Shoot 'Em Up (23 page)

Lee knocked on my door.

“Come in.” I swiped on the last of the war paint in the bathroom. “How was dinner?”

“Not bad for a staff mess, other than it was too early. I got some up-close-and-personal shots of personnel. At my count Grieco's carrying twenty minimum to a shift. Pros, not the kind that get squirrely. If your pal El Cid's recruiting, he's doing a damn fine job.”

I dabbed Must de Cartier on my pulse points.

“You've got just under five,” Lee said.

“Thanks.” I turned off the bathroom lights and walked into the bedroom. Because Stannis preferred me to look as feminine as possible, I'd chosen a navy, sleeveless BCBG stretch-jersey cowl-neck dress with back-baring cutouts. I gave a quick spin. “Wish me luck.”

“You don't need it. You look beautiful.” His mouth quirked up at the corner. “And that's the least interesting thing about you.”

Cocaine had nothing on the rush that shot all the way up from my toes to my cheeks. “Thanks.”

He opened the door for me. “I'll be close.”

* * *

AJ, in taupe linen pants and a cream shirt, was waiting for me in the foyer. He turned on the Euro-charm with a kiss on each cheek, before walking me outside, far past the hotel-size flagstone veranda with requisite swimming pool, spa, and water features. We kept going, over the koi pond bridge and up two sets of stairs to a private, open-air cabana overlooking the ocean. A formal table was set for two.

As soon as we were seated, a waiter brought out champagne, champagne bucket, and a stand. AJ nodded for him to open and pour.

“How is C-Rey?”

“A specialist from Lake Carpintero Sanctuary will see him in the morning.”

“He was shot, wasn't he?”

“Yeah.” AJ's jaw turned to granite. “And I'll have physical proof of that fucktard by the end of dinner.” He said something in Spanish to the waiter, who left immediately. AJ raised his glass. “You do the honors, kid.”

“For some crimes, there is only blood reckoning.”

AJ grinned. “Hell, yeah.”

“Stannis. He has the best toasts of all time.”

We talked movies over butter lettuce salads and stuffed crab. Halfway through the sea bass, he circled back around to C-Rey.

“I've told Carlos over and over that goddamned Raúl can't be trusted,” AJ said. “I mean, who the fuck shoots someone's pet?”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but C-Rey's not exactly a fast-moving target. Not much sport in that.”

He slid his chair forward. “Do you hunt, Maisie?”

“Only rich and powerful men.”

AJ laughed.

“The closest I've been to hunting is skeet. Although I know my way around rifles, pistols, and the occasional AK.”

“Part of your charm,” AJ said. “I ran a credit check on you, Maisie. You have plenty of resources at your disposal. You didn't need sixty thousand dollars' worth of heroin from me.”

“You know my family. Four cops and three lawyers. Do you honestly think I can tap in to my trust fund without them finding out? I'm having a hard enough time just being engaged to Renko,” I fibbed. “My clan hates him.”

He took a bite of sea bass, then said with a passable Italian accent, “Don't ever take sides with anyone against the family.”

“It'd be funny if it wasn't so true.” I smoothed the section of tablecloth in front of my plate. “What are you doing here, AJ?”

“I ask myself that more often than you can imagine.” He heaved a mighty sigh. “Family. When I first came here, it was all adrenaline and machismo—cars and women and drugs and money and shooting guns. But now?” He shook his head. “It's about saving Tampico. Mexico is fucking insane.”

“You have no idea, kid. It's like a fucking B-movie version of the Holocaust. El Eje moves in and massacres a town—an entire fucking town—of some three hundred people, then loots, bulldozes, and leaves not a goddamn trace. You think anybody'd ever come to
Me-hi-co
if they had the slightest fucking clue?”

