by Tommy Twist
She's afraid of not being in control, which is a lucky thing for her. Lucky that I'm here, anyways. Because now she can learn what it's like not to be in control any more.
I don't take my hands off of her. I'm not going to any time soon, but she needs to be more honest first. More ready to tell the truth about what she feels. I can feel her under my hand, pressing against me.
I push her down, just hard enough to let her know that she's not getting out. She stops struggling for a moment. I lean down over her.
"You're not in control," I tell her softly. "Not here. You can go back to your work in a while, and you can control your bulldog when you get there. Not me."
Her eyes burn with anger. She doesn't like hearing that one bit. That look is how Maguire should always look. Anger suits her. I tell her so and it burns hotter.
"Get off me!"
"Not until you realize that you can't control me."
"Fuck you, I can't."
"You're not going to admit it, are you?"
She will, but not out loud. She's not ready yet. I lean down on her harder and press my lips against hers. For an instant I feel her surrendur as the kiss brushes against her soft mouth, then the denial kicks in again, hard.
I pull back away and push down on her ribs, stopping the rebellion in its tracks.
"You can't lie to me, 'Agent.'"
"Lie to you about what?"
"You know what. You want this, don't you?"
"Fuck you. Get off me."
She didn't deny it, and I noticed. She can't deny it, because she knows I'll hear the lie in her voice. She doesn't trust herself to be able to say the words. That's smart.
"Is that really what you want?"
I let my hand get light on her chest. I let her feel it. Her face is flushed with a mixture of anger and arousal that she can't bring herself to deny.
Her hand comes up from underneath and slaps me. My hand gets heavy again, pressing her down onto the bar. Her breasts pool on her chest deliciously, but I don't touch them. Don't reach for them. I don't even look at them if I can help it.
"That wasn't nice, Agent Maguire."
"Let me go, and we'll see how nice I can be."
"I can't let you go, Maguire. You still haven't learned your lesson."
"What lesson is that?"
I brush my lips across hers again. Her body calls out to mine, tries to deepen the kiss into something more substantial.
"The lesson that you can't control me."
"You're a piss-poor fuckin' scumbag, and I can control you as much as I want."
I move my hand. She lays there a minute, her breaths coming in ragged and short. The flush of arousal still shines in her skin. I can almost see it reflecting off her skin under the neon lights.
"If that's what you think, fine. We'll see who's right."
She rolls off the bar, straightens her shirt. We both know what happened, and we both know I'm right. I proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had less leverage than she thought I did.
I watch the cogs in her mind turning, watch her imagining what could have happened. She shivers at the thought. She takes another deep breath and straightens, her face returning to the confident mask that she tries to wear.
"If you ever do that again—"
"You'll what, 'Agent?' Beat me to hell and back?" I lean forward, my elbows propped up on the counter. "I'd like to see that, Maguire."
I can see her flinch at the way I say her name. She doesn't like it. I make a mental note to find out her first name. If it's a secret, then I'll dig it out.
Maguire has plenty of secrets. Anyone could see that. But some things about her aren't secret at all. What she wanted, what her body was reaching out for even as her lack of control drove her insane… I didn't need to wonder about that.
"Is there anything else, Agent Maguire? Or can I get back to cleaning up my bar?"
She grinds her molars together. It gives her an aspect of sexual frustration that start my motor running again.
"You ain't going to offer me a beer?"
"Not tonight, Maguire. Not if you can't be honest with me."
Her jaw tightens. "You've got a big fuckin' ego, you know that?"
I shrug and pour myself another drink, then take a drink in front of her. A little jab that I can't quite resist.
"Maybe, but I'm not wrong."
She leans down to grab the pistol from the ground, where it fell when I pulled her up onto the bar. She slips it into her holster.
No more threats, I think. She must have been shaken up by that. I can't keep the smile off my face at the thought. No more threats from her, and soon, no more lies. Then things will get real interesting. McCallister is big fish, no doubt.
But I can't buy the idea that she's only got plans that go that high. Maguire, whatever her real name is, she's not the kind of person who makes short-term plans. She's not the kind of person to tell me all her plans, either.
She's got other irons in the fire, and I'm very interested to see where this one goes when the iron is finally hot.
Chapter Eleven
MAGUIRE
I don't know who thinks I'm supposed to be awake at 6 in the morning when they call me, but I answer anyways. And given that the number's got a D.C. area code, I make it sound like I'm wide goddamn awake.
3 hours is plenty when it's your boss on the line, and they have control of the purse strings.
"Maguire," I answer, my voice neutral, even awake-sounding as I can make it.
"I didn't wake you, did I? I'm sorry, the time difference—"
"No, sir."
He doesn't care one damn bit about whether or not he woke me, so it doesn't do me any good to be upset about it. Certainly doesn't do me any good to tell him I'm upset, that's not getting anything done at all.
"How's everything going with the Beauchamp investigation? Made any arrests?"
