Shoot 'Em Up (2 page)

“Any news of Renko, sir?”
Or Hank?
I raised the cup of 7UP to my lips. My hand shook.

“Gone to ground, I'm afraid. Don't expect to see hide nor hair of him or his team for a month or two.” He smiled. “Your family would be proud of you, if they knew, Maisie.”

“Thank you, sir, but I think you've mistaken proud with punitive.”

Sawyer chuckled. “Take your time recovering. I prefer a formidable hundred percent to a lagging seventy-five.” He stood. “Special Unit's erased all traces of your presence at Renko's penthouse. Your clothes and incidentals were boxed and placed in the trunk of your car in his parking garage.
Chicago Sentinel
credentials in the glove box.”

He removed a black velvet bag from his suit coat pocket and placed it on the tray table. “Spoils of war.”

He opened the door, stepped into the mob of my brothers, and shut it behind him.

I shook the bag out into my lap. The Cartier diamond earrings and Tank wedding band Stannis had given me as well as all my own jewelry I'd brought to the penthouse. At the bottom of the bag were Stannislav's stainless Aquanaut Patek Philippe watch, his thick John Hardy necklace, and a pair of platinum and diamond cuff links.

I put the jewelry back in the bag and slipped it under my pillow. Stashing it was going to be another issue altogether, as I hadn't yet gotten out of bed.

Cash came back in, Flynn behind him. They set up on either side of me.

“We've got first shift.” Flynn laid a hand on my head and mussed my hair. “No questions.”

Cash turned the spaghetti western on and up. “Until after you get outta here, maybe.”

“Knock it off,” Flynn said.

I closed my eyes. Bullets and bad thoughts swarmed in my head like cranked-up yellow jackets.

A nurse came in with a paper cup of pain pills and the world became a quiet and pleasant place again.

Day four. I couldn't bear to lie around, but it hurt like a bitch to get up. The ten feet to the bathroom had me whistle-breathing through my teeth.

Mom took the rare vacation day from Corrigan, Douglas, and Pruitt and spent it with me, steering clear of any dangerous conversation by enlisting traveling-spa services, adhering to Grandma Pruitt's adage: When in doubt, pretty it out.

By the time she left, I'd suffered through an awkward shower, blow-out, mani-pedi, and makeup application. And yes, I actually did feel better.

Talk about all dressed up and no place to go.

I'd be suffering the night with my most torturous of brothers, Cash.

He sat next to me, knees bouncing, knuckles cracking, chewing gum. Irritatingly mobile as we watched Fox News. He hit Mute. “You gotta tell me.”

“No questions.”

“It's not about that. It's about Hank.”

I closed my eyes. “Fire away.”

“Didja guys break up over Renko?”

“No.”

“Then where is he? No flowers, no visits, no calls?”

I felt an ever-expanding bubble the size of a yoga ball in my chest. I wanted to spill. Everything. To tell Cash I'd played Stannislav Renko's beard to hide his sexual relationship with the mayor of Chicago from the NY syndicate, the Veteratti mob, and his Serbian crime lord uncle, Goran Slajic.

That Hank worked for Slajic as Stannis's protector. And mine.

He'd installed his own men in Stannis's operation to watch over me. He'd saved my life and my cover before smuggling Stannis back to Serbia.

Instead, I sighed. “He's out of the country.”

“Hanging with The Butcher.” Cash shook his head. “Feck. If you had balls, Snap, they'd be titanium-plated.”

His phone gave a series of sonar pings. “Cripes! Is it really six thirty?” He clicked it off, shoved it in his pocket, and stood up. “Okay. Peace out.”

“Really?” I said, trying to keep the hope out of my voice.

“Well, it's not like you're gonna die or anything. Check you.” And with a parting slug to the shoulder, he was gone. Leaving the door, naturally, wide open.

Didn't matter. Some nurse would be in to bother me in thirty minutes or less. Sooner if I fell asleep. As if that would happen. I swiped through my phone and the two different message sites Hank had set up to contact me if things were dire.

