Shoot 'Em Up (3 page)

The assassination attempt was on every website and television and radio station throughout the country and the world. Slo-mo of Coles protecting his wife. Over and over and over.

Karma wasn't just lying down on the job; she was passed out on the floor letting Coles draw a permanent marker mustache on her face.

I couldn't bear it a second longer and switched to Apple TV and
Whitechapel
on Prime.

Around eight forty-five, half-rock star, half-super-nerd Dr. Williams came in and gave me the less-than-stellar news that he was releasing me late that afternoon. I'd been hoping for another day or two in my sterile prison of too much light and noise before my impending interrogation. The McGrane clan could break
Unbroken
's Louis Zamperini in six weeks. Me? I'd shatter like cheap glass in sixty minutes or less.

I watched the clock, dreading each hop of the minute hand.

Nine twenty-five a.m.

The twins were the only ones who hadn't pulled guard duty. A safe bet they'd be here before noon, salvaging their rep with the family that yes, indeed, they had visited their poor baby sister.

Nine forty.

A rap sounded on the door.

“Come in,” I said.

The door swung open. An attractive, masculine-looking forty-something blonde in a violet bandage dress stepped into the room. Mob princess Violetta Veteratti.

Consigliore Jimmy the Wolf was tight on her heels. The six-four, 280-pound enforcer bore an enormous fruit basket in his left hand. His right arm held a squat cardboard box tight to his chest, tied with string. The Wolf held out the basket for me to see before setting it on the bureau, mashing the vases of flowers together. “The Syndicate wishes you a full and speedy recovery.” He gave me a surreptitious wink, skirted the bed, and still holding the box, pulled the armchair around for Vi.

She sat and crossed her long legs. “I appreciate you smoothin' things over with Renko for Eddie.”

Eddie Veteratti helped Coles hire a hitter to clip me. And while I'd held Stannis back from killing them both, it didn't mean I didn't hold a grudge.

I shrugged. “I'm sweet that way.”

“You need anything, you come to me.” She tapped her chest with a square-tipped nail. “Eddie's in Hazelden. Rehab. I'm running Chicago now.”

“Bittersweet congratulations,” I said, meaning it.

That stopped her. “Yeah, well, blood costs.”

I nodded. “Sorry the heist didn't come off.”

“Deals go bad and guys go down.” She waved a hand. “It's business. So. You steppin' into Renko's shoes?”

“I'm not sure,” I hedged. “I haven't talked to Stannis or seen the full extent of the CPD's damage to his infrastructure.”

She glanced at Jimmy the Wolf, standing between her and the door, still holding the box. “How'd you skate? I figured to see you in bracelets with one at the door.”

“I'm a freelance reporter for the
Chicago Sentinel
. Covers a great many sins.”

“Oh yeah?” she asked. “Whaddya write?”

“Obituaries.”

Vi gave a snort-laugh.

“My byline is ‘Staff.' ”

“Nice cover.” The Wolf shook his head. “Friggin' Bannon's as sly as a spook.”

“I'm starting to see why Hank's gone cock-eyed over you.” Vi curled a finger and Jimmy the Wolf set the box on the wheeled table in front of me.

“Thank you?” I said.

“It's not from me.” She stood and smoothed the violet fabric over her hips. “Lemme know if you and Renko wanna renew the Chicago deal.”

“I need to see how things shake out.”

“It's a limited time offer, kid.”

“Six months?” I pressed.

“Three.”

Jimmy the Wolf got the door and we both watched the new boss of Chicago walk out the door on the sharpest stilettos I'd ever seen.

I lifted the box. A solid ten pounds. I set it back down, carefully unknotted the string, and opened it.

A white envelope rested on the nest of excelsior. Inside was a vintage-orange Monopoly
Get Out of Jail Free
card.

I flipped it over and read:

 

 

 

Hank. My alpha archangel.

A drop of water landed on the envelope.

I put a hand to my cheek. I hadn't realized I was crying. I slipped the card back into the envelope and set it aside. I scooped out the top layer of packing material and jerked my hand back when my fingers felt the familiar thick lead-glass and wooden lid.

I lifted the lid, even though I already knew the contents.

Human finger bones.

More than two hundred ivory pieces filled the jar. Some taken in warning, others in retribution. Stannislav The Butcher's legacy. His everything.

My ticket in or out of Slajic's organization.

Because Hank always had my six.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried not to think. About anything.

Everything went back in the box, my fingers numb and clumsy as I knotted the string.

By weight, those bones equaled a metric fuck-ton of evidence. Talbott Cottle Coles's finger aka traceable DNA was in there.

A rivulet of revulsion oozed down my spine.

Hank had trusted Violetta Veteratti to keep it safe.

Last time I checked, I lived in a house with four policemen and a former prosecutor.

* * *

The twins—Declan, the devil, and Daicen, the saint—drew the short straw and came straight from court to pick me up at the hospital. Declan, perpetually in need of a haircut, maintained a style of mischievously rumpled. He snagged a Royal Verano pear from the fruit basket and left to hit on a pretty RN.

Where Declan was haphazard, Daicen was precise. Impeccably tailored, dark hair slicked back, shoes polished to a mirror shine. He pulled the cards from the flowers and noted what they were on the backs with his fountain pen so I could write thank-yous. Then he sent the posies via candy striper to the cancer ward before helping me pack.

“What's in the box?” Dacien asked.

“Candy jar. From work.”

Daicen shook his head. “Not content to be bit once, stepping on the adder's tail surely will make it happen again.”