"Ah… yes, sir. We did, we arrested Ryan Beauchamp, but we had to cut him loose. We're putting our work into turning him, for…"
I don't need to see the look on his face, not that I could from all this distance. Without speaking, without making a sound, the tone of the conversation shifts and I let myself go.
My eyes want to droop shut, even as I wait tensely for what he's calling me about. I let them close a little bit, and my eyelids just about manage to touch by the time he responds.
"Turn? Did we tell you to turn him, Agent Maguire?"
"Sir, I thought—"
"You thought, what? That you would give yourself full authority on this matter?"
"Sir," I begin, but I stop myself before I say anything more.
"Do you have anything on Beauchamp, yes or no?"
"We have circumstantial evidence placing one of his guys at a trade, guns for drugs, and we have an informant that puts those instructions in his mouth. He didn't say those exact words, of course—but we've got the conversation on tape."
"Then you need to get him back to Washington, Agent Maguire. If we've got evidence, we need to secure it here."
"I don't think that's wise, sir."
"You don't think it's wise?" His voice is sneering so his face doesn't have to. "I will tell you what's wise, Agent. You don't tell me, if you ever want to see 'Special' Agent. You do as I tell you, and that's that. Am I making myself perfectly clear?"
"Sir, I just—"
"No. I don't want to hear it. You get on the phone with your informant, you send him to Washington, to be debriefed by us. Then you go round up Beauchamp. Is. That. Understood?"
"I hear you, sir." It's about the best I can do right now to tell him that I'm not doing it.
"Don't give me that shit, Maguire. Do you understand my instructions, as they have been given to you—yes, or no?"
I take a deep breath in through my nose. This was my shot at getting past that fucking toad-looking man. I can't just keep going, keep looking at the ground just before my feet.
Eventually, someone has to look up, and they have to r
ealize that there's more to the situation than the next little small fry. Eventually you have to grow the hell up.
"Yes, sir."
"And then get your ass back to D.C., along with the prisoner. We'll debrief you there, but if he's dealing with international drugs, we try him in Federal court."
"I really think—"
He cuts me off again, for the twentieth time. At this point I should just keep my mouth shut. He's not listening, and I'd get to sleep so much faster.
"You're still not listening to me, Maguire. You're still not listening. Bring him in, bring yourself in, both of you, to Washington D.C. No thinking. No, just one more thing. Get here."
"Yes, sir."
He hangs up the phone and I lay my head back down. This could have all been a bad dream. When I wake up in the morning, I'll forget, because when you wake—you forget.
I've had plenty of dreams that felt real in the moment, but when I woke up, they couldn't hurt me any more. They were gone. Just like this will, I assure myself.
I lay my head back down on the pillow, slipping into an uneasy sleep. Tossing and turning doesn't make for restful sleep, but it's the best I can do.
I force myself to keep going back to sleep until finally my alarm wakes me up. I wasn't exactly asleep at the time, but my eyes were closed. So when I sat up, rubbed the tiredness from my eyes, and stripped down to get into the shower, it counted as getting up.
The hot water felt good on my skin. I could feel it washing away the Arizona dust, the grime of dealing with filth all damn day. But it did nothing for my memory.
Donaldsen had called me, hours ago. My task force, what little of it I had, was gone. Out of my hands, out of Arizona. Back to D.C. where all of my assets can be chopped up into nice little bits.
My only asset goes with them, when they leave. Beauchamp is to be arrested and tried for illicit gun sales and for trafficking. They'll get a big success, or so they think.
Typical Donaldsen, can't see the forest for the trees. Can't see the big redwood, because it's blocked by a little sapling. He's going to fuck this up for everyone.
I take a deep breath. I can stop it, though. There's not much I can do, but I can do something. I consider the chances that Donaldsen didn't call anyone else.
The two factors weighing against each other in my head, as the hot water streams down my body, are that on one hand, Donaldsen has no respect for anyone, least of all me.
On the other hand, he has no patience for menial tasks. Things like making a round of phone calls in order to make sure his orders are followed are beneath him.
It could be that he hired someone else to do it. There are plenty of ass-kissers who just joined up with the bureau. They could use the help with their careers.
I was like that once, and I'm not going to make that mistake again. Investigator Martin Donaldsen was a poor boss, and a poor teacher. But he was good for one thing, and that was showing me how much of a mistake I'd made being a mewling kitten all those years.
After all, it did nothing to endear me to the man, and it never helped me with anything. Being a machine-cut bitch all the time? That worked good.
I turn off the shower, my skin starting to wrinkle and prune and shining a little red where I'd rubbed it too hard thinking about Donaldsen and how much I'd like to put my fist through his face.
That wouldn't be good enough, though. Nothing ever would be, not enough to make up for what he'd done.
I could try not to report my orders, but it's a matter of time. I have to pack up and go home, leave the big fish for someone else. Someone who was going places. Someone who wasn't me, evidently.
The idea occurs to me a moment later, an idea that I immediately dislike and can't stop thinking once it's hit me.
There is one other solution. One way that I can keep my pieces in play. A way that doesn't rely on Donaldsen's god damned money.