“Yeah, no,” I said, “but—”

“No, nothing. Look, I'm not saying we haven't done some bad shit. Horrible shit. But fuck, we are not murdering grandmas and raping babies and running some fucked-up ISIL pogrom purge. The Five-sevenS captured one of their
sicarios
.” His velvet brown eyes went flat. “I went down with Carlos to find out what happened. They imprisoned them in the church, he says, and then they killed them. The entire village. Three hundred thirty-six people.”

He smiled horribly. “Then he told us how they disposed of them. Loading the bodies into fifty-five-gallon drums. Burning the corpses with diesel fuel and pieces of old tires until they were nothing but ash.” He rubbed his chin. “He was our guest for several weeks. The guy wouldn't eat anything except vegetables. Said the smell of burning bodies was too much like chicken.”

“Jaysus Criminey,” I breathed.

“El Eje wants Tampico. But we're not some
paisan
unprotected desert village, and the last thing they want to do is kill the golden goose and destroy the port, pissing off the very people they want to do business with.”

“So, how did I end up here, AJ?”

“We need our supply lines flowing in Chicago. And we'd like to deal weapons and men with the Srpska Mafija.”

* * *

The next morning, Lee and I were up and at 'em at 0500, dressed for a run. While we agreed it would have been better to split up, neither one of us was comfortable with the idea of me running alone. We planned for six miles—three out and three back.

Before we headed out, Lee and I sat on the end of my bed, eating the Quest brownie bars from my suitcase while he outlined our route.

Only the servants were up before the sun, already starting to decorate for Carlos's birthday party. The color of the day? Yellow.

Lee jogged us out the way we'd come in, toward the airstrip. As we ran, I told him about C-Rey and El Eje.

Lee said, “How does it feel to be playing around in the middle of a drug war?”

“Not real great,” I said. “Drug mule is my least favorite assignment so far.”

He made a face. “What was your worst job prior?”

“Meter maid. Still, I pretty much have the career trajectory of a downhill Slip 'N Slide.”

“I'm not exactly riding high myself. Trophy wife's boy toy.”

“You wish!” I laughed.

“That's right.” Lee sprinted ahead. “Keep your eye on the prize, Bae,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “Me.”

The first fingers of sunshine splayed across the horizon as we jogged into the gravel parking lot between the two renovated barns. Carlos's two black Navigators were parked there along with a few others.

“I want a closer look.” Lee steered us to the rear of the barn near a rusting red aboveground diesel fuel tank. “Keep an eye out.”

“Say cheese.” I raised my arms above my head and walked in a couple of lazy circles, spotting a couple security cameras. “Big Brother has three of them as far as I can see.”

Lee stretched his Achilles, getting a glance inside the barn, before walking back over. He came in real close and put his mouth against my ear. “I want a closer look.” His fingers hooked inside the elastic of my shorts. “Let's give them something to see.” He pulled the elastic and let it snap.

“Jerk!” I said, chasing after him.

He bobbed and wove, and we reconnoitered the barn and the stable, playing tag, flirting around.

Lee stopped me at the window of the stable.

“What do you see?”

“Nothing. They're black. Trip alarms. I'm guessing garage where they fix the cars.”

“Then we should move this to the back of the barn.” I ducked beneath his arm and took off.

He caught me before I hit the corner, and edged me over to the windows. He raised my arms over my head and held me by the wrists. “What do you see?”

“Hand presses.” He started kissing my neck. “Mmm. Pallets of gunpowder.”

Nothing for me to see except the rusted diesel tank supplying the generator and the security camera on the edge of the barn.

Lee's mouth on my neck was . . .
oh, so damn good
.

My lips parted in a breathy sigh and his mouth was on mine, kissing me. Playful and trusting and somewhere the playful heat turned scorching. I didn't remember him letting go of my wrists, or wrapping my arms around his neck.

But the alarm bells went off when his fingers edged beneath my sports bra, up inside my shirt. “Stop. I can't do this.”

“Sure thing, boss lady,” he said in a voice that was anything but sweet.

