Choked Up

by Janey Mack

  He sighed. “El Cid. Not enough time. Not enough money. Is no good.”

  “How much money to make it good?”

  “Four. Twenty cars. No specifics.”

  “Two-point-five.”

  Stannis looked at me. I gave him a thumbs-up. “I check. See if can happen.” He hung up and tossed his phone onto the nightstand, where it landed with a clunk. He cuddled up to me and I restarted the movie.

  Hank’s Law Number Five: Make it look easy.

  Either it’d go or it wouldn’t.

  I ran my fingers through his hair and settled in to enjoy the show. When the credits rolled, so did Stannis, onto his back. “You have muscle car. Tell me about auction.”

  “Uh, I know a little—a very little—about vintage muscle cars.”

  “You knew about the money.”

  “Only because a fully restored Super Bee can run over five hundred fifty thousand dollars. Raceable? A million.”

  He sat up on his elbows. “And auction?”

  “I don’t know a thing about that.” I hugged my knees to my chest. “I could find out, I suppose.”

  “How?”

  I dropped my chin onto my knees. “Leticia asked me if I wanted to work the auction.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Overtime is big money. I don’t know where they’re holding the auction, but I know it’s not at the usual place because the Traffic Enforcement Bureau is allocating money for additional meter maids and tow trucks. To keep traffic moving. You know, for safety.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And Leticia has access to how the event is set up.”

  “You bet. She has to plan the routes, pick out the trouble spots.”

  “And you would see this if you were working?”

  “Ugh.” I flopped onto my back. “I don’t want to go to work.”

  He loomed over me. “I want you to. This is significant money.”

  “How about I stop in and tell her I’ll work the overtime as long as I get to choose my route?”

  “Oh? No work?” Stannis laughed. “You think you are princess now?”

  Just call me Buttercup.

  The next morning, I put on jeans, my steel-toe work boots, an Israel Defense Force T-shirt, and a PEA Windbreaker.

  “Kontrolyor will drive you,” Stannis said.

  “Seriously? Jeff Mant is dead. Vi Veteratti owes us an honor debt, Eddie is scared witless, and Coles? I don’t think he’ll ever even glance in my direction again.” I went over and pulled him up from the table. “C’mon.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “Research.”

  The Hellcat now resided at the penthouse’s underground parking garage. We got in. “A modern-day muscle car,” I said.

  “Is nice.”

  Nice? That’s it?

  I drove us to the freeway, taking it smooth and easy, and pulled into a gas station next to an on-ramp. I looked at him. “You do know how to drive, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then get out.” He went around while I scooted across into the passenger’s seat. He started the car and looked at me for instruction. “Take her on the freeway,” I said. He merged on. “Hit it,” I said, and boy, he did.

  He hit 90 mph out of the chute, the V8 growling, weaving in and out of traffic. “Powerful. Hard to hold back.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s a scary feckin’ car.”

  “The traffic is slow,” he complained, juicing it as we sliced between two semis. He glanced at me. “I understand now.”

  “The vintage ones are just as violent and macho. It’s Grieco’s obsession. Heck, the guy even owns part of a NASCAR track. When his people have a dispute, they race it out.”

  “Good idea.” Stannis nodded, cutting across three lanes of traffic, tires squealing as we hit the off-ramp. “I discuss with Goran.” He hit the first turnout, parked, got out of the car, and came around to the passenger side.

  I slid behind the wheel. “Forget the way home?”

  “No,” he said. “I have no license.”

  “Cute.”

  “We do deal, yes?” Stannis said.

  “The auction’s at an abandoned car dealership. I doubt they’ve laid out for heavy security. I’m guessing a team of guards, maybe? The cars are all covered by the individual owners, and the auction house probably has an umbrella policy. I don’t see them taking the necessary precautions for you and yours coming in hard and heavy.”

  “Okey, yes. We go.”

  Sweet, no pressure there.

  I dropped Stannis outside his penthouse and headed for Silverthorn Estates.

  My phone rang. Hank. “Hi.”

  Gee, I miss you something fierce.

