Shoot 'Em Up (9 page)

I spent the night playing party girl until AJ finally let me catch a midmorning flight. He sent me home first class, but hung over, and still wearing my red dress and heels, all I felt was used up and jaded.

The beauty of flying out of Midway was onsite parking. My feet were killing me. I flagged down a taxi cart. Fifteen bucks to my car was a bargain. I would have paid a hundred.

I started up the Hellcat, flattening my bare foot on the rubber-coated gas pedal, giving it a good rev, and headed for home.

“Call Cash,” I ordered Siri.

“Yeah-'llo,” he answered.

“I'm swinging by DMK Burger Bar. You want something, or has Wilhelm taken care of you?”

“Lemme check.” I heard him groan as he pushed himself off the couch. “Third day's pretty fucky, too.”

“Any time now,” I said.

“He's got some kinda shrimp-penne casserole in the fridge. Huh. So yeah . . . Why don't you bring me a couple double cheeseburgers, fries, onion strings, and a chocolate shake.”

“You trying for extended obesity leave?”

“Feck off.” He laughed. “And make that two orders of fries.”

* * *

I sped home, cranking The Killers and the air conditioner to stay alert, mouth watering from the smell of fried onions. I pulled into Hank's driveway and banged my head on the steering wheel.

No wonder Cash had ordered so much food.

A dirty Ford Mustang in Steve McQueen highland green was parked in front of the door.

Lee.

I pulled into the garage and checked my reflection in the rearview—a tired, smeary version of sixteen hours ago. I dragged my index fingers under my eyes, wiping off mascara flakes, jammed my feet back in my heels, and went to face the music.

“Lunch delivery.” I held up the paper sacks at Cash and Lee. “That'll be fifty-two, forty-two plus tip.”

Ever grateful, Cash said, “About time.”

Lee gave me a low whistle. “How long have they been serving cocktails in the drive-through?”

“Good one.” Cash tagged him in the shoulder.

I set their food on the coffee table, walked into the kitchen, and tossed my bag in the warming drawer. “I'm gonna take a shower.”

“Thanks for sharing,” Cash said around a mouthful of fries.

Lee opened his mouth with a smirk.

I jabbed an index finger at him. “Don't.”

After a shower so long it turned my fingers pruny, I spent a shameless amount of time getting myself back into first gear. Hoping Lee would get his fill of my idiot brother and beat it.

Eventually, my stomach forced me out of my robe and into Lululemon yoga pants and a Chicago White Sox zip-up hoodie. I went into the kitchen.

“What the—?” My bare feet squeaked to a stop on the polished cement floor. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Cash was unabashedly pawing through my purse. He held up my boarding pass. “Vegas?”

Lee looked up from the armchair and asked in all nonchalance, “He there? Bannon?”

I smiled tightly. I wanted to say yes so bad it burned my tongue. But as my mother was so fond of reminding us, a lie is a trap you set for yourself. “No.”

“Who did you see?” Lee said.

“My bookie.”

“Pfft.” Cash crumpled the boarding pass and threw it at me. “Grab me another Coke, will you?”

“I'm gonna hit the road.” Lee stood up. “How about you walk me to my car, Maisie?”

The way he said it wasn't negotiable.

“Yeah, sure.” I fetched the soda pop for my brother.

“See you, Cash,” Lee said.

His hand went to the small of my back as we walked out of the house and onto the driveway, stopping in front of the Mustang.

At five-foot-ten, Lee seemed taller than he was. Especially up close. He had the densely muscled frame that only a shorter guy could carry without drinking his weight in creatine and whey protein on a daily basis.

The cold driveway pavers felt like dry ice. I shivered and hugged myself. “So. What's up?”

“A little chilly for bare feet,” he said, opening the passenger door. “Get in.”

The car smelled of cedar, gun oil, and lime. The backseat was littered with gear and sports equipment. He got in on the driver's side, turned sideways in his seat, and rested his elbow on the steering wheel.

He gave me the stare-down. His eyes were the cool brown of creek mud, close set and long lashed. “Walt asked me to check up on you.”

“Sawyer?” I gaped.

“Did you really think you're the only one working this jacket?”

“No, but I'm pretty damn sure it wasn't assigned to you, either,” I blurted like an idiot.

And I'd just put the noose around my own neck. “I'm sorry, Lee. I'm beat.”

“You asked me to get you a look at the gun that shot Cash. I did. The Bureau of Organized Crime runs the show when it comes to narcotics, gangs, and vice. No way in hell was Special Unit not going to hear about the shooting of a SWAT officer on a cleared stash-house scene.”

I sighed. “Yeah. Okay.”

