Shoot 'Em Up Read online

  “You’re my partner. Everything pertaining to your mental state is pertinent to me.”

  Okay, tough guy. “Honestly? It was pretty scary. I was buzzed and not thinking clearly when I opened the cooler. And yeah, I’m pretty much lucky to be alive. So let’s just get on with things. Okay?”

  “It catches up with you.” His brown eyes darkened. “When you least expect it.”

  Gee, thanks.

  “We’ll see.” I wanted to get out of the car right then and there. “I got some pretty sick avoidance moves left in the ol’ skull. . . .”

  He shook his head slowly. “This isn’t a fucking joke, Maisie.”

  “No. It isn’t.” I turned away to the window.

  Lee took the hint and flipped on the stereo. Sublime played a little too loud all the way to Hank’s. My breath came out in a shaky sigh as he put the car in Park.

  Smarten up. He’s messing with your head. Don’t let him get to you.

  I popped the button on the seat belt and moved to open the door. He reached across, lightning fast, boxing me in. “You’re not cut out for this, Maisie.”

  “But you are?” The retort snapped from my mouth before I could stop it. I glanced down at Lee’s ripped arm. Each muscle clearly defined, bicep, tricep, flexors, extensors.

  He wasn’t a little man.

  “Thing is, kid, there’s more than one type of lethal. The silent, detached kind. And then there’s me. Happy-go-lucky, I’ll crush your throat while you’re laughing.”

  The insides of my cheeks trembled. “I already have a boyfriend and a job. When I need a life coach, Lee, I’ll let you know. Thanks for the lift.” I got out and went in the house. He sat in the driveway for several minutes before pulling out.

  To heck with this garp. Hello, avoidance nap.

  * * *

  The alarm sounded at 9:30 p.m. I put on makeup and flat-ironed my hair. I had to leave it down, as the Tegaderm burn dressing made me look like a tween trying to hide a hickey left over from a basement vampire party.

  Rat bastard Coles.

  I popped a couple of Hank’s modafinals to keep my edge and went into the closet to choose an outfit.

  Hmm. What do I own that screams self-assured drug dealer, don’t merk me?

  Levi’s, IDF tee, black TacShell jacket, steel-toed work boots, and the Kimber Ultra RCP II LG .45 ACP that Hank bought me, just because. A honey of a gun with a three-inch barrel and a matte-black finish. It was an “extreme melt” concealed-carry pistol. Everything on it snag-free and rounded. I checked the magazine and tucked it into the Galco holster at the small of my back.

  I could hear the tease of Hank’s deep voice in my ear, the feel of his chest and stomach tight against my back, his large hands over mine on the Kimber.

  “One to make ready

  And two to prepare.

  Cocked, locked, and loaded,

  Let’s go meet the bear.”

  I grabbed the heroin out from under the bed.

  God, Hank. Come home.

  AC/DC’s “Back in Black” blasted through the Hellcat’s stereo. Heater cranked, windows down, I hit the freeway, crushing the speed limit exactly like a girl with three brothers and a father in the CPD would.

  Arriving at Dawes Park with ten minutes to spare, I circled the grounds before turning into the South Hoyne Avenue dead end. I parked nose out, opened the door, and stepped into the crisp, clear October air. Eyes closed, I leaned against the car, feeling the modafinal, listening to the autumn leaves rustle and fall.

  The lights from Poppa Dozen’s headlights turned the insides of my eyelids orange. He put the car in Park. The electronic hum of the window rolled down. “Them some fucking manly rims for a sugar baby.”

  “Hey, Dozen.” I fired him a salute. He sat behind the wheel of a shiny ruby-red Navigator. “You ain’t doing so bad yourself.”

  “Get in.”

  I grabbed the backpack out of my car and got in his. He was wearing a suit, open-necked shirt, and a thick gold necklace. I got into the Lincoln. It reeked of cigarettes and Creed cologne. Music I didn’t recognize reverberated in my chest.

  Dozen ran a thick tongue over his lower lip. “Yo. Seat belt.”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  “Gotta swing by the bando. Get Dafinest’s locale from the baby gangstas.”

  He pulled up in front of a two-story, crumbling brick building. The ground level windows boarded shut with grafittied plywood.