  “I’m gonna be on the job the next few days, Angel Face.”

  Fist pump! No lying! “Aww. That’s too bad.”

  “Moutain cabin or beach house?” he said.

  “Cabin.”

  “Attagirl. How’s a month sound?”

  “Heavenly.”

  “Soon,” he promised and hung up.

  Walt Sawyer looked as natty and fit as the two FBI agents sitting across from him looked rumpled and chunky. They were poring over maps, diagrams, satellite photos. The muscle car auction was taking place in an empty Saab dealership. Price guides and car mags littered the table.

  “This is Agent McGrane. Special Unit’s youngest and most resourceful. She’s gotten closer to Renko than anyone.”

  “I’ll bet,” the thinner of the two feebs muttered with a sideways leer.

  Dick.

  “Why, thank you.” I smiled politely. “That’s quite a compliment from a real live G-man.”

  Sawyer’s lips twitched. “Renko prefers to keep her close at hand. Her communication ability is severely limited.”

  “Are there any tall buildings around or parking structures?” I asked. “Renko likes to oversee from off-site.”

  “Nope,” said the better-mannered feeb. “The closest would be another one-story car dealership.”

  “I need whatever diagrams and maps you can give me,” I said, “to add to the standard Traffic Enforcement Bureau request. Stannis meets with his men tonight, and then it’s all riding on their evaluation.”

  “Oh, he’ll do it,” said Slightly Thinner. “Serbs are greedy bastards.”

  Go Team Stannis!

  The jerkwad feeb has me cheering for the criminal element.

  Hank’s offer of a month alone in a cabin put the spurs to me. “Walt, how fast can we get El Cid’s car to Juárez?”

  “There’s a burnt-orange metallic 1971 Chevelle SS 454 waiting in a twenty-foot container at the CEC Intermodal yard. The next train to Juárez leaves tonight.”

  “I’m not sure this is a go for Stannis,” I said.

  Walt shrugged. “We’d send it either way. Why don’t you go ahead and call Carlos Grieco’s lieutenant. Let these boys see you work.”

  Walt was showing me off and I liked it.

  I dialed El Cid and hit Speaker. “Hello, handsome.”

  “I like the sound of that,” he said. “Especially since Carlos asked me to personally deliver your finder’s fee when the transaction’s completed. What do you say to a weekend in LA, my treat?”

  “My kind of trouble doesn’t take weekends off,” I said.

  “Riiight,” El Cid drew out. “So, tell me. How bad does a good girl get?”

  “That’s what all the boys want to know,” I said with a laugh. “Your cut arrives tomorrow morning. With my own special treat.”

  “Yeah?” El Cid asked, ready for the tease. “What’s that?”

  “Papers that’ll pass any US DMV.”

  “No shit?”

  “Like you said, I’m one cool kitty.” I hung up.

  The feebs looked suitably impressed. It’s easy to sound tack-sharp when you play with someone who can speak the language of the smack.

  The new guy, Steel Wool, came to fetch me. “Mr. Renko would like to see you.”

  I
went alone to Stannislav’s office. Kontrolyor and two others surrounded Stannis at his desk, discussing the heist.

  “We ignore the entrance and exit. They have only temporary chain-link panels, easy to disable.” Kon tapped on the satellite photos of the old Saab dealership. “The trucks enter here, leave here, here, and here.”

  Exactly as Walt and the feebs had figured they’d do.

  “How many drivers in all?” someone asked.

  Kon drummed his fingers on the photo. “Two cars can fit in a forty-five-foot container. We have room for driver to piggyback containers. But do we have time?”

  “No,” Stannis said. “Need ten drivers, I have five. Christo’s four electronic monkeys.”

  “I will not be driving,” Kon said. “Black Hawk wants me to secure the hostages.”

  “Black Hawk’s team is five. They will subdue guards, dogs, radio signals, etc.,” Stannis said.

  “Is not enough,” said another Serb.

  “Eddie V. is giving us five drivers and three guns.” Kon pointed at Stannis’s men. “The two of you, our number is twenty-four. Easy to overtake even two crews of guards.”

