A Criminal Magic (37 page)

I reach, lurch in midair for the base of the fire escape, desperate to reach it, to hang on . . .

My fingers find the steel, whiplash shoots through my shoulders, the heady rush of jumping causing my nose to gush blood.
Move, Alex, before they reach the roof's edge.
I scramble onto the fire-escape landing, whisper, “
Replicate and conceal
.” A force field, a replica of the scene behind me—the brick wall, and the zigzag cut of the fire escape—appears like a flat wall of camouflage in front of me.

I peer down at the alley two stories below and complete the ruse. On the ground of the alley, emerging just as Win and his men sprint to the edge of the roof one floor above me on the other side, is a facedown replica of Alex Danfrey, splayed out and broken on the alleyway ground.

“Son of a bitch tried to jump,” Howie says, his voice cracking a bit as he studies my body from the third-floor roof.

“Make sure he's really gone,” Win says quietly.

Howie and Dawson and Win's other thug, they pause only for a moment. Then, one after the other, they take their pistols from their pockets, aim at my replica, fire three floors down, the cold, hard bursts of gunfire rattling me,
POP POP POP
, as I watch from above.
I need to match their gunfire with magic. This needs to look real
. So I focus on my replica on the alley floor, say the words of power. And then three deep, black marks of blood bloom like nightmarish roses across my replica below.

The gunfire stops.

“That was close. Too close,” Win sighs out. “Come on, we need to get back. Tell Gunn it's done.”

I wait until they back away from the edge of the building across the alley. I take a minute, and then another, to collect
myself on the cramped landing of the fire escape, to revel in being alive, as Win and his goons climb into their car and drive themselves back to the Red Den.

I was part of the deal. I was always part of the D Street deal. Boss McEvoy and me, Gunn's thoughtful little deal sweeteners for D Street. His loose ends.

My body is cut and bruised and pleading for rest, but I limp down from the fire escape, through the back alley to 14th Street, hobble over to the corner where a large streetcar is about to pull away from the curb. I flag the driver down, shove a few coins from my pocket into his hand, and slide onto a seat near the front. The crowd of middle-aged women and flustered mothers with small children angles away from me, but I just tilt my head back and close my eyes.

I need the next stop and a phone—Frain needs to be at the Den by eight and has no idea how all of this has just imploded. But this can't be over, we need to salvage this, and Joan—

I need to get to Joan. I promised her. I have to save her.

We have to save each other.

CHANGE OF PLANS

JOAN

I've been in Gunn's office all day, trying to finish my spellbinding of the final quarts. My nerves are eating me alive, over everything that's about to happen tonight, and worrying about my family and Alex.
Everything will work out
, I repeat like a prayer.
This is all almost over
.

I'm done around half past six. I've never wanted to see my family more than at this moment. My plan is for Ben and Ruby to stay upstairs, wait behind my locked bedroom door for me and Alex to execute our sting, for the Feds to come, before we get them out and leave this house of tricks behind.

So when Gunn comes in a little while later, I stand up from my chair. I try to remember that he has no idea what's about to happen, that he's in the dark, that Alex and I are the sorcerers behind this elaborate performance. So I say as confidently as I can, “I think it's time I see my family, Mr. Gunn. The shipment is ready. And D Street should be arriving soon, so I better get on upstairs.” He doesn't answer, just stares. “It's important to me, before the deal goes down, to see them. As motivation, like you said.”

“How interesting,” Gunn finally answers, slowly, “that you listen to some things I have to say, but not others.” I know Gunn
and his loaded meanings too well, and a chill starts to crawl up my spine.

He shuts his office door. And then he takes a step closer, rests his hand on his desk, and looks up at me with those searing eyes. “Do you know why I'm partnering with D Street, Joan?”

His question catches me by surprise, but he doesn't wait for me to answer.

“My father, Danny Gunn, once ran the Shaws. His cousin was his right-hand man. This cousin was a hothead, a quick trigger, the antithesis of coolheaded Danny. They disagreed often, more often than not behind closed doors. Doors, of course, that as a small child, I was often behind as well.” Gunn uses a low, even, patient tone, like he's telling me a story. “For example, McEvoy—he was my father's right-hand man—never agreed with my father's shaky peace with the Italian gang on the other side of town. McEvoy thought D Street constantly overstepped their bounds, and he started threatening violence when a group of Colletto's thugs supposedly robbed a bank on the wrong side of gang lines,” he says. “Without consulting my father, McEvoy made an example out of a young D Street associate. Shot him down like a dog, right on 14th Street.” Gunn pauses. “Unfortunately, this young associate turned out to be the nephew of Boss Colletto.”