It stung, more than it should have.

Muddled and confused, it took a good mile on the way back to the main house before I felt like talking to him. “How do Nyx and Broady plan to use this information anyway?”

“What does it matter? Whatever they do, it won't be good.”

Carlos's party started in the afternoon. On the front golf course of a lawn, was a luxe carnival with rides, bounce houses, food carts, and animal rides. This was for his children and guests not important enough to attend his wife's sophisticated starting event on the back veranda—tea and canapés.

AJ told me that while his aunt Grieco's occasional afternoon teas were infamously tedious, Carlos appreciated the additional intimidation and respect that upper-class manners demanded.

A white-gloved and jacketed staff worked silently and tirelessly beneath white tents. It was a surprisingly intimate party for the eighty or so adults, two-thirds of them men.

Lee, while technically not a guest, got the nod from AJ and floated in between Grieco's bodyguards and the Five-seveNs on the fringe of the property.

Red-gowned and raven-haired, Grieco's wife took Carlos's arm and swept him over to a raised dais where a pair of gilt chairs waited. Trays of French champagne were distributed, and we toasted his health and benevolence.

The string quartet played “
Feliz Cumpleaños
.” The guests all sang and cheered.

And then came the gifts.

Trays of tiny cakes and champagne were passed around, yet no one dared speak. In front of his captive audience, Carlos opened each and every present like a child.

I started to get that sinking feeling.

He opened bottles of alcohol in every shape and variety, boxes of cigars, cuff links, and leather goods. The highlight was the matte-black Colt 1911 from AJ with black mother-of-pearl grips.

AJ drifted over to me and whispered in my ear, “Bored yet?” Hardly. I could feel Lee glowering at me through his sunglasses from the edge of the pool.

“This is the smallest birthday party Carlos has had since he took over Tampico.” AJ lowered his sunglasses. “Family only.”

El Eje
.

Carlos got to my gift, in the subdued matte silver paper and gray satin bow. He pointed at me before looking at the gift tag. “From you, yes ?”

“Yes.” I ducked my head, my smile as tight as a compression sock on a fat woman's ankle.

Carlos shredded the paper. Inside was a silky cherrywood box. “Humidor.” He nodded and made to hand it to the servant, then changed his mind and looked inside.

He frowned and jabbed a finger at me. “You chose this for me?”

I nodded.

He whooped with delight, then turned it around to show it to everyone. Inside were, according to eBay and DiecastMan, “a Rare Set of 1:24 Dale Earnhardt Sr & Jr 24-karat gold-plated 1998 Elite die-cast cars,” both numbered one hundred of one hundred, complete with certificates of authenticity and commemorative coins.

It set Nyx and the DEA back a cool $4K on eBay, plus shipping.

Señora Grieco gave me a showy clap of hands. The glass of champagne I'd ignored had gone utterly flat. But it became nectar of the gods when mixed with the fizz of giving the perfect gift.

“Goddammit!” AJ seethed, jostling my arm and spilling champagne down the front of my little black dress. “Who the fuck does Raúl think he is coming here?”

The man who'd used C-Rey for target practice was young and wiry with a long, narrow head. His small-irised brown eyes were an unhealthy mix of eagerness and arrogance, the whites as yellow as tea-stained teeth.

He sauntered up to the dais, followed by two men, and gave a showy bow, then reached back to one of his men, who handed him a box, which Raúl opened and presented to Carlos.

AJ jammed his hands in his pockets, teeth gritted together. Waiting.

Carlos held up a pair of pointy-toed cowboy boots.

I thought AJ's head would explode. I put my hand on his forearm. He jerked it away and strode over to his cousin.

“You think this is funny,
Pelotuvo?
” he demanded.

“I would have put your name on the card, too, cousin.” A smug smile lit on Raúl's piranha mouth. “But C-Rey's belly was too yellow. So I had to choose another. I can't have
Tío
Carlos walking around in yellow boots.”

