But it looked like it was going to be the western burbs. Hardin and Wilson had both grown up out there, wanted to play on their home turf. Gonna have to hog some bandwidth and assets in the morning, have real-time eyes on all the sites Hardin had scoped out. With a little luck, Munroe could still get a shooter in place for the meet. If he couldn’t get them there, he should at least be able to keep eyes on them after, bag them on the road. A chopper would help. Munroe got on the phone, arranged for one. He’d meet it at the Aurora airport. Civilian bird, or it would look like one anyway. But if you slid the door out of the way, there’d be a swing-out mount for a minigun. And somebody riding shotgun who knew how to use it.
Munroe started matching up assets with geography, deciding who he wanted where.
You plan for what you can. So he gets them at the meet, takes them on the road and, if he couldn’t, then Munroe would just have to play ball with them until he could.
World just wasn’t that big anymore.
CHAPTER 77
Lynch’s cell buzzed. He woke up, checked the clock. Coming up on two. He picked it up, checked the screen. Liz.
“Jesus Liz, you’re still in New York, right? Almost three there.”
“I know John, I’m sorry. Couldn’t sleep.”
“You OK?”
“No.” Silence for a long while. “It’s not going to work, is it?”
“You mean us?”
“Yeah.”
Lynch took a breath let it out. “No, probably not. Not much longer anyway.”
“I can’t give this up,” she said. “I know you want someone who can be with you, and I’d love to be with you. But I can’t give this up.”
“I know. I’m not asking you to.”
“And you’re never going to leave Chicago.”
“No, I guess not.”
No one said anything for a long time. Lynch could hear her breathing on the other end.
“You OK?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“Me neither.”
More silence.
“I don’t want to hang up,” she said.
“Me neither.”
Lynch heard the line go dead.
CHAPTER 78
Just after 6am, Lynch toweling off after his shower when his cell rang. Bernstein.
“Got a call from Northwestern. Fenn’s awake.”
“Lucid awake?” Lynch asked.
“Way better than they expected,” Bernstein said. “Pretty much a full recovery.”
“Meet me there in thirty,” said Lynch.
Fenn was sitting up when they walked in, the back of the bed cranked up about sixty degrees.
“Look better than the last time I saw you,” Lynch said. “Last time you were down in the ER with all these tubes coming out of you. You remember us?”
Fenn nodded.
“Got anything you want to talk about?”
“Detective, I told you everything I know last time we spoke.”
“And then you went back to your hotel and OD’d?”
Fenn shrugged a little. “I don’t remember anything about that. I remember getting back to my room. I remember dinner. That’s it.”
“We got you on possession. You understand that, right?”
Fenn shrugged. “I’ll have my lawyer call you.”
“And you aren’t worried about anything? Doesn’t strike you as weird, you talk to me in the afternoon, and that night you end up tooting some virgin powder that just about puts your lights out?”
“As I’ve said, Detective, I have no memory. And I believe I would like to have an attorney present for any future discussions.”
Lynch nodded. “Just so we’re clear, I’ll be talking to the DA on the drug side of things, so enjoy the hospital food while you can. Stuff in County sucks.”
“You really think you’ll be able to hold me on some possession charge?”
“We’ll see what happens,” Lynch said.
CHAPTER 79
Tommy Porcini ran Tony Corsco’s juice loan racket for the northwest suburbs. He was having breakfast out in Elgin, fueling up for a long morning of running down deadbeats. Porcini’s phone buzzed, he looked at the screen. That puke Pilsen, guy that was supposed to meet up with him this morning and get current.
Porcini opened the phone. “You’re late,” he snapped. Flipped open his notebook, ran his finger down to Pilsen’s name. Guy was into them for seven and a half Gs.
Porcini could hear the background noise. No other place in the world sounds like the inside of a casino. The dumb fuck was probably down at the Victoria, the riverboat here in Elgin. Juice loan pukes would do that when they knew Porcini was making the rounds, hide out on the boats, cause they knew that was one place Porcini couldn’t show his face. Part of that whole keep gambling clean in Illinois sack of shit the politicos sold to the voters, swearing up and down the mob wouldn’t get a foothold in gambling in Illinois. Casino security had all of Corsco’s guys’ pictures. None of them were allowed on the boats. It was all bullshit of course. Didn’t mean Tony wasn’t getting his rake. Just meant he was getting it through the unions and the politicians now, not skimming it out of the cash rooms.
