Pinned Beneath You (Gay Erotica)

by Tommy Twist

  But that was before I got confirmation on who the leak was. That was before Spider turned up dead. It wasn't me. Couldn't have been. Unless I've been having strange Ambien-blackouts. And I don't take sleeping pills.

  It wasn't Maguire. Couldn't have been. She's going against all her orders on this job. It's why she's so resistant to bringing me in, something that her 'partner' obviously isn't in on.

  He thinks we're just a little below board. He probably isn't even aware of the job we pulled. Or at least, he's not aware that she's involved, at least. Who knows. Maybe I'm not giving him enough credit.

  Someone knows, though. Someone knows there were five people there, and that two of them are dead now. I don't have the luxury of imagining that it's going to be days or weeks.

  We might have hours to defuse and deal with the threat. It begs an important question. If they were going to kill me, why hadn't they done it when I was in the room with them?

  If they aren't going to kill me, why the charade? Why "2/5?" There's too many questions right now, all swirling around in my head, and I don't God damned like it one bit.

  The situation is eating at me. I swallow hard and force myself to keep my focus. The engine cuts off when I turn the key, and lean the bike over.

  I can't let Logan know that I'm aware of what he's been up to. I have to play it straight. They might still be tying up loose ends, even if he's involved with them.

  And who knows. Maybe he doesn't even know that he's the leak. Maybe I'm overestimating his involvement. There's a thousand possible solutions. I should be careful not to jump to the worst possible conclusions.

  I swallow hard. That still means I have to figure a way not to let on that I know what he's done. I flip his key out of the ring and take a grip on it. The door is locked, but I open it.

  "Hello?"

  I call out. The sound of my voice seems to echo through the empty halls for a while. I swallow again. He should be here. Where else would he be? There's no other jobs planned for today.

  I check in the garage, and sure enough, his bike is there. A day like today, there's no way that he wouldn't take it. Never mind that the truck is right there beside his Harley. No, he's here. He has to be.

  I call out again. "Hello?"

  No answer again. My hands are starting to clam up. I don't like the thoughts that are running through my head. The ideas that I'm starting to have.

  It doesn't make any sense. There's no one else who could have been the one to be working with the Crazy Horses. They wouldn't kill him, not if he was working with them. It didn't make sense.

  None of it makes any sense. I swallow hard and take a breath, and pull the pistol out of its holster on my belt. I don't know what I'm going to find, but I know I'm not going to like it, and I know that there's a very good chance it could be dangerous.

  If there's any danger, I want to be ready for it, and I want to be ready now. I rack the slide on the pistol and flip the safety off. All it will take is one little pull of my finger.

  I start mentally ticking off the rooms in my head. The kitchen was the first place I checked. I passed by the den, didn't see anything. But I didn't look that hard.

  Then I went down the stairs, checked the garage. But that took me through the downstairs lounge.

  There's an office, I could check the den more carefully, and then there's the bedrooms upstairs. I go through them mechanically. I keep the pistol aimed at the ground, but I'm ready to bring it up at a moment's notice. Nothing, nothing nothing.

  I go up the stairs, work left to right. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I notice, though, as I go into the last room. Logan's room. The door isn't closed. It's just blown most of the way shut, as if by the wind.

  I push the door open with my foot.

  "Drop it!" I don't, not right away.

  Logan says it again. He's got a shotgun, and it's trained right on me. I de-cock the gun and put it on the bed.

  "Where's the girl?"

  "What are you talking about, man?"

  Logan lowers the gun halfway. "The girl. Where is she?"

  "The cop?"

  "Sure. The cop. Where is she?"

  I think about it for a second. "I have no idea."

  "So she's not with you?"

  "No."

  Logan lowers the gun the rest of the way. "Close that door behind you."

  I close it. He gestures toward the bed. I move the pistol and take a seat. Logan takes a minute before he starts talking. "Spider's fuckin' dead, Ryan."

  "Yeah, I know. I was coming here to warn you, in fact."

  "Someone ratted us out to the Crazy Horses. You know what I'm thinkin? I'm thinkin' that girl of yours, she found a very different way in with them than the one she told you about."

  In my head, I dismiss it immediately. "What makes you say that?"

  "I sure as hell didn't do it. Spider, he's—"

  "He was working with the feds."

  Logan cuts himself off. "No shit?"

  "I mean, I can't give you hard proof. But he must've been the reason I got arrested. The timing fit. So I was keeping an eye on him."

  "Fuck. Then, shit. I dunno."

  I don't know how much to tell him about my own suspicions. He'd deny it either way, but some part of me hopes that I'd be able to at least find some explanation with his help that would absolve him.

  There must be some explanation, but I can't find one. Logan's not acting like someone who's absoluitely confident he won't get his ass shot.

  If I had to pick anyone now, I'd have to side with him. Maguire fits. But I can't shake the feeling that she's not involved. There must be something else involved, but I can't see what it is.

  "What's our next move?"

  "Next move? We deal with the girl. Scheck."

  "How do you figure?"

  "I don't know, yet. She's got some big mother-fucker working right under her. Hits like a mack truck, and he's good at it. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, all that shit."

