Shoot 'Em Up (14 page)

I spun around and leaned back in the limo. I jabbed a finger at him. “Watch it, pal!” I said in my best cop voice.

Poppa Dozen hooted with laughter. “You think you know what you're doing?”

I rolled my eyes skyward. “Not sure yet.” I dragged a hand though my hair. “I know a lot about a little and a little about a lot.”

“That may be,” he said, “but you better recognize. You don't know shit about shit.”

My phone
pinged
from the nightstand. I grabbed it and squinted, the screen too bright in the darkened bedroom.

Lee Sharpe.

I flopped back onto the pillow. God, he was exhausting. I took a couple of breaths with my eyes closed, then sat up and looked at the clock.

Five fifteen a.m.

I rolled off the bed and hit the shower. The Hot Topic–style outfit I'd picked out to wear to the
Sentinel
was sitting on the chair. I put it on. It was always good to practice in real-life situations.

Lee arrived with two cups of coffee.

“Thanks, but I don't drink coffee.”

“Really?”

“I hate the taste.” I shuddered.

He leaned in across the armrest, slow and close. “Better kiss me now, then.”

I raised my can of Mango-Guava Xenergy in between us and popped the top.

He let his eyes drift slowly down, over my old Chris Cornell concert tee, short red plaid skirt, and leggings tucked into Caterpillar steel-toe work boots. “Nice shirt.” He sat back, clicked his phone, and said, “Play ‘Nearly Forgot My Broken Heart.'” He grinned and pulled out of the driveway.

We hit the freeway as Cornell's whiskey yowl throbbed against the acoustic guitar.

Lee pulled into the lot of The Second Amendment. He grabbed the gear and we walked into the range. The delicate brunette behind the counter in an I H
EART
M
ARK
L
EVIN
sweatshirt, was falling all over herself for Lee. “I saved the two end lanes for you, Mr. Sharpe.”

“Thanks,” Lee said. “You're a sweetheart. Miss Coonan.”

“Mary Beth,” she corrected.

We made our way back to the lanes, Lee discussing the upcoming drills as he unpacked the Herstal FNs and an excessively delicious number of loaded magazines.

“How'd you get a hold of these?” I asked.

“Let's just say, if you were my girlfriend, I wouldn't mind pimping you out to Ditch Broady every now and again.”

“I'd rethink ticking off a girl with a loaded gun, Champ.”

“Aww, Bae,” he said. “I'd never sell you out.”

I rolled my eyes and put in my earplugs, muffs on top.

“Ladies first,” Lee said.

I moved up to the counter. Da's voice in my head from the very first time he took me to the range. “
You're not shooting at the target; you're shooting into it.
” I took an isosceles stance, feet square, face flat to the target. Concentrating on keeping every action consistent and tight.

We started with a timed reload drill. Three shots, reload, three shots, reload, three shots.

Next up, the malfunction drill to clear a jammed weapon while shooting. We moved onto Delta and Chaos drills. Pouring through the ammo like water through a sieve.

We ended the drills with Mozambique—two shots to the chest, one to the head. Close-in shooting, using both hands as much as possible.

“Pretty sweet, aren't they?” Lee said.

“Pure sugar.”

I cleaned up brass while he packed up the gear.

“Strong groupings, tight times.” He gave a low whistle. “Not bad for a girl.”

“Gee, thanks. You're not so sucky yourself.” I felt that satisfyingly good kind of tired, looser and happier than I'd felt in months.

It must have showed in my face.

He laughed and held up his hands. “Glad I called?”

“Yeah. Thank you.” I caught sight of the clock over his shoulder.
Holy cat. We've been here almost three hours.
“Uh, Lee? Any way you could drop me at the
Sentinel
?”

“Sure thing, Smiles.”

* * *

Lee drove with a lead foot. I walked into the
Sentinel
a half hour before my sit-down with Walt. Which worked out perfectly, because I needed information. And fast.

I found Jennifer Steager working at a wall of file cabinets. “Juice?”

