Choked Up (3 page)

“You seem real broken up about my news,” I said.

“I'm not.” Hank put his hand over mine. “I don't date cops.”

Even now, months later, just thinking about it gave me a happy shiver.

I climbed back in bed—his side this time—closed my eyes, and tried to cycle down. But I couldn't. Those four little words niggled and burrowed in my brain. “I don't date cops.”

I rolled over and mashed the pillow into shape. That was months ago.

He couldn't possibly mean it now.

I sprang out of bed like a kid with one more day until summer vacation. Tomorrow I'd meet Sawyer's mysterious Mr. Kaplan and finally get the iron albatross aka Parking Enforcement, off my back.

Sugar-free Amp in hand, I sped to work, the windows of my Accord down, heat cranked, singing along to songs I didn't know the words to.

I parked in the pay lot close to work, cheerfully taking the thirty-six-dollar scalp. It was entirely possible today could be my last day meter-maiding. Forever. Fingers crossed.

I swiped my key card through the security lock of the Traffic Enforcement Bureau's satellite office and traversed the gray hallway to the break room. I rounded the corner and was assaulted by the smell of old Chobani yogurt, maple syrup, and mildew. A couple dozen uniformed parking enforcement agents milled around the time card punch.

I got the walleye from a select few and was ignored by the rest.

“Hi there, Maisie,” hummed Sylvia Owen's unmistakable Midwestern drone. “Can ya spare a minute?”

I nodded.

She glanced around the room. Naturally, not a soul was paying attention. “There's this group of, well . . .” She leaned forward and whispered, “. . .
vandals
. And they're
not normal.
”

“Oh?” I couldn't give a flying squirrel. “What are they doing?”

“They're feeding the meters and washing off my chalk marks. I'm so far off quota, I'll be on probation faster 'n you can say Velveeta.”

“And?”

Sylvia held up crossed fingers on both sides of her face. “Could we swap routes for a day?”

“Sure.” I'd be undercover in a matter of hours. I could afford to be generous.

 

It hit the windshield in a small explosion. I stomped on the brakes. The rear of the cart fishtailed left. I cycled the wheel to the right, counter-steering. “No. No!” The LTI gauge hit the red zone and I was on two wheels. Frozen in a split second of slomo eternity. “
Nonono!
”

The Interceptor wobbled and dropped its third wheel back on the unforgiving asphalt with a reverberating
thunk
. I goosed the gas. The cart shuddered and stalled.

In the middle of LaSalle.

I dropped my head onto the steering wheel, laugh-panting in relief. “Whoo-hoo!”

Nothing is as schadenfreudeily delicious to a Chicagoan as a meter maid tipping her cart.

I looked at the windshield to see what had me panicking like a meth-head in a dentist's chair.

An egg.

Nice reflexes, Tex. Cripes.
I almost deserved to tip over.

Three men, each wearing green hoodies with a single long feather attached, surrounded my cart.

One shouted, “Huzzah!” and the twentysomething basement dwellers opened fire. Eggs pinged the thin steel doors and windows of the cart. From the sound and coverage, I was guessing about three-dozen worth.

The Interceptor needed a minute to restart, so I sat there and took it, ignoring the itch to turn on the windshield wipers. Of course this had to happen here. Because the gods of comeuppance agreed that only one place in the entire city qualified for my maximum humiliation.

City Hall.

Ammo expended, the vandals ambled off, exchanging fist bumps with the few scattered pedestrians. I started the Interceptor and hit the wipers. Smear city. A Lava Lamp display of yolk, albumen, and wiper fluid, hardening with every squelch.

I wouldn't make it to the end of the block.

Wyckoff's Car Wash taunted me from a half mile away, even though the odds of me
not
getting stuck in the soap cycle for an hour were lower than a dyslexic winning a spelling bee.

