Shoot 'Em Up Read online

  “I . . . I’m sorry I slapped you. I wasn’t angry with you. I mean, I was . . . I am. But not like that. Not over that. I was mad at myself. Mad at Ha—”

  “Shh.” Lee pressed his beer glass to my mouth. “Be quiet.”

  I took the sip he offered and the out.

  “Turn it up!” demanded a deep and intoxicated beat cop from across the bar. “Lemme hear how that sumbitch mayor’s gonna fuck us up the ass again.”

  The bartender hit the volume on the main set.

  Talbott Cottle Coles, wearing a terse and mannerly expression on multiple local news stations, now occupied more than half of the TV screens at Hud’s. Wife on his right and on his left, the Latino guy he’d been with at The Storkling.

  “Hello, Chicago!” He basked in the glow of public adoration for several seconds before raising his hands for quiet. “Recently I haven’t been as accessible as I would have wished to both the American public as well as the news media. It would be a mistake for my critics to assume my absence was the result of the Grieco cartel’s crude attempt to silence me and my war on drugs.”

  Let the spinning begin!

  “As I covered the body of my wife, praying the mother of my children would live to see another day, I vowed that if I should live, I would not let my relationship with the Mexican people be tainted.”

  Two of the four local stations—obviously pre-pimped with his speech—preempted the live video, running a slow-motion reel of the assassination attempt over his voice.

  “Our fair city is home to more than one-point-five million residents of Mexican descent,” Coles said. “It is with pride I govern the city with the second largest Mexican population in the United States. The time for us to unleash the enormous potential for both of our fair nations is now. By expanding trade and tourism, and facilitating foreign direct investment, we will build a bigger, better Chicago.”

  Puke-alicious.

  He put his arm around the shoulders of the fine-boned man. “This is Cesar Garza. The bright young son of—”

  “That asshole,” Lee said. “That fucking asshole!” He popped me in the shoulder. “You know who that is, right? That’s Cesar Garza. The son of Álvaro Garza.”

  “Who?” I said blankly.

  “Álvaro Garza runs El Eje,” he said. “Christ, Maisie. You run a mission for the DEA and you don’t know this? No debrief? No independent research? Are you kidding me?”

  That got my back up. I gritted my teeth.

  “Where the hell is your head?” he said, unable to let up. “Does Walt know how unprepared you were? Are?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  He smacked his palm against the table. “It’s fucking exactly like that.”

  My cheeks burned like they were coated in Sterno and Lee had flicked a lit match at them. A humiliation bubble grew in my throat.

  Rip me all you like, sport. It won’t win you any tears.

  I smoothed my hair back and refocused on the nearest flat screen.

  “Questions?” Coles pointed at a particularly awestruck blond reporter.

  “Mayor Coles,” she asked, “how can you possibly ignore the fact that you are now on the hit list of a cartel?”

  “Again, I must reiterate, the attempt on my life was not the fault of the Mexican people. I will not stand for the status quo or reliance on prejudicial racial profiling. Instead, I have seized this opportunity to develop a joint ATF and DEA task force to assist the Mexican government in ridding their nation of the scourge of these cartels.”

  Holy cat.

  Maybe AJ wasn’t so far off.

  Another reporter stepped up. “How do you plan to stop any backlash against the Hispanic community?”

  Coles’s serious countenance couldn’t disguise the spark of delight in his eyes. “At home, I will continue to press for police reforms, including deescalation training and mandatory body cameras. The true American tragedy is when we cannot trust our own, who have sworn to protect and serve.”

  I should have let Renko cut off his hand.

  The mood within the bar had turned sick with disgust. Several cops closed out their tabs and split.

  Coles finished up, demurely deflecting suggestions he run for higher office, but not closing the door, either.

  Jerk.

  My fingers strayed to the cigar burn. It was healing okay. Plastic surgery for the scar was going to cost me at least a wrist and a shin. Double when I’d have to explain it to my parents.

  Lee pulled my hand away from my throat. Mouth tightening, he gave the dressing a once-over, his expression as forgiving as cured cement.

  Super-duper.

  Walt told him what happened.

  I finished my beer, not meeting his eyes, hoping he’d take the hint.