  “Twenty-six,” Stannis said. “Vatra Anđeo and I will be there.”

  The men left the office.

  “You have done very well, Maisie.” Stannis stood up and stretched. “Come.” He rounded the desk and waved me over to the aquarium. “See progress the beetles make.”

  Do I have to?

  I walked over, a tight smile on my lips. He flipped on the light. Only Coles’s finger remained. Almost ready to be taken out.

  “A new addition for the jar,” I said.

  “No. Coles is not my legacy. Is start of yours.”

  And what the heck am I supposed to do with it?

  Aside from the fact that bones are chock-full of DNA, I couldn’t have the mayor of Chicago’s finger sitting around at home or at Hank’s.

  I could just imagine the conversation. “Oh, that? It’s nothing. The other day I found a human finger on the subway and just decided to keep it.”

  Cripes.

  Chapter 49

  I fibbed to Stannis that I’d left my jacket in the car, went to the parking garage, and typed a ginormous text to Walt detailing everything I’d seen and heard. The heist would take place tomorrow night at 23:10, a slow time of night for the CPD, when shifts changed over. I warned Walt that Black Hawk would arrange a serious but nonexistent threat to occur across town.

  And then I sent him the bad news.

  Stannis and I will be on site.

  Walt replied: No heroics. Keep your head down and stay out of the fray.

  I returned to the penthouse. Stannis was alone in the foyer. “Do you dance, Maisie?”

  “About as well as I swim.”

  Stannis winced and smiled. He clicked a remote and held out his arms. I stepped in to them as the ultra-feminine Kitty LaRoar started singing “Isn’t It a Lovely Day.” He took it slow, holding me close. “So quickly you change my life.”

  Unable to respond, I pressed in closer to him.

  He leaned away. “What is wrong?”

  “Are you sure about this?” I asked. “The cars, the cartel . . . the police?”

  “Only worry little for me, remember?” He laughed and spun me in a quick turn. “Laws catch flies but let hornets go free.”

  The cars were big, bad, and handsome. Hard-edged and hardass Road Runners, Impalas, and Fairlanes side by side with the coolest of the cool Camaros and Challengers and Mustangs. Most painstakingly restored to factory specs, the rest were Resto-Mods, custom-fit with bigger, brutal engines.

  All that is wrong with our country could be summed up in a single word: Prius.

  America’s downward evolutionary spiral of the tough guy.

  Even the name was a derivative of “prissy.”

  We watched from the Range Rover, counting down the seconds. Stannis cranked the volume on his portable headset and leaned his head to mine, so we both could hear the men.

  Three men-sized shadows converged on a squad of two men and a dog. Red gun sights light up the security badges on their chests. The dogless guard’s hands shot up to the sky, while the other struggled to restrain the barking canine.

  Kon’s voice came through the headset. “Quiet the animal or I kill it.” The guard uttered a command. The dog fell silent.

  At that moment, Stannislav and Eddie’s men hit the fence with bolt cutters and wire clippers. Event fencing. Portable chain-link panels bolted and wired together. It took less than three minutes for each pair of men to detach the mobile barrier panels and set them aside.

  “Two more guards and another dog are safe in the office,” Kon said, giving them a long look at the size of the operation. “Are they paying you enough to lose your life?”

  The guards shook their heads.

  “Good. We understand each other.” Kon and his men escorted the guards into the building. After a minute, Kon came back on. “Men and dogs secure.”

  There were now four different ingress/egress spaces in the lot fencing.

  “We go.” Stannis handed me a blackened surgical mask. We got out and ran onto the auction lot, sprinting into the opened door of the dealership. “Find keys.”

  The rumble of semis started as the first two trucks came onto the lot.

  I followed Stannis toward the staff room. He stopped, drew his gun, and said to me, “I threaten. You watch their eyes.”

  He pushed open the door and we went in. The four guards were wrist and ankle zip tie–shackled. The dogs, locked in a utility closet, were quiet.

  Stannis walked in, gun hanging at his side. “Where are keys?”