“No, it's not,” Lee said. “Who knows what kind of hellfire would be raining down on you if the old guy working Evidence hadn't tipped me off. ‘Second Belgian-made tactical 5.7 in a month,' he said. But because I'm your own personal savior, I went to Walt with it. Directly.”

Lee straightened his black nonreflective Luminox wristwatch. “Walt called up Ditch Broady from the ATF, who—although he didn't remember much about you except for your ‘exceptional' ass—was able to shed considerable light on a shipment of stolen FN Five-seveNs with inset black diamonds and the Grieco cartel.”

I banged my head gently against the headrest, waiting for it.

“So . . .” he said. “How long did it take for you to go running to the DEA and try to sign up?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I stalled.

Walt was tighter with information than a Swiss bank. Unbelievable that he'd given up Broady's name, much less the run-down of the meeting to Lee.

“We're talking about your brother. McGranes take this kind of shit personally.” His fingers circled my wrist. “You're already working undercover, Maisie. Not much of a leap for you to start thinking that maybe, just maybe, you could weasel your way into the Grieco cartel just far enough to make them pay.”

I looked down at his fingers on my radial artery. “Monitoring my pulse, Mr. Human Lie Detector? What's next? Kiss me and measure my respiration rate?”

“You're gonna get yourself killed.”

“Lee—”

His grip tightened. “Why'd you go to Vegas?”

I wasn't about to confirm or deny. “Bachelorette party.”

“I knew it.” He let go and threw himself against the back of the seat. “I told Sawyer the first thing you'd do was set up a drug buy.”

DammitDammitDammit
.

“Gee.” I shrugged. “Hate to disappoint you, but what happens in Vegas . . .”

“You're not funny.”

“Neither are you. How about the next time you feel the urge to rat me out to my boss, you give me a heads-up first?”

“
Our
boss.”

Jaysus. Enough already.
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, Mr. Part-time Muscle.”

“Not for long.”

“Lee . . .”

“Explosives expert with eight years' combat experience. Sawyer's definitely got a place for me on Special Unit.”

“I'm five and a half years in on SWAT.” His lips thinned. “Six is about the longest most of us last.”

“Really? Why?”

“It's not just the three or four busts a night that get to you. It's the regular patrol work besides and lugging around and maintaining sixty pounds of gear. Always on call. Duty hours irrelevant.” He shrugged. “Hard to keep a girlfriend, much less a wife with that kind of schedule.”

I laughed. “And you think going to work for Walt Sawyer would be different?”

“You tell me. I never had a partner I wanted to sleep with before.”

I texted Nyx the specifics I'd agreed to with AJ aka El Cid. He agreed to a 13:00 meet, which was a perfect way to end a morning that would rapidly disintegrate into chickenshit. First, the weekly check-in at the
Sentinel,
followed by the dreaded come-clean with Walt.

At best? Censured. At worst? Terminated.

One thing that sucked about my new cover was the uniform. Dressing like the average
Sentinel
reporter was not my glass of whiskey. I'd be heading to Belmont Army, Futurgarb, and Hot Topic after my meet with Nyx.

If, of course, I wasn't filling out unemployment paperwork.

I went into the garage to retrieve my Caterpillar steel-toed work boots from the trunk. Somehow a bag of Stannislav's clothes had ended up in my car. Not surprisingly, Declan “missed” it when he'd dragged my belongings into the house a couple of weeks ago.

I rifled through it and scored a white dress shirt and black and red rep-striped tie. Back into the house, where I chose black leggings and a lace cami. A plaid micro-mini finished the look. Teasing my hair into a slapdash ponytail, I added a goth-level of eyeliner and so much mascara my lashes looked like furry caterpillars.

I drove to the politburo aka the
Sentinel
.

The elevators and hallways were a thriving bustle of energy. The bulk of the hustlers had opted for the Big Gulp–sized of overpriced Starbucks. I squeaked into the conference room just before Paul's assistant closed the doors and slid into the empty seat next to Juice. She gave my appearance the nod. “I like the tie,” she said out of the side of her mouth. “Sexy prep-school. Hot.”

The Santa-esque Paul Renick bounced about in the front of the room, praising the story ideas that appealed to him with the same boisterous enthusiasm as those he shot down.

The murderer suing the detective for ruining his reputation?
Sentinel gold.
Cat raising a litter of ducklings?
Bronze
. Green algae virus making people stupid?
Platinum
.

Grey Gardens and Lennon were the big story winners. The ad department put on a pointless five-minute PowerPoint dog-and-pony show, followed by the local happenings editor's recap.

“Let's move on to the
Talk Back
column.” Paul pointed at me. “What's your take on the EPA? Go!”