He shakes his head. “My father was livid, knew he had to punish McEvoy for acting out. But before he could, in retaliation for the Shaws' murder of Colletto's nephew, my father was killed in a street shootout orchestrated by D Street. McEvoy was unanimously voted in as boss, seeing as Danny's son—yours truly—was a mere fifteen years old.”

Gunn turns to face me. “But instead of grooming me as a protégé, Boss McEvoy treated me like a threat. When I came of age, he gave me a figurehead title and a job running some half-rate shining room, which at the time was the lowest-earning operation the Shaws had a hand in,” he says. “And if things had gone just a
bit differently, maybe I could have accepted my fate as low-level gofer, even been grateful for the chance McEvoy threw my way. Thing is, Joan, I knew all along that D Street hadn't executed my father.”

This is the most Gunn has ever shared with me. And while I've got a clear sense of where the story's going, I'm petrified over what it has to do with me.

“I was a young, slippery thing, never trusted McEvoy. I kept tabs on him—who he was meeting with, what he was scheming behind my father's back. I tried to warn my father, but it was tough to get his ear.” Gunn looks at the floor. “Before his memorial service, I went to the morgue. I had to know for sure if my suspicions were right. The coroner confirmed my father's head had been ripped open back to front. A near-range, personal kill. McEvoy's kill, blamed on D Street, and he was left holding the keys to the Shaws.”

Gunn's eyes get wider, brighter. “I acted like I knew nothing, of course. I put my head down, secretly planned my revenge. But do you know what that's like, to live under the thumb of a man you despise? To live out each day in the shadow of someone who stole your life away?”

Immediately, I think of Mama and Uncle Jed. And I almost say,
Of course I do.
And maybe in another life, on another roll of fate's dice, this story of Gunn's would have bound us together, made us a formidable team.

But not in this one.

In this one, all I see is a shadow of a man. A ruthless, cunning killer.

“But I've won, Joan. I've taken it all back from McEvoy.” He laughs. “And you know how? Because I'm a
survivor
. Because I never. Miss. A trick.”

Something has shifted between us, something ­monumental, and Gunn no longer hesitates as he reaches out, touches me.
He pushes my hair off my shoulder as I stay shocked still, then cups his fingers around my shoulder.

“How many times have I told you, subtly and not so subtly, to stay away from Alex, Joan?” He turns and gently presses me against the edge of the desk, until I have no choice but to back into it.

What's he doing, why's he mentioning Alex, what does he know
—

“Don't get mixed up with him, Joan,” Gunn mock-whispers into my ear. There's no space left in between us, his chest presses into my own. “Don't trust him. Stay focused. Keep that stalwart heart.” Our faces are inches apart from each other, and his white-blue eyes, expectant, hungry, blaze through mine. I can't—I can't think, I can't look anywhere else—

“After a while, it almost felt like . . . jealousy. But do I seem like a man who accepts not getting what he wants?”

Before I can even think how to answer, Gunn grabs the back of my head in one swift motion, and I flinch. “Believe it or not, I was trying to
protect
you from getting hurt, since Alex was always part of my deal with D Street, from the beginning.”

He releases me, turns away, as my mind sputters,
The deal, part of the deal
—

But my thoughts stop cold when Gunn looks back at me. Because now there's only rage, white fire burning behind his eyes.

“Then I find out that not only were you lying to my face about Alex, but that he was a mole for McEvoy. A mole you were confiding in, passing little secrets over the pillow to, secrets that little two-faced shit passed right on to my enemy. My target.”

I start stammering, “Wait, no, Mr. Gunn, you've got it wrong—”

“Could've been really disastrous, Joan, your decision to keep things from me,” he interrupts in that mocking tone.
“Fortunately, I've always been one step ahead of McEvoy. Always one step ahead of you.”

Does Gunn know Alex is a cop? Does he know about me working with him? I can't, I don't know how to play this—

“Mr. Gunn, I swear, I'm not keeping things from you—”

Quick as a snake about to strike, Gunn whips his gun from his holster, thrusts it right against my temple. “Lie to me one more time and I promise you, I'll go straight to where I'm keeping your sister and break her little neck.”

At that, I snap.
Crack
, and my hands fly up on their own, like they're possessed, like my magic has circumvented my mind and taken control of my body. I barrel a wave of force and power toward Gunn. He flies backward and slaps against his door.

It's quiet for a second. And then he actually laughs.

“Where's my family?” I force out. “Answer me or I'll rip you in half.”

Gunn stands up slowly, walks toward me like a wolf on the hunt, slow, assured, in control. He towers over me. “No, Joan. No more working together. I call the shots. You sit in here and wait, until I make sure everything goes exactly according to plan. After this deal goes off without a hitch, you'll spend as long as it takes ensuring that the troupe can perform your caging spell. You do that, and maybe you'll see Ben and Ruby again,” he says. “But you try anything at all—if you move from this room—my men will end your family. Are we clear?”