  The guards all looked at the ground. Stannis chose the toughest-looking one and fired at the ground next to him. Linoleum and cement chipped up into the air. He walked to the guard, bent down, and pressed the barrel behind the guard’s ear.

  “Ergh!” the guard grunted.

  “Choose which man will die,” Stannis said.

  “It doesn’t have to be this way,” I said. “Where are the keys, guys?”

  Two of the three guards pointedly looked at the office area. The third glanced in the opposite direction. The showroom floor.

  “Hold up,” I said to Stannis. I ran out, and sure enough, there was a valet key panel beneath the receptionist’s desk. It didn’t even have a lock on it.

  Bingo. The keys are even tagged.

  “Got ’em!” I yelled at Stannis.

  He came into the showroom. “Good.” He pressed his headset, said something in Serbian, and one of his men rushed in. Stannis left the showroom to supervise.

  The first two container trucks had ramps down in front of the cars. The electronic monkeys checked them with scanners, popped the locks and the hoods, got in, and went to work.

  One of Stannis’s men and I figured out which were the right keys and he ran them out.

  By now, the monkeys had found two of the FBI’s super electronic locator tags. The ones they assured Walt Sawyer were undetectable.

  They left them and moved on to the next. Everything was moving in rhythm and fast, like the second hand of a stopwatch.

  Four cars loaded and gone. The next two semis entered as the others left.

  Too fast for my liking.

  Semis five and six were setting up to load. I figured the Feds would track the trucks to the CEC Intermodal to bust and recover.

  But the men?

  Were the Feds going to swoop in or what?

  Please don’t let us be Chicago’s Waco.

  The best cars were inside the showroom. Some of them worth over a million apiece. I jogged outside, put my fingers in my mouth, and gave a short whistle.

  The men looked at me. I pointed at one of the monkeys and gestured for him to come over. He sprinted to my side.

  “Let’s see if we can add any of these to the haul,” I said.

  The cars inside weren’t locked. The monkey peeked inside them, passing on a rare Yenko Cheve
lle and a mint Shelby. “Ravelco plugs.” He shook his head. “Can’t beat ’em.” He skipped the cars in the middle and ran to the opposite end of the room. A 1971 Plymouth Hemi ’Cuda, whose hood was open. He waved a small electronic reader over the car, bit his lip, and flashed me the “metal rock” fingers sign. “Come to Papa, you luscious, race-ready bi-otch.”

  I opened the showroom doors so he could drive the ’Cuda out.

  Stannis came in. “We have trouble.” He grabbed me by the arm and we hustled into the small service garage. “Truck One did not arrive at checkpoint.” He handed me the burner phone with all the truck driver numbers. “Call Truck Three.”

  He tapped his headset. “Chyornyj Yastreb. We may be compromised. . . Yes . . . Anđeo is with me. In fallback position.”

  I called Truck Three and pushed speaker. “Hello?”

  “Shit,” spat the voice on the other end. “Cops.”

  “Leave phone on speaker,” Stannis ordered the driver. “Put in pocket.”

  We heard the muffled swipe of fabric on the driver’s end. I hit Mute.

  “This is the FBI,” said Law Enforcement on loudspeaker. “Driver! With your right hand remove the keys from the ignition. Driver! Slowly open the door with your left hand.”

  Stannis clicked his headset, pacing, speaking staccato Serbian to his team while I listened to the FBI talk the driver to the ground and cuff him.

  Stannis reached over to turn off the burner cell.

  “Where’s the redhead, asshole?” demanded a federal agent.

  “Redhead?” the driver asked.

  “The girl! Where’s the fucking girl?”

  Feck me.

  Chapter 50

  Stannis went stock-still.

  The cords in his neck were working hard as he tried to swallow. “Chyornyj Yastreb say to me, ‘The girl will be trouble. And trouble never comes alone.’ It was you. Vatra Anđeo. My fire angel. You did this.”

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

  I said nothing, doing my best to look confused.

  Stannislav’s eyes were bleak. “My heart you break. Like no other.” He pulled the Smith & Wesson from the holster at his back and pointed it at me.