Shoot 'Em Up (16 page)

I reloaded the Kimber Ultra and wedged the shopping bag into my backpack as Dozen drove us to Dawes Park. “Meter Maid?” I asked. “That was the best you could come up with?”

“It was either that or Snow Bunny.” He laughed. “When do I meet your Mexi-boys?” Dozen turned onto South Hoyne.

“Hey, I never prom—”

“What da hell?” He stomped on the brakes. The Navigator squealed to a hard stop.

At the dead end, under the streetlight, was a highland-green Mustang parked next to my black Hellcat. Lee leaned against the back bumper. Arms folded across his chest, looking pissed off as all get-out.

“He's my new bodyguard,” I said trying to play it off. “What do you think?”

“Thas a mutherfuckin' cop.”

“Marine,” I said. “He's just a Marine. Everything's cool.”

“Bullshit.” Dozen shook his head. “Get out.”

I reached for the handle. Dozen popped the locks. “Be seein' you, Meter Maid.”

I hopped out of the SUV with the backpack. Dozen hit Reverse as I shut the door, and squealed off into the night.

I loped to the cars, not in the mood to mix it up. “Hey, Lee. Funny seeing you here.”

“We're partners.” His voice was low and angry.

Better get used to it, baby. I'm not the kind that rolls over.
“That's sweet and all, but this?” I held up the backpack before dropping it next to the door. “This isn't our particular gig.”

“Burnside?”

“Whoa.” He'd gone from tracking my car to tracking me. “What?”

“You go into Burnside. With no backup except a known killer?”

Easy, Mr. Clean.
“You're pretty much a known killer yourself, pal.”

He squared his shoulders. “And you want your slice of the action, is that it?”

“Back off, Lee. I already live with the ultimate hard case.”

“Do you? Seems like you moved in and he took off.”

That stung. I gave him my sweetest come-hither smile and looked up through my lashes. “I guess it takes a tough guy to know a tough guy.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe we're both as alpha as fuck, but the similarity ends there.”

“Does it?” Heat flushed my cheeks. “Because I can't wait to hear how different you are from the man I'm in love with.”

His lips thinned and his eyes turned cold. “I'll tell you one thing, sweetheart.” He grabbed the front of my jacket in his fists. “There's no way in hell I'd ever let you do this shit alone.”

I braced myself, waiting for him to knock me up against the car to try to rattle some sense into me.

By the time I realized he was kissing me, I was kissing him back.

I knew ten different ways to break the hold he had on me, but I only shoved at his chest. He pressed against me. I turned my head but his mouth followed mine.

His tongue slicked inside the roof of my mouth. Hot and easy, it felt like a dance we'd danced a thousand times, just not together.

Air sirens went off in my head.

I knocked him in the shin with my boot, not hard, but not real sweet, either.

He took a step back, hands up. “If you wanted me to stop, all you had to do was quit kissing me back.”

My hand sliced across his cheek. The slap so hard and fast my fingers went numb.

He didn't flinch, not a tic.

I'd never hit a guy. Not over something like that.

Not ever.

I stood there. Wanting to apologize and biting my lip not to.

His mouth twisted into a wry smirk. “What's in the backpack, Maisie?”

I swallowed. “A hundred thousand dollars, pot laced with cocaine, and a dish towel.”

He picked up the backpack. “You're going to get in your car and follow me to Hud's. We'll have a couple drinks and square some things.” He cocked his head, eyes searching mine in the streetlight. “Do you have your car keys and ID on you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then let's go.”

“No.” I reached for the backpack.

He didn't move. “Who's going to have an easier time slipping the noose if they get stopped with this shit in their car?”

“Maisie, you're going to have a hard enough time explaining that gun at the small of your back without blowing your cover. Get in your car.”

I did.

He got into the Mustang and turned around. I followed him all the way to Hud's, my mind running all over hell's half acre. My hand still stung. Futility churned in my gut. And I could smell his cologne on my shirt.

* * *

Lee and I sat knee to knee at a booth in the back of the bar. A pitcher of beer on the table between us, the backpack with 100K beneath our feet. “You all right?” he asked.

I nodded. “Are you?”

“Butterfly kiss.” He grinned and I took it like a knife in the lung.

He put his hand on mine. I gave it a beat, then started to slide away. Lee's fingers circled my wrist. “Hold up,” he said, leaning forward. “Since we're going to be working together, it might not be a bad idea for us to be seen as a couple.”

I ducked my head. Across the bar, a couple of detectives from Flynn and Rory's squad pretended not to notice us.

Even money they'd already texted my brothers.

I raised my left hand from beneath his and propped my chin on it. I tapped the Cartier wedding ring. “What do you propose I do about this?”

Lee shrugged. “Take it off.”

“It's not that easy, Tiger. El Cid and Dozen think I'm carrying a torch for Renko.” I sat back and tossed out a massive fib. “So does Vi Veteratti.”

“Spoiled rich girls always sleep with their good-looking bodyguards.”

“You wish.”

“Yeah.” He gave me the look. And it was a good one. “I do.”

“I . . . I'm sorry I slapped you. I wasn't angry with you. I mean, I was . . . I am. But not like that. Not over that. I was mad at myself. Mad at Ha—”

“Shh.” Lee pressed his beer glass to my mouth. “Be quiet.”

I took the sip he offered and the out.

“Turn it up!” demanded a deep and intoxicated beat cop from across the bar. “Lemme hear how that sumbitch mayor's gonna fuck us up the ass again.”

The bartender hit the volume on the main set.

Talbott Cottle Coles, wearing a terse and mannerly expression on multiple local news stations, now occupied more than half of the TV screens at Hud's. Wife on his right and on his left, the Latino guy he'd been with at The Storkling.

