Shoot 'Em Up (12 page)

He turned to me, eyes wide and mouth open. He began to chortle. “You should have named him
Rey de Mierda
.”

One of the two dog handlers approached the rear of the trailer.

“No, no.” My patrolman waved a hand in front of his face. “Egh. Carsick bull. Very angry.”

The dog handler and his furry companion beat a hasty retreat.

The border patrolman walked me back to the cab of the truck, stopping at his station to retrieve my stack of paperwork. He opened the door for me. “You are a lovely
vaquera,
Señorita McGrane. We see you at the Paso del Norte Bridge again,
sí?
”

“
Sí
.”

The ranch was only a half hour outside of El Paso. I was getting the hang of the trailer now, and Benicio del Toro seemed to have calmed down some.

I pulled up to a scrub-looking ranch surrounded by splinter-wood fence posts and barbed wire. Everything about the desert was dry and mean, not a plant around without spikes or needles. The perfect home for 1,200 pounds of pissed-off beef.

I put the truck in Park, got out, and opened the gate. Ran back to the truck, pulled in, closed the gate, and then drove up to the house.

A seventy-something rancher with bowed toothpick legs and a potbelly came out of the clapboard farmhouse. He took off his hat and waved me off toward the barn, following behind.

I shut off the truck and rested my head on the steering wheel for a ten-count.

I lifted the handle and climbed out of the truck.

“I see they don't teach you no manners in the city,” the rancher barked at me. “You're supposed to honk a'fore you open the gate.” The rancher peered in the back of the trailer. “Damn amateurs. Gave 'im too much mineral oil. I'll have to water an' salt him up plenty.”

The rancher glared at me. “He all choused up now. Turn on a dime and give me a nickel's worth.” He shook his head. “Alrighty then. You go on and back into that corral over yonder. We let him get hisself out.”

I looked at the tiny hole in the fence he wanted me to back the trailer through. “Uh, sir?” I held out the keys. “This is the first time I've ever driven a truck with a trailer.”

He spat on the ground, inches from my foot. “Then you best pay attention to what yer doin'.”

The rancher was far more intimidating than the Border Patrol. But after four false tries and a helluva lot of signals and swearing, I managed to back the trailer into the corral.

The rancher threw open the doors and hustled to the fence.

Benicio stayed in the trailer.

“What now?” I said.

“I done tole you,” he said, walking away to the house. “We let him get hisself out.”

My gut gave the twinge that the rancher was jerking my chain. I followed him to the back porch. I didn't dare go up the steps with my filthy boots.

But it wasn't until he came out drinking a large, iced-up glass of lemonade that I knew for sure. He spent the next five minutes scolding me or telling me a story, I wasn't sure which. I just knew that I was about a half-a-hair from yanking that glass from his hand and guzzling it down.

“He's out now.” The rancher set down his lemonade and we returned to the truck. He looked at the bull fondly. “Damn, if he ain't gonna cause a stir.”

I nodded, figuring now was when he'd open the magic hidey-hole in the truck, hand me the product, and give me a ride to El Paso.

“Go on, pull the truck up to barn.”

I drove the truck and trailer to the side of the barn. He disappeared inside. I hopped out of the truck. “Um? Sir?”

He came out with a shovel. “You best call a cab.” He threw the shovel at my feet. “And get yer shit outta my truck, you hear?”

I went into the trailer and almost passed out.

I opted to start with the biggest pile. I slid the shovel up under the mound. It flipped over before I lifted it up.

The “shit” was actually
in
the shit.

“Thank you, baby Jesus.” I bladed off as much manure as I could, then carried the package out of the truck to the water bib next to the barn. And no, I wasn't asking Rancher Crabby-pants if I could borrow a little water.

I took a drink out of the tap. It was warm and tasted of iron, but I wasn't complaining. I rinsed off the top garbage bag. Getting braver, I tore it off. Beneath it was another thick black garbage bag. And who knew how many layers under that?

I didn't care. It was now fit to be stored in my black nylon LeSportsac backpack. I dried my hands on my jeans and called the taxi. I slipped the map from the truck cab into my pocket and spent the next ten minutes repacking my suitcase and backpack.

Wearing my backpack and hauling my carry-on, I hoofed my stinking, sweating self off the ranch and up to the main road.

* * *

I made the cabbie take me to the closest FedEx. Miracle of miracles, the FedEx guy had just arrived to pick up the six-thirty final drop-off.

