Shoot 'Em Up (4 page)

“Quid pro quo.” Declan dropped his hands onto the bed and eyed me like an Eskimo over a baby seal. “You're an untapped resource of useful information about our new client and his relationship with your butcher boy toy.”

“I'm sensing a conflict of interest,” Daicen said mildly.

“Huh?” Declan frowned at him.

“I have a fiduciary duty to protect my client's rights and interests.” He turned to me. “I advise you not to answer any questions.”

I smiled innocently at the older twin and shrugged.

“Like hell!” Declan's cheeks flushed. “This isn't over.”

“Yes, it is. My duty to my client comes before your ambition. If you'd like me to stay on as your partner, I advise you to let this lie.”

Declan left, slamming the door behind him.

Daicen straightened his French cuff. “Would you like to talk?”

“No.” I croaked.

With an inscrutable look, he nodded and stood. “Can I get you anything?”

“I'm fine, really,” I said.

“Perhaps.”

After he was gone, I riffled through the packet of hundreds. Ten thousand dollars. I was starting to appreciate Special Unit's “to the victor go the spoils” mentality. The Five-seveN pistols were bad boys, cocked and locked. I stashed everything in the nightstand drawer and pretended I didn't see the box.

With a groan, I dragged the comforter over me. “Where are you, Hank?”

My iPhone bleated a short alarm.

I grabbed it, checking the time before answering. Six-oh-two a.m. “Good morning, sir.”

“There's been a development in the assassination attempt on Coles. A driver will pick you up in an hour. Wear your
Sentinel
credentials.”

“Yessir.”

He hung up.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and cracked my neck.

I stood up, gingerly, fetched the box, and limped into the bathroom. I set it on the counter and got in the shower. Normally hot water drumming on my head would have sent me into a Zen state of mental preparation for Sawyer. Today, my mind was running the infinity loop of where to hide the damn jar.

I couldn't make it into the attic, not like this. The garage was a no-go. So was Da's workshop. Hank's house was a fortress, but he'd chosen Vi to hold it. So that was out.

Into the closet, then. I stashed the bone jar inside a suitcase inside a suitcase inside a suitcase. The Russian doll horror-style of traveling.

Until I thought of something better.

* * *

Going down stairs was far easier than going up. My pace had improved from radioactive beta decay to glacial.

Mom and Thierry were in the kitchen. Since the bastards at Amp energy drinks in their infinite wisdom had swapped out original sugar-free for the horrific blueberry-white-grape and equally awful watermelon flavors, I was a girl without a go-to breakfast.

Thierry slid a Go Girl energy drink across the counter.

“Thanks.” As far as over-caffeinated drinks went, it was okay, but the name and hot pink can killed me.

Mom looked up from the stack of case files she was reading at the counter. She slid her reading glasses down her nose and gave me “the look.”

“I have to check in at work,” I said.

“In a Marc Jacobs original? A bit gauche for the communist collective, don't you think?”

“What can I say?” I popped the top of the energy drink. “I'm an ambassador of ever-expanding horizons.”

She took a sip of green tea, eyes never leaving mine. “I seem to remember Dr. Williams mentioning something about light duty. . . .”

“I'm wearing flats.”

“You're not driving.”

“Already have a ride.”

She pushed her glasses back up in resignation. “Thierry? Be a dear and bring Maisie her crutches.”

Thierry came around the counter holding a pair of forearm crutches. And to my supreme irritation, fitted them to me.

“Gee, thanks, guys.”

A horn sounded from the driveway. A driver stood waiting next to the passenger door of a black Chevy Impala. I shambled out of the house looking like the girl version of Jimmy from
South Park
.

* * *

I crutched into the slogan-tee, skinny-jean, hipster hotbed of the
Chicago Sentinel,
lanyard ID around my neck. I waited my turn at reception and then again for Mr. Renick's assistant.

A dish of a girl in skinny black jeans, open-necked white blouse, cropped red blazer, and kitten heels came toward me. “Jenny Steager. Call me ‘Juice.' You must be Maisie McGrane, the new Op Ed.”

Op Ed? WTH?
“Er . . . yes.”

“Paul's reserved a conference room. Let's go.” She led me to the elevator, swiped her pass, and pressed the Up button.

