Shoot 'Em Up (6 page)

A week in Hank's place, and it still felt like an empty airplane hangar without him. And an eerie one, too. I knew Hank's company had, at the very least, the alarm system under surveillance, and probably the thermal cameras, but it was Hank's valet, Wilhelm, who made me edgy.

I'd never seen him.

Ever.

Hank had found him—a real English butler—chained up in the basement of a South American drug lord's mansion while on a deep clean mission. But after years of imprisonment, interacting with people was no longer Wilhelm's forte. The only person he could bear to be around was Hank. And so he'd given Wilhelm the run of his place.

I had no idea when Wilhelm came or where he went, but whenever I set a glass down and left the room, by the time I got back it was either in the dishwasher or there was a napkin under it. He was like a green lizard zipping across the floor in your beach cabana. You know it won't hurt you, but it still creeps you out.

Stannis's legacy kept niggling at me, too. Holding on to forensic trophy evidence didn't exactly give me that Xanax vibe.

Bell Jar
? Try the Bone Jar, Sylvia Plath. You ain't got nothing on me.

I toyed with the idea of wrapping the whole mess up and asking Daicen to hold it for me, but making him an accessory was less than decent.

Plain sight.

Twenty-four hours later, Amazon Prime delivered three pounds of salt-white aquarium sand to the house. I filled the jar, the bones disappeared, and Hank and I had a new coffee table decoration.

It made me miss him even more.

For cripes' sake, it had only been three weeks.

Weirdly, I missed the hell out of Stannis, too.

Instead, I went down the hall into Hank's weight room and hit it as hard I could handle for the second time that day. Back to normal jogging, I was still sprint-shy.

And sure as hell looking forward to getting back to work. Even after a shower, blow-out, and fake tan, the clock had only crawled to 5:00 p.m.

What was I staying up for anyway?

I took one of the Ambien that Dr. Williams had sent me home with to combat the side effects of the painkillers I wasn't taking. Wearing one of Hank's shirts, I climbed in on his side of the bed, ready to sleep the sleep of a fingerless skeleton. And it would be lovely.

* * *

My iPhone buzzed and rattled on the nightstand. “Hello?” I fumbled with it, sitting up in the dark. “Hank?”

“Try again.”

“Lee?”

“Who else cares enough to call at two a.m.?”

“Are you drunk?” I asked.

“No. Are you?”

Jaysus, is this some vintage comedy routine?
“What do you want, Lee?”

“You. Naked. But I'd settle for a date.”

“I can send a patrol car,” he said, “but I'm betting a crack reporter like yourself won't want to miss us locking down the perimeter.”

“Huh?”

“I'm inviting you to a SWAT bust, Bae. A three thirty-five a.m. no-knock entrance, followed by drinks at Hud's. On Cash.”

Talk about a way to a girl's heart: flashbang grenades, takedowns, and beers on my brother.

“I'm in.” I said.

* * *

I slid behind the wheel of the Hellcat.

Lee texted directions to a Marathon gas station in Little Village, the Mexican version of Englewood, where his man would be waiting.

Siri guided me through a mix of brick two- and three-flat buildings, cottages, and bungalows scattered among them. The closer I got to Lawndale and Ridgeway, the more bright colors and Santeria graffiti appeared. Santa Muerte statues—a bizarre hybrid of the Virgin Mary and the Grim Reaper—were in more windows than they weren't.

I pulled into the Marathon gas station. A twentysomething guy in all black motioned for me to roll down the window. “Maisie?”

“Yes.”

“Joe Hyne. Your ride.” He directed me to park in front of the pumps closest to the station, and gave me a look over as I got into his unmarked Suburban. “So you're Sharpe's dove, eh?”

“Hardly. I'm a reporter,” I said, trying out my new cover. “And a McGrane.”

“No shit? You Cash's sister?”

“Yep. That's me.”