  Logan frowns. "That's not what I like to hear, Ryan. Simple. I prefer simple. Send in a few of our guys with heavy weapons and take the place out. That's the kind of planning I like to hear."

  "You know they have more guys than us, though. We can't take them all at once. There just isn't a way to do it. So no matter what we did, it would just open up a war. A war we can't win without some kind of edge."

  Logan lets out a breath. "Yeah, I know."

  I know exactly how he feels. I can't blame him for wishing, but we don't have the luxury of wishing any more. It's time to get down to business.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  MAGUIRE

  I lean back in the seat. It's not often that I let someone else drive, but I don't remember the last time I slept, so I'll let Danny handle it. Just this once.

  I open my eyes what feels like a second later, and we're sitting outside of the field office. I look up, tiredness still clinging to my eyes.

  "Did I fall asleep?"

  Danny shrugs. "Only a little."

  "I didn't snore, did I?"

  He shrugs again.

  I don't like it one bit, but I don't have anything to say. I slide out of the car and straighten up. A yawn rockets through me. Surprise.

  He goes through the door first. I go through second, still rubbing at my eyes. We've only got another forty hours until I'll be effectively out of a job, and I don't know how in the fuck we're planning to do any of this.

  Still, with a name on the list, now, I can at least say that we're moving forward. We know who we're looking for, and who we're looking at.

  Scheck is the sort of woman you'd expect to be a gangster's wife. She's the sort of person who might get a false positive on a lineup because she looked about right and the witness is guessing.

  Well, sometimes appearances can be deceiving.

  Sometimes they aren't, though. Lots of times, you look at someone, you think 'they look like a scumbag,' and they are. It's a fine line between knowing that you're just gues
sing based on their looks, and remembering that sometimes you guess right.

  This is one of those cases where it's easy to guess right. I swallow hard. This information changes a lot. We can start talking about who's really in charge, now.

  Is she using McCallister's authority? If that were the case, wouldn't Beauchamp have heard about it? She'd have used the old 'well, Brent said…' act. But she didn't, or at least, he didn't hear her do it.

  Which paints a different picture entirely. Whatever happened to Brent McCallister, nobody had any question whether or not he was coming back, or at least no question that he wasn't coming back soon. He was gone, and he was going to stay gone, and that was how it was going to be for them.

  The thought that they might have deposed him crosses my mind. But I know these types. I've been dealing with them since long before I got into the A.T.F.

  I don't know any of them who would have accepted a woman as their leader, right off the bat. Would there have been some kind of fight? Some kind of confirmation? Is there a group of them running the gang now?

  I shake my head. No use speculating. We know that she's got some control, which means that everyone near the top is going to be a close associate of hers. That's our way in.

  I don't need another one, and I sure as hell don't need to sit here and speculate. The lack of sleep is starting to get to me, and I can feel it. I need to get myself under control, and I need to do it now.

  I comb through photos, taking notes. Not every person in every photo is going to mean something. But as I look, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, a pattern is beginning to emerge.

  Danny brings me a cup. It's hot and I take a sip of it. I'm not a coffee drinker, never have been. He knows that. I drink it anyways, my face twisting up in disgust. How could someone drink something so bitter?

  I can feel the rush of energy almost immediately, though. Like the heat of the coffee is running straight through my veins.

  A pattern…

  Three names come up. Over and over and over. Michael Carabello, Shane Rosen, Antonio Dupree.

  Rosen will have been the big son of a bitch that Beauchamp saw. Without a doubt. Nobody would look at Carabello without noticing the tattoos, without pointing them out.

  Nobody in the world would describe Antonio Dupree as a big guy. He's five-eight and couldn't weigh more than a buck fifty. Just about every photo, one of those three. Sometimes more.

  Rarely all four in the same picture, but that's just smart, I figure. It means that there's no chance in hell that all of them get taken out at once. It makes my life more complicated, though.

  I need to get them all, and I need to get them all at once. Otherwise, the ones left just make up for the lost headcount. It won't take long, and while it will cripple them for a little while, it won't stick. Not well enough to say I did any goddamn thing at all.

  I take my list. We just need to find these four. It shouldn't be hard. We have a small staff on hand, but it's enough to do what needs to be done.

  I step into Danny's office, the one right beside mine. He sets the phone in the cradle a second after I come in, the conversation already over before I got there.

  "Danny. We gotta go."

  "I just got off the phone with Donaldsen," Danny answers. He's standing up, pulling his jacket on. Getting ready to go.

  He might not know what I have going on, but he knows that I'm in charge, and he listens. I like that. No questions.

  "Yeah?"

  "Where are we going?"

  "We have a list of suspects."

  I can't make out what, but I hear a hard plastic 'click' and I turn. Danny's got the gun out of his holster. It's hanging there at his side, but his hand's wrapped around the handle and there's no question that he'll use it if he has to.

  "We already had a suspect, boss. You let him go. Twice!"

  I swallow. The tiredness is starting to hit me again, rolling on in waves. I need to sleep. I needed to sleep eight hours ago.

  "Did Donaldsen put you up to this?"

  "You need to pick him up, Sara."