I pull out my phone and punch in Danny's number. Spider wants to be pulled, then pull him. Send him back to Washington, just like Donaldsen ordered.
I'll go in and get Beauchamp, and by the time I've got him, we might just about have another catch to bring back with us.
Chapter Twelve
RYAN
I don't know what time they think it is, knocking on my door, but I don't do business before dinnertime. Everything before then, that's my own time. For me.
I answer the door anyways. A red-headed woman that looks like she could—and would—kill a man pushes past me.
"Nice to see you this morning, Agent Maguire."
"Fuck you, Beauchamp."
I smile at the response. She's really starting to warm up to me, even after the short time we've known each other. It must be my electric personality.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"We've got word that there's a threat on your life, and I'm here to make sure it all goes off without a hitch."
I can hear the sarcasm in her voice. "If you don't want to tell me, just say so."
"Okay, well, how about this? Fuck off, I'm here for my own reasons. We need to get you out of here."
"What? Agent Maguire, this is my house. No business here. Never."
"Well, I found you, didn't I?"
I growl, dipping my head out through the door to get a glimpse of the old Indian, still sitting there in the driveway. At least she hasn't gone so hellcattish that she needs to knock it over every time she goes by.
"So what?"
"So, someone's coming after you. And if I know where you live, they definitely know."
"That doesn't follow, boss-lady. You know where I live because you read it. Off my I.D."
"What's your point?"
She looks tired. I don't tell her. No reason to hurt the woman's feelings, after all.
"If you're so worried about it, come on. We'll get going."
"That's what I've been trying to tell you, you big God damned ape. Get your shit together, we're leaving."
I get my shit together. We leave. I toss her a helmet on the way out, which she looks at like it—and then as if I—had grown a second head.
"What's this for?"
"We're going out, you tell me."
"I have my own car."
"Nope. If we're going out, someone's leaving a vehicle here. You know this neighborhood? They're going to be in there the second I leave the driveway empty."
"Really? Even with your reputation?"
"Particularly with my reputation," I answer.
I can't begin to tell her how many times I've come back to find my T.V. missing, because I stopped counting myself a long time ago.
All I know is, it used to happen at least once a week, until I started leaving a car outside. People start getting weird ideas that there might be someone in there. Someone protecting my fucking T.V. from some petty thief.
I kick the Indian to life. I wait a minute for her to buckle the helmet around her full hair. It looks like a tight fit. I don't particularly feel bad for her, I have to admit. Oh, well.
The saddle isn't made for two, but I scoot forward a bit and give her space on the front. I can tell she doesn't know where to put her feet. I consider not telling her for a minute. I'm enjoying this a little too much.
Then again, she would have to ride with me if I didn't want her to be there, so I should be fairer to her. I lift my feet off the foot-holds on the side of the Indian and move them up to the highway pegs.
She puts her feet on the platforms tentatively, and then seeing I'm not going to use them, a little more firmly. No problem.
I tell her, over the scream of the engine, to wrap her arms around me. This is going to be a bit of a bumpy ride.
I feel her breasts pressing into my back, the way her soft body molds to mine, and I lift off my other foot and twist the throttle, let out the clutch and go.
The bike starts slow. I take a slow slalom to get a feel for it under the added weight of Agent Maguire behind me. Now I'm good, though, ready to take some added speed. We get going on th
e highway and head out.
If we're going someplace we don't want to be found, that rules out the bar. I'd rather go there. It's a good place, a place I control. A place where we can talk privately. But there's no way that's going to happen, not right now.
I need someplace that I would normally go. It doesn't take me long to figure out what the right answer is. I turn around at the next light and get myself going the right way.
Where would nobody go looking for me? Well, that's easy. It's not getting there that's hard, either. It's easy, in fact. So easy that I have had to avoid going there in the past.
The one place nobody would look for me is somewhere I can't go, and in this case, that means Crazy Horse territory. All I have to do is go hide under Brent McCallister's nose, and we can have a little talk and figure out where to go next.
The Indian screams out, both cylinders kicking smoothly beneath us. A nice, easy ride. I pull up to a stop in front of an Irish pub that I've never had the right to step inside.
It stands out compared to the rest of the area, an Irish joint in the middle of a town full of Mexicans. No problem for them, though, and the only problem for me is if I get caught.
The only thing going to get me caught, of course, is this bike. I pull it around back before kicking down the stand, leaning it down gently onto the concrete, checking to make sure it won't fall.
The asphalt here feels soft, soft enough that I might dig into it more than I'd like. But it's fine. Turns out there was nothing to worry about.
I turn back to Maguire and motion her to go inside. I follow her, watching her ass swish from side to side as she moves. She's got a body built for—well, not for what she's doing with it, I think.
She settles into a booth, barely lit. Like the rest of the place. An old, fat-backed TV shows a twenty-year old sitcom through static. The wonders of daytime television.
"What's this about?"
"We need to move faster, Beauchamp. We can't afford to wait on whatever the fuck—the stars to align, for you to get McCallister. I need him soon."
"So, what? You can arrest him instead of me? Don't rush me, Agent."