He didn’t respond at first. She squeezed his hand. “It’s okay, Lanny. We’re going to get the guy who shot you.”
Lanny’s eyes opened, only halfway, but they opened. “Cahill,” he said in a raspy voice. He licked his dry lips with a tongue like sandpaper. “Water. Need water.”
Chance looked around helplessly. “I don’t know if you can have water yet. Maybe some ice chips. I’ll ask. I promise.”
Lanny made a choking sound, deep in his throat. Then, “Sorry.”
“Sorry? For what? You got tagged by some lowlife. We’ll—”
He squeezed her hand back, hard. “No.” He wheezed for a moment, then caught his breath. “Sorry for…the fed. That guy. I…shouldn’t have…”
She leaned forward, her grip on his hand becoming harder. “What are you saying. Lanny? You know who took Winslow? The federal guy?”
“Let…it happen…”
“What do you mean, you let it happen? Are you saying you were there when they took Winslow? And you didn’t stop it?”
Lanny’s head lolled to one side. The beeping of his heart monitor sped up. Chance leaned forward and took Lanny’s chin in one hand. “Lanny. Tell me the truth. Did you set Winslow up?” There was no answer. She shook his chin, as gently as she could considering her desperation. “Answer me!”
His eyes opened again. “No. There when I got there. I should have…” Lanny closed his eyes and a single tear ran down his cheek. “Should have…Luther…sorry…”
Chance released his chin and sat back in the chair, numb with shock. The heart monitor was going crazy. The dark-haired nurse stormed into the room. “What the hell are you doing to my patient?” she raged.
Chance stood up. “Sorry. I was just leaving.”
The nurse was checking the monitors. “You’re damn right you’re leaving.” She made an adjustment on the hanging IV bag. “I ought to call the cops on you.”
I am a cop, Chance wanted to remind her, but that distinction didn’t seem to matter as much to her as it once did. She got up and walked out, staring straight ahead. In the waiting room outside, McGee was sitting in a chair across from Latiesha. An infant carrier sat on the floor in front of him and he was dangling and shaking a set of oversized plastic keys over it. The baby reclining in the carrier was giggling with delight. The sight made Chance feel sick. “Come on. Let’s go.”
McGee looked up. When he saw the look on Chance’s face, he stood up. “Okay.” The toy keys dangled uselessly from his hand.
Latiesha stood up and took them. “What’s wrong? Is Lanny…” Her hand went to her mouth. “Is he…”
“He’ll be okay.” Chance looked at Latiesha. “I’m so sorry. Really.”
Latiesha caught the edge in her voice. “Thank you,” she said, all the former warmth gone. She picked up the baby carrier and walked off through the doors to the ICU without another word.
“What’s happening?” McGee asked.
Chance collapsed into a chair. “I think Lanny was dirty. He was one of Luther’s people. He…” She leaned forward and put her head between her knees for a moment, then straightened up. “He watched Luther’s people take Winslow. And he did nothing.”
“Christ.” McGee walked over and sat in the chair beside her. “I’m sorry,” he said. Chance saw him reach out, as if to take her hand, then pull back.
She reached over, found his hand, and squeezed it before letting go. “Thanks. I know.” She leaned back. “So my department’s compromised by Luther.”
McGee nodded. “And DEA’s compromised by Gutierrez.”
She smiled, a little sadly. “Looks like the only people we can trust are each other.”
He smiled back. “Except you’re on suspension, and I’m…I guess I’m not really anything.”
“Is it weird that I actually feel kind of good about that?”
Before McGee could answer, Chance felt a vibration in her pocket. She pulled out her phone and looked at the screen. What she saw there stunned her. She opened the line. “Savannah.”
McGee leaped up. “Savannah?”
There was no answer on the line, just the sound of breathing. Chance could hear a voice in the background, a male one. “Come see what we found, Mama.”
A female voice replied. Chance couldn't make out the words. “Savannah!” she barked. The connection was broken. Chance stared at the phone for a moment, then turned back to him. “It was her. Savannah. And at least one of the boys was with her. I heard him call her mama.”
