The Highest Stakes

by Rick Reed

  “In that case, you can go first,” Jack said and stood back to let her pass. Jack hoped she was as good as she thought she was. Or he hoped she’d catch the round that was meant for him.

  “Agent Crenshaw,” he said as she moved around him on the steps.

  “Yes.”

  “In case I don’t make it out of this, I just want you to know that you have nice legs.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  True to her word, Crenshaw went through the Level 3 doors first. The outfit she had on barely concealed her woman parts, so where did she keep the gun?

  Jack scanned the room. He didn’t see any law, but he saw plenty of disorder. Money was everywhere. Some people interrupted their own and others’ headlong flight in order to pick it up, resulting in a pileup. Jack didn’t see Thompson, Shirl, or Pons.

  Crenshaw nudged him and pointed toward the doors leading to the outer decks. She yanked the door open. Nothing happened. Jack said, “My turn.” He hurried through the opening and something pinged off the steel wall by his head. Chips of paint and lead stung the side of his face before he dropped to the deck and rolled behind one of the metal boxes he’d seen on the deck earlier. Stu had said they were installing more life rafts. They were really lifesavers.

  Bullets danced around him like a swarm of angry hornets. Crenshaw came through the door, hit the deck, and crab-crawled the last few feet to cover. Across the deck, Shirl was running, firing over his shoulder, and then disappeared around the wall of the wheelhouse.

  Crenshaw fired back, her bullets stitching across the wall of the wheelhouse. Jack knocked her arm down, driving bullets into the deck.

  “What the hell are you doing? There are men in there.”

  “Anyone in there is already dead,” she yelled and charged toward where Shirl had disappeared.

  Jack knew there could be other threats than Shirl here. For a pro, she wasn’t using her head, but all he could do was back her play. Crenshaw had rounded the wheelhouse but Jack stopped at the corner and crouched low. He heard more shots and risked a peek. Crenshaw was standing in the open, like she was on a pistol range, and she was blasting away at Shirl’s retreating figure. The loud pops from her handgun were replaced with the splattering and zinging sounds of bullets coming his way—and definitely not coming from Shirl. Time to go.

  Jack ran headlong into Crenshaw, knocking her to the left, behind a large stack of wooden crates. He ran for cover behind one of the life raft containers, tripped over something and went sprawling. He saw that he had tripped over Greg Pons. He crouched beside the unmoving agent and felt the brachial artery. The pulse was weak, but his chest was rising and falling. Jack checked for wounds but found nothing. He risked a peek in the direction he had shoved Crenshaw. She was taking a lot of fire.

  “You okay?” he yelled.

  She pulled a splinter of wood from her cheek. Jack was glad she was on his side . . . for the time being. Crenshaw reached under her skirt, produced a clip, and slapped it in her gun.

  So . . . that’s where she keeps her weapons.

  Jack checked his own gun. Two rounds left. He patted Pons’s sides and ankles but didn’t find another gun he could use. He still had White’s handgun. He wished he’d thought to search White for extra ammo.

  The shooting had tapered off, but each time he or Crenshaw tried to move they almost ate a bullet. Quinn or Shirl or whoever was shooting at them wasn’t wasting shots. He and Crenshaw were pinned down.

  Pons let out a soft groan and opened his eyes.

  “Don’t move, Greg,” Jack said. “You’re not behind very good cover.”

  Pons grimaced. “Shot in . . . back.” His eyes shut tight, and Jack thought he’d stopped breathing. Then his eyes opened. “Stupid,” he muttered.

  “Just lay still, Greg,” Jack said.

  “Vest,” Pons said and tried to grin but it came out ugly. “You?” Jack had felt Pons’s ballistic vest when he’d checked him for injuries. That was why Pons wasn’t bleeding much. Still . . . ballistic vests don’t protect you from impact injuries. Pons could be bleeding internally.

  “Real men don’t wear bulletproof vests,” Jack said and peeked around the corner. A bullet creased his cheek and his hand went to his face. “Shit!”

  “John?” Crenshaw yelled, and to Jack’s surprise a voice answered.

  “Is that you, Lucille?” The voice sounded happy, almost playful, like old friends reuniting.

  “Give it up, John,” Crenshaw said.