“Damn.” He shook his head. “Okay. Two gangs, the Caballeros and the Eight Six, pretty much run Little Village. We're heading into ‘The Wasteland'—the zone they kill each other over every day—for a drug bust.”

Lee's voice crackled over the radio. “Got the package?”

“En route,” Joe said.

My phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hey, Lois Lane. Ready to see me in action?”

It's amazing what's funny at 3:00 a.m. “Cute. How long you been saving that one up?”

“Awww, Bae. Don't play that way,” Lee said. “Joe's gonna put you with the ELSUR guys. Give you a bird's-eye view of the action.”

“Okay.”

“They got Cooky up there. Nervy little rat, but chatty. Give you a chance to practice your investigative journalist skills.” Lee covered the mouthpiece of the phone, said something, and came back on. “Gotta go.” He hung up.

Second thoughts squealed through my mind like microphone feedback. This felt more like some sort of test than a date.

Joe turned the Suburban down a dark alley along the back side of a squat three-story building, the ground-level windows boarded up with plywood, broken windows on the second and third. He killed the lights and stopped the SUV near the rear corner of the building. “This is it. Door's around back. Got a flashlight?”

“Yep.” I reached into my messenger bag and dug out my Fenix PD35 Tactical flashlight.

“Sweet glowstick.” Joe gave me a thumbs-up. “Head upstairs, use your light only in the stairwell. Three thirty-five they're gonna enter and it's gonna be loud.”

“Can't wait.” I got out and jogged around the corner of the building. A dented metal door, propped ajar with a rock, glinted in the bright harvest moonlight. The hinges squealed as I opened it far enough to slip inside. I turned the flashlight on low and kept the beam pointed at my feet as I searched for the stairwell.

It wasn't bad as far as abandoned slum buildings go. Mostly empty, the reek of urine and garbage dissipated the higher I went up the stairs. I hit the third floor, clicked off the flashlight, and stepped into the room. “Hello?” The space spanned the entire length of the building. A pair of men in T-shirts and jeans worked behind a camp table full of equipment, fronted by a black curtain hanging from the ceiling to prevent light from escaping. The electronic surveillance boys.

One pressed his headset. “I've tapped in to their camera feed. All quiet.”

I approached the table. “Lee Sharpe sent me here.”

“Maisie. The reporter, right?” Two said. He typed on the keyboard. “Wanna see what the good guys are up against?”

“Yes, please.” I leaned forward to look at the video screens.

Two gestured toward the left monitor. “These are six of their camera feeds.”

“Theirs?” I asked.

“The Eight-Six. They're running their own security. They got Wi-Fi cameras on the buildings, streetlights, you name it. Watching for the Cabeleros, riffraff, and of course, the police.”

Sharp, unintelligible garble buzzed from their headsets.

Game time.

One leaned back in his chair and gave me the
sorry-but-you-need-to-get-out-of-the-way-now
smile.

I threw a thumb over my shoulder at the windows. “Over there?”

“Yeah,” Two said. “Cooky'll fill you in.”

I walked around the screen. A scrawny, long-haired Hispanic man stepped out from the shadows to meet me. “You Maisie?”

“Yeah.”

He scratched his arm. “I'm Cooky.”

“As in Chips Ahoy?” I whispered.

He giggled, a thin, shrill sound. “Thass a good one,
juera
. You funny.” His arms were covered with scabs and puncture scars.

Duh.
Cook
-y.

“You Lee's lady?” he said. “This make you all hot? Watching Captain SWAT busting ass?”

“Something like that.” Grit crunched beneath my feet. Down below, dark figures moved in the shadows around the duplex next door. “What's the situation?”

“Stash house,” Cooky volunteered. “Thass why I'm here, on account o' the Eight-Six. The friggin'
Nacos
.” His nails scraped the underneath of his jaw. “Mexican Nationals. They ain't got no connect, they just fighting to get a piece, trickin' for their
paisa
cartels.”