“How is C-Rey?” Carlos asked AJ.

“The vet thinks he'll recover.”

Carlos tipped his head. “Raúl will pay for the vet.”

“And a new enclosure,” AJ said.

Raúl spat. “
Deje de ser tan pendejo.
”

“We settle it at the Autódromo,” AJ said. “Tomorrow.”

“
Tío
Carlos.” Raúl tossed his palms in appeal. “El Cid is a track rat.” He moued. “I need time to find a driver. It will not be easy to find one with your skills,
Tío
Carlos. And as you know, the next two weeks will be busy for me and my men.”

The drug lord thought that over. “Shooting contest. Three rounds. Best score of two,” Carlos said, enjoying playing King Solomon more than any gift he received. “The winner determines C-Rey's fate. Wallet and belts for Raúl and his men, or a crocodile casita for El Cid.”

“Choose your champion, Raúl,” Carlos said.

Raúl raised his hands high in the air. “My best man is me.”

AJ's lips flattened. It didn't matter who won the shooting contest. He'd been outplayed. So he did what any of my brothers would have done: He diminished the victory by flipping the situation to be the most insulting thing he could think of.

“Me? Shoot?” He grabbed one of the many gift bottles off the gift table. “When there's so much tequila to be drunk?” With a nonchalant spin, he viewed the crowd, then pointed the bottle in my general direction. “I choose her. She will be my champion.”

“Me?” I squeaked.

Everyone laughed. Raúl went scarlet with fury.

AJ came back. “You're gonna do it, right?”

“Of course.”

“You're one cool kitty,” he said. “And Raúl's the son of a motherless dog.”

“Easy,
El Guapo
. Let's not get carried away here.”

His chuckle didn't touch the sadness in his eyes. “No worries, Maisie. This isn't on you.”

“How good is he?”

AJ put his hands on my shoulders. “If it is C-Rey's time to die, so be it. Raúl has already lost face.”

“Okay,” I said. “What are we shooting at?”

“Plate racks. With the Five-sevenS all ex-military and cops, shooting contests are a weekly event.”

“Where do we go?”

“Nowhere.” AJ jerked his thumb toward Carlos's favorite bodyguard, firing orders into a walkie-talkie. “We'll be set up in less than twenty minutes.”

The servants began immediately clearing the far end of the veranda. Lee came up behind me. “The rules?”

“Nothing to it. Just hit down your plates first,” AJ said. Carlos called out to him and held up a tequila bottle. With a wince he went off to get a drink.

Around the corner a man drove a glossy yellow Can-Am 6x6 ATV onto the veranda. He pulled a small trailer with two deluxe plate racks in it. The frames, about five feet high, looked exactly like empty swing sets at a playground. Only instead of swings hanging from the crossbar, each rack had six five-inch round white steel plates sitting on top, like birds on a telephone wire.

Two of Carlos's guests helped the man set up the targets, while another handed out packages of disposable foam 3M earplugs to the crowd.

At Carlos's top man's directions, the servants set up two small tables about twenty-five yards back with earmuffs, earplugs, and safety glasses. This apparently was where we'd be shooting from.

Except I had no gun.

Raúl approached the table and removed a Colt .38 Super Automatic from his shoulder holster. His gun was pimped-out to the extreme. Gold- and silver-plated, engraved within an inch of its useful life.

Utterly ridiculous and tragically cliché.

I rapped on the underside of the table. “Hear that?” I murmured to Lee. “Liberace's ghost wants his gun back.”

Lee glared at me. “Forward-focused. Don't fuck around with these people.”

“Easy, guy. I'm trying to stay loose here.”

Lee reached into his jacket for his Colt 1911. I gave him the barest hint of a shake and he stopped.

“Um . . . El Cid?” I called. “I don't have a gun?” I pointed at Raúl's pig-mess of a Colt and asked innocently, “Is there another one as pretty as yours ?”