“If one’s there,” McGee said, “chances are they both are. But she hung up.”
Chance swiped a finger on the screen of her phone, looking for something. “The good news is…there.”
“What?”
She looked up and smiled. “Savannah’s using the burner we gave her to call for help if there was an emergency. And we put a GPS tracker in it. Winslow and I both have apps on our phones to track it. Now that she’s turned her phone back on, I can get a fix on where she is. Give me just a minute.” She looked down at the screen and the smile vanished. “Huh.”
“Where is she?”
Chance shook her head. “Nowhere that makes sense.”
“You’re sure that thing works?”
She pushed the button and stuck the phone in her jeans pocket. “One way to find out.”
“We calling for backup?” He knew the answer to the question as soon as it was out of his mouth.
“You got anyone you trust?” she asked.
“How about your friend Delphine?”
She grimaced. “I hope to hell Delphine isn’t one of Luther’s people. But if she isn’t, she probably doesn’t know who is.”
“Which puts it all back to you and me.”
She nodded. “So…”
“So let’s go.”
“GOOD LORD,” SAVANNAH said as she surveyed the room. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s a damn arsenal, is what it is,” Mick said.
He wasn’t wrong. What had once been a library, or possibly a billiard room, now held racks along both walls. The racks were filled with weapons, ranging from pistols small enough to fit in a pocket to what looked like some kind of rocket launcher.
“That ain’t all,” Lana said. “Check this shit out.” She pulled a footlocker away from the wall and opened it. It was full of small round objects.
Savannah put a hand to her mouth. “Are those grenades?”
Mick’s smile was like Christmas morning. “They sure are.” He picked one up and bounced it in his hand.
“Put that down,” Savannah said.
He shook his head. “We need these, Mama.” He picked up another grenade.
She thought of Cully’s words. Luther’s people are on their way. They’ll take you.
Lana’s next words distracted her. “And now, for the main event.” Lana said. She pulled another footlocker up and flipped open the top. It was full of cash. Savannah leaned over. It was all large-denomination bills. “How did you find this?”
For the first time, Lana’s face lost its hard expression. “He…likes to show off.” Savannah noticed her knees had begun to shake. “He brought me here before…before he…”
Mick had been distracted by the weapons all around, but he saw Lana and his face froze. “What did he do?” She started to sob. “What did that bastard do?” The shouting only made her cry harder.
Savannah put her arm around the weeping girl’s thin shoulders. “It’s okay,” she murmured, although she knew in her heart that it wasn’t okay, that it might not ever be okay. She didn’t know what Cully had done to the girl after getting her wasted on whatever drugs she asked for, but she had an idea. She’d heard stories about Cully. And I let her go with him, she thought. It made her feel sick with shame. Then she looked over at Mick. Why hadn’t he done anything? Maybe, however, she could make it right. Or at least better. She leaned over and whispered in the girl’s ear. “Lana,” she said. “Let me show you something.”
She
guided her out the door and through the hallways, back to the main wing. The boys followed.
When Lana saw Cully’s body laid out on the floor of the bedroom, she gave a small cry and pulled away from Savannah. She stared at the body, then back. “You…you did this?”
“He didn’t give me much choice,” Savannah said.
When Lana looked back at her, there was something in her eyes that Savannah could swear was adoration. She sprang forward and threw her arms around Savannah, sobbing into her chest, but this time with relief. Savannah felt a rush of maternal feeling for the girl that surprised her.
She hugged Lana closer. “It’s okay now,’ she whispered. “He can’t hurt you. Ever again.” She became aware that the boys were standing behind her, crowded together in the doorway. She heard one of them make a small sound, then heard his footsteps going away. Keith, she thought sadly. He was always the sweet one. But sweet wasn’t what they needed now. She looked back. She was right. Mick, tough little Mick, the one she’d set to look after his baby brother, was still there, his face grim, a rifle slung over his shoulder. Grenades hung from a pair of web belts he’d found and crisscrossed over his chest. But, she realized with despair, it wasn’t enough. The people coming for them were worse than anything he’d ever known. Mick, her sweet Keith, and this broken girl in her arms weren’t going to be enough to stop them. There was only one thing to do.