My face scrunched as I deciphered the riddle. “Oh. Yeah. The
Sentinel
.”

He laid a finger against his nose and winked. “I'll fetch the car.” He picked up the fruit basket and gestured to the box. “Shall I ?”

“Sure,” I said, as casual as all get-out.

An orderly got me into a wheelchair and we waited.

Declan reappeared with the RN. She dismissed the orderly and dumped a plastic bag of my admittance belongings—clothes stiff with dried blood—and the folder of postop instructions into my lap, flirting as hard as she could with my brother.

The elevator ride was worse than an eHarmony commercial. Poor kid. She wouldn't rate more than two dates.

Daicen waited patiently next to his Audi in the circle.

He helped me out of the wheelchair and into the passenger's seat, closing the door behind me. Skirting the car, he took the suitcase from our brother's hand and put it in the trunk while the RN gave Declan her number.

Stannis's legacy sat on the floor next to Declan and the Chicago Syndicate's fruit basket.

“We've got you quite a present, Snap. Haven't we, Dai ?”

Daicen's lips tightened.

“Oh?” I said.

“Christo Keck is our new client.”

“Who?”
Jaysus Criminey. Can't a girl catch a break around here?

Declan leaned forward and nuzzled his chin into my neck. “Tsk-tsk. Mustn't fib when we're going to take the heat off of you getting stabbed. Tell us about him.”

I swallowed hard. “He's guilty.”

Declan laughed. “They always are.”

“I can see why Mom has difficulty reconciling your aversion to law school.” Daicen gave me a sideways look. “While collaborating with the same criminal element, we receive significantly higher compensation and suffer far fewer workplace injuries.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Point!” Declan ground his knuckles into my head. “You know we're here to take you
home
home, not Bannon's place, right?”

I nodded. Nicer to be coddled by the clan than hobbling around Hank's place, alone, fretting over him. “Uh . . . Hey guys? Do you think we could swing by Stannis's penthouse and pick up my car?” I let my voice go soft. “I'd rather not tempt Flynn and Rory with the chance to nose around.”

“Certainly,” Daicen said.

I opened the sealed plastic bag of the stuff I'd had on me at the time of the accident and rummaged around the bloodstained clothes and gear until I found the key fob to the Dodge Hellcat SRT. I handed it back to Declan.

“Whoa. It's true?” he breathed. “You let Bannon buy you a car?”

No, I hadn't, actually, but after the knife-in-the-leg incident, the chances of getting Hank to take it back were nonexistent.

“When's the wedding?”

“Funny how you guys are in such a rush to marry me off to a man none of you want me to date.”

“Dai and I aren't on Team LEO, Snap. I, for one, welcome the opportunity to represent your future husband in any and all of his mercenary misadventures.”

I directed Daicen to Stannis's penthouse and told him the underground garage entry code.

Declan whistled as we pulled up next to the car. “Hell-o, Black Beauty.”

“Easy, pally,” I warned. “She's got a stonking V-8 Hemi and more guts than you.”

He grinned and gave me a salute that ended in one finger. He got into the car and gunned the engine.

Daicen turned to me. “Would you rather I drive it home?”

I put my hand on his arm and squeezed. For Daicen to even offer was akin to loaning me a kidney. Declan drove like he dated: completely out of control. “Thanks, but one accident a week is about all I can handle.”

“Are you all right, Maisie?” Daicen asked softly.

“Everything's aces.”

He didn't believe me.

I didn't believe me, either.

* * *

It took me a solid six minutes to make it up the stairs to my bedroom. Thierry, our housekeeper/cook, offered to set up the guest room on the main floor, but I wanted to sleep in my own bed, and the more I walked, the faster I'd get back to one hundred percent formidable.

Because what I was going to bring to Walt Sawyer was the brass fecking ring.

My room, pin-neat from my absence, was still wonderful; midcentury modern in rich taupes and grays with splashes of yellow. And I felt like a stranger in it.

I hobbled over to the bed and eased down.
Stupid ambulance driver.

For the last month, I'd lived at Stannis's penthouse. Before that, Hank's. And now I was returning to the hotbed of Irish Catholic guilt and overprotective guard dogs. It was going to take some damn fancy footwork to keep my clan in the inky black bliss of unawareness.

Daicen, who kindly let me navigate the stairs solo, knocked on the door frame and came in with my suitcase and the box. He rolled the suitcase into the walk-in closet. “And this ?”

The box.

“Nightstand?”

He tucked the box beneath the table farthest from the door and took a seat in one of the mushroom-colored microfiber armchairs. He adjusted the crease in his suit pants and waited.

I dry-swallowed an Oxy and closed my eyes. I wasn't sure for how long.

“One helluva car, Snap.” Declan grinned from the doorway. “I wouldn't be giving it back, either.”

Daicen glanced at his Rolex but said nothing.

“Funny thing . . .” Declan came in with a cardboard carton. “Aside from a pile of new clothes with the tags still on, I found this in your trunk.” He dumped it out on the foot of my bed.

As expected, I saw my Kimber-solo and Flashbang holster, ammo, and spare magazine, document scanner pen, signal detector watch, Swiss Army knife, and
Chicago Sentinel
credentials.

It was the pair of Belgian FN Herstal tactical Five-seveN MK2 handguns with additional mags and laser sights that popped my eyes saucer-wide. Well, that and the bank-wrapped stack of hundred-dollar bills.

“I asked you to drive my car home. I don't recall giving you permission to toss it.”