At least a dozen of Carlos's male party guests pulled their pieces and held them out.

The magnanimous King Carlos waved a hand across all his guests. “Choose any gun you wish, Señora Renko.”

I pointed at the small sentry in full gear at the far edge of the veranda. One of Carlos's Five-seveNs. “I want his.”

That shut everyone up.

Carlos, eyes twinkling, called the man over. In Spanish he asked for the gun and extra magazines. The man complied without the slightest twitch. Carlos weighed the pistol in his hand before handing it over. “Why this one?”

“Because,” I let my voice go husky, “if I can't have the prettiest gun, I want the scariest-looking one.”

Carlos ate that up with a spoon. His attention to me further rattled Raúl, who realized that not only did he have to beat me, he needed to mop the floor with me to salvage what was left of his machismo.

I thanked Carlos and the Five-seveN and walked over to the table I was shooting from. Lee was already there.

The soldier's FN 5.7 MK2 felt like exactly like the one I'd practiced with at home. As I'd suspected, the man had chosen the smallest back strap—a slim nylon piece used to customize the grip—to fit his hand better. I handed the gun and magazines to Lee. “Any tips?”

“Exactly like we practiced last week,” he said softly, checking the gun. “Shoot, move on, come back if necessary. Eyes first, then sights to target. Take your time, make clean shots. Worry about speed in the next round.” He ran his thumb over the chamber indicator, and handed it to me, cocked and chambered, ready to fire.

Covertly, I eased the black diamond-chipped safety to On. “May I have a practice shot?”

Raúl leered. “Of course.”

I didn't bother with the earplugs, just the muffs and glasses. I raised the gun, pointed at the target, and pulled the trigger. Which didn't budge. I tried it again and again.

“It's not working,” I complained to Lee.

Raúl covered his eyes with his hand, shoulders shaking. His men laughed aloud. AJ blanched.

“A little heavy-handed, don't you think?” Lee said under his breath. He reached over and turned the safety Off, and said loud enough for Carlos to hear, “Try again.”

I aimed a good three feet above the target, fired, and missed.

The man they'd chosen to referee explained the rules to the crowd in both Spanish and English. The horn would sound and we'd shoot; the horn would sound again when someone won.

I stepped out of my sky-high Jimmy Choos, feeling the sandy grit on the flagstone tiles beneath my bare feet. No sense risking the contest on a pair of sandals, no matter how cute.

I took off the muffs and rolled the earplugs between my fingers. “You work for Carlos?” I said, trying for a little innocent conversation to distract him further.

“Yes.” Raúl sneered. “And you? What is it a woman like you . . .
does?
”

“Aside from crossword puzzles in ink and sweating glitter?” I asked full of chirp and sunshine. “I watch a lot of cowboy movies.”

Raúl looked at me like I was insane.

We plugged and muffed up. The referee stepped between us. “Shooters make ready. Stand by.” He blew the air horn.

I squeezed the trigger.
Clang
. Target down.

The fourth one stayed up. I took down the fifth, sixth, and went back to clean up number four.

The air horn blew.

Raúl had a target up. And now, his dander.

The only thing that kept me from doing a winner dance was that Lee would have kicked me in the shins.

Raúl didn't like to lose. He especially didn't like being sandbagged by a honey. And he hated the flurry of activity between the men behind us making bets. “
¡No me jodas! Puta!
”

I glanced up at Lee, impassively surveying the crowd. “Any advice?”

“Let him win this round.”

Agreed. Every time Raúl looked at me, my dress felt as though it was made of ants.

The ref blew the air horn. I knocked down the first three in a row and committed the cardinal sin of a glance to see how he was doing.

Even.

I hit number four, missed five and six on purpose, and hit five just as the horn sounded.

Raúl won round two. Chest puffed and haughty, he nodded at the crowd. “
¡Me cago en todo lo que se menea!
”