by Dan O'Shea
Hardin and Wilson were in the front row with the stars, the Secretary of Homeland Security spinning Hardin’s history – decorated US Marine, decorated veteran of the Foreign Legion chased out of his own country by the scourge of drugs, a living symbol of the world’s united front against the forces of darkness. Way the story went now, Hardin was a DGSE asset working with the CIA and Wilson was deep-cover DEA.
Everybody said their lines, everybody took their bows. Fade to black.
Fenn sat slack-jawed watching the end of the press conference, then he called Alger back.
“You catch that shit?” Alger asked.
“This Hardin, he’s like the French James Bond. You think he doesn’t know? We gotta do something.”
“Do what?” Alger said.
“I dunno,” said Fenn. “I dunno.”
CHAPTER 103
7.30am. Lynch picked up Hardin and they drove north on Michigan.
“Michigan Avenue still looks the same anyway,” said Hardin.
“Lived here all my life,” Lynch said. “Everything changes, you don’t really notice, until you look up one day and it’s a whole different world. Gotta be strange for you, back after all this time.”
“Haven’t had a chance for much sightseeing,” Hardin said. “But it’s weird. I mean I stopped into one of these Super Wal-Mart’s with Wilson? I saw more consumer goods in fifteen minutes than I’ve seen in the last fifteen years. Twelve different kinds of electric toothbrushes.”
“You counted them?”
Hardin shrugged. “I was curious.”
“Mean anything?”
“What do I know?” Hardin said. “It’s too much shit, though. I mean all that crap in Wal-Mart, then Corsco’s guys, they drag me down to the old US Steel site, and there’s nothing there, just busted concrete and weeds. Too much of one thing, not enough of the other. Something’s not right.”
“You work it out, drop me a postcard,” Lynch said.
Lynch pulled into a reserved slot near the ER entrance at Northwestern, turned to Hardin.
“Sure you’re OK with this?”
“Little shit tried to get me killed. I’m good to go.”
CHAPTER 104
The Eagle was working the phone, working some sources, running the meter on Corsco, another ten Gs promised out this morning chasing info.
Got to Northwestern at 7.00, wanted to do a quick recon, be set up, ready to go at 8.00 on the dot. But they’d moved the target. He wasn’t in his room, wasn’t in the ICU at all. Did the guy die? That would be handy. Take credit for it anyway, tell Corsco to pay up. Corsco would. They always did. They knew the other option.
“OK, thanks.” Closed the phone.
Fenn wasn’t dead, he was getting better. They’d moved him to nine, private room.
The Eagle looked up the floor plan on the smart phone. Layout was almost identical, even better maybe. Fenn was a couple doors closer to the good staircase and almost straight across from the elevator. A couple minutes to eight now, employees coming in, others getting ready to leave. Perfect conditions. No time for a walk through.
Take the elevator; be ready with the gun when the door opened. If there was a cop at the door, take him, go straight in, nail Fenn, then hit the stairs. The cop going down would draw some eyeballs, so it might get ugly, but if the guy was down the hall chatting up the nurses again, maybe get in and out without anybody seeing a thing. So roll the dice. That’s why you get the big bucks.
CHAPTER 105
The city still had a uniform outside Fenn’s door, patrolman Lynch had worked with before. “Hey, Lynch,” the guy said. “Figured you’d be sleeping in, maybe lining up an agent for your book deal.”
Lynch gave a little snort. “Yeah. Listen, I have to talk with Fenn for a few. You get any breakfast yet?”
“No,” the uniform said.
“Why don’t you run down and grab something. I’ll be here a bit.”
The uniform looked at Hardin. “This guy with you?”
Lynch nodded.
“Cool. See you in a few.” The uniform got up from his chair, headed for the elevators.
Fenn was on his cell when Lynch and Hardin walked in to the room.
“Tell ‘em they can have the exclusive if–” Fenn saw Hardin and his jaw locked open.
Lynch could hear the voice on the other end of the call. “You there Shame? Shame?”
“Tell them you have to go,” Lynch said.
“I have to go,” said Fenn.
“Tell them you’ll call them back,” Lynch said.
“I’ll call you back,” said Fenn.
“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for,” said Hardin.
“What?” said Fenn.
“Hang up the fucking phone,” said Lynch.
Fenn hung up.
“How’ve you been, Shamus?” Hardin asked, walking around to the other side of the bed. “Long time.”
Lynch stepped to the side, leaned on the wall in the corner by the door. Fenn sat in the bed, unmoving.
“You OK?” Lynch asked. “Need the doctor? Having some kind of flashback here?”
Finally Fenn spoke. “You can’t bring him in here. For Christ’s sake, you’re supposed to be protecting me.”
“From what?” Lynch asked. “Hardin? Why would you need protection from Hardin? He’s a freakin’ hero.”
“I just, I mean, you know, Africa. I kind of screwed him up over there.”
“Water under the bridge, buddy,” Hardin said. “No, it’s the contract with Corsco I’ve got the real problem with.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fenn said.
“That’s fine,” said Hardin. “Thing is, I’ve got this policy. Nobody gets to try to kill me twice. If you’ve been paying attention the last day or so, then you know I got to a drug lord and an international terrorist. You gotta ask yourself how much trouble I’m gonna have getting to you. Hell, Corsco damn near took you out with a hooker and a bag of coke.”