  There was a chuckle. “Sorry, love. You know the drill.”

  “I’m not alone, John.”

  “I can see that, Lucille. How much does Murphy know?”

  Jack saw Pons was out like a light. He was still breathing though, and that was probably more than Jack would be doing if he didn’t get lucky. Quinn had just asked what “Murphy” knew, so that meant he was as good as dead. “He doesn’t leave witnesses,” Crenshaw had told him. He wondered if that went for her too.

  “Why don’t you come and ask me yourself, John?” Jack said. “We can swap recipes. I’ve got one for stuffed spook.”

  Crenshaw said, “Joe and Billy are here. Have you run into them?”

  Jack couldn’t keep up with all the names. John was Quinn. Joe and Billy were probably White and Thompson. Crenshaw was Lucille, or maybe this whole thing was looney. Did Quinn know White—was that Billy or Joe?—was dead? Was Thompson still out there or had Quinn already killed him? Or Crenshaw for that matter? Nothing was what it appeared.

  “I wouldn’t count on backup,” Quinn said in that same playful tone.

  Jack thought that in psycho talk, that meant that Thompson was dead. And that was a good thing. But the cockiness of the asshole was really pissing Jack off.

  Quinn said, “Billy took a little swim, you see. And Joe would have showed himself by now. Did you kill him, Lucille?” Quinn asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  So Thompson was Billy and Billy had been killed by Quinn and thrown overboard. Joe was White and he was killed by Pons. It was all starting to make sense. Not.

  Crenshaw caught Jack’s attention and motioned for him to cover her. He held his palm out indicating she should stay put. What the hell is her rush to die?

  “What are you going to do?” Pons asked. He was coming to and his color was better, but he wasn’t out of the woods.

  “Lie still,” Jack said. “You’ve probably got some broken ribs.” The coughing had brought up some blood.

  Jack had to make a choice. Stay here and watch Pons die, or take the fight to the bad guys. His dad always said, “You get a lot farther with a kind word and a gun than you do with just a kind word.” Or was it Mom who said that?

  He made eye contact with Crenshaw, pointed at himself, and then motioned in the direction he’d seen Shirl run. He waved for Crenshaw to go right and flank them, He expected her to argue, but she just nodded “okay.” Bitch.

  He held his gun tight against his chest, took a deep breath, and then before he moved he saw Crenshaw charge straight toward Quinn’s position. She was drawing fire so he ran toward Shirl’s position. One bullet creased his shoulder. Another burned along the top of his scalp. He hit the deck and rolled behind another metal box. Bullets struck the deck only inches from his face. There was nowhere to go except out in the open. Then the shooting stopped.

  He heard a soft moan and looked to his right. Crenshaw was down on her hands and knees, crawling behind a crate. A dark splotch was blooming on the gold silk waist of her outfit. He felt something wet on his own side and his fingers came away sticky. “Son of a bitch,” he said, and felt for an exit wound. He’d been hit in the side and didn’t even feel it.

  The good news—he wasn’t going to die. Bad news—this asshole had shot him twice now, three times counting the one across his scalp. Quinn was playing with them. Crenshaw wasn’t kidding about Jack not being a match for him.

  He made himself a promise. He might die . . . but he would have company in hell.
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  “Drop the gun, Detective Murphy.” Quinn had circled around behind him and now stood a few feet to his left, silencer pointed directly at Jack’s face.

  “You’re going to kill me anyway,” Jack said.

  “I’ve won. No hurry.”

  So he thinks Crenshaw is dead. Maybe he had a chance. Quinn liked to play games. Brag. He wanted something from Jack, and that was the only reason he hadn’t already finished it.

  “Crenshaw, or Lucille, or whoever she is,” Jack began, “said I was no match for you.”

  Quinn smiled. “Lucille was one of my best. I’m almost sorry I had to kill her.”

  “Tell me something. Are you the one who shot Killian?” Jack wanted to keep him talking, try to come up with a plan. He couldn’t see where Crenshaw had crawled off to, but she was hit bad. She was probably as dead as the rest. As dead as he would be when Quinn got tired of talking.

  “Killian was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I understand he lived, although that might change.”

  “Khaled? Was he involved with the Chicago deal?” Jack asked.