  Duh. Bando short for abandoned building.

  I reached for the handle. Dozen thumped me in the chest. “Stay in the mutherfuckin’ car, McGrane.”

  Ow. Don’t have to tell me twice.

  A hoard of walking dead addicts mobbed the door. One look at Dozen and they faded into the sides of the entrance, paying respect to his suit and size.

  He approached the chipped cement entrance. A pair of men, twenties, in flashy athletic apparel, stepped out. The trio exchanged words and Dozen returned.

  “We’re goin’ to Dafinest’s G-Momma’s.” He started the SUV.

  Okay?

  “Is that his name? Dafinest?” I asked carefully.

  “Dafinest Johnson. But girl, he’s Mr. Peanut to you.” He sucked his teeth. “The kid’s a mutherfuckin’ genius. And ruthless. He’s doin’ this on the down low. On account of I helped his sister once. He ain’t no child. And this better never come back on him. Unnerstand what I’m sayin’?”

  Yeah, anyone who can buy twelve pounds of heroin and distribute it on the fly is more than a little connected.

  I nodded. “Mr. Peanut. Got it.”

  He took Damsen to Eighty-seventh. “You still wearing Renko’s ring.”

  “Yeah. Keeps the hounds at bay.”

  “Cuz ‘The Bull’ ain’t fond of dogs, is he?”

  I can play tough, too, Poppa. “Stannis hasn’t been called ‘The Bull’ for years. But Coles preferred it to what they call him now.”

  “And wha’s that?”

  “‘The Butcher.’”

  “Shit, Sweetness. You don’t gotta try an’ scare me. I know crazy when I see it.” He knocked on the ceiling as we turned onto South Greenwood and traversed into one of the upper circles of hell—Burnside.

  We stopped in front of a small tan bungalow. Ordinary, if you didn’t count the game cameras affixed to the corners of the roof, the blackened razor wire atop the wrought-iron fence, bars on the windows, dogs barking in the back, or the locked gate across the driveway to the left of the house.

  Cripes.

  Dozen honked twice, waited a five count, and honked twice again.

  A midfifties woman in glasses and curlers and a pink housecoat stepped out onto the porch.

  Dozen turned to me. “Out of the car, McGrane.”

  We approached the fence. He held up a hand. “Hey, G-Momma.”

  “Percy Dozen?” the woman asked. “Who that white girl with you?”

  I held up the backpack. “UPS.”

  The woman came to the fence, a ring of keys in her hand. “You carrying?” she asked me.

  Dozen rolled his eyes.

  Then coughed in surprise when I unzipped my jacket and pulled the Kimber Ultra. “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  She held out her hand.

  I released the slide, removed the magazine, and handed it to her. I secured the gun back in the holster.

  She didn’t like it, but she unlocked the gate, securing it behind us before leading us up the sidewalk into the little house.

  The inside was cleaner than most hotels and smelled of furniture polish and starch. Overstuffed, spindly-legged furniture was dwarfed by an enormous curved screen Samsung television in the center of the room. “Dafinest?” she called. “Your appointment is here.”

  “Thanks, G-Momma.” A diminutive, freckle-faced, light-skinned teen came into the room. The resemblance to Mr. Peanut was evident, with a left eye noticeably smaller than his right. He was sixteen, tops, wearing low-slung jeans, high-tops, and a Bears jersey. He gave me a ca
reful going-over, then nodded at Dozen. “C’mon.”

  We followed him down a hallway to a basement stairway that opened up into a laundry room and his grandma’s pantry. He went to one of the built-in shelving units and pulled. The wall of cans opened onto a locked door, behind which was a twenty-foot-by-twenty-foot mini-laboratory and two clean-room attired workers.

  We walked up to the counter. I opened my backpack and handed the heroin to Mr. Peanut. He set it on a butcher’s scale. Eleven-point-oh-five kilos.

  He motioned to the workers, who each came over with a milligram scale, sealed ampoule, packet of solution, and a skinny package. One unrolled a sheet of butcher paper. The other moved the heroin onto the paper and sliced open the package with a scalpel.

  Both of the workers opened their ampoules, poured in the buffer solution, and unwrapped tiny spatulas. Precisely measuring out 20 milligrams of heroin into the weighing boat on their respective scales, they transferred the contents into the ampoules and snapped on the lid.