“Mick,” she said. “We need to run. There are people coming. Very bad people.”
He grinned maniacally, shifting the rifle from his shoulder and holding it out before him like a prize. “We’re bad people too, Mama. We can take them.”
“No, honey,” she said. “We can’t. Get your brother. Load that money in the van.”
His jaw set stubbornly. “We’ve got guns. We’ve got—”
“Mick,” she snapped. “Do as I say.”
Downstairs, she heard a crash, then the sound of shouting voices.
They’re here, she thought.
KEITH STOOD AT the top of the stairs, clutching the banister and trying desperately not to puke. The sight of that man, with his face smashed, the blood already congealing on the ruin of his face… Strawberry jam, he thought. He almost lost it at that point, even fell to his knees, but he was distracted by the rumble of big engines outside in the driveway, the slamming of car doors, the sound of yelling. He staggered to his feet, blinking in confusion, just as the first heavy blow came at the front door. He looked down at the pistol he’d left on the floor behind him, the one Mick had insisted he take from the room downstairs. As he bent to pick it up, the door crashed open. A large man in a leather jacket entered, a rifle held out in front of him, scanning for targets. He was big and bald, with a goatee braided tightly until it looked like a handle protruding from his chin. Keith must have made some sound, because the man turned and fired blindly up at him, the bullets splintering the woodwork and plaster over Keith’s head. He screamed and fired back in raw panic, too frightened to aim. His shots, poorly aimed as they were, had some effect as the man swore and backpedaled out of the smashed door. He called out to someone behind him. Through his all-consuming fog of terror, Keith could swear that the man was shouting in Spanish.
“Mick!” he called out. “Mama!”
As if summoned by magic, Mick was beside him, aiming his rifle down at the entryway. “Who’s down there, lil’ bro?” he demanded.
Keith could hear the question, and some part of it could understand it, but terror stopped up his throat and kept him from answering. “I…I…”
“Come on, get it together, Keith. Tell me. Who’s—oh shit…”
Keith looked down to see a square object that looked like a canvas backpack land in the entryway, just inside the door. He felt Mick’s hand on his collar, pulling him backward, then the fabric of his shirt ripped. He tried to regain his balance, but Mick suddenly tackled him, bearing him to the floor, covering him like a blanket. Keith had landed hard enough to knock the wind out of him. As he struggled to draw breath, a sound louder than any he’d ever imagined possible shook the floor beneath him. It sounded like the crack of summer thunder heard from beneath a lightning-struck tree and rattled the house like an earthquake.
Mick groaned and rolled off him, staggering to his feet. “Come on, Keith,” he gasped. “They’re coming.” He leaned down and picked up the pistol that was lying on the floor. He pulled the slide back, the round chambering with an audible metallic click, and handed it to Keith. “Please,” he said, his voice breaking. “We need you to step up, bro.”
Keith looked at the gun stupidly for a moment, then he heard the sound of Mick’s rifle, a steady hammering right over his head. He turned. The man with the braided goatee had mounted the stairs after detonating his satchel charge, and he was aiming his rifle at Mick. He was smiling in a way that filled Keith with a rage he’d never felt in his short life. My brother. He’s trying to hurt my brother. Without thinking, he rolled over and fired, again and again. One shot caught Goatee Man in the throat and knocked him backward. His eyes were wide and unbelieving until Mick put a rifle round between them and he staggered back against the wall, slamming into the plaster before toppling onto his face.
“Good shot, lil’ bro,” Mick rasped.
“You killed him,” Keith whispered.
“Maybe,” Mick said, “but you got his fucking attention.”