With a groan, I crossed LaSalle to the City Hall side. Flexing his executive muscle, the illustrious Mayor Coles had rezoned the fire lane to a “special permit” standing zone. So now there was plenty of space for his select few. I pulled into the empty curb a good ten yards ahead of a gleaming navy Range Rover, popped my seat belt, and got out.

Rounding the cart, I glanced back at the SUV. The newspaper-reading driver waited patiently for whatever VIP slime Coles was courting. A small silver badge mounted next to the front door winked in the early afternoon sun, discreetly proclaiming the Range Rover was the ultimate elite model, an Autobiography Black.

I gave a low whistle. Coles's VIP may be a whale, but he was an orca. Sly enough to pay $230K for a car whose exterior was indistinguishable from its $85K counterpart. Except, of course, for the 7.8-inch longer wheel base and non-glare bulletproof windows.

I wasn't a car fanatic by nature, merely osmosis. Only two topics of discussion held center stage at McGrane family dinners. Bad guys and badass cars.

I popped the Interceptor's trunk and retrieved my standard emergency kit—Costco baby wipes and Hefty bags. I opened the passenger door, using the jamb as a step, and started swiping eggs off the roof into the garbage bag.

A glob of egg slid down inside my shirtsleeve to the elbow.

I hopped off, closed the door, and started wiping it down, ignoring the honks and howls of passersby. And people think New Yorkers are dinks.

At least the sidewalk in front of City Hall was a desert wasteland since it was after lunch hour.

I moved to the hood.

Perspiration misted my forehead. I reached across the hood, straining on tiptoe to scrub the tiny flecks of shell already stuck cement-style to the top of the windshield.

A heavy weight landed between my shoulder blades, pinning me to the hood. “Where's Bannon?” a man's voice demanded.

My tongue went thick in my mouth. “I don't know who you're talking about.” The hand on my back crushed the breath from me. “Uhnngh.”

“You sure about that?” he said.

“No sir,” I lied. “I mean, yessir, I don't know any Bannon, sir.”

His right hand went between my legs. “How about now?”

“Please don't.”

His hand grasped and twisted at my groin, fingers wrenching my heavy polyester cargo pants and underpants. “Stop!”

He didn't. “Hank and I, we used to share everything.”

I went dead weight. He lost his grip as I dropped my full 116 pounds on the hand between my legs. When my chest hit the Interceptor's bumper, I blasted up from the ground, aiming for his chin with the top of my head.

Nothing. Just air.

I threw a high hard left elbow that didn't connect, using my body's rotation to unleash a vicious spinning kick that landed . . . back where I started. My foot slammed into the Interceptor's hood and I stumbled backward up onto the curb.

“Damn, you're slow.” He shook his head. “Not quite as slow as the stringer I left on your car, but close.” Caucasian, brown and brown, six feet tall, 180 pounds. The kind of man that was intentionally unremarkable in every way.

A killer wearing Levi's and a Gap tee. He leered. “Where is he, Maisie?”

He knows my name.
My brain stalled.

The really horrible thing about learning hand-to-hand combat from an ex–Army Ranger is that you know when you're outmatched. Instantly.

Gap Tee was faster, stronger, and more experienced.

I was armed with . . . unpredictability. He was too close to my cart and City Hall was too far. If I could get the Range Rover between us, I could run circles around it until someone intervened or he gave up.

Gap Tee appeared immobile, but his weight was on the balls of his feet, arms loose at his sides, jonesing for me to make a move.

I glanced over my shoulder at City Hall. A group of dark suits converged on the steps an untenable thirty yards away. I let my eyes linger, hoping Gap Tee would turn his head or step left. He didn't.

Shit. Plan B.

I clicked the radio on my vest. “Code Blue, Code Blue.” I took a step toward him. “City Hall. Felony Assault.”

Gap Tee's eyebrows arched in disbelief.

I stepped closer. My radio buzzed with static. “Police notified,” Dispatch replied. “ETA ten minutes.”