“Please!” I begged. “Let me box it up, it'll only take a second.”

“Ma'am, it's already ten after seven. I'm late.”

I held up a fifty-dollar bill. “Please?”

“Okay,” he said.

I took the smallest box they had back to the corner. I wrapped the evidence I'd taken from AJ's cabin in Consuela's jacket, shoved it in the carton, and sealed it up while the girl behind the counter typed in the address from Walt Sawyer's business card.

God knew I'd have liked nothing more than to send the heroin ahead, too, but there's luck and then there's my luck.

The cab dropped me at the DoubleTree Hilton in downtown El Paso. Four stars. The best I could do. I checked in, went up, and called down to the concierge. I took my clothes off, threw them in a plastic laundry bag, and scribbled
TRASH
on it with a Sharpie marker. I put my boots in another one and wrote
SHOE REPAIR
—a girl can hope, can't she?—and set them outside.

I gulped down enough Coke from the can for a mini-bottle of Bacardi to fit, took it in the shower, and stayed there for an hour. Afterward, I put on yoga pants and Hank's old army T-shirt, then ordered room service. With my third rum and Coke, I had to say, it wasn't bad as far as sixteen-dollar turkey sandwiches go.

I ached for Hank. Missed him so bad I could hardly see straight.

A mirror hung over the desk. My reflection was a stranger to me.

The answer was unequivocally “no.”

This misadventure was a knee-jerk reaction. To what had happened to Cash. To what had happened to me—joining Special Unit, choosing not to prosecute Coles after he tried to have me killed, getting stabbed by Hank.

I pointed at my reflection. “You, my friend, are a hot mess.”

Not as hot as Benicio.

I'd just smuggled eleven pounds of heroin over the Mexican border. Not bad for a graduate of St. Ignatius Catholic school. If Sister Mary Cecelia Clare could see me now . . .

A giggle sprang from my lips. The thin, high-pitched, cuckoo-bananas kind.

I dug my SIM card out of the zipper pocket in my backpack, completely ignoring the black garbage bag–wrapped brick. I inserted the SIM card, let my phone reload, then called Hank's office.

The sultry-voiced secretary answered the phone. “Good evening, Miss McGrane.”

I hated her.

I'd never met her—hell, I didn't even know her name—but I hated her just the same. Hated her silky Southern drawl caressing the words my girly-voice ironed flat with my Chicago twang. But most of all, I hated that she knew more about Hank's past, present, and future than I did. And now I had to beg. “Can you please tell me the last time Mr. Bannon checked in?”

“His last message pickup was thirty-four days ago.”

Over a month. I started to shake.

“Ms. McGrane? Are you there?”

I pressed the phone tight to my ear. “Can you . . . please . . .” My voice splintered and I tried again. “Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?”

“The message Mr. Bannon last received was, ‘M.M. stable. Full recovery expected.'”

“Who sent it?”

She hesitated before answering. “Randolph Acrey.”

“Thank you,” I said and hung up.

My reflection had gone white-faced and glassy-eyed.

“Don't worry,” I told it. “If something happened to him, you'd know.”

Twenty-one hours and fifty-three minutes.

My drive ahead from El Paso to Chicago.

It was hurting me not to rent the Daytona Sunrise Orange Corvette in the Hertz lot. “Do you have anything with a little more zip than a Ford Fusion?” I asked the clerk. “Anything?”

He typed away. “Well, there's an Infinity G37, but that's three times the rental fee.”

“I'll take it.”

“Ooh.” He gave me the sad face that wasn't really. “I'm sorry. It's been returned but the interior hasn't been detailed yet.”

I snapped my Visa on the counter. “I'll take it.”

“But—”

“Write it up,” I said. “Now.”

A half hour later I was cruising through El Paso with
Eagles Live
playing from my iPhone. I was on my third extra-large, sugar-free Red Bull, hitting the full body rebellion where over-caffeinated allied with acid belly and demanded sleep. The plan for two twelve-hour driving days melting to ten and fourteen in front of my heavy eyes.

I crossed the border into Oklahoma, which had apparently changed its slogan to “The Road Construction State.”

I was still driving around with eleven pounds of heroin in my car. Operating at full-crush depth of stress, I couldn't just pop the hatch and bleed out the pressure.

How did criminals do it? The rush of the moment, with so much to lose? It was like high stakes in Vegas, only since you were all in, the only thing you had to play with was your freedom.