“Aside from it being unconstitutional?” I asked. “It's a corrupt, useless agency that'll cost taxpayers eight billion dollars this year.”

The table gave a collective gasp.

“Excellent angle, McGrane.” Paul glanced around the table. “Who wants opposing?”

“I nominate Ava.” Lennon put a skeletal arm around Grey Gardens. “I kicked McGrane's ass so bad on last week's op-ed, I'm surprised she has anything to sit on.”

“Not quite certain about that,” Paul said, stroking his beard.

Lennon, clueless his boss had actually penned my column, kept on digging. “Aside from the naïve ramblings of an inbred capitalist?” He shook his head in mock sorrow at me. “It's not the kind of thing we believe at the
Sentinel
. We bring news to the people. Not elitist propaganda.”

I shrugged.
We were never gonna be pals, anyway.

The door opened. “Ms. McGrane?” inquired an office assistant.

I raised a hand.

“Your ten o'clock is here.”

Having an appointment announced didn't do me any favors with the hyenas. I collected my things and followed the assistant down the hall and across the lobby to the conference room where I'd met Nyx and Broady.

Inside, Sawyer stood at the picture window, dressed, as always, to the nines.

“Hello, sir.” Ridiculous and underdressed was a hard combo for inner composure to beat. “How are you?”

“Very well, Maisie. I could ask you that same question, but I'm not sure you'd give the appropriate answer.”

Sawyer had taken a chance on me when no one else would. And to repay him, I'd gone rogue. Time to man up. “I'm one hundred percent underwater. I'm sorry, sir.”

“Shall we?” He gestured to the table and we sat down. “What happened to your neck?”

I got that sinking feeling. “Coles put his cigar out on me at The Storkling.”

“Why?”

“He finds the sight of me provoking.”

“Naturally. Will there be anyone pursuing recourse on your behalf?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” Sawyer leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “The mayor's vendetta against you is disturbing and potentially problematic. How much so, remains to be seen.” He dropped his hands abruptly. “Bring me up to speed on the past two weeks.”

Floodgates open, I let the deluge pour out.

“Well done.” A nostalgic sort of shadow passed across his thin face. “I, too, find that asking forgiveness has a significantly higher rate of return than permission.”

It was hard not to sag in relief.

“The Bureau of Organized Crime's investigation into corruption within the mayor's office aside,” Sawyer said, “I'm less than keen for you to become enmeshed with the joint task force.”

“Oh?”

“The venality of these federal agencies is notorious. The influence of the Mexican drug cartels within them is as insidious as it is real.” He gave a small sigh. “But what's done is done. Is Nyx aware of your transparency with me?”

“No sir. He thinks I'm making a run for a position with the DEA.”

“Excellent. We'll keep this under wraps, then?”

“In the vault.” I nodded, feeling the pressure ease in my chest. “Is there anything I should know about Nyx, sir?”

“Gunther's had a meteoric rise in the DEA. Too far, too fast, perhaps. He's become used to doing things his own way. A slippery slope in undercover work.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. I still wasn't exactly over my last assignment.

“For a joint task force, Broady and Nyx are maintaining distinctly separate investigations,” Sawyer said. “I sense a reluctance in Broady to involve his team too closely with Nyx. Watch yourself.”

“Yessir.”
Silly me. And to think I felt out of my depth before.

“Is something troubling you?” he asked. “Aside from a federal turf war and becoming involved with the Grieco cartel?”

“I seem to end up actually liking my targets.”

Sawyer grinned. “That's what makes you such an asset to Special Unit. Empathy, awareness, and compassion cannot be consistently faked.” He made a minute adjustment to his cuff. “What else?”

“This assignment is larger in scope than I'm comfortable with.”
Talk about the understatement of the year.
“I've never purchased illegal drugs before, much less smuggled them across the border. And I have to trust El Cid to get me stateside.”

“He will.” Sawyer nodded reassuringly. “The first time, everyone desires the deal to go smoothly. I find greed takes hold by the third.” He raised a palm. “If the situation collapses, stay silent. Nyx has the resources to recover you.”

“Got it.”

“There's been another shooting. Two dead. Gun not recovered, but a 5.7x28 mm cartridge was. Special Unit will be liaising with Ditch Broady and the ATF regarding the original directive—recovering the FN Five-seveN MK2s. Any questions?”

Yeah. A big one.
“Is Lee Sharpe transitioning to be a field agent for Special Unit?”

“Why?” Sawyer cocked his head. “Do you have a personal interest in Mr. Sharpe?”

“No sir.”
But he's made no secret he has one in me.