I kept my hand on my radio trying to look terrified—which I was—and secretly unhooked it from the clip.

He snorted in amusement. “You think that's gonna help?”

“I was hoping—” I flung the radio at his face and sprinted toward the Range Rover. He caught me by the ponytail and yanked. My fingertips glanced off the hood.

He tightened his grip on my hair, walked me forward, and smacked my head down on the hood of the SUV.

The driver lowered the newspaper and raised it again.

I kicked backward. My work boot glanced off his shin.

He let go of my hair and pinned me by the neck. His thumb ground into the soft tissue pressure point beneath my jaw. Involuntary tears poured from my eyes. He kicked my feet apart.

I looked sideways up at him.

He drew back his arm, but he didn't make a fist. Instead his fingers curled into a tiger's claw. “Don't worry. I'll leave you recognizable.”

I didn't flinch. Refused to close my eyes. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

A shadow crossed behind him. Gap Tee's head cracked off the Rover's steel windshield frame and disappeared from sight.

I rested there, ignoring the scuffling sounds, my cheek pressed to the cool metal hood, blinking, trying to stem the streaming sinus tears.

A pale, angular, close-shaven face with bright and wild blue eyes appeared next to mine. “He is gone.”

I tried to smile. My lips trembled. I pressed myself upright and turned to face my savior. A lean and lithe five-nine in a Gieves and Hawkes suit, raven-haired, with an Eastern European accent.

Three suit-wearing gorillas ringed a protective detail around him, each managing to look simultaneously detached and pissed off that Gap Tee had escaped.

“You wanted help, yes?” the man said.

“Yes.”
I am an infant. Raised on a desert island by other infants.
I wiped my cheeks on my sleeve and held out my hand. “Thanks. Very much.”

He took it in both of his. “You are welcome . . . ?”

“Maisie,” I said. “Maisie McGrane.”

“Stannis.” He grinned and said something I couldn't understand to the men surrounding him. “You will tell me, Maisie.” He nodded, still holding my hand. “My driver. He did not help you?”

A bodyguard went around to the driver's door, opened it, and dragged the driver over.

Uh-oh.
“He wasn't—”

Stannis let go, took two quick steps, and backhanded the driver across the face. The man fell to one knee, head turned away as Stannis spoke in his ear. The driver's face went the color of green chalk.

I recognized a couple of swear words. Not Russian.
Serbian
. Watching grown men cry on FIFA World Cup Soccer has its perks after all.

Stannis returned to me, all smiles and nods. “He works for
me
.” He tapped his chest. “He represents
me
. You understand?”

Sure. The Serbian Mob has come to Chi-town.
“Yes,” I said.

Behind Stannis, the driver clutched his left hand to his chest, tripping over his feet in his haste to get back behind the wheel.

“Now you call police?”

Oh jeez. The police . . . Why the hell did I do that?
“I did,” I said. “On my radio.”

Hank, all icy fury and efficiency, would want to handle Gap Tee his own way. Violently. The last thing I needed was my trio of cop brothers showing up, nosing around and getting curious. Or worse. Da.

I scanned the sidewalk for the little black plastic box.

One of the gorillas handed it to Stannis, who offered it to me. I plugged the radio back into my vest and popped the button three times. “This is McGrane. Cancel Code Blue.”

“You sure about that?” came Dispatch's scratchy reply.

“Positive. Cancel Code Blue. McGrane out.”

Stannis frowned at me. “I would wait. Tell his likeness to police.”

“No point. You chased him off.” I looked up at him through my lashes and changed the subject. “Why did you do that?”

He bared his lower teeth, crooked and white. “Maybe one day you help Stannis.”

“I owe you.”
Super. Always fun to owe a criminal a favor.

“So, my new friend. Tell me. Why no police?”

Out of the FryDaddy into the lava pit.
“Um . . .”

Don't even try.
“He's a bad man.”