Shoot 'Em Up (5 page)

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Authors: Janey Mack

BOOK: Shoot 'Em Up
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WTF?
My cheeks flamed.
Think again, pal. Casual sex isn't in my job description or my repressed Catholic schoolgirl DNA.
Broady turned to Sawyer. “You send this cream puff in, you'll never see her again.”
“Your chivalry is showing, Ditch,” Nyx jibed.
“I'm afraid Agent Broady has the right of it.” Sawyer made a clicking noise. “The Srpska Mafija connection won't hold.”
“Why not?” Nyx asked.
I snatched up the lifeline Sawyer threw me. “The carjacking gig was a one-shot. My Serbian connection refuses to partner with anyone in the drug trade. El Cid knows this. He'd never take me with no backing.”
“I guess that's it, then. Too bad.” Nyx's smile turned sly. “Could have been a career maker.”
As what, exactly?
Broady and Sawyer got up and walked to the door.
Nyx rose and held out his business card to me. “In case you hear from El Cid.”
* * *
Sawyer returned to the table. He smiled mirthlessly. “A narrow escape, Maisie. If Nyx had wanted you, I'd have been hard-pressed not to send you in.”
Jaysus Criminey.
He raked his fingers through his flaxen hair in a gesture totally unlike him. “Damn him.”
“Sir?”
“Talbott Cottle Coles's connections at the DOJ run deep. Broady and Nyx are here to knock the Bureau of Organized Crime out of the loop and quite possibly Special Unit out of existence.” He adjusted his tie. “On the plus side, your name won't leak back to Coles.”
Special Unit's unique ability was to operate beneath the law enforcement radar. We sat in silence for several minutes.
“Violetta Veteratti came to see me in the hospital,” I blurted.
“Oh?” Sawyer asked, his gaze slightly unfocused.
“She offered to work with me if I picked up the reins to Renko's organization.”
He blinked the fog away, tawny eyes snapping to full alert. “Timeline?”
“I pushed her to three months.”
“Right, then.” He nodded. “Spend the next four weeks getting fit and solidifying your journalistic cover. I'll deal with Coles and the DOJ.”
“Yessir.”
He got up, retrieved my crutches, and set them next to me. “Thank your lucky stars Broady took a fancy to you and helped shut this down. He and Nyx don't play by the same rules we do.”
Chapter 5
Juice returned a few moments after Sawyer left. “Paul's ready to see you now.”
I crutched behind her wake into yet another conference room. This one, however, held a room full of people, including the ubiquitous Beatle wannabe.
Super.
“Welcome, welcome!” A jovial, portly man with a neatly trimmed black beard and frameless glasses stood at the head of the table. “Come in, we don't bite.”
Lennon snapped his teeth together in my general direction, which sent the tubby woman next to him into a gale of giggles. A cross between Martha Stewart and
Grey Gardens,
she was wearing a hemp sweater that had gotten into a macramé fight and lost.
“I'm Paul, as you know.” Renick waved sparkle fingers at the table. “Everyone, Maisie McGrane is our new Op-Ed. Maisie, this is everyone.”
“Hi,” I said.
A dozen people, each striving for individuality, dressed in various-colored stovepipe-legged pants and bagged-out V-neck sweaters, gave me the collective stink eye.
Nothing like being the new girl every other feckin' day.
“Aside from writing the Op-Ed, Maisie has another skill set she'll be sharing with the
Sentinel
.” Renick gave me a “take the floor” gesture and plopped down in his chair.
Neat-o. Newbie piñata at your service. Whack away!
I approached the table. “Any guesses?” I asked, hoping for a clue.
“Hmm. Op-Ed.” Lennon stroked his chin, pretending to think. “What
does
the Republican minority do best?”
“Source the best consignment shops for Louis Vuitton?” snarked a diminutive Goth.
“Travel Section?” Grey Gardens batted her lashes over her Starbucks cup. “Where to go to avoid the common folk?”
Lennon raised an index finger, playing to the room. “Best ways to bribe your three-year-old's way into a preschool for gifted children.”
Oh, my little Pravda pal, you have no idea where I cut my teeth.
“I'm the new small-arms specialist,” I said. They stared at me, mouths open, even Renick.
“Why on earth would the
Sentinel
need that ?” Lennon asked pleasantly.
