Widow's Run

by TG Wolff

  “SOME DUMB FUCK SWATTED ME. DEAD FUCK. HE IS ABSOLUTELY A DEAD FUCK.” Irish switched to Gaelic but continued shouting in capital letters. He wasn’t far. In the living room. The kitchen.

  Dix didn’t know what he got into with the stunt. Sure, even if he knew, he wouldn’t have believed it. That’s what being seventeen is about. I was going to have to nip this in the bud.

  “I WANT THE FUCKER RIGHT HERE. RIGHT FUCKING HERE.” Commence foot stomping. Irish was going to burst a blood vessel if he didn’t relax.

  I removed another pin and dropped it in the sink. Then another. A sweet little clink was made by metal on porcelain.

  And then a different kind of click sounded, and the working end of a pistol pointed at my still-blond head.

  Irish followed the gun to stand fully in the doorway.

  The last pin fell, and I removed the wig, then the netting holding my hair. “Dark brown. My natural color. Surprise.”

  “I always knew you weren’t a blond.” He took his finger from the trigger, then scratched his chin with the barrel. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. A candle, my ass.”

  “You didn’t have to be so dramatic at my funeral.”

  His eyes flashed with approval. “I knew you were there! I felt you.”

  I glared at him. “But you didn’t figure I had a reason for killing myself.”

  He shrugged. “Only one thing mattered. You didn’t say goodbye.” He reached out, non-gun hand, fisted my hair, then pulled me to him. The kiss reflected the man, hard and dominant. Irish and me, we had passion between us from the first, crazy assignment. But never love. I reciprocated the kiss because if he’d pulled a Lazarus on me, I’d be fucking thrilled to see him again.

  Then he bit my lip.

  “Hey.” I shoved him. Hard. The taste of iron hit my tongue. “What the hell.”

  “Don’t you die on me. Ever. Again.” He shoved me back, then soothed my lip with his thumb. “What are you doing here?”

  A cocky smile grew across my face. I wasn’t afraid of Irish. Never had been. You don’t have to be afraid of a dog to know it’s not a good idea to kick one. “Heard you were looking for me.”

  “Sit. Make yourself comfortable. I want to know everything.” He waved a gracious hand toward the couch, a gesture I once welcomed.

  But I wasn’t up for a trip down memory lane. Better to keep this impersonal…kissing aside. “I’m in the mood for a drink. Why don’t you find some pants and I’ll buy you a pint?”

  Irish swore at the expanse of skin he wore, then an unholy smirk settled on his face. “Does it bother you?”

  I openly assessed his body. When one has a work of art in front of them, one should appreciate it. “If there was a vote for the eighth wonder of the world, I’d nominate you. But there isn’t and I’m thirsty.” I headed for the front door. “You coming?”

  The bar of his choice was barely a mile away. Irish had his hand on my back as he steered me to what had to be his table. Back of the room, in a corner so dark even the shadows had shadows. He sat facing the room, forcing me to either sit next to him or trust him to watch my back. He was still working his way toward forgiving me for the whole death thing, so I gave him my back.

  A waitress way too perky for the time of night came to the table with Irish’s Guinness in hand. She handed me a menu, but I went with the drink of the night: a widow maker.

  Sometime, karma was a cruel, twisted freak.

  Irish reclined against the booth like a king, regal and confident. “You always had amazing eyes but with the dark hair, they’re brilliant. Can’t say as I care for the baggage under them.”

  I narrowed said amazing eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve lost weight. You’re practically scrawny. I bet I can count your ribs.” He reached across the table for my shirt. I slapped his hand away. “So, I know you’re married, you’re a scarecrow, and you’re dead. I presume you killed yourself to escape the bastard?” His face contorted into an ugly mask. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” I said instantly. “My husband is dead. ‘We regret to inform you’ and ‘a tragic accident’ and ‘we all mourn his loss.’” I slammed my hands on the table. “It was bullshit, Irish, pure bullshit. He was killed, and it was too inconvenient for the police to believe his death was anything but a traffic accident.”