  “Tonight is going to end in one of two ways,” Lee said. “Me at your place or you coming to mine. Either way, we deliver the money to Nyx tomorrow. Together.”

  From the set of his jaw, arguing was pointless. And I didn’t feel right about having him stay overnight at Hank’s.

  I threw in the towel.

  * * *

  Lee lived in a neat little bungalow near a hip part of town. He pulled into the driveway and stopped, opting not to park in the detached garage. We walked up the sidewalk to the front door.

  “I . . . uh, wasn’t really counting on company,” he said.

  “Yeah?” I teased. “I thought Marines were always locked and loaded, forward-focused.”

  He unlocked the door. “Some habits die hard. Others need to be resuscitated on a daily basis.”

  He flipped on the living room light. It wasn’t as bad as Cash’s room, but it was close. I pointed at the couch serving double duty as a laundry room and newspaper recycling center. “Is that for me?”

  “No.” He shot me a dirty look. “Christ, Maisie. I have a guest bedroom.”

  “Oh, well . . . I wasn’t sure if you were a scrapbooker or a quilter.”

  He slung an arm around my shoulders and mussed my hair. “God, you’re just begging for it.”

  I clapped a hand over my mouth as my smart retort came out as a giant yawn. His easy smile and demeanor vanished. “Gimme a minute, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said and yawned again. He disappeared down a hallway.

  I heard him rummaging around, and if the rest of his place was anything like this, he was going to be more than a few minutes unnecessarily picking up on my behalf.

  A laundry basket by the couch held a hockey helmet and shoulder pads. A single glove lay by the stairs to the basement. Down the hall, a hockey bag and sticks propped open a closet door. I put the gear in his bag, shoved the bag all the way into the closet so it cleared the jamb, and closed the door. The laundry from the couch and chair went into the basket, and a paper grocery bag from under the TV cabinet took care of the newspapers, junk mail, and old magazines.

  I shivered, unable to stop yawning. I took off my jacket, pulled a red flannel shirt out of the laundry basket, and put it on. It carried the faint scent of Tide and cedar. I lay down on the couch, and using my jacket for a blanket, went to sleep.

  “No. No!” I woke up, freaked and flailing, as Lee carried me down the hall.

  “Easy,” he said.

  “Put me down.”

  He stopped and set me on my feet. “Sure.”

  “Sorry.” Chagrined, I tried to quit shaking. “Thanks.”

  He pushed open a door on a spotless bedroom. A lamp on a nightstand illuminated a cream-colored room with dark wood wainscoting, a double bed with the sheet turned down, and a folded SWAT T-shirt and sweatpants on the end.

  He pointed at the room down the hall. “That’s me.” Knocked his knuckles on the door ajar behind him. “Bathroom.”

  “Got it.” I nodded. “Thanks.”

  I’m just a little shaken up, that’s all. Sleeping too hard. That’s all.

  I moved toward the bedroom. He stepped in front of me and put his arms around me. His voice was low in my ear. “A lot ha
s happened to you in a short amount of time. You want to sleep next to me now or later, that’s okay. Hands off.” He gave me a squeeze, then went down the hall to his room

  I watched him go. Wanting to follow. Aching for “safe.”

  Knowing it wouldn’t be right.

  Chapter 22

  I woke up without my phone. No clock on the bedside table and blackout curtains. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and pushed my hair off my face, feeling as groggy and disoriented as a moth in a mitten.

  Jaysus. What time is it?

  I got up and went into the bathroom. A new Colgate toothbrush and travel-size tube of toothpaste waited on the edge of the sink. My reflection had the healthy glow of a typhoid patient.

  I crept on cat’s feet into the sun-bright living room to find my backpack on the couch. Mr. Peanut’s 100K and the snowcap were gone. As was my phone.

  Apparently Bloodhound Jones was taking a shine to new partner duty, nosing around and marking his territory.

  Too tired to give a good golly, I gathered up my remaining possessions and returned to the bathroom. Teeth brushed, hair and makeup salvaged, I put on my clothes from last night—including Lee’s flannel shirt—and wandered into the kitchen.