My heart is pounding, the magic inside me throbbing, near desperate to rip him apart. “No, you promised me things, you promised my family things—”

“And promises can be broken. I think you've been fooling yourself into thinking that you hold the power here,” Gunn says, then smiles, a big, bold one I rarely see. “Fortunately, there's no Alex Danfrey around to trick you anymore.”

My eyes fly to his. “What are you talking about?”

“I told you, Danfrey was always part of my deal.” There's a new glimmer to Gunn's eyes. “Colletto considered him a traitor, thought the boy should have been working for him, only found out he was still running through a few low-level thugs who just got out of prison. So Danfrey was a
gift
, signed, sealed, and delivered, as another symbol of my good faith to D Street. A sign I want to start over and make amends.” My breath catches. “But you didn't listen. You insisted on breaking that heart.” Gunn looks down, smooths his suit. “Then again, guess we both know you're quite the masochist.”

Alex was always part of the deal
. Now I understand, and the understanding guts me—

Alex. Alex is gone.

I collapse onto the chair, and a little sob escapes me before I can trap it inside.

No. No no no no no—

“My boys took him out to the streets, shot him down.” Gunn takes a step back. “Cross me again, and Ben will be next. Win's outside, guarding this door in case you get any crazy ideas like running.” He opens his door. “Stay,
heel
, Joan. As soon as this is all over, you and me, we're done. And maybe you and your family get to walk out of here—final offer.”

The world's spinning, crashing—

And then Gunn shuts his office door.

Lord, I think I'm hyperventilating.

Alex is gone.

Gunn has my family.

The Feds are moving in.

There's no way out of this.

A tight pop of air winds its way up my throat and comes out again in a strangled sigh. I close my eyes and see Alex's face.
Alex, who trusted me, who believed in me, who made me better than I ever could have been alone.

I push out of my chair, spend the next minutes frantically pacing, anger, rage, my
family 
. . . guilt . . . longing . . .
Alex
.

Something snaps inside me—no,
breaks
.

Like a gauntlet's being thrown down.

Gunn will pay for this, for all of it.

A man like him deserves to lose everything.

I close my eyes, like I can literally snuff out the rage and the pain, and let cold, hard reason rise from the ashes. Gunn said Alex was working for McEvoy. He never mentioned the Feds.

Which means he still doesn't know they're coming.

I think about Alex's sting, the plan we made in his cocoon of magic, perched on that fire escape like we were looking out on a whole new world.
Get D Street and Gunn in the same room
, he said.
Lock them up until the Feds arrive and take them down
. I think through it, carefully, calmly, and detached, surveying it for holes.

Because I don't want the Feds taking Gunn and his gangsters down.

I want them gone.

I want it to be
my
hands that do it, that strangle the life out of Gunn.

The beginnings of an idea start to tease at the corners of my mind. And then it all comes together quickly, in images that I don't seem to conjure but that conjure themselves, like a trick that's sorcering on its own, in the dark folds of my nature.

The last time I let my magic take the wheel, steer me where it thought I needed to go, I ruined everything. But I've grown since that cursed night in our cabin's clearing. I'm in control of my power. And I'd rather die than go down without a fight for my family, for Alex.

For me.

I straighten up and walk out of Gunn's office with my head held high. Win Matthews is in a chair outside in the hall just like
Gunn promised, watching Gunn's office with a long, lean pistol in his hands. The gun's now pointed right at me.

“What do you need?”

“Bathroom.”

He waits a minute before he starts to rise and says, “Afraid not.”

But as he stands, he drops his gun, just a
sliver
, and I thrust out my hand and command his weapon. The silver pistol flies out from his fingers, and I wrap both of my hands around it and call to the ends of the hall, “
Surround
.” Two thick sheets of glass erupt out of the floor, block both entrances to the hall.

Win quickly spins around, takes in his cage—the two long cinder-block walls of the hall and my two manipulations trapping us inside the corridor. He looks at me, slowly raises his hands. “What do you want?”

“Show me where my family is.”

“That's not possible.”

I thrust the pistol toward him. “Now. I'm not playing.”

Win shakes his head but raises his hands a little higher in surrender. “Gunn would kill me.”

I take the safety off the pistol with a click. “At least you'll be alive to worry about it.”

“They're upstairs,” he finally concedes, “in Tommy's room. The door is spellbound.”

“Take me.”

Win walks slowly in front of me toward the back stairs, as I train his gun at the back of his head. When we're a few feet away from my manipulated wall, I release it, spiral it away into dust.

“Move,” I whisper. “It's safe.”

We take quiet steps up the stairs, then follow the upstairs hallway. Win nods to a door on the left. “This is it.” But the door has no handle.