  At the mention of Chicago, Quinn’s smile grew even wider and the barrel of the silencer lowered a tad. “Chicago. Now that was magnificent. This will be too. You’ll see. Well. Maybe you won’t.”

  The silencer came back up. Quinn was finished talking.

  “Can I at least stand up?” Jack asked. He would go out fighting at least. He’d already been shot three times. He wondered how many more he could take.

  Shots started ringing out, not from a silenced weapon, and Crenshaw came from behind Quinn, running full-out, her semiautomatic thrust ahead of her. Jack was so startled that when he looked over, Quinn was gone. He saw Crenshaw’s bare feet run past. She was yelling like a banshee one second and the next she grabbed at her throat. She went down hard and rolled onto her back.

  Jack crawled to her. One bullet had taken of a chunk of her cheek and part of her ear. Another had hit her in the side of the neck. Jack tore off the bottom of his shirt, wadded it and stuffed it in the hole. He lifted her hand and placed it on the wound. “Keep pressure on it. I’ll get help.” She’s going to die.

  “Kill him,” Crenshaw said. Her eyes were filled with hatred.

  Jack said the only comforting thing he could think of. “It’s a good thing you don’t have a heart or Quinn would have aimed for it.”

  She grunted and said, “If you get killed, he wins.”

  “Hang in there and you can kill him yourself.” He couldn’t help but feel admiration for this tough but mentally disturbed woman. She was more warrior than anyone he’d ever known. Of course, that didn’t make her any less crazy.

  He pulled his shirt off and it put under her head.

  “Kill him,” she said. “He’ll kill us both.”

  Jack wasn’t afraid to admit that he was afraid. He was prone to wisecrack when he was under pressure, but he’d never been up against someone like Quinn.

  “What do you think my chances are?” he asked.

  She squinted her eyes shut but didn’t answer.

  “Thanks, Lucille. You’re a pillar of confidence.”

  She took a raspy breath and said, “I should have killed you myself.”

  “Screw you, Lucille,” Jack said.

  He got into a crouch and yelled, “Hey, Shirl. What’s it like to be on the losing side?”

  No answer.

  “Moon Pie’s dead. All that money is still down there. This is going to hell fast.”

  Still no answer.

  “At least Moon Pie faced me like a man, Shirl. He wasn’t a pussy like you.”

  Shirl’s voice came from somewhere to Jack’s left. “You always thought you were better than me, Jack. But who’s the better man now? Huh?”

  Now where’s Quinn?

  Shirl yelled, “I’ve got four or five million dollars here, Jack. If you weren’t such a Boy Scout, I might offer to give you a little. Let you walk away.”

  Jack knew Quinn would wouldn’t leave witnesses. “No one’s walking away except Quinn. He’s going to kill you, Shirl. Think about it. That’s been his plan all along. You and Skippy took all the risks. Ellert was never going to walk out of here. You’ll never see any of that money.”

  Shirl didn’t sound as confident when he said, “I’ve got the money. I’m leaving here and you’ll be dead.”

  “You’re smarter than that, Shirl. Quinn killed his own men in Chicago before he came to Evansville. Did he tell you that? He killed three CIA agents. Make that five. How far do you think you’ll get?”

  Shirl said nothing.

  Jack pressed him. “You’re a disgrace. A discredit to your badge. Where’s your honor?”

  “I didn’t shoot anyone yet . . . Jack.”

  “Officer West, take the money to the boat,” Quinn ordered.

  Quinn’s moving around. Smart.

  “Yeah, Shirl. Do what Quinn tells you. You’re his bitch now. Or you can jump over the side and swim to Kentucky. Let me deal with Quinn. We don’t have extradition with Kentucky. Hell, they can’t even spell extradition.”

  A bullet splattered close to Jack. Too close. Jack couldn’t tell what direction it had come from. Quinn could be moving around behind him.

  “What’s he talking about? Who’s Quinn?” Shirl asked.

  Quinn said, “Don’t be an idiot. You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to turn us against each other.”

  Shirl said, “He told us his name was Smith. He’s the one who shot Killian. He killed that other ATF agent up here, too.” Shirl’s voice had changed. He seemed less sure of what he was doing. “Jack’s right, Smith or Quinn, or whoever the hell you are. We’ll never be able to hide from them. The Feds will never quit looking.”

