Shoot 'Em Up (7 page)

I nodded. “You bet.”

The guys nodded and left, lugging their gear.

Down below, Cash said something to Lee and started toward the back of the house. He slung his M-4 over his shoulder and unseeing, looked up at the building windows, threw me a salute, and walked down the alley.

I smiled.
The hummingbird with cement wings.

The rear of the house remained dark, the evidence techs working front to back.

A section of lattice under the porch popped out onto the lawn. A man shimmied out from beneath it.

“Oooh,
Naco
better get his ass in gear!” Cooky giggled.

The man pulled a gun from his waistband.

Cash rounded the corner.

“Gun!” I banged my hands on the window. “Stop!”

The man raised the pistol and fired two shots.

“No!” I shouted.

Cash jerked spasmodically. He stood, weaving, dark head cocked to one side.

The man fired again.

Cash crumpled to his knees and fell facedown in the dirt.

Blood pulsed in my ears.
No!

The man ran toward him, gun pointed low at Cash's head.

The man's hair flared up in a puff of red mist. A rifle shot echoed through the alleyway. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Rifle out, Lee ran to the body, kicked the handgun away, and went to Cash.

I turned and sprinted to the stairs. Cooky shouted at me.

I hit the stairwell blind, slipping and tripping on trash, somehow managing to keep on my feet. I slammed against the rear door and stumbled out into the alley, skidding around the corner at full speed.

“Cash!” I screamed. “Cash!”

Lee was on his knees beside him.

My brother wasn't moving.

I couldn't, either. Paralyzed with dread.
Cash . . .

“Can you hear me?” Lee said.

Cash suddenly convulsed, coughing. His hands went to his stomach, and he curled onto his side. “Aww. Feck.”

Lee's face was slack with relief. “He's all right.”

I choked on a swallow of air, lungs already full of breath I'd been holding.

“Jaysus Criminey,” Cash groaned. “What'd they hit me with?”

I glanced over at the guy who was missing a sizeable portion of his skull, the dark pool spreading beneath his head.

And then at the pistol Lee had kicked away from the dead man.

“A 5.7,” I said, my head starting to spin.

An FN Five-seveN MK2, to be specific.

“This feels strangely familiar.” Lee winked at me and leaned back on the squad bench of the ambulance.

“Yeah? How about you tell the driver to watch the road,” I said, sharper than I meant to.

Cash, on the gurney, pale face turned toward us, spoke in between grunts. “Maisie? I won't tell . . . if you don't.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Do you actually think Da and the boys won't find out?”

“About you . . . on scene?” He made a growling sound. “Feck no.”

“You've got my word, Cash,” Lee said.

“Ergh. Hurts like a sonuvabitch.” He panted. “Don't call the clan.”

“Mom'll kill me—”

Lee put his hand on my leg. “Cash is gonna be fine. Sometimes you take a hit to the vest and . . . nothing. Other times it feels like you got gored by a bull. Don't make it something it's not.”

I glared at his hand on my thigh.

He gave me a squeeze before letting go. “He's gonna be fine.”

* * *

The smell was the same in every emergency room: disinfectant, blood, and the primal stink of fear.

Cash went to triage. Lee took me to the waiting room.

Cash's SWAT squad showed up, milling around, their voices loud and jocular.

“Give me your keys,” Lee said. “Joe's gonna drive your car over.”

I handed them to him. “Thanks.”

He nudged me with his shoulder toward the waiting area. “You oughta sit down before you fall down.”

I slumped down into one of the hard blue chairs. Lee walked over to the squad standing by the door. The high-pitched whine of
SpongeBob SquarePants
on the TV filled the waiting room for a solid sixty minutes. I was numb from fear. Numb from relief. My mind unable to track a children's cartoon.

A cheerful bear of a man in a white coat pushed through the ER doors and called, “Miss McGrane?”

“That's me.” I walked over to meet the doctor, Lee on my heels.

The name on his gold badge read Dr. Greg Purchase. “Mr. McGrane has a bruised kidney, one large contusion, and some soft tissue damage. The vest saved his life, but he's got some BABT—behind-armor blunt trauma.”

My mouth went dry. “What's that?”

“When the bullet strikes but doesn't perforate the vest, it can still penetrate soft tissue, pushing the bullet, vest, and clothing inward,” Dr. Purchase said. “When the vest is removed, the vest material and bullet come back out, leaving a hole that looks remarkably like a bullet wound.”