“I know, Tommy. That’s why I’m calling. I’m gonna have it all for you man. Not just the juice, but the whole shebang. You wouldn’t fuckin’ believe it, man, but I am on the prime roll. I gotta be up like fifty right now, easy. Lady luck, she’s giving me a tongue bath. I can’t walk on that. Gotta ride it out.”
Porcini thought a second. “You say you’re up fifty?”
“Not counting my money at the table, Tommy. Bad luck. But gotta be fifty. Gotta be.”
“Do yourself a favor, Pilsen. Do a little counting. Count out eight right now and put that in your pocket. You make sure you leave with eight.”
“Eight? Man, I thought I owed like seventy-five hundred.”
“You did. Then you decided to stand me up, which means you’re gonna be late by the time you hang up the phone, and the juice on late puts you at seventy-seven fifty.”
“That still ain’t eight.”
“Banks got fees, right? Me too. I got a fee for when I gotta drive out to fuckin’ Elgin, eat some crappy diner breakfast and get stood up by some hump. So it’s eight. Today. Or else the Victoria may not be the only thing floating in the river come nightfall.”
Big noise on the phone, some kind of whoopee sound out of Pilsen. “No problem Tommy. Just cleaned up on a double-down. Eight it is. I’ll call you.”
Porcini hung up, took a second to admire the ass on the chick paying her bill up at the register, then took a longer second to eyeball her and the guy she was with. Son of a bitch. It was that Hardin dude. Corsco’s put the word out on him what, like a week back? Sent his picture around.
Porcini pulled his out his money clip. Shit. Smallest he had was a twenty. He wasn’t much of a tipper by habit, but he didn’t want to waste time at the register. He threw the twenty down on top of his $9.73 check and grabbed his coat.
Porcini got in his Buick, adjusted the mirror, watched the chick back out a black Honda, shook his head. What kind of man lets the woman drive? Porcini eased out behind them, hanging two cars back at the light. The Honda hopped on Randall, heading south, staying in the left lane, put its blinker on for the eastbound 90 exit. Tommy got out his phone and hit one on the speed dial.
“Put the boss on,” he said to the voice on the other end. Waited a bit, following the Honda down the ramp, tucking in a few cars back and a lane over.
“What do you need, Tommy?” said Tony Corsco.
“I’m out in Elgin. You still looking for that Hardin fuck? I’m on his ass right now.”
CHAPTER 80
“You have had time, I assume, to check on Heinz and consider my offer?” 6.30am, al Din on the phone, talking with Munroe.
“Yeah,” Munroe answered.
“And?”
“I can go the $15 million, but that only works if you put Tehran in the middle of this. And you’re going to have to have some proof to back it up.”
“I have been accumulating evidence on my MOIS handler,” al Din said. “I have been saving decrypted emails, I even taped my last in person meeting with him. You will be quite pleased. He is local and well placed.”
“OK, good. I’m gonna need to eyeball that stuff before we get in bed.”
“Of course.”
“Plus you’re going to get the debrief treatment, you know that, right? Once you come in, it’s going to get official. Langley’s gonna lock you up in one of their B&Bs for a while. It’ll be a nice joint, probably some horse farm in Virginia, but they’re gonna wring you out. They’ll want your whole history.”
“Naturally.”
“And I’m going to be adding a tune to your hymnal. Little piece of your history you might have forgotten. You and I need to go over the music.”
Al Din smiled to himself, remembering the strange news stories he’d been hearing about a tie between the Mexican drug cartels and Islamic terrorism. “This new song; is it a mariachi number perhaps?” al Din asked. “A little something about drug cartels and terrorists?”
Al Din was sharp, Munroe knew that. Not that he had to be a rocket scientist to piece that together, not with the crap that had already hit the media.
“Yeah, a nice little narcocoriddos tune. I’ll have all the lyrics for you.”
“I’ll brush up on my Spanish,” said al Din.
