Red Knight Falling (2 page)

“We’re compromised,” I hissed. “Repeat, compromised, move in
now
!”

TWO

Truck horns blared as Jessie charged across the street, darting around a semi’s front grille as it screeched to a dead stop. I didn’t have time to wait for her, not with Vukovic jumping off his stool and shoving his way through the crowd, headed for the back of the tap house. I shouldered my way through the bustling tavern and ran after him. I didn’t announce myself or pull my badge or my weapon, not here—there was no reason to assume the gunrunner wasn’t armed, and the last thing I wanted was to scare him into opening fire in a packed room. We’d get him away from the civilian traffic,
then
take him down.

“Harmony,” April said over my earpiece, voice urgent, “what happened?”

I dodged around a waitress carrying a tray of beer mugs, tails of my army-surplus jacket flying as I moved in on Vukovic, both of us wading through the raucous crowd on our way toward the kitchen door. My silver-leaf bangle bracelet flared hot on my wrist, magical defenses sparking to life and casting a tingling net over my wind-chapped skin. I suspected Steranko would have the same priority as Vukovic—
leaving
, as quickly as possible—but he had a reputation for bringing magical muscle along on his jobs. I wanted to be ready in case some rogue sorcerer felt like picking a fight.

“Steranko happened,” I said. “He saw us coming and got a warning out. Vukovic’s heading for the back door. Jessie, can you cut around?”

“Yeah,” she snapped, terse. “On it.”

I burst into the kitchen just in time to see a door swing shut on the opposite side of the room, and a fleeting glimpse of the alley behind the restaurant. A big guy with a marinara sauce–stained apron got in my way, looking flustered.

“’Ey! What’re you people doin’? You can’t be back here—”

I shoved my badge in his face.

“Federal agent.
Move.
”

He moved. I barreled past him, racing for the door. Out back was an asphalt-paved alley, just about big enough for a semi to squeeze through, lined with dumpsters and dented, overstuffed trash cans. Vukovic sprinted like he was going for Olympic gold, already across the alley and careening down a narrow walkway between a couple of restaurants on the opposite side. As I chased after him, I heard Jessie running up from behind.

“He’s northbound,” I said.

April’s voice crackled in my ear. “He’ll come out on Newbury, then. High pedestrian traffic—take him down in the alley if you can.”

I unzipped my coat as I ran, and whipped out my badge in one hand and my gun in the other.

“Ranko Vukovic,” I shouted. “
Stop.
FBI.”

He didn’t even slow down, darting out of the alley’s mouth and disappearing around the corner. Some people have no respect for authority.

Jessie took the lead, not even breaking a sweat as I struggled to keep up. I’m in good shape, but the all-out sprint left my calves burning and a painful hitch in my side when I gulped down a breath.

“He’s heading east,” I gasped.

“Next cross street is Fairfield. That’s a four-way—” April said. She paused, and I heard a rattling, bumping sound beside her in the surveillance van. “Kevin,
what
are you doing?”

Over the earpiece, an engine revved to life. Didn’t have time to think about it. Didn’t have time for anything but the chase. Vukovic had crowds to contend with now, and a woman shouted as he shoved his way down the sidewalk, knocking a shopper and his bags to the pavement.

My throat burned like I’d swallowed kerosene. I held my badge high. “Federal agents!
Clear the way!
”

Cross traffic was stopped at the corner up ahead, a wall of steel grilles held back by the red light. Vukovic saw his chance, breaking from the confused and churning crowd and charging into the open crosswalk—just in time for the surveillance van to come screeching around the corner. Kevin slammed on the brakes a split second before hitting Vukovic square on. The gunrunner bounced off the van’s hood, landing hard and rolling on the street. Sprawled on his back, he grimaced as he reached into his coat, bringing out a short-barreled .38. He never got the chance to pull the trigger, not before Jessie’s boot stomped down on his hand and pinned him like a bug.

“My hand,” he groaned, “is broke. Think my ankle is also broke. You crazy—”

The rest came out in Serbian, with him babbling at us as he squirmed on the cold asphalt. Jessie reached down, plucked the gun out of his hand, and said, “Could have just shot your ass instead. Be happy.”

Kevin jumped out of the idling van, wide-eyed.

“Did we get him?” he asked.

Jessie ripped off her sunglasses, her turquoise eyes dangerously bright, and turned on him.

“What the fuck was that? What part of ‘by the book’ did you not understand, Kevin? We are gonna
talk
about this.
Later.
”

“I s-sue,” Vukovic stammered as I rolled him onto his stomach and pulled his wrists together, slapping the cuffs on. “I sue you, I sue city of Boston, I sue United States, I sue the president—”

The crowded sidewalk had turned into an amateur press junket. A forest of arms holding up cell-phone cameras, all pointed our way and filming every second of the bust.

The day was just getting started.

The special agent in charge of Boston’s field branch was a bull of a man named Mueller, with a freshly shorn scalp and hard eyes. He had a comfortable office, sporting a brand-new Keurig and a stack of paper coffee cups on a table alongside his desk.

He offered Jessie and me a seat. He did not offer us coffee. He was, however, polite enough to lower the blinds on each one of his windows before he started shouting at us. I’m sure his voice carried across the entire building, but at least we didn’t have spectators to go with it.

“What the hell were you two
doing
out there?” He picked up a folder and slapped it against the desk. “A civilian teenager, driving one of
our
surveillance vehicles, deliberately
runs down
a
suspect
—”

Jessie held up a finger. “Point of order, sir—nobody can prove it was deliberate.”

