Choked Up

by Janey Mack

  What is this place?

  Stannis said, “That is my lock on city government property. Has been there for two weeks. No one touches it.”

  “Because of Coles?” I asked.

  He threw back his head and laughed. “No. Is just big government. Always lazy. Always incompetent.” He winked. “Exactly why I like it.”

  We drove onto the lot right up to the building. Stannis was already out of the car before the chauffeur got to my door.

  Stannis held out his hand to me. “Come, come!”

  I took his hand and together we trotted past closed twenty-foot garage doors to a standard office door, where Gorilla waited with a semiautomatic rifle. Nodding at Stannis, he pushed open the door and we entered the half-dome whose ceiling stretched to sixty feet.

  It was like nothing I’d ever seen.

  Giant white drifts of sparkling snow blanketed one end of the building. Opaque crystals crunched under my feet.

  Rock salt.

  We were in one of the many of Chicago’s Public Works Department’s road salt storage facilities. “Brilliant,” I whispered.

  The Fast and the Furious turns up on the set of Capricorn One.

  Stannis grinned. “No overhead. No one wants salt until winter. No guards. No troubles. The few people nearby are used to trucks in and out.”

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “We wait.” Stannis turned me around. Three of his men, eleven forty-five-foot intermodal shipping containers, and two twenty-foot containers all in rusted shades of red, yellow, and blue were already on wheeled trailers. One container had a ramp leading to its open mouth.

  I’d barely gotten a look around when a garage door opened and a closed-transport semitruck drove into the dome and parked up near the trailers. Stannis’s men sprang into action, opening the containers, moving the ramps.

  A five-foot-six, 140-pound male in his late teens exited from the trailer of the closed transport. He checked the ramps, then raised and rode the electric lift to the upper level of cars in the carrier. Once up, he climbed into the silver Mercedes convertible, backed it onto the lift, and lowered it to the ground.

  One of Stannis’s men backed the car up the ramp into the rusty red intermodal trailer. The trailer was too narrow to open the car doors. The teen lowered the electric window, climbed out, and sidestepped to the front of the car. He ran down the ramp and backed up the next car.

  In less than forty minutes, six Mercedes S-class convertibles and sedans had been unloaded from the semi and loaded and sealed into three of the intermodal containers.

  The teen sprinted over to us. “Thank you, Mr. Renko, sir.” He had a round face for being such a skinny guy, a short, upturned nose, and slightly bulging eyes. Pug.

  “Get plates from Ivanović. Switch on all trucks.”

  The kid nodded so hard I thought he’d get whiplash. “Yessir.” Pug raised his left hand—sans pinkie—in a wave, then ran over to Gorilla, got a set of license plates, zipped back across to the closed-transport truck, and got to work.

  I felt surprisingly relaxed.

  Maybe those salt mine spas aren’t a bunch of hooey, after all.

  I wasn’t sure if it was gazing upon the swells of sparkling snowy mounds or inhaling the microscopic particles, but I was finding Halotherapy Heist far more enjoyable than any of the other generally unpleasant situations I’d been in with Stannislav.

  The leader of Stannis’s men went and rapped three times on the semitruck driver’s door. Kontrolyor was behind the wheel, still recognizable in sunglasses, gloves, and a ball cap. A man wearing a motorcycle helmet with the shield down sat next to him on the passenger seat.

  Another man went and opened the garage door. Kon gave a short salute to Stannis and me and then drove away.

  “Why is that guy wearing a helmet?” I asked.

  “The transport driver? The helmet is secured to his head,” Stannis said. “The visor is painted black. He is left blind, deaf, and dumb.”

  “Why not leave him bound and gagged somewhere?”

  Stannis pointed a teasing finger at me. “This is what you do not consider. What if he is needed? For police stop or if something goes wrong with radio, with GPS, with Dispatch? Or what if someone finds him? Or gets brave and tries to escape?” He shook his head. “No. Control him, control situation.”

  I chewed my lower lip. It was salty. “What happens to him now?”

  “He will be left at designated area. His phone turned back on and dialed nine-one-one. They will find him with helmet. He will say nothing.”

  “Maybe not today,” I said.