“
Paisa
cartels?”

“Lil' fish, like Soldados de Cristo and Grieco.” He shook his head. “But the Eight-Six and the Cabeleros—they ain't gonna let no small-time junk dealers move into Lil' Village. No way.”

“Keep a lock on the competition?”

Cooky let out another shrill giggle. “Shit, you funny.” He tagged me on the shoulder. “The Cabeleros and the Eight Six, they in with El Eje. Deal smart. Keep Lil' Village clean, yo.”

“Clean?” I said.

His fingers scrabbled like spiders across his chest. “You can't be smokin' crack or shooting H on the sidewalk 'round here. Gots to represent.”

Riiight.
I nodded. “An awful lot of people getting killed around here.”

“Cuz it all gangbang. This ain't no drug hub,
juera
.”

I moved closer to the window, bouncing on my toes. SWAT was moving into position, setting up a perimeter around the house. Five men at the rear, two in the alley on the side of the house.

My fingers tingled, the anticipation almost electric. I leaned back to get a view of the front of the house. Two unmarked Suburbans waited out of sight line of the duplex. The other SWAT squad I knew was there but couldn't see in position.

“
Psst!
” Cooky hissed, pointing. “Check it!”

The back porch light went on. A woman lugging a toddler stomped out, followed by a man tight on her heels, the Spanish zinging between them fast and loud.

Three thirty-two a.m.
Three minutes to go-time.

“Sit-Rep,” a voice demanded over the radio.

“Stand down,” the guy with the headset answered. “We'll pick them up in the frozen zone.”

The men at the rear of the duplex melted back into the night. The mission already in motion, the team couldn't risk alarming whoever was left inside.

The couple argued their way into a rusted Chevy Malibu and took off down the block.

The frozen zone—the outside ring perimeter—was manned by regular patrolmen. There'd be no chance for the couple in the Malibu to tip off the perps in the duplex.

“Stealth Two.” I heard Lee's voice over the radio. Beneath us his SWAT squad lined up in snake formation on the back porch.

“Charge is hung,” answered another man. “Standing by . . .”

“Move in,” Lee said, his voice low.

The two SWAT on the side of the house raised the flashbang poles.

“Entry in five . . . four . . .”

The flashbang grenades went off like cherry bombs filled with lightning, blinding and disorienting.

The front and back doors blasted open simultaneously. SWAT entered the rear of the duplex like a black snake into a rabbit's warren. “Police officers in the door! Police officers in the door!”

Gunshots cracked. They were silenced by controlled bursts of SWAT's M-4s.

My ears rang. I strained to hear the radio.

“Get down! Get down! Get down!” Shouting blared from the receiver. “Safety clear!”

“Right side, clear.”

The radio buzzed. “All clear, Squad Two.”

“All clear, Squad One,” Lee said.

And it was over. In less than one supercharged minute of peerless violence.

I shook out my arms and cracked my neck, trying to calm down.

“Shit,” Cooky said. “They like the Black Ops version o' the Eight-Six.”

Seriously?
I tried not to laugh.
How high are you, anyway?

The street was awash in the cruisers' red and blue flashers and spotlights. Outside the duplex, the uniforms took custody of SWAT's cable-cuffed perps.

The SWAT team moved off to the SUVs waiting at the mouth of the alley, the men shedding their heavy gear.

I recognized Lee's stocky frame. And my brother, rocking slowly back and forth on his heels, talking to a couple of the other team members. Everyone moving a little slow, hitting the wall.

Adrenal dump. When the forty-second super-juiced adrenaline burst abruptly ends.

I could relate.

The window glass was cool against my forehead. The evidence techs arrived and went to work. Within minutes, camera flashes glared against the broken windows of the duplex.

The ELSUR guys packed up behind me, while Cooky watched with me at the window, scratching.

“You cool to wait up here for Sharpe?” Two asked, laden with gear. He flicked a glance at Cooky.