  I dreamed of trains and dead bodies until 6:15 a.m. I dressed in an Akris punto lace, snap-front shirtdress, with ankle boots. Conservative and very feminine, it showed only the tiniest fraction of my almost-healed devil’s paper cut. I put on Stannis’s Cartier earrings and went downstairs.

  Frank Sinatra’s “Brazil” blared through the kitchen speakers. Thierry rumba-ed his way around the kitchen island while Mom, perched at a bar stool in the kitchen, tapped her pen in time to the music while poring over a stack of legal docs. Flynn and Rory sat on either side of her devouring poached eggs, English muffins, and bacon.

  Rory saw me first. “What the hell are yeh wearin’, Snap?”

  “Good morning, honey.” Mom threw him an elbow. “You look very . . . feminine.”

  He snorted. “Stepford Wives on the cover of Vogue this month?”

  “Summer Wind” came on. Thierry swept over and took my hand. “What would you like?”

  “Green tea.”

  He danced me over to the Keurig machine, reached over and spun the cartridge holder. Laughing, I let go and got out a cup from the cupboard.

  “And to eat?” Thierry pressed.

  “Zip. Breakfast date,” I fibbed. Stannis’s driver was going to pick me up on the hour and my guts were too knotted up to eat.