by Tommy Twist
I swallow hard and put the car in park out front. It's not hard to figure out why I had to come. At least, I know where I'm going to find out. A small crowd has gathered right outside the door. Maybe a dozen people, most of them civilians, by the look of it.
They're standing at a distance, like high school kids ringing around a fight, but they all look on with interest. Another dozen or so are standing further back, interested enough to watch, but not wanting anyone else to know about it.
A heavy-set Latino man resumes walking his dog when my eyes pass over him as I get out of the car.
I muscle through the crowd, heading for the door rather than the center of the interest, but it's impossible not to look over my shoulder into the ring as I pass.
I force myself to keep moving toward the door as if I hadn't seen anything. Hawkins's body can wait. I have to talk to someone, and I have to talk to them now. About what the hell happened, about how the body was found, about why it's still sitting there on the side of the road.
Danny stands up as I walk in. He's sitting in the chair right by the door, waiting for me.
"Boss, I know you're gonna have a lot of questions—"
"You're God damned right I am," I growl. "Give me the details."
"We found him about thirty seconds before I texted you. We heard a firearm discharged right outside, an engine speed off."
"Did we get a shot of the guy who did it?"
"We did," Danny confirms. He guides her over to a computer.
"And why is Hawkins still outside?"
"We can't move him, officially. Waiting on the lead Agent to make the decision, but officially this isn't a Bureau matter. We have to wait on the Sheriff's Office to come and get him. We've already put out calls through official channels."
So it's either she breaks protocol, or they sit there with their thumbs up their asses and wait for the Sheriff to show up. I take a deep breath.
"Show me the security footage."
He nods and clicks a button. The image on screen cuts to life. The time stamp reads 11:51 P.M. and 36 seconds.
At 41 seconds past the minute, a large motorcycle rides into frame. It appears to be two men on the motorcycle. The one in back appears to be driving.
He pulls the bike to a stop, puts down the kick-stand, takes the weight of the guy in front. I'm not having trouble figuring out that the guy in front is dead, and he's our inside man.
The place where the body gets dumped is just out of frame. As the guy leans down to place the body, he slips out of the shot, and then stands back up. You can see him just at the edge of the screen.
He goes back down to do something else out of frame. He slides back onto the back of the motorcycle and fires his gun into the air, then speeds off.
"Take it back," I growl. Danny is already on it.
"You want a look at the bike, right?"
"There's a smart boy, Danny. There was a good shot of it, near the end."
I don't want to be right. That's why I'm having him bring it back. Because there was a very good shot at the end, there. Because I know exactly what the bike looks like.
I know what it looks like because I've seen it before, and I'm going to have a hell of a time explaining how I know that Ryan Beauchamp, the only guy driving a 1946 Indian Chief in this state, definitely wasn't the one who made the drop.
Explaining it will mean explaining where I've been the past two days. Which, by itself, means explaining how I managed to get Beauchamp to go along with the plan. It means explaining that I've been insubordinate and gone over Donaldsen's head. It will be career suicide by itself.
But what worries me that much more is knowing that somewhere along the chain, it'll get back to McCallister and the Crazy Horses.
I take a deep breath.
"What's he doing with the body?"
Danny seems to deflate just a little. "Come on. I'll show you."
We step outside a few seconds before the Sheriff's Office pulls up, but they don't hassle us as we flash our badges when they walk up.
Right there on the chest, someone has written with permanent marker.
2 down.
3 left.
I swallow hard. Some part of me had hoped that this wasn't what I thought it was. That Beauchamp had figured out that we were pulling the wool over his eyes, and 'Spider' was a plant.
This confirms that there's nothing like that going on. This is payback, coming straight from McCallister. He's going to work his way through the guys who did it, and the list isn't a long one.
It's not going to take long for me to get to the coveted next spot on the list. When that happens, there's going to be a lot bigger problems facing me than just career suicide.
Chapter Twenty-Six
RYAN
It takes a long time before they finally let me out. Long enough that my body's started to realize that it's not supposed to hurt all the time, and it's decided to lodge a formal protest.
I force myself to move again. The blood moving back into my limbs hurts, like a fire burning at my fingers and toes. I try to rub the pain out of them as best I can, but I have to be honest with myself and admit that it's not going to stop hurting any time soon.
They've got my number. They told me so, more than once. I slip my phone out of my pocket. I know I wasn't wearing these pants when they'd hung me up for the beatings that I took, so I don't need to wonder whether or not they've gone through the phone.
I can safely assume that they have. I run through to see if there's anything obvious. There isn't. They turned the phone off, and as it boots back up I slip it back into my pocket. No clues here.
I slip my leg over the bike's seat and kick it to life. It doesn't complain. She never complains, not any more. I like to think that the old girl knows how much work I put into her, and doesn't want to come off as pushy after all these years.
She hums happily beneath me as I ride back out of the industrial park, and get on the road back to my apartment. It's not a long drive, but my entire body hurts, and I can barely see straight.
The drive takes twice as long as it needs to because I'm too afraid to fall off the son of a bitch, or let some crazy fuck hit me, so I go slower than I should.