  "Don't fucking call me that," I growl. The anger cuts nicely through the exhaustion, reminds me of what I'm doing. Reminds me who I am, where I am, and how I got here.

  "You're right. I'm sorry. Maguire. You need to listen to me, okay? We're friends."

  "Put the gun away, Danny."

  "I can't do that, boss. I'm sorry."

  I bolt for the door. I hear Danny shout to stop me, but by then I'm already past the only two people left in the place, this late at night.

  We've got a list of suspects. Real heavies. People who can make or break the drug trade through this state. And Donaldsen is trying to get me to bring in only one of the three brothers running a smaller operation.

  I hit the door hard with my shoulder and it swings open. I'm in the car before the next body comes out through the door, the door is locked and the ignition is on by the time they hit the car, trying to open it up and get me out.

  They're too late. I'm already gone. Already in the wind. I drive, swerve to avoid Danny, who's decided the best way to stop me is to get himself run over. He's not quick enough. Never was.

  I speed off into the distance. The next step is an obvious one. They're going to pick up Ryan now. I can't afford to let this get out of my fingers, and that means I have to get to him first.

  Chapter Thirty

  RYAN

  For the second time tonight I'm hearing the noise of someone outside. I can't sleep any more. I keep thinking about what it might mean, what's going on. About the idea that any minute, I could get the call from Logan.

  A call that I know will end with a bang, and probably not the ones that I want to hear. But I know he'll call me. I can trust that much, at least, and before the first words come out of his mouth I'll be out the door.

  Well, I think, I guess they decided to start with me and work their way back down to meet in the middle. Or maybe I was only small fish to them all along, and the order was never important. It doesn't matter much. I work the slide on my pistol and make it over to the peep-hole.

  My pistol slips back into my jacket pocket before I open the door.

  "Maguire."

  She doesn't smile when she sees me. "How long would it take you to get out of here?"

  I shrug and take an experimental step outside. "Not long at all, it seems."

  She gives me a look of frustration that warms my heart entirely.

  "Good to see that you haven't lost your sense of humor, Beauchamp."

  I give her a wide smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

  "I'm serious this time, Ryan. You need to get out of here, and you need to stay out of here. At least until we've figured this shit out with Scheck and the Crazy Horses."

  "Until you arrest me, you mean?"

  "If you're not careful, I'll arrest you now. I could do it, and I wouldn't even feel bad."

  I rock back like the words were a punch in the gut. "Oh, Maguire! I thought you cared."

  "You're lucky I need you," she growls. I've learned to see through the thick layers of armor she puts up around herself, though, and she only halfway means it.

  "Okay, well, what do you suggest?"

  "Come with me. Leave the bike."

  My jaw tightens. I've spent more time on that bike than—hell, maybe more time than I've spent on the gang. I'm not going to just leave it.

  "The bike comes."

  "No chance in hell. It's an identifying feature if there ever was one."

  "Then I'll hide it."

  "No, Beauchamp. It stays here. You can come back and get it later."

  I don't trust her. Something in the way she says it sounds wrong. But it's just a feeling. I don't have any way to confirm it.

  "Fine."

  I follow her to the car and slip into the passenger side. She takes the driver's seat. There's a look of smug satisfaction on her face that I want to wipe off. But it's nice to see her happy, smug or not. I'll let her have her vi
ctory.

  The car kicks to life. It's not exciting, not pleasant. It just happens. I suddenly understand all of the 'I'd rather be riding my Harley' bumper stickers. Or, more accurate, I'm reminded why.

  We pull out. Driving like this—never mind being a passenger—feels numb. I don't like it, never liked it. Give me back my Indian any day of the week. She drives around a little, but after three blocks she pulls into a motel I've seen before but never had a reason to stay in.

  Some part of me thinks it's got a reputation for being the kind of place that women sell their wares. It's not a business I'm involved in, though, and not one I want to become involved in.

  Perhaps my first clue is the sign outside that reads 'hourly rates on rooms.' Maguire doesn't look the least bit uncomfortable with the place, which is a surprise.

  Such a straight-laced person in a seedy neighborhood. The way she slumps her shoulders a bit, leans, she won't stick out to anyone but me. But for me, she's like a spot of red in a black-and-white photo. She doesn't belong here, and as much as I can't escape being a criminal, I don't belong here either.

  She walks right up to the register. There's a sign on the wall proclaiming the rates. A sign that says it's $65 a night, or $10 an hour. She unfolds five crisp $20 bills from her wallet and slides them across the counter.

  "One night, single bed."

  The guy slides one of the twenties back and starts making change. Maguire slides it back over again. "My boyfriend forgot his I.D."

  The guy looks at it and shrugs. "Fine, I get it. You got names?"

  "Do we need them?"

  The guy shrugs again, turns, and grabs a key off the wall. "Whatever strikes your fancy, lady."

  She smiles at him but doesn't thank him. We turn around and start counting off the room numbers until we get to the one she's just got me a night in.

  She turns and hands the key over to me. A real key, not a magnetic card. It's the real mark of a place that hasn't spent any money renovating in fifteen years. The kind of place that just keeps on making money, never spends it.