The room waited on the edge of their seats, trembling like wet poodles for him to put the screws to me.
“To keep you from looking like the
HuffPo
reporter who mistook foam earplugs for rubber bullets. Or the
NY Times
staff writer unable to tell the difference between a Glock .40 and a Colt 1911. Or most newscasters, who think the
A
in an
AR
stands for
assault
or
automatic
when it's
ArmaLite
.”
Lennon let loose his second shot. “Exactly what qualifies you as an expert, Ms. McGrane?”
I can shoot a Starbucks cup off your head at fifty paces. Wanna see?
“I've had my Firearm Owners ID since I was fourteen, concealed-carry permit since the day I turned twenty-one, and I can tell the difference between a Nerf gun and a double-action pistol.”
Paul stood up. “All right, okay. Enough ribbing the newb. We're clear on the direction for the weekend magazine?”
The table agreed collectively.
“Let's get to work, everyone.”
“If I may, Paul—I'd be happy to show Miss McGrane the ropes,” Lennon volunteered. “I'll even edit her first piece.”
Ick, no.
Luckily, Grey Gardens wasn't digging on that idea, either. “Really, Lennon, we're sharing a single office already. She'll have no place to sit, much less work.”
“Exactly.” Paul said. “That's why, starting next week, she's going to take the office next to Juice.”
Which caught everyone by surprise.
“An office for an Op-Ed?” said the Goth under her breath as she kicked back her chair. She brushed past me, making sure to bump me with her shoulder. “Whose leg are you humping?”
Back at you, sweetheart.
Paul came over and rubbed his hands together. “Let's go get you set up, Maisie.”
He led me through the corridors of the termite mound that was the
Sentinel
. “Want the nickel tour and travelogue?”
The crutches were killing my wrists. “Nah.”
“Sawyer and I go way back. Now, I don't need much,” Paul said. “But I do need you at the staff meeting every Monday whenever possible.”
“Okay,” I said, breathing heavily as I tried to keep up. For a tubby guy, he moved pretty fast.
“Nice work, by the way, with that small-arms comeback,” Paul said. “How do you feel about illegal immigration?”
“As in?”
“Single-sentence, personal viewpoint.”
“Um . . . Unfair to the people who are trying to emigrate the right way,” I said, hating how my voice went up at the end like a question.
“Excellent. That'll give me a nice jump on next week.”
“What?”
“If I'm writing opinion pieces under your name, I might as well take your actual positions on them.” Paul clapped me on the back. We stopped in front of a tiny, windowless office. A battered Formica desk took up half the space. “This is you.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“You betcha.” He high-stepped away, like a Santa leading a marching band.
* * *
There's something especially decadent about having a driver. Even more pleasant was the fact that he didn't utter a single word.
A block away from my house, I caught sight of a janky blue Ford pickup truck held together with rust, duct tape, and spit.
Oh no.
“Stop.” My voice came out in a whisper. “Please, stop.”
The driver complied.
I got out in a rush. “Thanks for the ride.”
I waited, knees shaking, until the Chevy Impala turned out of sight before crossing the street to the pickup. One of Hank's men, a six-foot-seven, long-haired, blond Viking got out of the truck and met me in the middle. “Hey, kid.”
“Ragnar,” I said, trying not to hyperventilate. “What's up?”
He snorted. “How long you gonna milk that goddamn paper cut?”
I looked down at the crutches. “Long enough.”
“Hank figured you'd be back at his place by now.”
He's okay.
I closed my eyes and let out a shaky breath. “Yeah? You talked to him?”
“Nah. He put a detail on you before he scrammed with that crazy bastard Renko.”
I should have known.
“Detail's staying until he comes back. Easier for the boys when you're at his house. Fuck, every car in this neighborhood's a goddamn Porsche or Jag.”
I guess covert rarely enters the equation when you're born the son of Odin.
“Gotta say, though, it's been boring as shit. Didn't fuckin' expect that from you.” He jabbed a thick index finger into my chest.
“You're welcome.” I smiled. “When's he due back?”
Ragnar slid a hand up under his hair and rubbed at the scar tissue that covered the left side of his neck and jaw. “He figured a month, maybe two of palling around with Renko.”
Yeah. Just a couple of guys hanging out having fun, running guns for Goran Slajic.
“Relax, kid. He wants to leave Renko nice and easy. Make sure you're in the clear.”