“Good. Have a care, Maisie. Intense bonds often form during stressful and perilous situations,” he said carefully, not answering the question. “Speaking of attachments, there have been no known communications between Stannislav Renko and the Srpska Mafija, nor with any of his men in Chicago.”

“He hasn't reached out to me.” I bit back a smile at the confirmation that Stannis had gone to ground. Hank had the patience of a spider. It would be a good long while before he'd go near a phone and even longer before he'd let Stannis near one.

“Let me know when he does.”

* * *

I parked in the ramp off of Clark Street and walked the two blocks to Giarrusso Dry Cleaners, where the sign said,
Drop your pants here and you'll receive prompt attention
.

A buzzer rang when I opened the door. A girl in full fifties pinup–style makeup took one look at me and called over her shoulder, “Wes!”

A podgy guy wearing a gray Men's Wearhouse suit came from the hallway behind the counter. “You Sawyer's?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Wes Dorram. C'mon back.” I followed him back through the hallway to a steel door. He knocked twice, then let us inside.

Nyx was on a cell phone, Ferragamos on the battered oak desk, working the long-limbed, long-haired Euro-look. “No, no, I haven't. Which doesn't mean I won't.” He laughed.

I stood at attention, listening to Nyx talk, all flattery and platitudes.

Wes stood at the door, hands folded, placidly chewing the inside of his cheek.

Eventually, Nyx hung up. “Sawyer's
Liten Sötis.
” He came around to lean against the front of the desk. “Let's see what kind of middleman you are.”

“Five kilos, sixty K,” I said.

“Not too shabby,” Wes muttered.

Nyx shot him a dirty look. “Product will be stepped to shit.”

I gripped my wrist behind my back. “El Cid said it's the going rate for uncut in Juarez.”

“Did he?”

Still, AJ wouldn't toy with me. I carried too much family baggage for sport. “Yes. It'd run seventy-five K stateside.”

I squared my shoulders. “I . . . uh . . . have to deliver the money to Juarez. El Cid said he'd help me get the heroin across the border.”

“Bargain shopping on behalf of the DEA?” He folded his arms across his chest. “How industrious.”

“He didn't give me a choice, sir.”

A Cheshire-cat smile wreathed Nyx's face. “You're in.”

“A toehold,” I cautioned.

“A test. And one you'll pass. I'll see to that.” He sucked his lower lip. “Let's keep this out of Sawyer's field of vision. At least until the deal goes down. Or off. No point knocking over the hive if it's a washout.”

“Yessir.” The hubris of ego was a remarkable thing. He actually assumed I'd kept Sawyer in the dark. “Umm, Mr. Nyx? Don't you think you should know my name?”

He stepped into my space, leaned down, and whispered, “What makes you think I don't already know everything about you, Maisie?”

A tiny shiver skittered down my spine.

Nyx straightened and crossed the room. Wes opened the door for him.

“Put it in motion,” Nyx said.

Wes nodded and closed the door behind him. He lumbered over and sat down heavily at a tiny table.

I took the chair opposite. “Hey—can I ask you something?”

“You betcha.”

“What is
Liten Soot-ees
?”

“Little Sweetie.”

“Really? Because the way Nyx says it, it sounds anything but.”

Wes's lips twitched.

“I'm Maisie.”

“Nice to know you. Alrighty then, you told Nyx that El Cid wants you to fly down on Thursday, right?”

I nodded. “One-way, first-class ticket.”

“Which means you can't carry the cash. Too many variables with the airport. Sixty K isn't worth stressing our assets.”

“The money will weigh around seven pounds.” Wes chewed on a fingernail, thinking. “Where will you be staying?”

“Hotel Lucerna.”

“No problem, then.” He smiled. “I'll FedEx it to you.”

Seriously?
“Don't they have dogs trained to smell out currency ink?”

“Duh.” Wes rolled his eyes. “That's why we coat the inside of the FedEx boxes with lynx urine.”

“Ugh.”

He gave a high-pitched but good-natured giggle. “The money will arrive scent-free, plastic-wrapped inside activated-charcoal deodorizer bags.”

Sure thing.
“And it'll just show up, unmolested at the hotel desk, no sweat?”

Wes looked at me like I'd lost my mind. “Of course. It'll arrive with the
Sentinel
's NAFTA certificate of origin and proforma invoice. Customs won't give it a second look.”

“A Chicago newspaper has a duty-free custom's entrance number?”

“They will by this afternoon.” He shook his head. “You are a green one, aren'tcha?”

“I'm betting he's planning to have you drive the product back. Weekends are the busiest border crossing times. The heavier the traffic flow, the less likely you are to get searched.” Wes leaned forward and put a slightly sweaty hand on mine. “Don't think about what you're doing when you come back with the product. You're just returning a package to the DEA.”