by Asia Marquis
The bike's still there when I get back to it. So is one of the drivers I parked beside, and he doesn't look happy. Worse than that, though, is that he seems to recognize me when I walk up. I don't recognize him, though. When he reaches for his hip, it doesn't take a genius to realize what's happening. I duck behind the trailer and start circling around.
The only hope I have at this point is to make sure that I get to him before he can figure out how to blow my brains out. To say it's going to be a struggle is a bit of an understatement, but he doesn't look like muscle.
He just looks like a driver, one who's been told that I'm dangerous and that if he sees me, they'll protect him if he takes me out. I don't doubt that they will protect him.
That's if he takes me out, though. They're not going to protect him from what's going to come down on his head for trying and failing. If I were feeling charitable, I might let him go, but I'm not. I don't have the luxury.
I slip around the other side. He's got the door open, so I can't see his head or his body, but I can see his feet. He's waiting for me on the other side, and he knows I'll be there soon.
An idea crosses my mind. It worked great against me, there's no reason that it can't work now. I take a hard running start and let my shoulder ram into the cab door. It slams partway shut, until it hits an obstruction. The guy's face, I think.
He gets sent sprawling, and I hear his piece skitter across the asphalt. I don't waste time going for the gun, but I don't want to alert anyone by firing a shot, either.
The gun comes down like a hammer on his head and he goes cross-eyed for a second. He's not moving much any more. His attempts to roll over don't seem to be going well, as I reach under the trailer and grab his weapon.
I figure he'll be alright. Mean headache, and maybe a little dental work, but he'll live. He'll live to tell his boss where I was just a few minutes ago, but none of that matters, because she already knows where I'm going.
Heaven help her when I get there, because I don't take threats targeting my brothers lightly. I'll have to get ahold of Maguire, and I'll have to do it soon, but the fog is gone. I don't need help figuring a plan any more, because the entire road is laid out in front of me.
Now all I have to do is drive straight into the mouth of hell, and I never needed anyone's help doing that.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
MAGUIRE
I can feel my phone vibrating loudly in my pocket. Another thing I have to ignore right now, and another thing I can't. It stops for a second, before it starts vibrating again.
Nobody acknowledges the sound, but I know they can all hear it. There's no question of why I'm not answering it, though, thankfully. The answer's fairly obvious. I would if I could, but I can't. After all, I'm not exactly in charge here, either.
Everyone knows that, it seems, except for Logan Beauchamp. The other two look at the expression on his face, see every ounce of anger he can muster—and it's all pouring right onto me.
That seems to be good enough for them. It's all a charade, for someone's benefit, probably mine, when Donaldsen turns to Pollack.
"You know, I'm pretty thirsty. Let's see if we can't scare up a drink at the machine. We'll leave the two of you to get acquainted."
Logan looks up at me. It must hurt, moving like that. He's been locked in so he can't move, not so he can look around the room comfortably. But here he is, straining his neck to give me the evil eye.
I don't know how, or what they're getting, but I know that there's surveilance on the room. They wouldn't leave me alone in a setup like this. Not if they knew anything about my activities the past few days.
Of course, all of that was intended to catch the real bad guys out there. The ones who went bump in the night, not little fish like Ryan Beauchamp. Too small to do anything with. A waste of my time, of everyone's time.
I swallow hard. Can we talk, or will they hear? Will they hear now, or will it only be later, after I've already had a chance to get out of this shit?
Timing is of the utmost importance, after all. Especially if Donaldsen decided that he needed to come early. There's something here that needs to be done, and needs to be done soon.
The question that remains is, what is it? The question of why he's here is the most pressing, but I don't have a good answer for it, and I fear I'm not going to.
Instead, it's just going to be more questions until I get out of here. Donaldsen never liked it when I asked questions. Couldn't stand it. I always paid the price, so I learned not to ask them, not when he's around. Not unless I was in the right kind of mood, at least.
Logan looks at me, his neck pulled tight.
"Are you alright?"
"I knew I shouldn't have trusted you, you god damned bitch."
"Shut up, Logan—they've got the room bugged."
He pulls hard at his arms, but they don't do much but move forward a little. He pulls a little more upright. An inch or two, maybe. It looks like it hurts, but I can't be sure that I can get him free and out of here before they get back.
"You got caught," I said passively. I hope that he'll hear the question in it, but he doesn't.
"No thanks to you, you—"
I put a hand on his chin and pull it up a little. Just past the point where I think it starts to hurt, and then I go down on my knees.
"I need to know what happened. Give me the story, or you're going to find you have a very short list of friends in this world. Maybe only one."
"Fuck you," he growls, but then he lets his neck slack for a minute and I can see the fight going out of him along with it.
"I was waiting for Ryan to get back, and they came in through the back. I got caught with my pants down, so to speak. I ran for the gun, but they got me 'fore I could do anything with it."
"How long have you been in here?"
"Twenty—no, thirty, fourty minutes? Maybe? They didn't cuff me like this until they left, but—"
"Alright. Could you take them if you had to?"
"I don't know, but I'd like to give it a shot."
