by Tommy Twist
I finally turn and look when I notice the sound of footsteps. They're getting closer, and they have been for a little while, at the edge of my awareness.
It's perfectly average. Just like the car door that I should've been paying attention to, or the way that the cherry-top pulled off onto a side-street.
But now, after all this time, something makes me turn, and I recognize him.
"Agent Maguire," he says. His voice is smooth, dark. He's not smiling. He never smiled.
"Pollack," I say. My voice is low and defensive, and I should probably play friendly, but I can't. Not any more.
"How's the investigation going? Still haven't picked up Beauchamp?"
"Is Donaldsen here with you?"
I already know the answer before I even ask the question, and what's more, he knows that I know. Mitch Pollack might as well be Martin Donaldsen's shadow. The man who had everything I'd ever wanted, all the power and prestige I'd hoped for.
I'd been an idiot for thinking I could supplant him, but I thought it. And, in time, I'd learned better. Right around the time I paid for it.
Chapter Thirty-Six
RYAN
I get off the phone with Maguire—Sara, I add mentally—and lower the gun I have pointed at Scheck. As long as she doesn't move, I won't raise it again. She looks like she's not exactly having a good time.
I can't say I blame her. I mean, obviously someone's just broken into her house, and threatened her with a gun, and then they talked on the phone for five minutes about the guy that she apparently didn't kidnap.
My heart goes out to her, but I can't exactly let her go, either. I'm in too deep, at this point, to do anything other than just take her and get the hell out.
I take a deep breath. I can't afford to rush in on this, though, either. So I take a deep, deep breath and start thinking very hard about my next moves.
"Come on, Beauchamp—let me go." Her voice is a lot less confident than she wants it to be. I shoot her a smile.
"You're right. I should let you go. That way, you can get big boy—Rosen, was it? Shane?—and he can come and kick the shit out of me. That about right?"
The way she shuts up tells me that it was more right than she wants to admit. That's smart. I have a gun, after all, and she had better keep her mouth shut until she gets a better opportunity than to try to convince me to put it to my own head.
"Come on, I get it. You were worried about your brother. But—" Marissa daubs her perfect nose, where it slammed into my knee. It's not as perfect, any more.
The way she recoils away from her own hand, I have a strong suspicion it might be broken.
"I need a doctor, Beauchamp."
"It's just a nose, you'll be alright."
She looks up at me with doe-eyes that might be convincing to someone else. "Just don't hit me again, alright?"
"Then don't go for the gun," I growl. "We'll be perfect friends if you can manage that."
I raise mine again and try to think. I have to get my head straight if I can have any hope of getting the hell out of here. If she goes missing now… they think she's going home. I think.
So we'll have a very brief period where, if I'm lucky, nobody realizes she's been taken. That's if I'm lucky.
But that puts a real short time frame on finding the others. From what Maguire said, there are three others. I could pick Rosen out of a crowd. Could've picked him out of a crowd before I spent a great deal of quality time with him.
Carabello, though? I wouldn't know him from Adam. Nor would I recognize Dupree if he asked me to bum a smoke. Which makes everything real hard.
Everything's moving too fast. If I could sit down with Logan, or with Maguire, I could talk it out. But I can't get my thoughts to line up inside my head, and I can't exactly sit down with Scheck and talk out how I'm planning to destroy her gang.
I've always hated being alone, not having anyone else to work with. It's easier when I can talk things through. But that's not an option, not right now.
I was on my own like this in prison. It isn't a memory I want to go back to.
"You have to let me go, Beauchamp. You don't want what the Crazy Horses are going to bring down on you, if you hurt one hair on my—"
"Shut up," I tell her. She shuts up when the gun points at her, like a switch goes off in her mouth.
She looks like she wants to say something, but I don't turn the switch back on. The gun stays put. What she said was right. I don't want to bring that kind of heat down on my head.
But I'm already in it, now, and there's no way that I can get myself out of anything by just hoping and praying that she doesn't double-cross me. After all, I'd double cross the hell out of her, and look where that got us.
She looks unsteady, for a long time. She's trying to look at me, to give me the old batting-eyelashes routine, convince me that she's totally harmless. I don't buy it.
More than that, though, her eyes keep dropping to the gun. I can see the gears turning in her head, planning for what she's going to do when she gets the chance. When I let anything slip.
It turns out that she doesn't have to wait for my attention to slip. I'm adjusting my weight on the door when something hits it hard, sending it flying open.
The hard wood cracks on the back of my head and sends me sprawling forward. I take a bad tumble, but I have to give myself credit for keeping the gun in my hand. When I turn and find a big son of a bitch and a little dark-skinned guy next to him, it answers a few questions.
"Jesus, it took you long enough," I hear Scheck saying. The apologetic tone, the pleading—it's gone, now. Like it was never there in the first place. She's all business, now."
"You alright, Missie?"
She shrugs and looks down at me. "I'm fine now."
I still don't know where to find Carabello, which would be real useful information right now. But he can wait, because Dupree's got a gun and it's coming up into line to take a shot at me.
