Shoot 'Em Up (21 page)

Lee and I took our places at the conference room table. We'd walked in on something and it wasn't pretty. Walt Sawyer looked carved from stone, Ditch Broady from fire, and Gunther Nyx from ice.

Sawyer said, “Agent McGrane has been working in conjunction with the DEA. The strides she's made in such a short time have been considerable, notably the invitation El Cid has extended to her to attend Carlos Grieco's birthday celebration. While the Special Unit is amenable to her pursuing leads on the 5.7s and steel-core rounds, her work for the DEA will cease upon commission of this latest drug purchase.”

Nyx didn't like it but he wasn't much bothered, either. I had the distinct feeling that after I returned from Tampico, I'd have a lucrative offer from the DEA waiting. “What's Sharpe doing here?” he asked.

“Sharpe's transferring from SWAT to Special Unit. He will be accompanying Agent McGrane as her bodyguard.”

“Excellent,” Broady said.

Nyx huffed a breath from his nose and raked a hand through his hair. “Are you kidding me? He's as subtle as a cement truck.”

I chirped up. “El Cid is expecting him.”

Nyx spoke as if Lee and I weren't there. “Sharpe's a mistake, Walt. And you know it.”

Sawyer shook his head. “He's in.”

“Heavy is the head . . .” Nyx stood. He dropped a hand on my shoulder. “Connect with Wes. I'll approve the funds.”

He left.

Ditch Broady tipped back in his chair. “You dug yourself in, missy, like a fat tick on a blue hound. I'll give you that.”

“Why don't we discuss the ATF's objectives?” Sawyer smiled thinly.

Ditch nodded. “We've got satellite and drone observations. We want confirmation, numbers, weapons, and intention. You may be in the belly of the beast, ma'am, but we don't want you danglin' ass-out from a tree, you understand?”

Lee said, “Getting the drugs stateside to build a case against the Grieco cartel and Chicago distribution lines is more important than putting yourself and the ATF's objectives at risk by overreaching surveillance objectives.”

Broady rapped his knuckles on the table. “Ain't that what I just said?”

“Agent McGrane,” Sawyer said. “As an established field agent, we're confident you understand what's required of you. However, this is Agent Sharpe's first assignment, so if you wouldn't mind giving us a few minutes ?”

The snark-polite smile split my lips before I could stop it.

I get us in, so now it's a man's job, is that it?
“Certainly, sir.”

Except for the very real part of me that was damn happy to get up and walk out and let Lee carry the cross for a bit.

I closed the door behind me and leaned my forehead against it.

My hands were shaking.

* * *

Back in my office I chugged a couple cans of Coke and calmed the feck down. And turned my attention toward finding a solution to my most looming problem.

I cycled through Neiman Marcus and Sharper Image and Cabela's.

Zip. Zero. Nada.

As someone who defended big-time baddies, Mom, naturally, would have the perfect gift idea, except that she was the very last person I needed asking me about my weekend plans. Now that conversation would be supes terrif.

I started cycling through eBay, randomly searching for crazy, blinged-out shite, refusing to let my brain start running on the rusty hamster wheel of worry over Hank and Stannis. Sawyer and the BOC would alert me to the moment that they made contact with the Srpska Mafija.

Hank had the patience of a sniper.

I wish I did.

After taking the full score with Sawyer and Nyx, Lee drove us home from the
Sentinel
and thankfully put a leash on the flirting.

We spent the next eight days working out, drying out, and de-carbing like prize fighters trying to make weight.

And we spent hours at the range.

Every day.

“You don't suck, Maisie.” Lee pulled off his ear covers after I finally outshot him by a hair after a mind-numbing set of combat reaction drills.
Speed reload from holster. 2 in weapon; 9 in pouch. Fill mag with 7. Analyze and repair.
Over and over and over. “You ever compete?”

“Sure. But I never did as well against another kid as I did going up against my brothers. Taunting and pressure gives me focus.” I knocked him with my shoulder. “Thanks for the assist.”

He winked. “How about a little Five-seveN action?”

We finished with them every day.

It helped and he knew it. Even more when he changed the load to steel-core armor-piercing rounds. Like the kind that hit Cash.

* * *

After the range, Lee and I swung by Mon Ami Gabi for a superlative meal that neither of us could taste. Tomorrow's mission an ever-expanding wall between us, we ate in quiet and drove home in silence.

A man leaned against the wall of the entrance to the underground parking garage, smoking a cigarette. I almost didn't recognize Stannislav's right-hand man, Christo Keck.

Lee drove us inside without a second look. He parked and started unloading the guns and equipment from the trunk.

I dug the mail key from my satchel and stepped out of the Mustang. “Hey, Lee? I think I'll go check the mail, unless you need a hand.”

“Nah, I'm good.” He slung a duffel bag over his shoulder.

Careful to keep it nonchalant, I hustled to the elevator, and jabbed the button for the lobby.

Keck was the asset the Bureau of Organized Crime couldn't get along without. He needed to believe I was all in or the Syndicate sting would never get off the ground.

The doors opened. I stepped out with a wave at the security guard behind the desk and opened the front door. Christo Keck stepped in before I could step out. “We need to talk,” he said in a low voice.

I took him across the lobby and down the hall to the workout room. I swiped my card and took a quick peek inside the empty space, before pushing the door wide for him to enter.

Keck had shaved his beard, gotten a haircut, and looked about twenty years younger. The cool fifteen pounds the stress of a trial knocked off his five-foot-eight frame off hadn't hurt much, either. I might have thought he was his own kid brother, except for the cunning in those close-set, slanted hazel eyes.

“You are well, Maisie?” He walked slowly around the pristine mirrored and matted private gym.

“Yes.”
Time to go fishing.
“And pleased Stannis had you hire my brothers to represent you.”