I gave up and checked in to a Holiday Inn Express.

I took off my clothes and slid between the sheets. The iPhone played “Got to Give It Up.”

I grabbed my phone, which naturally was plugged in to the wall on a two-foot cable, and hung my head over the side of the bed. “Hi, Mom.”

“Are you okay? Where are you and why haven't you called?”

Feck.

I sat up and slid off the bed onto the floor to keep the charge and fend off her voice-detection superpower.

“Mom. I'm great. I'm working.”

“You're in Oklahoma?”

“Yeah. I'm working on a . . . road construction-slash-public works scandal.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said absently. “That's nice, honey.”

Whew!
This was not about me.
Little fishy off the hook.

“Actually, I've been trying to get a hold of you to talk about Cash.”

“Oh?”
Oh shite, more like.

“About the shrapnel business. How bad was it?”

“Not that bad. Not that bad at all, really.”

“Is that Mr. Sharpe's coaching I hear?”

July Pruitt-McGrane didn't miss a trick. I laughed. “No, Mom.”

“Watch your step. Mr. Sharpe is not the kind of man to let something he wants go easily into that good night.”

WTH, Mom?
“The only reason he's interested is because I'm not. He's a player. That's why he and Cash are BFFs.”

“Yes,” she said, neatly coming around to where we left off. “About Cash. Why exactly is he hiding out at Hank's?”

“He's not. I need him.” The lie came out so smoothly, I realized it was the truth. “I haven't heard from Hank since the—er—accident. Having Cash around makes it . . . less awful somehow.”

“If something happened to Hank, baby, you'd know.”

One of the million reasons why I loved my mother. As committed to logic and objective fact as she was, heart and instinct were all that mattered when it came down to brass tacks.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Try to get some rest. You sound exhausted.”

* * *

My eyes snapped open at 2:30 a.m. If I was awake, I might as well be driving. I loaded my things in the car and headed for Chicago.

I braked at every speed limit sign. Like my brother Rory, I, too, was a serial speeder. I set the cruise control and flipped through my playlist to the ridiculously pleasing Spencer Day.

Somewhere in mid-Missouri I called Gunther Nyx. We agreed to meet the following day at the dry-cleaning drop.

I showed up at home sometime during the midnight hour.

Cash was a night owl. You had to be one if you worked SWAT. Most no-knock warrants were served between 2:00 and 5:00 a.m. I let myself in through the garage, backpack and carry-on in hand, and went directly into the bedroom. I slid the backpack under the bed.

Stannis's bone jar was in the great room. Nyx's heroin under the bed. And CPD SWAT was in the kitchen.

Cash was living large, drinking my boyfriend's Highland Park single malt Scotch and eating a fist-sized chocolate molten-lava cake. From the debris, it appeared he'd gone through a jumbo shrimp cocktail, Caesar salad, French bread, and a New York strip with a baked potato.

“Hey, Snap!” he said. “Sit down—I'll have Wilhelm rustle something up for you.”

“You've met Wilhelm?” I gathered up his dishes and carried them into the kitchen.

“Well, not exactly. I left him a note, so now we text so he can tell me when everything's ready and I can come back. I'm pretty sure it's one of those seen-not-heard British Empire kind of things.”

“Oh yeah?”
Couldn't possibly be the “imprisoned in the basement of a Colombian cartel boss” thing.
“How'd you suss that out, Champ?”

“He made fries when I asked for chips.”

“Wilhelm made fries. For you.”

“Uh-huh.” Cash tossed back a slug of Scotch. “They were great, but I really wanted Doritos.”

Selfish dog.
“Looks like you're feeling better.”

“Yeah. Where were you, anyway?” He scraped the last bits of chocolate sauce off the dessert plate with his fork.

“Working.”

“Hammering or sickling at the
Sentinel
?”

“Hammering.” I gave him a saccharine smile before fibbing. “Didn't you read my Sunday op-ed?”

He sucked the chocolate off the fork and shrugged. “Lee wanted to know where you were.”

“Seriously?” I snatched the empty lava-cake plate from his hand. “You're living Hank's life while you're hiding out from Mom and Da, and you don't feel even the slightest bit bad about trying to get me to date your SWAT squad leader? What the hell, Cash?”

He sank back against the leather couch. “I like 'em both.” He let his dark head loll to the side and gave me an evil grin. “And so do you.”

“Zip it.”