“Then you can look forward to a very comfortable retirement in the West…” Just the slightest pause, just enough to let al Din know that the conversation was about to take an uncomfortable turn. Munroe was about to give him the bad news. “That is if you can help me ensure this diamond mess turns out right.”
And now a pause on al Din’s end, to let Munroe know he was not happy. “Help you how?”
“Hardin’s still running around loose with the stones. And now he’s got company. DEA agent named Wilson. Old girlfriend, it turns out. I don’t need a couple of free radicals running around waiting to piss on my narrative. And, since you’re cast for a major role in this production now, you don’t need that either.”
“So?”
“So you’ve been hunting Hardin since you hit town, right?”
“Yes.”
“Keep hunting. I’m working Hardin from my end. You keep working him from yours. Until he’s off the board, we can’t finalize our deal.”
Al Din let a little dead air build, let Munroe know he wasn’t holding all the cards yet. “I have been hunting Hardin for Tehran. But I get paid to hunt. The $15 million we’ve agreed on, that’s to tie Tehran to Heinz and to turn in the nasty little surprise they bought from him. If I get Hardin, what am I paid for that?”
“Hardin’s still got the diamonds. You get him, then you’ll have those. And I need those. So you get Hardin before I do and you double down on your payday.”
Al Din smiled, thought of a phrase he had heard many times in America. “What a country,” he said.
“Which one?” asked Munroe.
“Who cares?”
Al Din ended the call. The phone had vibrated while he was talking with Munroe – a message coming in from his contact in Tokyo. He had picked up Hardin’s black Honda on a tollbooth camera ten minutes earlier. It was eastbound on Interstate 90, heading toward Chicago.
CHAPTER 81
Wilson driving, cussing under her breath, drumming her fingers on the wheel. They were coming up on O’Hare, about to switch from 90 to the Kennedy, but the traffic had slowed to a crawl. Morning rush, and the radio said there was a three-car crash at Lawrence, two lanes closed. IDOT was ripping up 294 again, so cutting down the Tri-State to the Ike wasn’t going to save any time. The traffic report on the radio put the travel time from O’Hare to the Loop at over an hour.
“You in that big a hurry?” Hardin said. “We get there, we’re either gonna get rich or dead, and I make it 60-40 on dead.”
“I’d rather be dead than sit in traffic.”
Hardin laughed. “Yeah, me too.”
He pulled out his phone, called Lafitpour.
“Get Hickman to your office.”
“Why?” Lafitpour asked.
“Because you want to make a deal, and that’s one of the conditions. I’ll call back in a bit.” Hardin closed the line.
“I’ll give them the location when we’re ten minutes out,” Hardin said to Wilson. “If they’re going to play nice, then ten minutes is all they’ll need. If they’re going to fuck with us, the less time we give them the better.”
Wilson nodded. Traffic came to a dead stop again. She reached over, took Hardin’s hand.
“No matter how this goes, I’m where I want to be,” she said.
Hardin squeezed her hand and nodded. “Me too.”
CHAPTER 82
Corsco thought about the Hardin situation. Hardin was Fenn’s contract, but fuck Fenn. The Eagle would take care of Fenn. Not like Corsco was going to see any money out of Fenn anyway, even if he took Hardin down. Never really been about the money anyway. Corsco had to admit that to himself. Been about hanging with Fenn, the Hollywood cool, about the women. Lesson to be learned there.
Still, supply and demand. Hardin was in demand, and Corsco was in the supply business. Question was, who did Corsco feed Hardin to?
That Munroe guy wanted Hardin, but that was just business. As long as Hardin ended up dead, Munroe didn’t care how he got there.
Hernandez wanted Hardin, but with Hernandez it was personal. And this past week had caused some serious tension with Hernandez. Corsco didn’t need that. Plus, if he gave Hardin to Hernandez, then Hernandez would owe him a favor. That Munroe guy didn’t seem like he was the favor granting sort.
Corsco called Hernandez.
“I assume you’re still looking for Hardin?”
“Yes. I want to taste that bastard’s blood.”
Jesus, thought Corsco. These Mexicans. Always with the blood tasting. “I have a man on him,” Corsco said.
“Bring him to me,” Hernandez growled into the phone.