We got off on the thirty-second floor.

“Don't mind Lennon,” she whisper-warned with a glance at the end of the elevator bank, where a guy so skinny you could grate cheese off his ribs leaned against the wall. “Dickheads make surprisingly good reporters.”

Clad in a camel-colored V-neck sweater tucked into brown-belted, brown tapered trousers, he pushed off the wall as we approached.

“'Morning, Lennon,” Juice said. “This is Maisie, the new Op Ed.”

“Nice to meet you.” I lifted a crutch in greeting.

He started at my feet and let his eyes calculate everything from my Stuart Weitzman flats, to the David Yurman earrings, lips crimping in a sneer at the total. “And what have you penned besides your signature on Daddy's checks?”

I gave him my best wide-eyed and innocent. “Is that Lenin with an ‘i'?”

“Friendly tip,
Miffy
”—he leaned in and I could smell the faint stink of chocolate vape from his e-cig—“stay out of the way of the real reporters,”

Juice gasped. “Geez, Lennon!”

“Sure thing,” I said evenly. “I'll keep a close eye out.”

Uncertain, he took a tottering step backward on his black ankle boots, then brushed by us to the elevator buttons and smacked the Down button.

A giggle escaped Juice. “No wonder Paul likes you.”

I hope he knows who I am . . .
I followed her into another reception area. This one far nicer.

“Conference Room D?” she asked the girl behind the desk.

“Yes, Ms. Steager.”

I followed Juice to an unmarked door. Behind it, Walt Sawyer stood gazing out the window over the city. He turned as she closed the door, the small smile sliding off his fox-like face at the sight of my crutches. “Prognosis?”

“Another week of light duty,” I said. “Fourteen days to get back to full strength.”

“Can't be helped,” he said in that uncanny way that made me feel it could have been. Sawyer pulled out a chair for me to the right of the head of an oval table of four. He stowed my crutches behind the door. “You've seen the attempt on Coles.”

“Yes, sir. On television.”

“Your thoughts?”

“It wasn't Stannislav Renko. If he wanted Coles dead, he'd do it himself. In a place where he could take a good long time.”

Sawyer exhaled a slow breath through his nose. “Mayor Coles apparently concurs with your assessment.”

“Coles has galvanized his contacts within the Justice Department. Special agents from the DEA and ATF will be here shortly. Do not volunteer
any
information.”

No wonder Sawyer was so stiff-lipped. Special Unit was being shut out of the investigation.

I nodded. “Sir—” The door swung open and the words “
I was hoping to talk to you about Violetta Veteratti
” died on my lips.

A six-foot-one, 220-pound man wearing a black suit with a maroon- and charcoal-striped rep tie carrying a matte-black aluminum briefcase strode into the room. His brown hair, cut high and tight, was flecked with gray. “Walt.” He shook hands with Sawyer, caught sight of me in the chair, and strode over. “Ditch Broady, ATF.” He took my fingers in that Southern gentleman's way and smiled. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miz—”

“We're waiting on Gunther Nyx,” Sawyer interrupted.

“The Swede's never on time.” Broady cracked his neck and rounded the table to the seat across from me. He unbuttoned his suit coat. “I do love a lil' nip in the air.”

“Hard to beat early October in Chicago, sir.”

“We do not experience this type of autumn in Texas, no, ma'am.” Broady flashed me a husky smile. “Call me Ditch.”

Even nameless, I figured I was about four questions away from getting asked out to dinner when Gunther Nyx walked in.

The Swede looked more drug dealer than DEA agent. He had the lean, acerbic shape of a cross-country skier. His shoulder-length hair was the color of sun reflecting off snow, eyes as bleak as a January sky. “Sawyer. Ditch.” He gave me a brief nod and took a seat.

“Let's get to it.” Broady opened his briefcase, removed a black tactical pistol, and set it on the table with a clunk. “The shooter's. Recovered from the assassination attempt. One of five hundred FN Five-seveNs MK2s hijacked from a Belgian shipment to Ukraine last year.”

“FN Herstal makes some of the best weapons in the world, but the rounds are the game changer.” Broady blew out his breath in a soundless whistle. “Armor-piercing rounds. Illegal in the United States. The ATF means to recover these weapons and the munitions. Priority one.”