  Stannis laughed. “Not ever. An envelope with one thousand dollars and same picture of family that made him put on helmet arrives in mail. Man still has job. Still has family. And now has story to tell grandchildren.”

  Another truck entered the dome. The same drill as before, only faster as the closed-transport man from the first semi assisted. Six Lexuses. Four sedans were loaded into two containers as before.

  The last two Lexuses were cars I’d only read about. One, a blood-orange RCF sports coupe, carrying a price tag of $180K, was loaded into a yellow twenty-foot container. The other, a chocolate-bronze sedan LS 460 TMG Sports 650 worth at least $250K, was loaded into a more rust-colored than red twenty-footer.

  There were still six containers left.

  Stannis had told me a dozen cars at lunch. He’d stolen two dozen.

  My $1.5M guesstimate to the BOC was at least a million low.

  The last two transports arrived and began unloading Cadillacs and BMWs. The shiny reds and blues seemed iridescent against the white mountains of salt. I recognized both drivers from BOC photos of Stannislav’s known associates.

  An electronic chirp sounded. Stannis pulled a burner cellular out of his jacket pocket. “Hold.”

  He jerked his head toward a bright orange bulldozer, its nose buried in salt, that sat abandoned in the corner. We climbed up and into the cab.

  Stannis hit Speaker. “Go ahead.”

  “All transports have left?” hummed Black Hawk’s electronic voice.

  “Last two unloading,” Stannis said. “Electronic transponders disabled in closed transports, removed and destroyed from cargo. New plates on trucks.”

  “Good. Calls were made. Dealerships now expect delivery to be late. A suspicious object at Roseland will pull additional officers south. Unnecessary precaution, I think.”

  A bomb scare near Chicago State University? Cripes, these guys think of everything.

  “Never unnecessary,” Stannis said.

  “And Vatra Anđeo?” Black Hawk’s robotic voice asked. “What does she think of my snow palace?”

  “Brilliant.” Stannis elbowed me. “I have two twenty-foot containers. Deliver yellow one to CEC Intermodal long-term storage under name . . .” He smirked. “Maisie McGrane.”

  Lovely.

  “Okey. My men and I will arrive within thirty minutes to set up perimeter guard,” Black Hawk said. “I bring additional driver to take single container and two more. I call with release time.”

  “Be what will be.”

  “Yes,” Black Hawk said.

  Stannis disconnected and turned to me. “Is good, yes?”

  I tried to track along. “So the four drivers dump their hostages and transport and come back here?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then those drivers and Black Hawk’s three more will each drive a truck with two trailers at the same time.”

  “Is called ‘driving bi’s’.”

  “Yes. To the CEC train yard. Tonight?”

  Stannis shrugged. “Or later this week. Is up to Black Hawk.” He gestured at the men sealing and locking the containers. “Four drivers, four men to disable the electronics systems, plus the four I have here. That is dozen. Add Chyornyj Yastreb, who brings six more. Each extra man triples chance of things to go wrong.”

  And of these, the only one who’s going to stab you in the back and cut out your he
art is me.

  The organization and attention to detail was out of my league. I folded my arms across my chest. “How do you prevent this?”

  “Carry fire in one hand, steel in the other.”

  Yeah, I pretty much figured you were gonna say something like that.

  Back at the penthouse, I brought Stannis a vodka rocks martini from the kitchen. He was behind his desk on the phone, the Serbian flying hot and heavy, punctuated with “Fuck Eddie.” He went quiet for a bit, brows knit together. He grunted and said, “Good bie, Ujka Goran.”

  I set the drink at his right hand, went behind him, put my hands on his shoulders, and began to knead my thumbs into his knotted muscles.

  “Is good, Maisie.” He took a drink and sighed. “Good day so far.” He relaxed into the chair, letting me work the base of his neck. “Later we go to CEC and watch as before. You come with?”

  “Do I get my own binoculars this time?” I asked archly.

  He laughed. “Yes.”

  “I’ll go change,” I said, fishing for a time. “I’m wearing a hat and bringing a jacket this time.”

  Stannis put his hands on mine. “Not until midnight.” He looked up at me, over his shoulder. “We take nap.”