I cleared the lump in my throat. “I know.”
“The company's monitoring his place. We're off the clock once you're there.”
“Yeah.”
Ragnar leaned down. “When?”
“End of next week?”
“That'll work. Text me, will ya, kid?” He started toward the truck.
“Sure thing.” I rubbed my eyes with my fingers, pressing hard enough to swirl dark blues and purples beneath my lids.
Two months.
Hell, I can do that. In my sleep, right?
The pickup's engine rumbled to life.
I opened my eyes and sighed. The half block to the driveway spread before me like a country mile.
“Hey, kid!” Ragnar said from the window.
“What?”
“You gonna let me drive this piece of classic Americana up your fuckin' manor house drive, or do I gotta carry your goddamn candy-ass to the door?”
* * *
I crutched it up the sidewalk into the house, grateful for my aching forearms. I never would have made it without the damn sticks. Which is why everyone needs a mother, to tell you to put your jacket on when it gets chilly.
I eyed the stairs. Twenty steps and a long hallway to Oxy. Twelve into the great room.
No contest.
I hobbled into the kitchen, aiming for the wet bar.
“Maisie,” Da said from the couch.
Aw hell.
“Hey, Da.” The beer could wait. Best to keep a clear head. I balanced the crutches against the bar and limped into the room. I leaned against the back of the couch. Close enough to see Stannislav Renko's file on the coffee table.
No questions, huh?
“You look like shite,” Da said.
Gee, thanks.
“It didn't come easy.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “Trouble always comes easy for you.”
I nodded at the folder. “What's that?”
“Your penance that I'm serving.” Da folded his arms across his barrel chest. “Sawyer made sure Homicide's following up on Renko's possible involvement in Coles's assassination attempt.”
The orders came from the Grieco cartel in Tampico, Mexico.
I closed my eyes and blew out a slow sigh. “Don't waste your time.”
“Eh?”
“If Stannis wanted him dead, he would be.”
His face turned stony. “Nice class of people you're running with. Mercenaries and mobsters.”
“So far none of them have cut my heart out and fed it to me, like you did.”
“Keep telling yourself that, gel.” Da picked up the file. “You're a feckin' babe in the woods.”
That stung so bad I made it halfway up the stairs before my leg thought to fuss that it still had a helluva lot of stitches inside.
You didn't need Luminol to see the bad blood between us. Unable to bear the idea of something happening to his only daughter, Da had called in some heavy favors and had me expelled from the police academy on a technicality.
Sawyer stepping up and making me an undercover cop eased the hurt, but it sucked to have to lie to the clan. Even if I'd had permission to come clean, I wouldn't risk it. Da would do anything and everything to keep me off the force.
The front door swung open. “Hey, Snap!” Cash yelled. He was the hyper Labrador puppy the vet promises will settle down when it gets to be a year old, that pretty much runs and jumps its way into the grave thirteen high-energy years later. “Look who I brought home to cheer you up!”
Lee Sharpe stepped into the foyer.
Jaysus Criminey.
“How goes it, Lee?” I said.
He leaned his forearms against the banister. “Dark and dirty, baby.”
No surprise there.
He looked as handsome as ever in that harsh, über-fit way that was completely at odds with his happy-go-lucky attitude. A heady combination and he knew it.
He sent a soft wolf whistle my way. “Pretty sharp suit for a cub reporter.” Giving me the tease because he could.
“I do all right.”
My brother's phone chirped. “Yeah, yeah,” Cash answered. “Lemme check.” He trotted off down the hall.
“How's the leg?” Lee asked, coming up the stairs to meet me.
“Okay.”
“Hmmm.” He leaned in close, mouth in a flat line. “I'm not a doctor, but I'll take a peek.”
The laugh that popped from my lips was embarrassingly high-pitched. Lee could serve up a line as neat as Louis C.K., but still . . .
I'm just a little over-done, that's all.
“When are you back at Special Unit?” he asked.
“Three weeks to solidify cover and get fit.”
“Sawyer tell you what you're coming back to?”
“Not yet,” I fibbed. “But I have a vague idea.”
“Maybe I'll put in a request to partner up.” He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “Raise a little hell together, yeah?”
No.
I was wrecked. I missed Hank.
I raised my chin. “Beat it, tough guy.”
He left. Laughing.

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