Zip.

“Maisie?” Lee Sharpe knocked on the open door holding two paper bags. He was wearing blue jeans, black T-shirt, and a leather jacket. Clean-cut, clean-shaven, there was still something about him that screamed one hundred percent badass. “You decent?”

“Er . . . Rarely,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“Thanks, I'd love to come in.” He closed the door, walked over to the bed, and took a good long look at my face.

Which made me love my mother even more. Just because I was in love with Hank didn't mean I wanted to look like dog hurl in front of anyone.

“Funny seeing you here, Mr. Sharpe. I thought you were waiting until . . . Hmm. How did you put it a week ago?” I tapped my finger against my cheek. “Oh yeah. Until I came to the realization that you're the sexiest MF I'd ever met and called you.”

Lee shrugged. “I figured with your leg and all, you couldn't reach the phone.”

I tucked my forearm tight to my chest T. rex–style and waved my fingers in mock futility at the iPhone less than a foot away from me on the wheeled table. “If only I could call Lee. . . .”

He gave a growly chuckle that would have made plenty of women weak in the knees.

“Thanks for saving my life, by the way.”

“Anytime.” He let his eyes drift down to stare at my raised leg. “What's the prognosis?”

“Dr. Williams said I'm one of the unlucky-luckies.”

“Oh?”

“The stab wound was a gimme. It was the artery puncture from the ambulance accident that was the sonuvagun. Light duty for two weeks. Whatever I can stand after that.”

Lee dropped into the chair next to the bed. “Pretty painless lesson, when you think about it.”

“Tell that to the OxyContin.”

He reached into one of the paper bags and pulled out a couple of Coors. “I know you're on painkillers and all, but it didn't seem to hurt Amy Winehouse . . . Oh wait . . .”

I reached for it and he jerked it away in tease, then popped the top and handed it over.

“Saint Sharpe.” The bottle was still ice cold. “Mmm. Why is the first sip of beer so good?”

“Anticipation gratified.” Out of the other bag came two cardboard cartons from The Scout restaurant. Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato basil dipping sauce.

“Wow. Talk about feeling comforted.”

Lee grinned at me and took a bite.

I held out through the beer, half the sandwich, and preseason football small talk before cracking. “What's my lesson learned?”

He crumpled up his wrappers and opened another Coors before answering, “That you're out of your league in Special Unit.”

I laughed. “I think I came out all right.”

“Renko's not going to leave any loose ends hanging around.” Lee leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and casually tossed a brick of Black Cat firecrackers on the campfire. “Put in for an immediate and permanent transition to desk duty.”

“Or?”

Lee's cheek twitched. His eyes went flat. “I'll have your family do it for you.”

“Purposefully revealing an undercover field agent? A career-ending lawsuit will be the least of your worries.” I scoffed. “I'll take you down so hard you'll bounce.”

“Give it your best shot, Bae.”

“Hold up, cowboy. Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“A goddamn Marine and a CPD SWAT squad leader.”

I broke eye contact before I broke his nose with my beer bottle and glanced up at the TV. Right into the face of the only human being I truly loathed.

Talbott Cottle Coles, the mayor of Chicago. Six feet tall, he weighed in at a smoker-slim 165 pounds, with a Zoom! white smile, Botoxed forehead, and salt-and-pepper hair that seemed to grow darker at each appearance.

He was playing to a full house today on an outdoor stage set up in front of City Hall. The street, cordoned off, was packed with supporters. Blue nylon AFL-CIO jackets out in full force.

I don't know if it was Lee throwing his weight around, the Oxy, the beer, or just the sight of that self-righteous bastard that kicked my ire up and disconnected my mouth from my brain. “I'm a hell of a lot harder than you think, Lee.”

He smirked. “Sure, Bae.”

“Six days ago, I cut off Coles's little finger with a cleaver while Stannislav Renko held him down.”

Lee squinted, trying to find the punch line. Only there wasn't one.

Amazing, really, what you're capable of when your life and someone else's were on the line. If I hadn't done it, Coles wouldn't be alive today.