She turned. “Good morning, Maisie. How are you?”

“Living the dream.”

“Aren't we all?” she said wryly.

“Hey, I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of an experienced researcher.”

“Sure. What kind?”

“Mexico. Cartels. Specific. In-depth about a person.”

Juice's nose crinkled, agate-brown eyes narrowing. “We have an expert on staff.”

“Who?”

Juice tucked her chin and her shoulders hit her ears. “Lennon.”

“He speaks fluent Spanish and he has a ton of connections.”

“Lost cause?”

“Don't be silly.” She waved me off. “It takes Lennon a long time to warm up to someone. You can't take it personally.”

“Any ideas how to get him to help me?”

“Money.”

Now that, I can do.
“Lead the way.”

I followed her trim figure down the hall to his office. She knocked on the open door. “Hi, Lennon. Do you have a few minutes?”

“For you? Sure.”

“How about me?” I asked.

I saw Juice's reflection in the window, as she mouthed, “
Be nice
” and then left.

Lennon, gaunt enough to hang glide off a Dorito, turned back to his computer. “What do you want?”

“Research. I'll pay you fifty dollars an hour. Cash. Twenty hours, tops.”

His side of the office was a pit. Portishead and The xx stickers, indie band fliers, and take-out menus were tacked up all over his wall. Every surface was covered in empty coffee cups, papers, and Post-its. The whole place reeked of vape and Febreze.

Grey Gardens's side, however, was spotless. The only ornamentation was a framed photo of her and Lennon.

He clicked his mouse, uninterested. “What kind?”

“Four Mexican drug cartel
sicarios.
Enforcers. Torture killers.”

He turned his chair around. “What? Why?”

“I'd rather not say.”

He thought that over for a long while. A petty smile creased his face. “Sixty an hour. Take it or leave it.”

I pretended as though I was actually giving it a second thought. I rubbed my forehead. “Okay. Deal.”

He grabbed a Post-it Note and a pen. “Any specifics?”

“Chilo, The Weeping Beast, Kah, and Águila. I want everything you can get on them. Neighbors, social workers, teachers. Real background from the day they were born until today.”

“What are you going to do with the info?”

I'd been waiting for this. “I don't think I'm a good fit at the
Sentinel
. I'd like to move out to LA, but a handful of op-eds doesn't open doors.”

He nodded happily. “Glad to help.”

“Great. Thanks, Lennon.” I left his office and went to see Walt, feeling a little weird to be so openly disliked.

My phone buzzed. I dug it out of my messenger bag. “Hello?”

“Snap!” Declan's voice, “Whatcha doin'?”

“Working.”

“Maisie?” Daicen said. “We have you on speaker.”

I figured as much.
“Go ahead.”

“We'd like to have a meet regarding a mutual acquaintance.”

“Huh?” I glanced at my watch. Four minutes. I stopped in the hallway.

“Our client. Keck. Christo Keck,” Declan interrupted. “Your pal Stannislav Renko is one helluva a heavy hitter—”

“Maisie,” Daicen cut him off. “You are my uppermost priority. As this case has progressed, unsavory connections and events have come to light. Both Declan and I are deeply concerned for your safety.”

“You're in the shite, Snap. Big-time.”

“Guys, I've got a meeting. Can we talk about this later?”

“Sure,” Declan said. “But don't wait too fecking long.”

I disconnected and trotted down the hall into the conference room.

Nattily attired in a slim-fitting Armani windowpane gray wool suit and chestnut John Lobb shoes, Sawyer waited for me at the window. “None the worse for wear after an encounter with a binary chemical bomb, I see, Agent McGrane.”

“Yes, I'm fine, sir. Thank you.” We sat down.

“How is your assignment for Gunther Nyx proceeding?”

“Almost finished, sir.” I traced the wood grain of the table with my finger, opting not to flesh out the undistributed-as-of-yet heroin angle. “Um, sir? I'm not sure that the Grieco cartel was involved with the assassination attempt on Coles.”