  “I apologize for calling you an idiot, Officer West. You have to know Moon Pie’s death was inevitable. I’m surprised you didn’t kill him yourself. The death of the ATF men is inconsequential. I know places where we won’t be found. The split is fifty-fifty now. How does that sound?”

  Shirl said, “Moon Pie was kind of slow in the head, but bringing him in on this was your idea, not mine. Were you planning on killing him the whole time? Killing all of us?”

  Jack yelled, “It’s not too late to fix this, Shirl. I’ll testify for you. Help me with Quinn, or just get off the boat. Go for help. Save these people.”

  Shirl was silent, but at least he wasn’t shooting.

  Jack said to Shirl, “Shirl, you’d better move. Find cover. He’s coming for you.” To Quinn he said, “What do you say, Quinn? Think you can take us both?”

  Quinn didn’t answer. Not good. Jack needed to move.

  “I’m going to take the money to the raft,” Shirl said. “Take it. Take it all.”

  Again, Quinn didn’t answer.

  “You better watch your ass, Shirl. You can’t spend the money if you’re dead.” Jack yelled. He hoped Quinn would move in on Shirl being as Shirl had the money. At least Shirl would be out of play.

  Shirl balanced the canvas bags filled with money on the railing. He leaned over to see if he’d been lied to about the escape craft. It was dark, but he could make out a dark shape floating next to the hull of the riverboat. He could drop them into the raft and hope Smith would go for the money. Or he could drop them in the river and fight.

  “Drop the gun, Shirl,” Quinn said. He had come up beside Shirl. Only a few feet between them.

  Shirl turned slowly, one arm balancing the bags, the other holding the silenced gun, but Quinn’s gun was only inches from his right eye.

  “Whatever are you thinking, Shirl? You know Murphy’s playing you, and yet you don’t trust me. Think of what you are throwing away. Drop your gun and put the bags on the deck. We can still go fifty-fifty.”

  Shirl made the only choice he could if he wanted a chance to stay alive. He dropped the pistol and put the bags down.

  “Now your hideout gun,” Quinn said. “I know you old guys carry one.”

  Shirl bent o
ver and reached for his ankle. Before he could touch the gun’s handle a bullet passed through the top of his head. Quinn’s pistol spit again and a second bullet struck him. Shirl’s body sprawled over the canvas bags as if he was protecting them. Quinn walked up and shot him in the head again. He pushed Shirl’s body off the bags with his foot.

  “Prison’s not a nice place for a policeman. I did you a favor,” he said and hefted the bags. He moved down the rail to just above where the inflatable was tied to a ladder. He dropped the bags and heard them plop into the floor of the raft. He had only to climb over the side and disappear. But there was more money on the second level that moron, Moon Pie, had lost by dying. He was torn between going back for the money or making a clean getaway. The only thing that stood between him and the rest of the money was that joke of a cop, Murphy. Everyone else was dead. He made his mind up. It was all or nothing. And, truth be known, he was looking forward to killing Murphy for all of the trouble he’d caused.

  * * *

  Quinn was a dark outline against the blackness as Jack moved in on him. “Drop the gun,” Jack ordered.

  “Detective Murphy,” Quinn said, without turning around.

  Jack saw Shirl, facedown on the deck, unmoving.

  “That’s right, asshole,” Jack said. “Now drop the gun, or I’ll get my Christmas wish.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want to disappoint you. What was it you said? ‘You can’t spend the money if you’re dead.’ ”

  Jack hadn’t counted his shots, but he guessed he had maybe one or two more before he was empty. He glanced down and saw Shirl’s backup gun. Now all he had to do was get to it without getting killed.

  “I’m going to give you the chance you never gave anyone else, Quinn,” Jack said, knowing in his gut he should just shoot him in cold blood the way Killian had been shot, the way he’d promised Barbara, and himself, and Crenshaw.

  Quinn stooped and laid the gun on the deck. “There. We can be friends now.”

  “Shut up,” Jack said.

  Quinn made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Detective Murphy. We’re professionals. There’s no need for hard feelings.”

  “What feelings?” Jack moved closer to Shirl and said to Quinn. “Turn to your right and kneel down.”