  And there I was, wrapped in a woobie of Serbian mobster love and undercover guilt, lying on his bed, stroking his hair, wondering how I was going to get a call in to the BOC.

  His head rested on my lower abs, his arm possessively tucked around my waist.

  Awesome. Because there is nothing like cuddling with a guy you’re going to send to prison.

  His back rose and fell in even measures. I was just about to wriggle out from beneath him when his phone rang from the office. He jerked awake, rolled off the bed, and trotted out of the bedroom and down the hall, closing the door behind him.

  I hit the buttons on my watch and they glowed. The apartment was tracking all electronic signals.

  Here’s hoping a text slides under the radar.

  I hit Text and typed to Edward:

  Tonight, I’ll dream that we’ll go walking with Patsy Cline where we talked about.

  Cryptic and eccentric, maybe, but Edward ought to be able to figure it out.

  Fingers crossed.

  Chapter 38

  12:07 a.m. we were back on the bluff overlooking the CEC Intermodal train yard. Everything went as before. Raw Chicken stayed in the car. Kontrolyor manned a night-vision spotter scope, while the rest of us had ATN Night Scout VX night-vision binoculars.

  I also had the yips.

  Bad.

  The really supes-fab thing about the BOC was never knowing if they had your fecking back.

  Gorilla checked in with drivers over burner phones with notebook at hand while Stannis oversaw everything with a laptop on the hood. Kon was at the spotter scope. And angry. “Is too much light and dark to read the container numbers.”

  “Read plates.” Stannis unfolded a piece of paper. Kon read off license plates as Stannis read by the light from the computer screen.

  I swept the yard with my binoculars, searching for the BOC. They’d had one day and less than a five-hour window to assemble. I scuffed the toe of my boot in the dirt.

  Silly rabbit. Panicking for nothi—

  Two men in hard hats and reflective jackets pulled up in a golf cart. I recognized one of the BOC’s Special Unit Grims.

  Edward decoded my crunked-up message after all.

  Dammit.

  “Hey!” I said. “Who are the guys in the white hard hats?”

  Stannis clicked on the computer bringing up a pair of men who waved the crane that had just loaded Stannis’s first trailer onto the boxcar.

  One for the money, two for the honey, and here we go.

  I ran over to Stannis and the computer. One man consulted a clipboard while the other walked back to the golf cart and picked up a bolt cutter.

  “We are compromised.” Stannis put his phone in my hands. “Get to street. Call Chyornyj Yastreb when safe.” He took the binocs from my hand and gave me a shove toward the dirt road.

  Never look at a free pass to un-ass too closely.

  I took off at a sprint.

  Even in the dark, the dirt road was easy to navigate. I kept close to the edge so I could hit cover when the BOC’s squad drove up.

  Ripped off my feet, a heavy hand clamped over my mouth before I could make a sound.

  Hank?

  “Easy, now. Easy,” teased a soft and familiar voice in my ear. “You’re okay,” Lee Sharpe said. “Except for the fact that your new boyfriend’s a POS Serbian enforcer.”

  My blood was pulsing like a water hammer.

  “Cool?” he said. I nodded and he let go. I took a shaky step back. Lee was in full SWAT battle rattle, body armor, face blackened with camo paint.

  Holy cat.

  Lee Sharpe is the BOC’s freelancer?

  Just once, could a girl catch a break?

  Two human shadows were visible behind Lee. Probably another trio on the other side of the mesa, and a sniper or two.

  I didn’t know where to start. “Lee—”

  “Tsst!” He jabbed an index finger at my nose.

  The tiniest hum of vibration buzzed no louder than a mosquito. If I hadn’t been so hyperaware, I would have missed it.

  Lee held up a fist to the men and pressed his finger to the clear plastic piece at his ear. “Copy.” He shook his head, dropped his hand, and made a cutting motion across his throat to the two men.

  Mission aborted.

  The whites of Lee’s eyes gleamed iridescent in the moonlight. “I won’t tell your brothers, your father, or the assistant state’s attorney you were here if you don’t tell Stannislav Renko about us.”

  I nodded furiously, not trusting myself to speak.