  Each ampoule got a single shake.

  The liquid inside instantly turned a dark orangey-brown.

  “Ninety percent at least.” Mr. Peanut nodded at the workers. “Cut it to seventy with mannitol.” He sent a text, then turned to Dozen and me. “So we gonna start moving this quantity regular like, Meter Maid?”

  Really? I shot Dozen a dirty look. That’s the drug dealer name I get? The worst fecking job I’ve ever had?

  Dozen grinned.

  “Um, I’m not sure, Mr. Peanut. My Mexican connection is a little . . . er . . . unstable as of late.”

  “I hear you,” he said. “Them loco tacos all up in our areous shooting up Humboldt Park. Doin’ it with some hot four-poundas.”

  Actually, I think you mean five-poundas. Those are 5.7s not .45s.

  “Wouldn’t happen to got a line on some o’ them, would you, Meter Maid?”

  “Guns?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Them flashy ones with the black diamond. Thass some class there, amiright, Doz?”

  Dozen grunted.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Peanut. I don’t.”

  “Okay. And now you know I got interest.” Dafinest adjusted his jeans. “Lemme make somethin’ clear. While this been a profitable exchange for both of us, I’m still doing you a solid ’cuz of Dozen, payin’ you market value. So dontcha go bustin’ my nut, a’ight? You get another quality load you come to me. And me alone.”

  “Agreed,” I said and held out my hand.

  “You wanna shake hands, bitch?” He laughed at me without a hint of malice. “Nah.” He slapped my palm with the back of his hand and the back of my hand with his palm. “Hey, Dozen—let’s take her up, have her do this lil’ trained monkey shit in front of G-Momma.”

  Dozen pressed his fingertips to his forehead, the message “you’re embarrassing the hell out of me in front of Mr. Peanut” unmistakable.

  We followed the teenager out of the room and up the stairs.

  G-Momma was at the kitchen table. Stacks of twenties, fifties, and hundreds were rubber-banded into two separate piles. 100K and 17K.

  “Check it, Meter Maid.” Mr. Peanut handed Dozen a plastic Nike bag, for the seventeen grand.

  “Thanks, man,” Dozen said.

  I started flipping through the stacks. As soon as I finished a stack, G-Momma put it into a Macy’s shopping bag. It wasn’t like I was actually counting it, but I knew that me taking it as is would have been frowned upon.

  Heavily.

  I riffled the last stack of hundreds and tried not to breathe a sigh of relief as the cash went into the bag. My hands were filthy and my face itched. G-Momma laid a dishcloth over the top of the money, put the Kimber Ultra’s magazine on top, and handed me the bag.

  Mr. Peanut walked us out onto the front porch and whistled. Two black men carrying AR-15 pistols stepped out of the shadows.

  Our escort to the car, not a hit squad, please, God.

  “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Peanut,” I said.

  “Yeah. Dozen said you was a’ight and he was correct. I had G-Momma throw a lil’ snowcap in. Celebrate our first deal.”

  Weed sprinkled with coke.

  Aww, gee. How sweet.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Appreciate it.”

  Chapter 21

  I reloaded the Kimber Ultra and wedged the shopping bag into my backpack as Dozen drove us to Dawes Park. “Meter Maid?” I asked. “That was the best you could come up with?”

  “It was either that or Snow Bunny.” He laughed. “When do I meet your Mexi-boys?” Dozen turned onto South Hoyne.

  “Hey, I never prom—”

  “What da hell?” He stomped on the brakes. The Navigator squealed to a hard stop.

  At the dead end, under the streetlight, was a highland-green Mustang parked next to my black Hellcat. Lee leaned against the back bumper. Arms folded across his chest, looking pissed off as all get-out.

  Great. Just great.

  “He’s my new bodyguard,” I said trying to play it off. “What do you think?”

  “Thas a mutherfuckin’ cop.”

  “Marine,” I said. “He’s just a Marine. Everything’s cool.”

  “Bullshit.” Dozen shook his head. “Get out.”

  I reached for the handle. Dozen popped the locks. “Be seein’ you, Meter Maid.”