Keith’s reply was cut off by the sound of more feet pounding up the stairs and voices shouting in Spanish. Mick clawed one of the grenades off the belt on his chest, pulled the pin, and tossed it. It landed at the feet of a dark-haired man in a black wife-beater t-shirt who appeared at the top landing, pointing another military-looking rifle down the hallway. The man looked down and scuttled backward, an almost comical expression of panic on his face. Before the grenade could go off, Savannah appeared behind them, a pistol in each hand. It was hard to tell what killed the man in the t-shirt, the pistol shots or the grenade that detonated and sprayed shrapnel at his feet, but he collapsed at the top of the stairs, bleeding from a dozen or more mortal wounds. Angry and confused voices came from below.
“Come on,” Savannah said, “Luther’s people are here. We don’t want to—”
“No,” Keith said, “they’re speaking Spanish. Listen.”
Savannah halted for a moment and listened. As she did, another thunderous detonation shook the house. “Shit. Gutierrez. He’s going after Luther’s people.”
“Who?” Keith said.
She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. Two big dogs just went to war, and we’re in the middle of it. That’s not a good place to be. Let’s move.”
“Where?” Mick said. The sound of feet on the stairs prompted another burst of fire from Mick’s rifle.
Keith heard shouted orders, the sound of running footsteps, then silence. The acrid tang of smoke filled the air, then the crackling of flames below. “The house is on fire,” he said.
“Yeah,” Savannah answered. “But we found a way out. Down the servant’s stairs. We can get out. I hope.”
THE SERVANT’S STAIRS were narrow and winding, a semi-secret passage at the back of the house where the lower classes that had once served the local lords of all creation could come and go about their duties without disturbing their masters. They wound their way down that passage, rough wood creaking under their feet and making them wince until they realized there was probably no one listening. The shouted Spanish voices had receded. Savannah figured they’d backed off, waiting for the fire to drive their quarry out and onto the guns. Or worse. She gritted her teeth. She wasn’t going to burn. She wasn’t going to get shot. She was going to get her family out of here.
They exited from the back stairs into a tiny vestibule meant to further shield the preparations of servants from the gaze of their masters. Savannah opened the door carefully and peered around it. It opened into a hallway just outside the billiard room-turned-arsenal they’d seen earlier. Lana had pulled the footlocker full of money out to the hal
lway, and now she sat on it, a black machine pistol in each hand. “About time y’all got here,” she said. “You know the house is burning down, right?”
Savannah couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, hon, we figured that out.” She looked around and pointed down the hallway. “Side door is that way, right?”
Lana nodded. “Straight shot to the garage. But what about those guys outside?”
There was a fresh eruption of gunfire outside, screams of pain, harshly shouted orders. Mick looked around, the whites of his eyes showing his fear and confusion. “What the fuck?”
Savannah cocked her head to listen. “Cully said Luther’s people were coming. Coming to take us. I think they just ran into Gutierrez’s soldiers.”
“Take us where?” Keith piped up.
She looked over at him, saw the desolation in his eyes, and felt her heart shattering inside her chest. Her sweet boy, her innocent one, and he’d been dragged into killing. “Hell, baby,” she said. “Where they want to take us is hell. But I’m not going to let that happen, okay? Just trust me. We’re getting out of here. With,” she smacked her hand down on the footlocker and forced a smile onto her face, “a fucking shit-ton of cash. Thanks to our girl here.”
The smile Lana gave her might have melted her heart again, but she willed that heart to become steel. Steel was what they needed now. “Let’s go,” she said. “Mick, Keith, pick up that footlocker. Keep your eyes open.” She looked at Lana. “Guns up, girl. Let’s move.”
“Got your back.” Lana grinned. “Mama.”
They made it out of the house, down the short path, and to the garage, the sounds of gunfire and shouting rising to a crescendo, then gradually trailing off. Someone was winning and someone was losing, but Savannah had no intention of sticking around to find out who was who. The problem with playing both sides against each other, she thought, is that whoever wins, it probably isn’t going to be us. She wished she’d figured that out earlier, before she’d put her boys in the middle.
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