“No,” Keck said. “I have not heard from Renko since the job went bad. I had men watching the hospital. Following what the police did with you. From this, I chose your brothers to represent me.”

Yikes.
“I'm glad you did. Saved me the trouble of doing it for you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

“I want Stannis to have something to come home to. I'm in negotiations with Vi Veteratti and the Grieco cartel.” I raised my palms to him. “I'm getting the band back together, baby. Whaddya say?”

“What about your brothers?”

“Declan and Daicen are defending you, aren't they?” I said.

The corner of his mouth raised in a smirk. “The other brothers. The cops.”

“Never bothered Stannis.”

He mulled that over. “Who's the new driver?”

“My bodyguard. Lee Sharpe.”

“Renko's?”

“No. Mine.”

Keck paced in front of a rack of free weights, gripping his wrist behind his back. He stopped and faced me. “My case is not going well. The ASA is Coles's personal attack dog.”

Sawyer would get Keck out of hot water. And pay the twins' fees. And I was sure as hell going to use that to my advantage. I smiled. “Leave it to me.”

He nodded in relief, eyes lingering on the engagement ring on my finger. “Better for the men if you are already Stannislav's wife.”

I shrugged. “If you say so, Christo.”

“I do, Mrs. Renko.”

I rode the elevator up to the penthouse, breathing easy. I shot Sawyer a text about my unexpected run-in with Keck and the state of his case.

Lee lounged on the couch watching a Blackhawks game. “Mail traveling by Pony Express nowadays?”

“Cute.” I fanned myself with the stack of junk mail I'd retrieved. “I ran into the quicksand neighbor. The more I struggled to get away, the deeper I sank into conversation.”

He smiled thinly. “In less than fourteen hours, we'll be on our way to Tampico. We gonna watch a movie, or what?”

“Yeah. Gimme five minutes to change, okay?”

We spent the night like we had every night for the past week: watching movies from opposite ends of Stannis's dove-white sectional. Tonight was Lee's choice.
Predator
. Which was terrific because, well . . .
Predator
.

Stannis was a glorious and platonic cuddler. The reality that I missed him chilled me from the inside out.

With a bellyful of bees on bath salts, I got up and opened the cabinet beneath the wall-mounted television. Inside was a mink throw so soft it made water feel rough.

Back on the couch, I snuggled into it, the silk satin lining rubbing against my cheek.

Lee glowered at me.

“What's wrong?” I said.

“You were lucky to have survived Renko, you know.”

More than you could possibly imagine.
I tipped my head in a half-nod, half-shake. “Maybe so, maybe no.”

“This is reckless and stupid, Maisie.”

A little pre-mission aggression, Lee?
“Let a girl put her seat belt on first, sport.”

Lee left his end of the couch for the coffee table in front of me. Up close and personal. Hands on his knees, the expression on his face wasn't real sweet. “These cartel guys aren't like regular criminals.”

“Oh yeah? How do you know?”

“Because I've killed my share of goddamn Hajji sand-crawlers. They torture for sport, rape and murder women and children. Who the fuck do you think the cartels are importing for their private armies?”

“So.” Lee bared his teeth. “What are you gonna do when one of them wants to fuck you?”

“They won't.” I crossed my fingers behind my back.

He snorted. “Wake up.”

“I'll hop that puddle when I come to it.”

“Yeah? How's Bannon going to feel about that?”

“Gee, you're awfully worried about my love life,” I said and lied, “He'd understand.”

“Then he's a bigger man than me.”

“Yeah, he is. You through?”

Lee's jaw slid forward. He folded his arms across his chest. “Sure, Bae.”

I went to my room. A sick, twisty knot tightened in my belly. Did I think Hank would cheat on me? Maybe. If he needed to preserve his cover.

Not that it mattered. Good little Catholic girls—even lapsed ones—aren't built that way. Skipping confession is a helluva lot different from skipping off to bed with someone else, just because you're lonesome.

The suitcase taunted me from the bed.

Packing sucks. And there's nothing worse than the conundrum of outfit selection when you have no idea of the situation or duration. According to
Vogue
's “Pack Like a Parisienne on Holiday” article, I was right on target.

Last into the suitcase went the spy-tech kit we'd been sent from Special Unit, which included bugs, locator disks, spare SIM cards, camera pens, and hi-tech watches that did more than I could remember, as well as my decidedly non-tech, point-and-shoot Kimber Ultra and extra mags. Lee would be gunned up to the teeth.

Beneath the liner of my small clutch, I packed the volcanic glass knife that Hank had given me. I stowed the clutch in my carry-on satchel and, yawning, gave up.

The digital clock read 12:07 a.m.

The hardwood floors were silk smooth beneath my feet. I raised my hand to knock on his door and stopped. He might be sleeping. I put my ear to the door.

Lee was moving around inside, talking in that easy, sexy, teasing voice. He was talking to a woman. He laughed that deep, warm chuckle.

Which inexplicably seemed to chip away at my flinty heart. Why was he always pressing me when he already had someone else?

I snuck back down the hall to Stannis's room and got into bed. Forty minutes of staring at the ceiling didn't seem to help.

The soft
ding
of the elevator pealed from the foyer.

I'd set the security system. The elevator couldn't come up without someone entering the code. But it could go down.

Lee. Leaving.

I kicked off the covers, went out, and turned off the system so Lee could get back into the penthouse.

Shaking my head, I padded into the bathroom and raided Stannis's medicine cabinet. “Geez, guy,” I muttered, pushing around bottles that were the hot ticket in Serbia but banned or phased out in the States. I landed on Halcion.

I shook one out, snapped it in half, and dry-swallowed it.

Five minutes later I was encased in the sweet glow of utter relaxation, realizing just as I dropped off to sleep, why “the halcyon days” were something to be revered.