But Lee didn't get to know that.

I tipped my head toward the television. Coles's bandaged left hand hung at his side while he waved to the crowd from behind the podium.

Lee turned to me, eyes narrowed. “Bullshit.”

“Ask Coles. Or Sawyer.”

“Bullshit,” he said, less certain.

“Heck, ask him.” I pointed at a massive black man in the center of the crowd in front of the stage. He was wearing, as always, the Coles-mandated, ridiculous 1920s-style chauffeur attire. “Poppa Dozen. Coles's driver.”

Ignoring my confession, Lee got up and stepped to the TV. “That's a class-A fuckup right there. His driver's blocking the point bodyguard's line of sight.” He outlined Coles's protection detail in diamond formation from amidst the sea of citizens. Obvious from their black-suited, still bodies and swiveling heads. Lee shook his head. “One of the many reasons SWAT hates him.”

“Oh?”

“Coles's private protective detail always changes on the fly—going places that haven't been advanced. Extra people in the car, heading into the crowd to shake hands. Shit like that. Guy's got a hard-on for screwing with the CPD.”

“But if he has a private detail—”

“CPD's at the bottom of the food chain. SWAT recommends four snipers, Coles agrees to one. Then they hamstring him by demanding he follow Coles's team lead's directives. Asshole egomaniac won't even wear a vest.”

“You sure?” I said. Coles seemed a bit meatier than normal. “Looks like he has one on today.”

“I'm guessing new team lead or viable death threat.”

I turned up the volume on the socialist pap Sean Hannity would be shredding in the following minutes. Coles stood at the podium, heiress wife, Zara, slightly behind his right side in a blush-colored Alexander McQueen pantsuit. The mayor raised his right fist, thumb tip up, gesturing for emphasis. “While my administration, in conjunction with the CPD, has made significant inroads into the criminal activity—”

“Golly,” I said, “you don't think underreporting the number of homicides by incorrectly classifying sixteen percent as ‘death investigations' had anything to do with it, do you?”

Lee opened another beer and handed it over. “Hard to build up momentum for a presidential run when you're the mayor of Murder Capital, USA.”

Coles leaned over the podium in a sorrowful pose. “This weekend we witnessed yet another tragedy on our streets. The separate shooting deaths of not one, but two innocent teenagers and the wounding of a five-year-old boy in West Englewood. Our citizens deserve to live happy, healthy lives of opportunity. We must stop the lawless use of firearms!”

Blergehdy blerg blerg.
I took a swig of beer.

“I've just signed a budget addendum,” the mayor said, “adding fifty badly needed patrol officers to impact zones on the South and West Side.”

The camera cut to a wide-angle crowd shot.

“But more than cops on the beat”—up came Coles's fist for emphasis—“we need community action and stronger gun laws to take back our city.”

On-screen, a scrawny guy in a black polo shirt and khakis suddenly raised a fat black pistol. Coles stepped back from the podium, palms up.

Coles spun and dove on top of his wife, crashing them to the ground, covering her with his body a split second before the protective detail blanketed them.

The shooter landed two rounds into the podium as Poppa Dozen stepped behind the shooter, extended his arm, and blasted him in the back of the head with a shiny blue-black Taurus revolver.

The crowd erupted into an instant panic, scrambling and screaming.

Lee and I stared at each other. “Holy shit,” he said.

“Yeah.”

His phone was ringing and buzzing before the news crew synched up to replay the attempt.

“Lock it down,” Lee said into the phone. “I'll be there in ten.” He turned to me. “Gotta go, Bae.”

Take me with you!
“You do realize that
Bae
is Danish for ‘poop.'”

Lee shrugged a wide shoulder. “None of the other girls seem to mind.”

“Wow.” I nodded. “Now, that's cute. Work pretty well for you?”

“It doesn't hurt. . . .” Lee bent over and kissed me on the cheek. “Bless your little Irish heart, and every other Irish part.”

He chucked me under the chin and left.