I smile a grim smile. "You know, I'd like that. I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt."
I hit him in the face, hard enough to send the chair to the ground. I pick him up by his hands; the important movement, I hope, is hidden by that. The switch, when I hand him a key to his cuffs. His hand closes around it as I pull him up straight.
I can hear the door working now. There's no way I was going to stop them coming back in. Instead, I take a deep, hard breath and stand up as fast as I can, and make a bee-line for the door, shooting past Pollack.
He actually moves to get out of my way, a pair of bright-red Coke cans in his hands. I can hear Donaldsen having a god damned aneurism about it as I file down the hall, moving as fast as I dare. I can't afford not to be followed, but I'll be damned if I get caught.
I turn my head 'round to see that Pollack's decided to follow me after all. He doesn't seem to be nearly as concerned about appearances as I am, and he's closing the gap fast. Time for me to follow suit, then.
I hit the stairs running. I don't have any special disadvantage, at least, wearing sneakers and jeans as compared to his dress shoes and suit. Some days, some women would have been wearing a skirt and heels. I might have, too, if I'd been forced to. If there was a function that day, maybe.
But not today, not on a day where I've barely slept for three of the last seventy-two hours; not on a day when I'm just on a stakeout. I'm dressed for comfort, and so I'm not hampered by my clothes as I practically leap down the stairs three at a time.
I'm already at the base of the first staircase by the time Pollack gets through the door, but I don't get away. I don't know if I wanted to.
Every second that Pollack wastes on me is another second that Logan Beauchamp pounds on Donaldsen. Or gets away, for that matter. For an instant, I hope that he kicks Donaldsen in his god damned balls, but I don't have time to waste thinking about it. I'll have to ask about it later.
A shot goes off
. I don't have to wonder who fired it, or who he was firing it at. I only have to wonder—to hope—whether or not it hit. I don't want to have to deal with a Ryan Beauchamp whose brother has just died.
I don't know that anyone could stop the shitstorm that would come down on the A.T.F.'s collective heads. Not once he'd decided that we were playing for keeps.
I don't have time to worry about it, though. Pollack's bearing down on me, closing the gap by a tenth of a second with every floor. He's almost close enough to reach out and touch me—almost—when I finally get the ground floor door open, and then I'm through.
He doesn't call for security. I don't know why, but I do wonder if it has something to do with the tied-up man in their hotel room. Pollack doesn't know that Beauchamp had any chance in hell to get away from that shot, which is an advantage I'm going to have to carry forward as best I can.
As long as there's an advantage to be gained from it, which I'm not entirely convinced that there is. There's a very good chance, a very good one, that Beauchamp got free, but not near free enough before Donaldsen got his gun out.
Donaldsen isn't a field agent. He hasn't been for years. But that doesn't mean that he's not a decent shot. He can shoot in a straight line, if it counts, and the target isn't being too erratic.
I have to hope that this was one of his off days.
Chapter Forty
RYAN
I don't have time to check my phone for the time. I might be able to, I couldn't say, but I'm not about to waste it. Logan's Harley might have a clock built-in. The thing's designed for comfort and convenience.
My old Indian, though, isn't as new-fangled as that. No clock laid into the front readouts. So I don't know how long it takes exactly to get from that rest stop to Brian's apartment, but it's more than five minutes, less than fifteen.
I should have been faster, but the old girl will only be pushed so hard, and I can't afford to get pulled over right now. Not when it's so important that I get to him and I get there five minutes ago.
The building looks calm as I walk up. As if nothing's going on. Maybe nothing is, for most of them. The placid exterior, though, doesn't match what I know. There's shit going on in there, and it's about to get turned up to eleven.
Well, there's no time to worry about any of that shit. I don't have a choice in whether or not to go in there. That's about the only question that I need to answer.
Can I avoid it? No? Then don't worry about it.
My heart is thumping hard in my chest, and I can feel the heavy weight of the pistol on my hip. I'll need to reach for it, and fast. But now, as I step into the elevator, I can't afford to show my hand.
If a civilian were to freak out about it, then the only thing I have going for me—the exact time I show up might be a surprise—is gone. Never mind that I need time before the cops start showing up.
The second-floor hall is empty. It always is. I have heard people talking in their rooms, have heard televisions run. So I know that Brian's not the only one on this floor. But you wouldn't know it to look at the hallway.
His door is on the far side of the building. My hands are starting to itch. I'm incredibly conscious of the gun on my hip. The stillness in the hall has me on edge.
I can feel it getting to me. Even the tiniest movement might set me off, now. It's getting to the point where I don't even know if I could stop myself if I tried.
I fish for his key, out of my keyring. It's silver, unlike the others that are brass-colored, so it stands out. The key goes in easy, turns easy. I can't figure out a way to do it quiet, so I do it quick.
My shoulder goes into the door hard as I turn the handle, and the door slams open. My hand moves to my hip, feeling like it's moving through molassas.
I keep repeating in my head. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. I bring the gun up. Nobody visible from the door, but I can't guarantee there's nobody hiding right around the corner.
I close the door behind me, only a second or two passed after I stepped inside. I check the apartment. It doesn't take long to be sure that the place is empty.