Lee squeezed my shoulder.

Dr. Purchase continued, “He'll have a tender couple of weeks and needs to take it easy. We're waiting on the results of another test, but he should be fine to go home within the hour.”

Lee went over to tell the men.

I sat back down and started to shake. All over.

I couldn't stop.

Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was Cash, his body jerking from the impact of the slugs, legs giving out beneath him as he fell flat on his face. The sickening certainty that he was dead.

I put my hands to my face. They were clammy and damp. Saliva ran down the back of my throat. My stomach heaved. I sprinted for the ladies' room.

And was sick. From both ends.

Spent and empty, I leaned against the sink, running cool water on my wrists.

At least I wasn't shaking anymore.

I rinsed my mouth out, washed my face, and stepped out.

Lee waited for me outside the door. He'd sent the rest of the team home. He walked me over to an empty bench and we sat down.

“You saved his life.”

“No.” Lee shook his head. “My fault. I let him go alone.”

“What was he doing anyway?”

“He wanted to walk the length of the house. Said something in the interior felt off to him.” Lee put his hand on mine. “Plenty of false walls and hidey-holes. Drug dealers are nothing if not ingenious.”

We sat there another ten minutes, holding hands, not saying a word.

“Shouldn't be long now,” he said.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

He gave me a cockeyed smile. “Not much of a date.”

“Jaysus, Lee. Give it a rest.”

He put his arm around me and tugged me into his chest. I stiffened and tried to pull away, but he held my face to his chest, thumb stroking my cheek. The steady
thump
of his heart beat in my ear.

“He's all right,” he said softly.

My mouth formed the words, “
I know,
” but all that came out was a sob.

There was only one place to take Cash.

Hank's.

We'd keep the clan in the dark for as long as we were able.

Cash flipped through channels on DirecTV, halfway through the pint of Häagen-Dazs Swiss Almond in Hank's guest room. I handed him two OxyContins from Hank's medicine cabinet and a bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade.

“Thanks, Snap.”

I sat next to him on the bed. “I'll pick up your prescriptions tomorrow morning. First thing.” I couldn't stop smiling at him. I knew if I did, I'd start bawling.

“What do you wanna watch?”

I shrugged. “What's even on at ten thirty in the morning?”

He clicked the remote. Channels blurred in front of my eyes. “Sweet!” he said, stopping on Bill Murray carrying a pizza and dry cleaning.
Stripes
.

Carefully, I scooched up next to him. “Does it hurt?”

“Like a bitch.” He gave a pained chuckle. “But it's the pissing a feckin' stream of gore that freaks me out the most.”

Yeah, he was gonna be just fine.

I lay back on the pillow, watching the movie through half-closed eyes, and fell asleep.

Cold metal pressed against my cheek. My eyes snapped open.

“Tell me.” Stannislav Renko loomed over me. “Tell me,
Vatra Anđeo
.”

I raised my chin slowly, the barrel of the gun sliding down along my jaw, knowing exactly what he wanted to hear.

“
Moj đavo,
” I rasped.
My devil.

He grinned, crooked white teeth gleaming from his blue-black scruff. “For always.” He straightened and put the gun to his temple.

“No!” I jerked awake, panting. Stiff and cold and sweating.

And furious.

Cash was passed out next to me, snoring softly. I slid my legs off the side of the bed and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands.

Disoriented, I went into the kitchen, the midday sun jarring. I needed to pick up Cash's painkillers and antibiotics. I scribbled a Post-it Note for Wilhelm, who probably already knew Cash was here and why, then grabbed my keys and headed to the garage. Forcing myself to wait until I'd left the driveway before I made the call.

“Can't bear to be away from me for more than a couple hours, huh, Bae?” Lee answered.

“Yeah, that's it.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. The street blurred in front of my eyes.

“Cash all right?”

“Yeah. Thanks for asking.”

He let the silence stretch and warp before saying, “What's up?”

“Um . . .” The words seemed to wedge in my mouth. I cleared my throat. “I . . . uh . . . need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“Do you have the gun Cash was shot with?”

“Not on me,” he said. “It's probably been logged in to evidence by now. Why?”

“I need a look at it.”

“Hmm.” Lee made a
clicking
sound with his mouth. “Any reason why you're not running this through Sawyer?”

“I need to know if I'm right first.”

“As a McGrane, you're not exactly an unknown entity around here.”

Duh
. A little slow off the mark today.