“How's that?”

“They're aware that one of their soldiers' guns was used. And El Cid assumed Renko sent me to see if they were really responsible. He swears they aren't.”

“That's . . . unexpected,” Sawyer said. “What else?”

As I filled him in, his eyes focused on a far-off place over my shoulder, processing and evaluating the information.

“El Cid's men were armed with Serbian assault rifles,” I said. “I'm not so sure that—”

A quick
rap
sounded, and the door opened. “Hello, Walt. Am I late?” Lee stepped inside and closed the door.

He'd changed from his jeans and tee from the range into navy suit pants and an open-necked blue dress shirt that had to have been custom-made. No off-the-rack shirt would fit that large a chest and shoulders and taper so closely to his waist.

“Not at all.” Sawyer gestured toward the table. “Take a seat.”

Lee took the chair next to mine and scooted too close.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, more abruptly than I meant to.

“Lee Sharpe's agreed to be your new partner.”

I propped my elbow on the table just in time to catch my chin so I didn't pound the brains out of my head on the table.

Lee riding around in my back pocket was the very last thing I needed.

“Let's get you up to speed, Lee,” Sawyer said. “Maisie has made significant progress fostering a relationship with AJ ‘El Cid' Rodriguez, the Grieco cartel's number-one lieutenant. With the recent spate of diamond-chipped Five-seveNs recovered, we are critically concerned about the potential influx of the black-tip SS190 steel-core, armor-piercing rounds similar to those discovered at the attempted assassination site, as well as the SWAT bust in Little Village.”

Lee's face hit high alert. He took Cash's shooting personally, too. “What's Maisie's involvement with El Cid?”

“At this point it is difficult to predict El Cid's intent with Maisie. He believes her romantic connection to Stannislav Renko is still intact. As does Violetta Veteratti.”

Lee's chiseled features turned stony. He knew who the mob princess was, too.

“Special Unit's preference is for Maisie's relationship with him to continue, but remain limited to an auxiliary partnership,” Sawyer continued. “Which brings us to Special Unit's and your primary directive. Operation Summit. The Bureau of Organized Crime has decided to take on the single bastion left to the traditional Mafia. Their trade in drugs, human trafficking, and stolen goods wanes in comparison to the influence they wield over politicians and governmental services.”

Lee and I exchanged glances.

“Over the course of the next several months, Maisie will operate as Renko's de facto proxy. During this time, she will establish you as her lieutenant,” Sawyer said. “The two of you will move forward rebuilding Renko's chop trade with Violetta Vet-teratti and further cementing connections with the NY Syndicate.”

“Sir,” I said, “I was wondering if you've had time to read my report?”

“In regard to Christo Keck?”

I nodded.

“Who's that?” Lee said.

“Stannislav's business manager,” Sawyer answered. “Currently represented by Declan and Daicen McGrane against pending indictments.”

Lee scoffed. “Christ, I knew you were a close family, but this is ridiculous.”

I ignored him. “Keck's a critical player. I'll need him.”

“That will be the trick, won't it?” Sawyer glanced at his watch. “Rest assured Special Unit is prepared to leverage the necessary assets.” He looked from Lee to me. “I fully expect this assignment to last several months.”

Lee held out his hand, with a smile that was more scowl. “Looking forward to working with you,
partner
.”

We exchanged a short businesslike shake. “Me, too.”

“That's all for now, Maisie,” Sawyer said. “Thank you.”

* * *

I left Walt and Lee—the sandbagging bastard—and walked back to my office.

Cash ought to be able to play taxi driver and give me a ride home. Since I was here, appropriately dressed, I might as well serve my time.

As I cruised past the aisles of cubicles and Formica desks, Juice, on the phone, spied me and raised a finger. I nodded and stopped. She wedged the phone between her ear and shoulder, and scribbled furiously on a yellow legal pad. After a minute, she glanced up at me. I gave her the “
I'll wait
” palm.