  “Yeah. She sweat it plenty, but stayed smooth from start to finish from what I could see,” Lee said into his phone. “Figured she earned a decent kip.” He paused, listening, and laughed. “Uh-huh, Roger that.” He clicked off the phone and stood up.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Good morning.” His grin was 1,000-watt bright, brown eyes so lively I froze like a punch-drunk porcupine in the headlights. “Sleep all right?”

  I nodded, waiting for him to volunteer whom he’d been talking to.

  He didn’t. Without a smidge of guilt he went to the fridge. “So, Ms. No Coffee . . . What’ll it be?” Lee swung open the door. “Juice, Coke, milk, or tea?”

  “Coke.”

  He popped the top and handed me a can.

  “Thanks. Haven’t happened to see my phone?”

  He pulled it from his shirt pocket and gave it to me. “Brunch or lunch? It’s eleven forty. We debrief with Nyx at nineteen hundred.”

  What the what?

  “Since when are you coming with me to see Nyx?” I said.

  “Aside from serving as your personal secretary, partner”—he moved in close and gripped my waist, thumbs pressing my hip bones, face inches from mine—“my talents include armed currency transport, negotiation, and personal protection.”

  Talk about being screwed six ways to Sunday.

  “I’m guessing that’s not all they include,” I said.

  Lee’s mouth hovered above mine. “Yeah?”

  “Lunch. Definitely.”

  His eyes narrowed, hands fell away. “Let’s go.”

  We went for hamburgers and Horse’s Necks at the charmingly moody Au Cheval. The 100K, transferred into a well-used Chicago White Sox duffel bag, always infant-safe between us. After lunch we hit Weegee’s Lounge, where hours passed like minutes playing table shuffleboard and trading smart-aleck remarks.

  With the patience of an ice-angler, I resisted checking my incoming call log until Lee finally took a call in the car while we were en route to Giarrusso Cleaners.

  I swiped through the screens. Wes had called and talked to Lee at 9:03 a.m. for four minutes. After which, Lee had called Cash for an eleven-minute chat, and—sweet Jiminey Christmas— fielded a call from my mother that lasted more than twenty minutes.

  God only knew what that had been about. And I wasn’t about to ask.

  Still talking, Lee parked in the handicapped space. He hung up and tossed a placard on the dash.

  “You do realize those are for physically not mentally handicapped drivers?”

  “Admit it, Meter Maid. You just want to show me your ticket book.”

  “You’re adorable,” I said flatly and got out of the car.

  He grabbed the duffel and followed me into the dry cleaner’s.

  Pin-up girl glanced up from an OK! magazine, and started to yell, “Weh—!” but then laid eyes on Lee and changed her tune. “—ell, hell-o.” She put down the tabloid and fluttered her eyelashes. “How can I help you?”

  “Wes Dorram,” I said. “Please.”

  Pin-up sashayed out from behind the counter, gave Lee a lascivious ogle, and disappeared down the hall, tight red skirt straining at the seams.

  “You take me to all the best places,” Lee murmured in my ear.

  Pin-up returned. Wes lumbered behind, like a bear at a bank meeting. “Who’s this?”

  “My deliveryman,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Wes didn’t like it. But he could see Lee had him beat.

  Lee and I followed him to the back office.

  Gunther Nyx lounged behind the desk. The tiny table and chairs were full of boxes, invoices, and envelopes. It wasn’t going to be a chatty meeting.

  “Maisie.” Nyx’s smile went horizon flat when Lee stepped into the room behind me. “And Lee Sharpe.”

  “Gunther.” Lee scanned the cramped, dingy office. “Looks like business-as-usual.”

  Nyx popped his chin up at the hit. “While your taste in women has improved, I see your career choices have not. How is SWAT?”

  “Suits me just fine. I never had your taste for an altered mental state.” Lee’s eyes sparked. “I’m man enough to live with my sins.”

  “Is a life half-lived even a life at all?” Nyx’s thin lips parted. His instantaneous resemblance to an albino python was remarkable. “But it is difficult for a soldier boy to resist the toys, eh?”

  “Not at all,” Lee tossed the duffel bag onto the desk.