“What are you looking for?” he asked casually.

“I'll know it when I see it.”

He made the
clicking
sound again.

I winced.
What price this favor?

“Okay,” he said. “Lemme see what I can do.”

He hung up.

“Huh.” I clicked my phone off and pulled in to the Walgreens parking lot.

I drifted around the store, sipping a sugar-free Red Bull, wondering when the price of drugstore mascara made the leap to department store exorbitant and where they kept the Mini Chewy Sweetarts.

I scored the candy and a copy of
Car and Driver
and headed back to the pharmacy to wait for Cash's script.

I spent the next ten minutes next to an old guy who was more than happy to share his Nips Caramel for a debate on the merits of crossbow versus composite bow hunting.

My phone buzzed.

A text. From Lee.

I laughed in spite of myself, and scrolled down. Attached were two pictures of the handgun and a single macro.

Lava filled my lungs.

Inset into the safety was a black diamond.

* * *

By the time I got in the car, I was in full alertness mode, breathing in through my nose and out my mouth. The shooter was one of Carlos Grieco's.

It was personal now.

I dug Special Agent Nyx's business card out of my wallet and dialed.

“Nyx.”

“Er . . . This is Sawyer's field agent, sir.” I said, carefully avoiding mentioning my name. “I met you at the
Sentinel
.”

“Sure.” I heard him lean back in his office chair. “Walt's pet.”

Aww, you remember.
“Sir, I'd like to be reconsidered for the assignment.”

“Oh? You seemed reluctant at the meeting.”

“I didn't feel comfortable talking about career advancement in another branch in front of my current boss.”

“That was over two weeks ago.”

“I wanted to be back to one hundred percent before calling, sir.”

“I see.”

I waited.

“I appreciate ambition in my agents, but Sawyer's caution had merit,” Nyx said. “Your only connection to the Grieco cartel was the Srpska Mafija. You have no legitimate backer. And I have neither the time nor the resources to establish that for an untested rookie.”

“But, hey”—he gave a scoffing chuckle—“you find someone to vouch for you, and I'll set you up like a fatted calf at the county fair.”

* * *

Cash was lounging on the couch playing
Battlefield Hardline
on Xbox when I got home. Feet on the coffee table, an open Coors at his side, and a dead soldier on the floor.

I dropped my purse and the Walgreens bag next to him, then picked up the empty bottle and took it into the kitchen. “A little early in the day to be hitting it, don'tcha think, Captain Oxy?”

“Nah,” he said, firing away. “Got anything to eat around here?”

The counter Post-it to Wilhelm was gone, as expected. I opened the fridge. Inside were two Saran-Wrapped plates of triangular-cut turkey club sandwiches complete with fringed toothpicks, dill pickles, and fruit salad.

“Wilhelm. You are a prince among men,” I muttered. I took the plates out, snagged a bag of Tim's Jalapeño Chips and brought them over to the coffee table.

“That was fast,” Cash said.

“Don't ask.” I went back to the fridge for a couple more beers.

He set the remote down and pulled off the plastic. “I'm asking.”

“Housekeeper.”

Cash took a giant bite of sandwich before asking, “Is she hot?”

“He.”

“Never mind.”

I sat down carefully next to him. “You call Mom and Da yet?”

He shook his head.

“What was it like, besides horrific?”

“My last thought was
Aww, feck,
or more accurately,
Aww.
” His mouth curled wryly. He popped the top on the new beer and took a good long swallow before answering. “It felt like someone rigged my vest with M-80s.” He shook his head. “Goddamn careless and stupid. FNG-type shit.”

He opened the chips, took a handful, and propped the bag up against the bone jar. “That's the trouble with me and Koji being the two token non-former-military guys on SWAT. They already lived through all the dumb-ass mistakes we haven't made yet.”

The gun that he'd been shot with was a military-grade weapon, the rounds illegal armor-piercing.

He'd been lucky. Damn lucky.

Without SWAT's ceramic-plated armored vests, the regular rank-and-file wouldn't be so fortunate. Men and women like my da and Flynn and Rory.

“You okay, Snap?” Cash popped me in the shoulder. “You don't look so good.”

“Yeah. Switch it to multi-player.” I picked up my purse and felt for my phone. “I need to send a text before I take you to school.”

Cash hooted with laughter. “Bring it.”

I pulled up Ragnar's number and typed.

I hit Send and felt the fire in my chest fade ever so slightly.