  I hopped out of the SUV with the backpack. Dozen hit Reverse as I shut the door, and squealed off into the night.

  Coward.

  I loped to the cars, not in the mood to mix it up. “Hey, Lee. Funny seeing you here.”

  “We’re partners.” His voice was low and angry.

  Better get used to it, baby. I’m not the kind that rolls over. “That’s sweet and all, but this?” I held up the backpack before dropping it next to the door. “This isn’t our particular gig.”

  “Burnside?”

  “Whoa.” He’d gone from tracking my car to tracking me. “What?”

  “You go into Burnside. With no backup except a known killer?”

  Easy, Mr. Clean. “You’re pretty much a known killer yourself, pal.”

  He squared his shoulders. “And you want your slice of the action, is that it?”

  “Back off, Lee. I already live with the ultimate hard case.”

  “Do you? Seems like you moved in and he took off.”

  That stung. I gave him my sweetest come-hither smile and looked up through my lashes. “I guess it takes a tough guy to know a tough guy.”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe we’re both as alpha as fuck, but the similarity ends there.”

  “Does it?” Heat flushed my cheeks. “Because I can’t wait to hear how different you are from the man I’m in love with.”

  His lips thinned and his eyes turned cold. “I’ll tell you one thing, sweetheart.” He grabbed the front of my jacket in his fists. “There’s no way in hell I’d ever let you do this shit alone.”

  I braced myself, waiting for him to knock me up against the car to try to rattle some sense into me.

  By the time I realized he was kissing me, I was kissing him back.

  I knew ten different ways to break the hold he had on me, but I only shoved at his chest. He pressed against me. I turned my head but his mouth followed mine.

  His tongue slicked inside the roof of my mouth. Hot and easy, it felt like a dance we’d danced a thousand times, just not together.

  Air sirens went off in my head.

  I knocked him in the shin with my boot, not hard, but not real sweet, either.

  He took a step back, hands up. “If you wanted me to stop, all you had to do was quit kissing me back.”

  My hand sliced across his cheek. The slap so hard and fast my fingers went numb.

  He didn’t flinch, not a tic.

  I’d never hit a guy. Not over something like that.

  Not ever.

  I stood there. Wanting to apologize and biting my lip not to.

  His mouth twisted into a wry smirk. “What’s in the backpack, Maisie?”
r />   I swallowed. “A hundred thousand dollars, pot laced with cocaine, and a dish towel.”

  He picked up the backpack. “You’re going to get in your car and follow me to Hud’s. We’ll have a couple drinks and square some things.” He cocked his head, eyes searching mine in the streetlight. “Do you have your car keys and ID on you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  “No.” I reached for the backpack.

  He didn’t move. “Who’s going to have an easier time slipping the noose if they get stopped with this shit in their car?”

  Goddammit.

  “Maisie, you’re going to have a hard enough time explaining that gun at the small of your back without blowing your cover. Get in your car.”

  I did.

  He got into the Mustang and turned around. I followed him all the way to Hud’s, my mind running all over hell’s half acre. My hand still stung. Futility churned in my gut. And I could smell his cologne on my shirt.

  * * *

  Lee and I sat knee to knee at a booth in the back of the bar. A pitcher of beer on the table between us, the backpack with 100K beneath our feet. “You all right?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Are you?”

  “Butterfly kiss.” He grinned and I took it like a knife in the lung.

  He put his hand on mine. I gave it a beat, then started to slide away. Lee’s fingers circled my wrist. “Hold up,” he said, leaning forward. “Since we’re going to be working together, it might not be a bad idea for us to be seen as a couple.”

  I ducked my head. Across the bar, a couple of detectives from Flynn and Rory’s squad pretended not to notice us.

  Even money they’d already texted my brothers.

  Lovely.

  I raised my left hand from beneath his and propped my chin on it. I tapped the Cartier wedding ring. “What do you propose I do about this?”

  Lee shrugged. “Take it off.”

  “It’s not that easy, Tiger. El Cid and Dozen think I’m carrying a torch for Renko.” I sat back and tossed out a massive fib. “So does Vi Veteratti.”

  “Spoiled rich girls always sleep with their good-looking bodyguards.”

  “You wish.”

  “Yeah.” He gave me the look. And it was a good one. “I do.”