Nothing in the closets. Nothing in the bathroom. Nothing under the bed. Or, perhaps, not nothing.
There is one thing, something that twists my stomach up in a big ol' knot. There's a big God-damned dark spot in the middle of the carpet, red fading into black. I don't need to confirm that it's blood. I can see it with my eyes.
I touch it, smell it. Still wet, but drying sticky. I take a deep breath. I don't know that it's enough blood to have meant anything. It could have been a little injury that they made to look bad.
The feeling of nausea washes over me again and I'm going to be sick. My mind rebels against the lies I'm trying to tell it. Like hell, it could be something little. The God damned floorboards are going to be stained from that.
What did they do to my brother? My teeth grit together. What did they do to him, where did they take him, and how could I do a hundred times worse than that in retaliation?
I slip the gun back into my holster and take a breath. I'm not going to find him running around like a chicken with my head cut off. There's nothing I can do for him if I'm panicking.
He called me after he was hurt. I could hear it in his voice. I could hear the way that he tried to confirm every answer with his eyes, to find out what he was allowed to say.
So they knew he was calling. It wasn't a secret thing. He didn't 'barely get a message out.' They wanted him to get word to me, and they wanted me to run out and try to save my brother. Just like I had done.
So why did they leave, now? Where did they go?
The idea that they're leading me by the nose occurs to me. I know they wanted me to come here. I know they wanted me to find this bucket of blood in the middle of my brother's floor.
I know they wanted me to blame myself for it, and by God they got what they wanted. But I'm not going to waste any more time punishing myself over it, not when there's someone else needs punishing.
I need to look around. I can feel my head fogging back up again. Hard to think. But I shake it off. I don't have time for it to be hard. I have to do what I have to do. I can feel the phone in my pocket.
I want to call Maguire, or get ahold of Logan somehow. I need to. But whatever she's got going on, she's not answering, and I don't have time to waste on trying to reach her.
The thing I'm looking for finally dawns on me right as my phone goes off in my pocket. I ignore it for an instant as I stare out the open window.
If someone was going to do this kind of damage to a guy, you'd close that window. Sure as hell, they'd have closed the shades before beating the hell out of my brother.
So why are the shades open now? The answer isn't hard to figure. I slip the phone out of my pocket before I miss the call. It's Maguire.
I hit the answer button.
"What's up?"
"We need to meet. I found Logan."
"Good. But we've got other problems. I've been trying to reach you."
"I—couldn't answer. I would have if I could, you know that."
"Sure. Look. I don't have time to worry about that right now. They took my brother. The other one. He's hurt bad, and someone's got him."
"You know who?"
"I'll give you a hint: he bled quite a lot on his carpet. That how your guys do things these days?"
"Got it."
"I'll meet you. Give me a place." I rub my hand through my hair. I just need to figure out what the fuck to do, and who's been watching me rifle through this apartment. If I can meet up with Maguire, we can try to work through it.
She gives me a spot to meet her. I don't know it off-hand, but I know the area. It's not far.
"I'll meet you in fifteen minutes," I tell her, and then I hang up the call.
I have just enough time to get the phone into my pocket when the door gets smashed in, and a dozen men in navy blue uniforms filter in.
Chapter Forty-One
MAGUIRE
I don't know if th
is is going to work, but it's going to have to. Not working isn't an option. I take a few deep breaths and fight down the panic that's rising in my chest.
What if they make me? What if I'm wrong? What if—a thousand questions are running through my head. I waited for an hour after Ryan said he was going to be there. If he's not there, and he's not answering his phone, it must be for a damned good reason.
So I'm on my own, and he's on his own, too, for that matter. If someone picked up his brother, then it was only one of two people. It was either the A.T.F., or it was the Crazy Horses.
I'm starting to think that they're not as separate as I might have imagined them to be. Soimething stinks in this whole setup. I can't shake the feeling that there's something more going on here than meets the eye.
The only way I'm going to get answers is by going to the source, but I only know one side is involved for sure. They've got a guy on the inside, or we've got a guy inside their organization. I have to gamble, and the stakes are pretty high.
As in, get yourself shot, high. I don't like it one bit; I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears and my neck and my arms. Every inch of my body. It hurts, like an itch I can't scratch.
A little voice inside me, the one responsible for trying to make sure that I don't get shot, tells me to stay in my car. I should just walk away. I can still salvage my career on this. I can get away with my life. I can do whatever needs doing.
I can always go forward arguing that I didn't think there was enough evidence to hold Beauchamp. There isn't enough, not unless we find someone to testify. Especially now that Hawkins is dead.
I could walk away from all of this right now, and I wouldn't hurt myself one bit. I would be just fine. Only…
A vague feeling that I'm wrong. One I can't shake. There's more at stake here than just Ryan Beauchamp, and that by itself is a big stake. Bigger for me, personally, than I want to admit.
There's more going on, though, under the surface. Who warned the Crazy Horses that it was a trap? The question keeps coming up, and now matter how I turn it over in my head, I can't figure a better answer than that someone on the command chain must have done it.