  He caught me by the chin, leaned in, and said in a low voice, “Tell you what, Bae. When you come to the realization that I am the sexiest motherfucker you’ve ever met, call me. You got my number.”

  I turned and he smacked me on the butt.

  Cute.

  In three strides I was back on the dirt road, heading down the hill. It took a little less than forty minutes to jog the three miles from the overlook to the bus stop near the exit. Which gave me a tension release and time to think.

  Something had gone very, very wrong with the stolen cars.

  Special Unit didn’t know where they were and they weren’t going to move on Renko until they did.

  And Lee.

  Special Unit hadn’t told Mr. SWAT-for-Hire I was on the team. Which meant they were trying to keep my cover intact.

  I cooled my heels for a solid hour. Bus benches suck. The metal plank had no back and two plastic dividers so I couldn’t lie down. Awesome. Especially since there’d been no bus in over an hour.

  Chicago City Planning Department. Efficiency at its finest.

  I dragged my finger across Stannis’s contacts again, waffling back and forth over pressing the Sikorsky helicopter. No way I’d call Black Hawk. Not really. Nor would I have called Kon or Gorilla’s burners, even if I could.

  Hank’s Law Number Twenty-Two: When among wolves you must act the wolf.

  Xenon LED headlamps temporarily blinded me. The Range Rover stopped. Kontrolyor got out and opened the rear passenger door for me. He gave an almost-imperceptible shake of his head.

  Not good.

  Stannis stared out the window swearing. Not loud, not soft, just a steady, unbroken stream of cusswords in multiple languages.

  I slid in next to him and fastened my seat belt. We hit the freeway and Stannislav’s phone rang. He hadn’t turned from the window or stopped cursing.

  No pressure, no diamonds. Maybe undercover work is a girl’s best friend after all.

  I answered it. “Hello?”

  “Vatra Anđeo?” hummed the familiar electronic voice. “Mr. Renko, please.”

  I hit Mute. “It’s Black Hawk,” I said to Stannis and hit Speaker.

  “Where will we celebrate?” B
lack Hawk said.

  Stannis glared at the phone, but his voice was silky. “Where are the cars?”

  “On the way to Juárez,” answered the robotic voice.

  “The containers were stopped at the CEC. No cars.”

  “Exactly.” Black Hawk laughed, jarring and flat. “We owe Vatra Anđeo a debt beyond measure. Her blessing of cunning was too much like Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. ‘Take advantage of the enemy’s unreadiness, make your way by unexpected routes, and attack unguarded spots.’ And so I change train.”

  Stannislav’s face was a twisted amalgamation of wronged relief. “Why did you not tell me?”

  “I hear the mafiosos sometimes look to take advantage.”

  “Constantino wants no war with Slajic. Too much money to be made.” Stannis’s mouth went level with fury. “This is all Veteratti. Eddie Veteratti.”

  “Inspectors are government,” Black Hawk cautioned. “Police informant?”

  I jerked upright as if someone had slipped an ice cube down my shirt.

  Hank’s Law Number Two: Respond to threats with complete confidence.

  “No,” Stannis said. “But anyone can give tip-off.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “How did you switch?”

  An electric hiss sounded. “When your drivers returned, I sent them to an alternate site. They picked up the wrong containers and delivered them to CEC. My men moved the containers out of salt storage building. New drivers, unaware of cargo, took the cars to JLB Intermodal.”

  Black Hawk gave an eerie bark of electronic laughter. “We made money from CEC delivery. Twelve hundred dollars under table.”

  Stannis chuckled. “Your bonus.”

  “Already spent.” He laughed again. “I used it to attach to Z-train, nonstop to Juárez. Containers will be in Tampico soon. I call with update. When is the party?”

  “We celebrate when they are on boat to Lebanon.” Stannis’s smile was thin and vicious. “At The Storkling.”

  Chapter 39

  When I thought things couldn’t get any worse, I hadn’t meant it as a karmic challenge.

  I spent the next forty-eight hours working out, playing backgammon, and watching Netflix from Stannislav’s pocket. The signal tracker was on, the penthouse littered with his men, and he had no inclination to go anywhere.