I pull up in front of the house and try to get myself off the back of the bike. My foot doesn't raise high enough, and my toe catches, sending me falling hard to the concrete.
I push myself up. Nothing worse than I dealt with the rest of the day. It's almost over. I take a deep breath. Almost over. Then I'll be able to start trying to recover. I can only hope that it helps, because the way the day's been going so far, I need something to be going for me.
The door comes unlocked nice and smooth. It had better do, the lock is new. Had to replace it only a week ago, for the tenth time this year already. Some part of me considers moving in near Logan. He's always talked about how much nicer his neighborhood is.
Another part of me doesn't want to. More than that, with the question of leaks. I don't want to be close enough to be able to confirm my suspicions.
I slump down into the sofa. It's a good sofa, I think. Good for naps. Just long enough to lay out flat, with my head on the armrest. Just the right height for it. I close my eyes and try to relax.
Sleeping on a bed, I figure, would just hurt more at this point, as my body tries to find the most comfortable position, and in-so-doing, finds and catalogues every hurt bone in the whole thing.
A voice in the back of my head tells me I should go to a hospital. That's not going to happen, though. Hospitals ask a lot of questions, and whether they get their answers or not, whether I give them their answers or not, they're not shy about sharing their thoughts with the cops.
No, I need to be able to stay as free and clear as possible, and if things are going the way that Maguire says they're going, then I can be sure that if things go bad, I can always get the cops to take me on Monday.
They'll have to, won't they?
I quiet the thoughts in my head. Eyes
closed. The room is dark all around me. No light to set me off. My head's comfortable. The sofa's got soft arms. Not as soft as a pillow, but good enough to lay my head down.
My body feels like it's floating. Every inch of it is covered in pins and needles, and I can't stop hurting, but I can let myself slip easily, comfortably into sleep.
I can almost feel myself drifting off. My mind starts to wander. To happier places, to happier memories. To this morning. I can feel myself growing hard at the thought of how I spent last night.
Even still, my mind wanders, further and further afield, until—a noise wakes me up. I don't know if I've been asleep long, but it's still dark outside. The digital clock on the wall is hard to read in the darkness, but I can almost make out where it reads '4:15'.
I lay my head back down. Houses make noise, I remind myself. Nothing to get worried or upset over. It's nothing.
The noise comes again. Someone's outside, I realize. I suck in a deep breath and push myself up. I have to stifle a pained groan as I turn over.
There's a pistol in a drawer over by the wall. I get it out, nice and easy. Someone's outside, and they're fiddling with locks. I can hear it, clear as day.
The light outside never turns off, so I'll have a better angle on whoever is out there, than they have on me. I sidle up to the back window and look out. Nobody there. Whoever is coming in, they're only at the front.
That doesn't sound like cops. I move up to the front windows and check the street anyways. A car. One I recognize.
I don't let Maguire in. If she wanted in, then she'd knock, or she'd call. Whoever is out there, they're driving Maguire's car. She might even be with them. But she's not in control of the situation.
I work the slide on the pistol and flip off the safety. Then I get myself in a good, protected position, and I wait. I don't have to wait long.
The whole thing might have taken sixty seconds, which is slow for anyone, but then again I've been robbed enough times that I splurged on a better lock. That they get in at all means I should get my money back.
The first one in is Maguire. She's got her gun drawn, but she keeps it low. Off-line. If she was trying to kill me, then she'd have come in hot. Next is the big guy. The bruiser.
He's got his gun up. They might have talked, but they haven't come to an understanding on whether or not they're shooting to kill. I don't have the luxury of questioning it.
Maguire can't bring her pistol up fast enough to tag me as I move across the doorway, but she can say something. She doesn't see me, or she keeps her mouth shut.
I can thank her later for the fact that her friend hasn't heard me come in. With the light shining down on them, neither one has night-vision, but I can barely handle the dim light shining into the room from the porch light.
It means that when I catch the big guy in the gut with my shoulder, he doesn't see it coming until it's too late, and by then he's on the ground.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
MAGUIRE
I can't point the gun at him. He's moving to pick up Danny's gun from where it fell on the floor, and he could shoot the big oaf any second now, but I can't force myself to point the gun at him.
"Stop," I say. I try to sound more confident than I feel, but it doesn't come out even a little bit right.
"You going to make me?"
Ryan turns. He's got a darkness in his face that reminds me out of the blue that he's not just some pretty boy.
The part of me that feels the fear now wants to put the gun down. I want to tell him that I'm sorry for coming here, that we'll leave. It's what he wants and he's going to get what he wants.
But then the training takes over.
"Put it down, Beauchamp, or I swear to God you'll have a new hole to breathe out of." My hand tightens on the gun.
"Not until you tell me what you're doing here. Do you have a warrant?"
"No, but—"
"Then tell me what the fuck you're doing breaking into my house, or come back with a warrant."
I take a breath. There's a lot more going on here than I'd like. Someone needs to calm down, and it's going to be me—whether I like it or not.
I slide my pistol into it's holster and show my hands. Ryan slips the magazine out of Danny's weapon, and cycles the bullet out of the chamber before handing it back to him. He sets the magazine on the table.