“Hello, Chicago!” He basked in the glow of public adoration for several seconds before raising his hands for quiet. “Recently I haven't been as accessible as I would have wished to both the American public as well as the news media. It would be a mistake for my critics to assume my absence was the result of the Grieco cartel's crude attempt to silence me and my war on drugs.”

“As I covered the body of my wife, praying the mother of my children would live to see another day, I vowed that if I should live, I would not let my relationship with the Mexican people be tainted.”

Two of the four local stations—obviously pre-pimped with his speech—preempted the live video, running a slow-motion reel of the assassination attempt over his voice.

“Our fair city is home to more than one-point-five million residents of Mexican descent,” Coles said. “It is with pride I govern the city with the second largest Mexican population in the United States. The time for us to unleash the enormous potential for both of our fair nations is now. By expanding trade and tourism, and facilitating foreign direct investment, we will build a bigger, better Chicago.”

He put his arm around the shoulders of the fine-boned man. “This is Cesar Garza. The bright young son of—”

“That asshole,” Lee said. “That fucking asshole!” He popped me in the shoulder. “You know who that is, right? That's Cesar Garza. The son of Álvaro Garza.”

“Who?” I said blankly.

“Álvaro Garza runs El Eje,” he said. “Christ, Maisie. You run a mission for the DEA and you don't know this? No debrief? No independent research? Are you kidding me?”

That got my back up. I gritted my teeth.

“Where the hell is your head?” he said, unable to let up. “Does Walt know how unprepared you were? Are?”

“It's not like that.”

He smacked his palm against the table. “It's fucking
exactly
like that.”

My cheeks burned like they were coated in Sterno and Lee had flicked a lit match at them. A humiliation bubble grew in my throat.

I smoothed my hair back and refocused on the nearest flat screen.

“Questions?” Coles pointed at a particularly awestruck blond reporter.

“Mayor Coles,” she asked, “how can you possibly ignore the fact that you are now on the hit list of a cartel?”

“Again, I must reiterate, the attempt on my life was not the fault of the Mexican people. I will not stand for the status quo or reliance on prejudicial racial profiling. Instead, I have seized this opportunity to develop a joint ATF and DEA task force to assist the Mexican government in ridding their nation of the scourge of these cartels.”

Maybe AJ wasn't so far off.

Another reporter stepped up. “How do you plan to stop any backlash against the Hispanic community?”

Coles's serious countenance couldn't disguise the spark of delight in his eyes. “At home, I will continue to press for police reforms, including deescalation training and mandatory body cameras. The true American tragedy is when we cannot trust our own, who have sworn to protect and serve.”

The mood within the bar had turned sick with disgust. Several cops closed out their tabs and split.

Coles finished up, demurely deflecting suggestions he run for higher office, but not closing the door, either.

My fingers strayed to the cigar burn. It was healing okay. Plastic surgery for the scar was going to cost me at least a wrist and a shin. Double when I'd have to explain it to my parents.

Lee pulled my hand away from my throat. Mouth tightening, he gave the dressing a once-over, his expression as forgiving as cured cement.

I finished my beer, not meeting his eyes, hoping he'd take the hint.

“Tonight is going to end in one of two ways,” Lee said. “Me at your place or you coming to mine. Either way, we deliver the money to Nyx tomorrow. Together.”

From the set of his jaw, arguing was pointless. And I didn't feel right about having him stay overnight at Hank's.

I threw in the towel.

* * *

Lee lived in a neat little bungalow near a hip part of town. He pulled into the driveway and stopped, opting not to park in the detached garage. We walked up the sidewalk to the front door.

“I . . . uh, wasn't really counting on company,” he said.

“Yeah?” I teased. “I thought Marines were always locked and loaded, forward-focused.”

He unlocked the door. “Some habits die hard. Others need to be resuscitated on a daily basis.”

He flipped on the living room light. It wasn't as bad as Cash's room, but it was close. I pointed at the couch serving double duty as a laundry room and newspaper recycling center. “Is that for me?”

“No.” He shot me a dirty look. “Christ, Maisie. I have a guest bedroom.”

“Oh, well . . . I wasn't sure if you were a scrapbooker or a quilter.”

He slung an arm around my shoulders and mussed my hair. “God, you're just begging for it.”

I clapped a hand over my mouth as my smart retort came out as a giant yawn. His easy smile and demeanor vanished. “Gimme a minute, okay?”

“Sure,” I said and yawned again. He disappeared down a hallway.

I heard him rummaging around, and if the rest of his place was anything like this, he was going to be more than a few minutes unnecessarily picking up on my behalf.

A laundry basket by the couch held a hockey helmet and shoulder pads. A single glove lay by the stairs to the basement. Down the hall, a hockey bag and sticks propped open a closet door. I put the gear in his bag, shoved the bag all the way into the closet so it cleared the jamb, and closed the door. The laundry from the couch and chair went into the basket, and a paper grocery bag from under the TV cabinet took care of the newspapers, junk mail, and old magazines.

I shivered, unable to stop yawning. I took off my jacket, pulled a red flannel shirt out of the laundry basket, and put it on. It carried the faint scent of Tide and cedar. I lay down on the couch, and using my jacket for a blanket, went to sleep.

“No. No!” I woke up, freaked and flailing, as Lee carried me down the hall.

“Easy,” he said.

“Put me down.”

He stopped and set me on my feet. “Sure.”

“Sorry.” Chagrined, I tried to quit shaking. “Thanks.”

He pushed open a door on a spotless bedroom. A lamp on a nightstand illuminated a cream-colored room with dark wood wainscoting, a double bed with the sheet turned down, and a folded SWAT T-shirt and sweatpants on the end.