I scramble out of the line of the bullet just in time for the shot to go off. He's standing about ten feet away, but it's so damn loud that it feels like it might as well have been right by my ear.
The bullet splits a floor tile in half and pings off somewhere, where it embeds itself in the wall. Part of me can't help thinking that it's a wasted opportunity, trying to get the hell out of here now.
Another part of me wants to live, and that part is the one I listen to. The back door is a big sliding glass number. I fire off two shots that spiderweb the glass open and then send most of it falling to the ground.
My shoulder hits the rest, and I can feel the glass breaking on my skin, leaving long, raking cuts. It hurts like seven hells, but it hurts a lot less than getting shot to death.
The idiots left my bike standing, right where it was. I get on and turn the key. I don't know what kind of shit that a gang like this can get up to, but the idea that they might have some sort of tracking… thing, does occur to me.
It just doesn't matter enough to stop me from grabbing a liferaft in a storm. I jam the gun into my pocket and speed off.
I have to get back in touch with Maguire, and I have t odo it soon. But right now, as Dupree hits the street, his gun still in hand, coming up to fire another desperate shot, isn't the time.
Instead, I make a mad dash for the highway. Once I'm out of town—then I can try to get ahold of Maguire. Until then, I'm going to concentrate on driving and making sure that the wrong fuckin' people don't get ahold of me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
MAGUIRE
I don't like the sound of my phone ringing, because it draws Donaldsen's attention to me. He has a faint smile on his face. He always does, as if he just thought of an old joke that was never worth laughing out loud over.
Maybe he always has. Maybe I'm the joke. I don't know, but I sure as hell know I don't want to find out what his secret is, not any more. The only thing I want is a transfer out of his command.
But that would spell career suicide for more reas
on than one, and I'm not ready to relegate myself to never getting another promotion again. So I keep my mouth shut about it.
Mitch is sitting next to him. He doesn't have the subtlety that Donaldsen does, and he never has. He's got a cheshire-cat grin on his face. It splits his face in half and shows off nearly every one of his glaringly-white teeth.
Then again, why shouldn't he smile? After all, they'd gotten what they wanted. Clearly they had been after me for some reason, and now that they'd found me, there was nothing wrong in the world of Mitch Pollack.
He was the man, and the A.T.F. wasn't quite his plaything—there were about four men who could give him orders—but he had his mouth to the ear of one of the most powerful men in the organization.
Donaldsen's soft spot for him has always been something I'd hoped to be able to manipulate, after things had gone sour. As if Mitch Pollack might be the chink in Donaldsen's armor.
It never turned out that way. Mitch was less a gap in armor than he was a shield, moving and blocking and defending. Occasionally bashing, as well.
He lacks subtlety, and there's plenty more wrong with him, but like a good dog, he's kept on a leash, and he doesn't pull on it. When Donaldsen lets him loose, he does what he wants, but otherwise, he's happy with a pat on the head and a bone before bed.
A deep breath. There's nothing to be concerned over. I know exactly what's going on here. They're trying to scare me, intimidate me about something. The key is, not to worry. No matter what they do, it can't hurt me.
They could hurt me if they wanted to. They've had that power since the beginning, and it's been a hard-learned lesson that there's nothing I can do to stop it.
They have as much power as you give them, those two. Aside, of course, from the full legal and military weight of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Lucky for me that I don't go downrange of that little weapon.
The car pulls into a hotel, pulls up to a stop in front of the door. Mitch waits inside the car as Donaldsen gets out.
"Come on," he growls. He's not talking to Mitch, I know that much. The man never needs to be told what to do. After the years together with Donaldsen, he can practically read his boss's mind.
I slide out, and a moment after my foot touches the pavement, Pollack slips out his side of the car, as well.
The driver pulls away, presumably to park the vehicle somewhere. Pollack puts his hand back on my elbow, loose enough not to hurt, hard enough to know that I'm not getting out of this. But I know that already.
If Donaldsen is in town, something big is happening. And if he's in town hours before my deadline, he must have left before my little run away from the field office. It's a six-hour flight from D.C. and that wasn't more than four hours.
So there's something going on, and I don't know what it is but I don't like it. We get into the elevator, and I've never been in such a small elevator before in my life.
I try to take a breath, but it catches in my throat. It's too small. My eyes tell me there's plenty of space. They tell me it looks like the elevator is perfectly average.
I know better. I'm pressed into a corner. Any second now, things could go upside-down. Pollack must have noticed my nervousness, which is a mistake I'd sworn I would never make again. The promise doesn't stop him noticing.
"Sara, you look nervous. You need a minute?"
I want to tell him not to call me that name. The words catch, and I can't even open my mouth. My face feels hot, my head light. I need to get out of here. I need to go. There's important work to be done, if we're going to have any hope of getting Scheck and her gang tonight.
None of that matters, though. I just need to get back to my apartment. I want to lay down in my bed. I want to lock my doors. I want to take a shower. I want to watch late-night television. The one thing I don't want is to be here.
A noise makes me jump practically out of my skin. It's the ding of the elevator arriving on the third floor. The doors slide open to an empty hallway. Donaldsen and Pollack step out, but I stay where I am. If I'm lucky, they won't notice me slipping away.