  He leaned back and held court. “Tell me.”

  I did. I laid it all out. Every road block. Every dead end. Every stone unturned since I died.

  “I’m so close.” I held my thumb and index finger an inch apart. “I can feel it. If I can just get there…”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I’ll nail the bastard.” My hand clenched into a fist waiting for a target.

  “I know you will, but my question was what will you do after you nail the bastard?”

  “I’m focused on here and now. This mission. You can’t look to the next game until you win the one in front of you.”

  “You’ve always relied on your instincts to get you through. You’ve got good instincts, so you’ve gotten through, but for this, you need a plan.”

  “I have a plan, weren’t you listening? Nail. The. Bastard.” It’s been a debate between us for years. Irish is a hothead, but he’s a planner. Me? I prefer flying by the seat of my pants. I enjoy the ride.

  He shook his head, like he always did when I won an argument. “What do you need?”

  “First, close the contract. I can’t work with every Duey, Cheetam, and Howe getting in my way. Second,” I paused for dramatic effect, “pay up. I found me and delivered myself. Payment due in full.”

  “In the morning. One hundred thousand dollars for one night?” He cocked his head, then shook it, laughing at himself. “I’m a fucking idiot for thinking it’s a bargain.”

  “I’m not staying the night.” Arrogant bastard. Is it any wonder why we make a great team? I took a card from my pocket, conveniently prepared with a bank account. “I’ll make it easy on you.”

  He had one of his perplexing smiles on his face as he dialed, almost as though he were enjoying spending his money on me. He greeted someone in French, leaving the table with my card in hand. It was comfortable in the dark bar with Irish. I almost felt normal. An ordinary woman meeting a friend for a drink.

  My phone rang; I answered. The voice was male and likely called from some other bar. “Lori? Is this you?” He slurred the esses, stretched out the ooo.

  “Sorry buddy, wrong number.”

  “Yeah, well, how do you know?” Ah, the wit of drunk logic.

  “You’re right, I’m sorry. I have the wrong number.”

  “Damn straight.” And he hung up on me.

  “Dumbass.” The waitress placed a platter on the table. “Not you,” I said when she seemed put out. “We didn’t order this.”

  “I did. I’ll see some meat back on those bones.” Irish stepped in behind the waitress. He sat, going straight for the stomach ache waiting to happen. “The banking is done, the time is mine.”

  “Maybe. What are you doing here in the States?”

  His eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’m on loan.”

  I snorted. “The last time you were on loan, a congressman, a defense contractor, and a trapeze performer lost their jobs after a scandal.”

  “Lies!” He pounded his fist, roaring with laughter. The years melted away in the wake of heavy food, good beer, and better stories. Age was creeping in, though, afflicting him with a version of Alzheimer’s causing him to misremember the times I saved him from a lion (feline variety), a cougar (human variety), and a jealous husband with an itchy trigger finger. Of course, my retelling of the lasagna incident, the banker’s bisexual (and enthusiastic) wife, and an African coup were spot on.

  The lights came up, and the waitress began mopping the floor.

  “Somebody’s trying to tell us something.” I blinked to get my eyes to adjust. We walked out, arms around each other, bot
h reluctant to part. It was an awkward kind of silence, broken by my phone. The screen glowed like a beacon in the starless night. I recognized the number. It was dumbass again. I declined it, wishing I had blocked the number. “Do you think—”

  “Down. Down.” Before he got the second period out, Sam had me on the ground. Three blasts of gunfire preceded the shattering of the car window next to us. Tires squealed, and we were both on our feet.

  “My car,” he shouted, running across the nearly empty lot.

  “No. Take my car.” I pressed the fob, flooding the space with light.

  “Bloody hell. Don’t argue. I’m the better driver. I’ve always been the better driver. Get the fuck in.”

  I did because his car was closer. He was not the better driver. “Don’t lose them. Move, move.”

  He peeled out, accelerating up the empty road like a dragster. Our target was the piece of shit two blocks ahead, driving on both sides of the road. As he calmly closed the distance, I felt around for the weapons he would have stowed. I checked the loading on a handgun, then gave it over to Irish.