“Oh, really? It looks pretty deliberate on the cell-phone footage. Would you like to see, Agent? I can pull it up on YouTube for you right now.” He leaned across the desk, glaring. “Congratulations. You’re going viral. Maybe you can parlay that fifteen minutes of fame into a new job once you’ve been shitcanned out of the Bureau. I’m filing a formal complaint with SAC Walburgh.”

Good luck with that. Our supervisor, SAC Walburgh, was nothing but a voice-mail box on a phone in an empty, locked office somewhere in Washington, DC. Still, if Vukovic followed through on his threat of a lawsuit, that might not be enough to shield us.

“Sir,” I said, “I can only extend our deepest apologies. We made mistakes. It’s our responsibility, and we’ll do whatever we can—”

“It’s your responsibility, but it’s my city. You CMU cowboys think you can just ride in, shoot up the place, and leave with the sunset? Crisis management, my ass. You know what tonight’s news is gonna say? It’s gonna say
Boston FBI
screwed the pooch, and that’s on
my
head.”

“What if,” Jessie asked, “I promised we’d never do it again?”

He stared at her, mouth agape.

“Agent,” he said slowly, “do you find this situation amusing?”

I fought the urge to clamp a hand over Jessie’s mouth. “Sir, what Agent Temple means is, we recognize our failure in the field and intend to use this incident as a learning experience.”

“Both of you,” he growled, “get the hell out of my office.
Now.
”

We didn’t need to be told twice.

In addition to the unlicensed pistol he’d pulled in the street, Vukovic’s car trunk turned out to be a one-stop candy shop for Boston’s criminal underworld: the locals recovered two sawed-off shotguns, an AR-15 with an illegally modified firing pin, and a baker’s dozen handguns with dubious histories and acid-seared serial numbers.

Maybe that’s why, when we met him in a windowless interrogation room, he’d already lawyered up. His new friend was a pleasant and plump-faced man with a bad comb-over, and he gave us a nod of greeting as we stepped inside. Technically, we weren’t supposed to be there. The guard outside the door didn’t know that. Neither did the lawyer.

“Agents,” he said with a smile, “I’m Orin Hasselbeck, with Hasselbeck and Crenshaw, and I’ll be representing Mr. Vukovic’s interests in this case.”

Mr.
Vukovic sat in sullen silence, slumped in his steel chair, with his right hand—wrist wrapped in a brace—resting on the table. We took chairs on the opposite side.

“Mr. Vukovic sustained considerable physical and emotional injury during his arrest,” Hasselbeck explained. “He stands to lodge quite a lawsuit, and it’s my opinion—especially given the footage of his capture—that no jury in the world would deny his claims.”

“Which is why you want to talk about a deal,” I said.

The lawyer pretended to think about it.

“Given the
alleged
contraband found on his person and in his vehicle, I think there could be room for some . . . forgiveness, on both sides of this matter.”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Jessie told Vukovic, ignoring the lawyer. “I don’t want you. I don’t care about you. I’m after your boss.”

“My boss,” Vukovic said. “You mean, at plumber’s, where I work legally, yes?”

“I mean Roman Steranko,” Jessie said. “Waste one more second of my time and my partner and I get up and leave, and you can forget about a deal. We’ll take the lawsuit.”

He looked to his lawyer. Leaned in and whispered into a cupped hand. Hasselbeck frowned, thought for a second, and murmured back.

“Will there be consideration?” Hasselbeck asked. “Perhaps we can forget about the contraband if my client’s information proves useful?”

“Depends on what he knows.”

Vukovic stared at the steel table.

“Very little,” he said. “Steranko had a big deal, a very big deal. A heist. Soon. Wanted me to provide fireworks. Not popguns. Military-grade weaponry, rifles, heaviest I could get.”

Jessie frowned. “That’s not his MO. Steranko’s a smooth operator. His crew carries heat, sure, but he never goes in guns blazing.”

Vukovic shrugged. “Not my business. All I know is, whatever he was after, he wasn’t the only person who wanted it.”

“A rival gang?” I asked.

“Maybe more than one. Doesn’t matter now. I’m done. Steranko’s careful. You get busted, he never works with you again, just in case you turned rat.”

I leaned in, rapping my knuckles on the table. “Come on, Vukovic. You know more than that. What’s Steranko looking to steal this time?”

“I don’t—I don’t know what he’s after, I swear. All I know is, it’s not his normal kind of job. Normally, he sees something he likes, he steals it, then he looks for a buyer on the black market. Auctions it off, if he can—you make more money that way.”

“And now?” I asked.

“Now”—he shrugged—“he already has a buyer lined up. Just one. Whoever his client is, it’s somebody big. Very big. Very deep pockets. Beyond that, I don’t know. I’m just Steranko’s supplier, that’s all.”

Jessie and I shared a glance. I believed him. So did she. We’d gotten all we were going to get out of Vukovic.

Jessie pushed back her chair.

“Pleasure doing business,” she said. I followed her to the door.

“Wait,” the lawyer said. “What about a deal?”

She paused, glancing back at him, curious.

“Huh?” she said. “No, you’ve got to talk to the agent in charge. This isn’t even our case anymore. We just dropped by to chat. ’Bye, Vukovic. Look both ways before you cross the street next time, okay?”

Out in the corridor, walking fast, Jessie curled her hands into fists at her sides.

“Great. So we’ve got no lead, Steranko knows we’re hunting him, and he’s stocking up on firepower for—” She paused, tugging out her phone as it buzzed. “What
now
?”

She stared at the screen, lips pursed into a tight and bloodless line.