But it's too much to hope for. Where I couldn't breathe before, now I can't stop myself breathing. The breaths are coming hard and fast and I can't even begin to slow it down for even a second.
I need time. I need time to think, I need to get some fresh air. Just some cool, calming night air. The sun's already up, but I just want one more chance to get a few minutes of darkness, a few minutes of the cool, fresh, clean air.
Pollack's arm moves out to block the door as it starts to slip shut behind Donaldsen and his golden boy. It opens back up and Mitch steps inside.
"Leave me alone," I say. I don't know how I got the gumption to say it, but I said it.
"You know I can't do that, Sara; come on." His arm reaches out to take me by the shoulders.
"Don't touch me."
His grin slips just a little, and he takes a rough grip of my shoulders, pulls me out of my corner. I can't stop him. Donaldsen didn't pick him because he was a weakling.
He shoves me out towards his boss, and I'm in the hallway now, whether I like it or not. The elevator doors close behind me a minute later. Too late to go back now.
Donaldsen walks on ahead. Pollack takes my elbow. My skin hurts where his thumb presses into me. I don't say anything about it, because it wouldn't change anything.
He slides a card into the electronic lock and it shows a green light for a moment before he turns the handle and pushes the door open. I get the dubious honor of going in first.
It smells like all hotel rooms seem to, like sex and tobacco in spite of the 'no smoking' sign that's visible from the door. I recognize the smell because it smells just like it did when I gave up on my ladder-climbing career.
"Lord, Sara, does this bring back memories, or what?"
My face gets hot, with anger or something else, and my eyes hurt. Bad enough that I want to go home again. The urge to walk out of the room is about as strong as it could get, I think, until it gets worse again, and the screw just keeps tightening.
The beds in the room have been pushed apart, to make a big space in the middle of the room, and in the very center of that space is a wooden hotel-room chair with a man sitting in it.
The man's arms are handcuffed under the seat. He might be able to get out if he were very flexible, but Logan Beauchamp doesn't look limber.
Donaldsen comes up behind me, puts his slimy hand on the small of my back, where it burns like a cigarette lighter pressed into my skin even through my jacket and my shirt.
"You know, for a criminal, Mr. Beauchamp here had a lot to say about you. Didn't you, Logan?"
Chapter Thirty-Eight
RYAN
I don't know if they'll find me here. I don't know if there's any place they won't find me. It's not as if my address is a closely-guarded secret. It wouldn't take long to find one of my guys, and then they've probably had, I dunno, a beer there, something like that.
So I don't doubt for a second that they can find my house. They found Logan's easy enough.
The motel might be safe, but I don't feel confident. So instead I'm sitting in a Rest Stop off the interstate, my bike shoved in between a couple of long-haul rigs that look particularly inconspicuous, and the phone in my hand has been ringing for a long time with nobody answering on the other end of it.
I hang up and press redial to call Maguire again. She doesn't answer again. I'm so completely fucked, and I can't think straight. I need to get in touch with her yesterday.
But, it seems, that's not going to be an option. I'm on my own, like it or not. I have to slow things down and get clear. Someone else. I don't have the guns or the strategy to take down three people at once, never mind the entire Crazy Horse heavy squad.
No doubt there's a dozen or more guys going around, packing heat you could never get away with if the law didn't look the other way. They will look the other way, though, because it's easier than having a gunfight on their hands, and both sides
know it.
So now I have to accept that it's no longer a question of winning in a fair fight. Who can I call in? Spider had dealt with the low-level stuff so much that it's hard to think of someone really reliable I can call in.
Rob Green is dead. Spider's dead. Logan's gone, and Maguire's not answering her God damned phone. I hate to get him involved in this, but a name comes into mind.
Brian won't refuse. He won't be happy, of course. He never wanted to get involved in any of this, but the violence was always the biggest sticking point. Otherwise he'd be right there with us.
I shouldn't get him involved. It's the difference between life or death for him, maybe. It's an unnecessary risk, and it pulls at my guilt that I know he won't refuse, because he would never refuse his brother's request. Not if it was important, and this is.
If he had a choice, if he were to put thought into it, I'd be fine with it. But he won't. It will be out the door, right away, no question. I suck in a breath and try to cool my head. I can't call him. I can't. It would be wrong.
The call to Maguire doesn't go through again. I don't know why I'm surprised at this point. The last five didn't go through. Why would this one?
I stare at my phone as the screen blinks that the call has ended. I know who I have to call, but I don't want to. He isn't involved in this, and I want to keep it that way.
With a great deal of reluctance I jab the screen and move over to the contacts, scroll down, and press the call button.
It rings twice before Brian picks up, but he picks it up. He's never failed to before, not in all my life. Not once.
"What's up?"
"Brian, I'm in trouble."
He takes a long time to answer.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Bad trouble."
There's a long silence. I can feel the time stretching out in front of me.
"Yeah, I was just going to call you, Ryan."
Something in his voice shoots a shiver down my spine in spite of the hot sun beating down on me.