"One of these days, you're going to piss off the wrong guy," he growls. Ryan looks exhausted, and a big part of me knows why he's so annoyed. Part of me does't blame him for it.
But there were more factors at work than whether or not Ryan was happy with me about my plans.
"Spider's dead," I tell him. I'd hoped to break it to him easier than that, or at least give myself some sort of lead-in. But he's not looking patient.
"What does that have to do with me?"
"Two things. First, there was a note attached. One that made it imminently clear that it was retribution for the robbery you pulled yesterday."
"Okay."
"Second, because you drive a very specific, very recognizeable, bike, Beauchamp. A bike we saw driving away from the body being dumped." Danny's not picking up the subtlety of the situation, and I haven't told him anything I didn't have to.
"Well, what can I say? I wasn't there."
"If we thought you could have possibly been there, then you'd be in irons, Beauchamp."
Danny's pissing him off. I can see it in Ryan's face. I don't know whether to stop him, or kiss him. Ryan pissed off looks just as incredible as Ryan any other time.
In the current situation, though, a pissed-off Ryan Beauchamp will be a wild card we need in play. I just have to hope, for my sake, that Danny doesn't push him hard enough to get himself hit in the face. I don't want to have to broker that situation.
"So that leaves three more," Ryan answers. He's ignoring Danny now. That's the right way to go. I try to send him all my positive thoughts. I don't know if he gets them or not.
"Exactly," I tell him. I try to get it across to him that I don't want a complete list, not in front of my partner. I don't know if he gets the message, but he does what I want.
"Which means we're in a real hurry."
"Why don't we just arrest this… upstanding citizen? Gang violence isn't our problem, boss."
"Why not, boss?" Ryan mimics the voice, then switches back to his natural voice. "I'd love to hear this."
"You know why, Danny. The sons of bitches watching the Crazy Horses aren't getting it done. We get them, we get credit for it."
"With Donaldsen breathing down our necks, though…?"
"Even with Donaldsen breathing down our necks. He can't block our getting the credit for the catch, if we get him. He'll sign on and pretend the whole thing was his idea, just you watch."
"If you say so," Danny agrees. He sits back from the table. "I don't know what this guy's bringing to the table, though."
Ryan speaks up. "Have you met Brent McCallister, Agent Ball?"
"No, and if you say you have, you're a liar," Danny growls. "Not in two days."
"You know what they say—squeaky wheel gets the oil." Ryan looks like he's enjoying this, now.
The doubt on Danny's face builds into disbelief and then anger, but he keeps a lid on it, and as he tries to figure it out, I can see he's having less and less trouble believing.
"You met McCallister?"
"Did I say I had?" Ryan shrugs. I can't stand it when this son of a bitch plays coy. I can't stand it one bit, and I can't help but find it sexy as hell.
"Don't play games with me, Beauchamp." I try to put an edge to my voice, an edge that I might use with Danny when he steps out of line. It doesn't work.
"Well, let's just say that there's a damn good reason that you ain't found the guy in a while."
"What? Are you about to tell me he's dead?"
"I don't know. Maybe." Ryan sits forward, leaning his weight on his elbows. "But he's not in Arizona. He's not in the United States. He's not in Mexico. He's
incommunicato, and nobody inside seemed to be trying to reach the guy. Is he dead? I figure so, but maybe not."
"So you don't really know anything, then, is that what I'm hearing, Beauchamp?"
Danny's frustration plays into my hand, now. He needs to keep it under control, but he might just have it under wraps for now. I could kiss him. I won't.
"Well, I wouldn't say that, now." The smile across Beauchamp's face looks like he's gotten away with something. "You have pictures?"
"Of what? Your bad hair days?" I enjoy the way he rolls his eyes at my barb.
"Of the big names in the Crazy Horses. You want to know who's running it, I can tell you that much. But no names. They probably used fakes. I know faces, and those don't change so easy."
"Alright," I agree.
It takes twenty minutes one way to get into the office, five to print off photos, and twenty minutes back. Forty-five minutes total.
It takes about thirty seconds to pull up pictures on my phone. I'm sure as hell not supposed to have them, but as long as Danny doesn't rat me out—and he never has before—there's nothing to worry about.
Ryan flips through the pictures for a minute before he drops the phone onto the table. "There. Those two."
He jabs a finger at it, as if to drive the point home more, somehow.
There are four people prominently walking down the street in the picture. "Which two?"
"This guy is the one who they had hitting me. He's a good hitter, Agent Ball. You'd like him." Danny lets out a sharp breath through his nose. "This one seems to be in charge, far as I can tell."
"That's Marissa Scheck. McCallister's girlfriend. Fiancée. We figure she's his messenger."
"Well, I never saw her make a fuckin' call to consult with her husband-to-be. I'm thinking maybe they've cut out the middle-man. Ya think?" He gives me a look that suggests that it doesn't take much thought.
He's right. It doesn't.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
RYAN
I don't like this situation one bit, but what I like so much less is that it relies on Logan coming through. I've trusted him with more than this, plenty of times. Dozens. Hundreds.