  I kept the sawed-off. It matched my mood. “This is your fault, you son of a bitch.”

  “In what world is this my fault?”

  “Your stupid contract. He’s getting on the highway. Don’t lose him.”

  “I’m not going to lose him, Mother, and this has nothing to do with me.”

  “Bullshit, Irish. This is just the kind of crap I’ve had to put up with. I should shoot you on principle.” The highways were empty by Baltimore standards and our dickhead was swerving around like he was playing a game of Mario Kart.

  “I don’t hire bush-league amateurs. Do you really think anyone I hire is going to drive a Saturn Ion?”

  I squinted to see the tail. “Seriously? I didn’t know there were still Saturns on the street.”

  “There’ll be one less after tonight.” The pedal went through the metal, hitting the proverbial ground. Cars honked as we passed them like they were standing still.

  I pressed a few buttons on his roof and eventually the sunroof opened. “Hold her steady.” I climbed onto my seat.

  “Not yet. I want them off this road.”

  “Me, too.” The exit coming up emptied into a commercial and industrial area with wide roads and few people. Perfect. Bracing myself, I went Major Tom. The wind stung at a hundred miles per hour. I aimed, fired, and the sideview mirror exploded. The car fishtailed before regaining control and taking the exit. I slid into my seat and reloaded. “Take the exit.”

  “You missed,” Irish said with juvenile delight.

  “I hit what I was aiming at. Take the exit.”

  “Christ, woman, stop with the backseat driving.” He cut across the lanes, our quarry seconds ahead of us. The ramp arched smoothly to the right, depositing us on an empty one-way street.

  “No one out but us rats.” A warehouse screened our rat from sight when the road turned sharply. Irish slowed only enough to maintain control.

  “Where is the fucker?” Irish’s question was rhetorical but…where was the fucker?

  “There!”

  I braced myself as we put the brakes to the test. Out my window, headlights glowed on a gravel road next to railroad tracks. An engine revved twice, then gravel flew.

  Irish roared with challenge, whipping his seven-passenger, reinforced Suburban juggernaut onto a collision course. White light flashed from the passenger side, bullets glancing off like gnats. “He’s pissing me off.”

  “You see?” I punched his shoulder. “You see the bullshit you sowed?”

  “Get out there and get this asshole out of my way.”

  Back through the sunroof. First shot. Front grill. Second shot. Windshield. The boxy car meant for runs to Taco Taco Taco was no match for the heavy gravel railroad embankment. It tripped over the rails and did the mechanical equivalent of a slow fall down the other side. It went man-to-man with a storage shed and the shed won.

  Irish and I alighted. (I’ve always wanted to use that word.) With a hand, he had me holding position behind the front of the vehicle. He went to the back door and returned with enough fire power to face down a zombie insurgency.

  I took the vest, gun, and extra rounds. “How do you want to play this?”

  He palmed his gun and stepped out. “The usual way…”

  Bad Cop, Badder Cop

  “Out of the car. Hands where I can see them.” I channeled authoritative badass as I gave the orders.

  “Out, you fuckheads. Give me a reason to end this now.” Irish circled the car, shouting in an American accent better than mine.

  The fuckheads inside were white, male, and young. Both shook their heads like the Hulk had gone to work on the few brains they had.

  “You shoot them, Dagger, you gotta do the paperwork.” My weapon trained on the driver’s head, I searched for their piece. It wasn’t in the driver’s hands. Those were wrapped anaconda-style around the steering wheel. “Keep those hands right there.” I stepped wide and examined the face. Stringy, blond hair was tied at the back of his head. Blue eyes, slightly dazed, sat on a long face. He was no one I knew.

  “I don’t think so. I cook, you clean. That’s the deal.” Irish peered over the roof, shaking his head to say he didn’t have an ID either. He pulled the passenger out the missing window, banging his head on the doorframe. “That’s what you get when you don’t wear your seat belt.”