Nyx picked it up, hefting the two and a half pounds of polymer and steel. “How did the shooter get the weapon into the plaza?”

“We're still determining that,” Sawyer said evenly.

“And the mayor's driver?” Nyx asked. “Chicago's hero?”

“We have Percival ‘Poppa' Dozen in custody,” Sawyer said. “A convicted felon, so not surprising that the Taurus 85 revolver he used to kill the shooter was unregistered.”

Ditch Broady reached inside his pale gray suit coat and removed a tri-folded paper. He set it on the table and pushed it over to Walt. “Percival Dozen's full pardon.”

“Apparently it takes more than an assassination attempt to slow Talbott Cottle Coles,” Sawyer said wryly.

Nyx cleared his throat and said to me. “Water, please.”

“Certainly.” I got up and tried not to limp to the sideboard, which held a clear acrylic pail filled with sodas, water, and ice. I tipped the water bottle at Broady in question. He gave me a sympathetic half smile that said Nyx should have gotten his own water and shook his head.

I set the water in front of the Swede and sat down.

“The Justice Department has requested the DEA and ATF take over this investigation.”

“Curious, how that came about, gentlemen . . .” Sawyer pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Seeing as the assassination attempt occurred in downtown Chicago.”

“The Justice Department has zero tolerance for attempting to silence an American politician,” Nyx said. “Especially one who's trying to clean up the nation's drug hub.”

Nyx continued, “The shooter, Juan Echeverría, was known to the DEA as a
halcone
for the Grieco cartel.”

“Echeverría was a U.S. citizen with no record.” Sawyer looked skeptical. “But even if he was a
halcone,
or informant, I don't see him making the transition to hit man, or
sicario
.”

“Upward mobility. One can't climb the cartel ladder from
halcone
to lieutenant without a stint as a
sicario
.” Nyx smiled.

“A bit of a leap to a conspiracy involving the Grieco cartel, wouldn't you say?”

“Nope. Looky here.” Broady tapped the safety on the pistol. “See the inset? A black diamond. That and the FN Five-seveN MK2s are the new status symbols of the Grieco
sicarios
.”

“The skill of Coles's would-be assassin hardly qualifies as elite,” Sawyer said.

“Yes. Strange he was able to get past Chicago's finest, considering he had enough cocaine and heroin in his system to convulse a gorilla.” Nyx paused, letting that sink in. He slid a length of blond hair behind his ear. “Grieco's got a stranglehold on the Tampico port. He's looking to ensure his place in the food chain, entrenching with his own private army.”

“The DEA and the ATF are already partnering in joint special operation with the Federales to eliminate this threat,” Broady said. “We heard your team has an ‘in' with the Grieco cartel.”

Sawyer raised a shoulder. “You were misinformed.”

“We'll make that determination after we meet this field agent of yours,” Nyx said. “Where is he?”

“She,” Sawyer said. “And you're looking at her.”

Holy cat.
I wouldn't exactly call a couple of flirty conversations with El Cid an “in.”

I raised my palm slightly above the table. “Hi.”

“Nope.” Broady pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ain't no way in hell.”

“Hold up,” Nyx said.

Broady snorted. “Cartels are all balls, blood, and machismo. To them, women are whores, hostages, or breeders.” He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head at Nyx. “No cartel is gonna deal weapons with her.”

Broady started to get to his feet. “This meeting's a wash.”

Nyx raised a hand to still him and said to Sawyer, “Explain the connection.”

“Incidental. She successfully infiltrated the Srpska Mafija's Chicago operation,” Sawyer said. “Which is the basis of her connection to Grieco's American-born lieutenant, AJ Rodriguez, aka El Cid.”

“Last point of contact?” Broady asked.

Sawyer gave me a reluctant nod.

“El Cid sent me flowers last week.” To the hospital. About the failed heist. With a card that read,
No hard feelings.
“A friendly gesture. Nothing more.”

“Hmmm.” Nyx leaned back in his chair and gave me an appraising once-over. “She has a certain naïve appeal.” He shot a look at Broady. “She could solidify the relationship via drug buys, sleep her way into a position of trust.”