  Nyx was as interested in the bag as if it was full of dirty laundry. “Just as expected, Liten Sötis.” His eyes drifted down my body, slowly, insolently, wanting to see how far Lee would let it go.

  Lee’s hands hung loose at his sides, but his weight shifted to the balls of his feet.

  “Kennel your guard dog, Maisie.”

  No one moved.

  Lee reached over and gripped my butt. I jerked upright, stung. “I’ll wait for you out front, Bae,” he said.

  Lee sailed out of the office as carefree as a sunny day. Wes closed the door behind him, then walked over to the desk and removed the duffel bag.

  Nyx’s pale brows tipped down at the corners. “Anything you’d care to share, Maisie? Say . . . Sharpe joining Sawyer’s team?”

  “How should I know? You kinda left me high and dry, sir. Selling five kilos of heroin without a distribution line? Not to mention, 100K is an awful lot of cash for a girl to carry around on the mean streets of Chi-town. I had to use what resources I had to hand.”

  “Is Sharpe working with the Special Unit?”

  I lifted an uncaring shoulder. “He hasn’t mentioned it.”

  “You sure about that, ma’am?” Wes said. “The two of you seem awfully close.”

  Look who’s not so sweet now. Throwing shade over my shoulder, I rolled my eyes at the beefy agent. “Nah. I just use him for sex.”

  Wes gave a strangled cough.

  “Will you be able to operate independently from your . . . partner?” Nyx asked.

  “Of course.”

  Hank’s Law Number Twenty-Two: When among wolves, act the wolf.

  Itching to leave, “I’m afraid I haven’t had time to write up a report yet on the contacts or who I sold the heroin to,” I said demurely.

  Gunther Nyx adjusted the line of his trousers. “Wes will see to that.”

  Sawyer wasn’t kidding about him playing fast and loose.

  “It’ll be my pleasure,” Wes said. “You’re too valuable to waste on paperwork. Especially since SWAT and the CPD have recently cleared three more stash houses. The composition and packaging of the heroin traces directly to the Grieco cartel.”

  And now, apparently, from me, as well.

  “Also found at the stash houses were black-tipped, armor-piercing solid core 28mm roun
ds. Always pleasant to have a field confirmation.” Nyx spun slightly in his chair. “An excellent report on El Cid, Maisie.” He propped his feet up on the desk. “I think it’s time we file a temporary personnel reassignment request for Miss McGrane with Special Unit, Wes.”

  “Yessir,” the agent said.

  What?

  “If the DEA is going to continue to use you, it’s only sporting we foot the bill,” Nyx said. “See if El Cid is amenable to another deal. Four times the product.”

  My spine went ramrod-rigid—which had nothing on my heart, which had quit beating.

  Oh, feck me.

  “It sounds as though you already have the evidence you need, sir.” I shook my head. “I think Ditch Broady of the ATF had the right of it. I can’t see how this effort will be of any real use.”

  “Building an international case is a tenuous process, Maisie. One never knows exactly which weights and balances will prove useful.”

  Wes gave a small cough. “Unless you’re not up for the task.”

  You want to see sparks, pal? Go put a fork in an electrical socket.

  “Making a deal with El Cid won’t be a problem, sir.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Stateside distribution, however . . .”

  “I’m sorry you were inconvenienced, Maisie,” Nyx said silkily. “You have my word that will not happen again.”

  * * *

  We swung by Hud’s to pick up my car. “I need a drink,” Lee said. “You in?”

  Hell, yes. “Sure thing.”

  We took over the same booth as the night before. Only, instead of sitting across from me, this time Lee slid in next to me. We spent forty minutes studiously not rehashing the meeting or talking about Nyx, Sawyer, the DEA, or the BOC.

  Lee took two showers a day, had three Marine Corps tattoos, preferred winter to summer, sci-fi, Italian food, and his favorite color was, unsurprisingly, navy blue.

  “You gonna call him or what?” he said.

  Who? “Er . . . Cash?”

  “El Cid, dopey-face. Nyx wants another buy, doesn’t he?”

  My mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “How did you—”

  “Call him.”

  Derp. Two Bud Lights and I’m out of sync faster than a dubbed Chinese action flick. “Here? Now? In a cop bar?”