  I swung my door open and introduced Ponytail to my friend pavement. I patted him down as he squirmed on the ground. “A shame those airbags didn’t deployed, with a pretty face like yours.”

  Irish’s fuckhead swore in ascending tones as he was relocated to the back of the car. Mine couldn’t tell up from down, literally. After much prodding, he made it to his feet, where genius decided to make a break for it and rammed his head into the tire wheel. Knocked himself out cold.

  I blinked rapidly…because I could not laugh. Thanks karma, I owe you one.

  Irish paced in front of the fuckhead, ten years older, fifty pounds heavier, one hundred percent meaner. Fuckhead was smart enough to keep his gaze on the ground. “This was a mistake. Sorry, man. Real sorry.”

  I leaned against the car, ready to follow Irish’s lead. “I’m not feeling it. You, Dagger?”

  “I’m feeling it, Cookie. Oh, I’m feeling it.” He grabbed the fuckhead by the throat and shoved the barrel in his mouth. “I’m feeling it. You feeling it?!?” Fuckhead’s screams competed with Irish’s shouts for airtime. “Shut up. Now. I’m going to ask you one time. Who was your mark and who is paying you?”

  Fuckhead gaggled on the barrel.

  “Pull back, Dagger.” I walked into fuckhead’s field of vision. “You’re gonna tell us what we want to know. Aren’t you?”

  His hands were up now, eyes closed, head nodding. A pool of piss spread around him. Irish withdrew the barrel slowly.

  “T-target was a blond bitch. I-I got a cell number and an address for that bar.” His gaze flickered to me. “You aren’t blond.”

  It wasn’t worth a response. “Who’s paying you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Irish stepped forward. “They all say that. The first time.”

  “I don’t, I swear.” Fuckhead practically rolled under the car. “I-I needed cash, so I called a connection. Two days ago, I got a message from someone with some fucked up name paying ten g’s for a drive-by. Today I got a message to be ready, then came the deets.”

  A deadly quiet fell.

  Irish paced away and then turned. “How stupid do you think I am.” He stalked back to fuckhead.

  “It’s the truth, I swear. I fucking swear on my sister’s life.” His voice was hoarse, his face colorless except for the blooming welt left by the dashboard. Desperate blue eyes clung to me. “Tell him. Tell him it’s the truth.”

  “What was the name?”

  “Chrissy something. It was long. I don’t know, but i
t was long. It’s in my phone.” He went for his back pocket. Irish dragged him from under the vehicle, put him on his face, arm twisted back to the breaking point. Fuckhead’s voice broke, edging on hysterical. “It’s in there. Check for yourself.”

  He didn’t have a password on the phone, but he did have five texting apps. The seconds it took to find the right one probably felt like hours with your face doing an impression of a waffle on the gritty pavement.

  “Chrysanthemum,” I said.

  “Like the flower?” Irish removed his weight from fuckhead’s back.

  “Wanted the woman dead. I don’t ask why.”

  Three hours before sunrise, we were back at Irish’s house. For those of you concerned about the fuckhead twins, we left them where they were. If they didn’t manage their way out in another few hours, the early-shift workers would find them. Irish was as surprised as you are when I dragged him out of there ASAP.

  I needed to talk to Ian and Dix and considered going back to my place except for two complications. One, Irish would follow me. Two, I didn’t want him to kill Dix.

  “More coffee?” He stood behind the gourmet kitchen counter, coffee pot in hand, every straight woman’s wet dream.

  “Yeah. You changed your recipe, right?”

  “About two years ago, after a little visit to Ethiopia.”

  “It’s good. Really good. Sam?” I waited until his gaze came up. I had a question I needed an answer to. “Why did you put a hundred grand out to find a dead woman?”

  His face was a mask, giving nothing away as he stared back. Then he turned away, going to the refrigerator and pulling out a carton of eggs, milk. He wasn’t going to answer.

  “Sam—”

  “I knew a girl once. Aibreann.” The Irish name was pronounced “av-rawn.” “April. She was as sunny and sweet as the month she was named for.” He cracked eggs into a bowl, his eyes on his work.