“Are you threatening me? Lynch, you hearing this?”
Lynch wiggled a finger up near his ear. “Been a lot of shooting lately. Hearing’s a little iffy. Thing is, I did hear this.” Hardin pulled the digital recorder from his pocket, pressed play.
Corsco’s voice. “Fenn! Shamus Fenn! Fenn wanted Hardin whacked over that Africa business!”
A different voice. “The actor?”
Corsco’s voice. “Yeah.”
Lynch clicked off the recorder. “There’s more, but that’s the gist of it.”
Fenn shaking his head. “No, no, no.”
“You gotta understand your position here,” Lynch said. “With the tape, and Hardin testifying, we got you and Corsco. We don’t need to deal with anybody. But I don’t want you. You’re nothing. You’re just another Hollywood piece of shit. I want Corsco. I want him nailed down and bleeding from every extremity. I get you on top of Hardin, then it’s a lock. And I’ve already greased the skids on your deal. You roll, you walk. You don’t, then I take my chances with what I got. And maybe you end up in the pen, too. That’ll be something to see. People’s Sexiest Man Alive on the yard with the big swinging dicks.”
“What do you figure, Lynch?” Hardin asked. “Cute guy like Shamus here, all the brothers lining up for a shot at him, I say two weeks before you could rent his asshole out for off-street parking.” Hardin turned to Fenn. “But, Shame, the other thing is this. Even if you beat it, pull an OJ and get some jury to suspend disbelief, then you still got me. So basically, you roll or you die.”
“I need my lawyer,” Fenn said. “I gotta talk to him.”
“You want to talk to somebody,” Lynch said, “then I got a stenographer and a video guy waiting downstairs. You wanna fuck around with your lawyer, then I’m done.”
Hardin picked up the watch off the table next to Fenn’s bed. Top-end Rolex. “Nice watch,” he said. “Take a look at the date, Fenn. Six months. You take Corsco down or that’s what I’m giving you. Som
e day in the next six months.”
Fenn locked his lips shut, his chin quivering. Then he started to cry. “It’s not fair,” he said.
“Screw fair,” said Lynch.
CHAPTER 106
The elevator door opened. The Eagle had a hand in the shoulder bag, wrapped around the .32, ready to nail a cop if there was one there. Practiced shooting through the bag all the time, accurate as hell at ten feet, never fired from further out than that.
Nobody. Fenn’s door closed, hallway empty. Don’t question luck, just push it.
Walked straight across, pushed the door open, gun ready, picking up the bed, the target, squeezing off one shot before the door was even fully open, catching Fenn low, got the hip maybe. Aim off because there was another guy standing on the other side of the bed. That was a little distracting. Swung the gun up to get him. Fenn wasn’t going anywhere.
Fenn was ready to fold when the door flew open, blocking Lynch behind it. Lynch heard a barky, coughing sound, saw some blood spray off Fenn low on the torso, a leather shoulder bag coming past the door with a hand in it, some old lady coming in behind it. Yellow cardigan, five nine maybe, chunky, gray-haired, swinging the bag up at Hardin, Hardin dropping for the floor.
Lynch hit the door hard, knocking the old broad sidewise. Lynch snatched out his gun. The broad had good balance, hadn’t lost her feet. She was, spinning, swinging the bag at him now, must have the gun in there, another fucking suppressor. Lynch wanted to drop, but couldn’t bend his leg, got half behind the door, just his head and his right arm out with the pistol. Bitch snapped off another round, hit the door close enough to Lynch’s face that he could feel it. Fuck it. Lynch lit her up, six rounds, all to the body, punching her back, the broad grunting, but not dropping, started bringing her bag up again.
What the fuck?
The Eagle was ready to pull the trigger on the second guy when she got blindsided by the door, almost lost her footing. Felt the long-forgotten urge toward panic, fought that down. Improvise and adapt. The guy behind the bed went down to the floor, so she spun toward the door, saw a big guy there, the guy going for his belt, sliding behind the door, narrow target now, head and arm out, arm with a gun at the end of it now. Gonna have to be pretty fine with this.
Her first shot was just wide, hit the door maybe two inches right, had the range now. That’s when the guy opened up and she took the first round in the fat vest. And the second third fourth fifth sixth. She’d tripled up on the Kevlar in the fat vest – plenty of room, no need to be skimpy. Didn’t make getting shot in it any more fun. Still felt like taking a baseball bat to the gut.
The guy behind the door paused a second, probably trying to figure out why she hadn’t gone down yet. Gave her the break she needed, she brought the bag up, not rushing it, getting her line. He was doing the same thing, switching his aim point up to her head now, too.
Gotta be a vest, Lynch figured. That or she’s some kind of android Terminator. He brought the gun up, got a sight picture on her face and fired, her gun going off so close behind his it was almost a single noise. The edge of the door splintered, blowing bits of wood into Lynch’s face, stunned him. But a good chunk of the old bitch’s head was wallpapered on the far wall and she was down on the floor, hand out of her bag now, not moving except for a little twitch in her right foot.
Fenn was screaming on the bed, Hardin scrambling up from behind the bed, the old broad was bleeding all over the floor. Maybe not that old. The gray hair was a wig, half off now.
“What the fuck?” Hardin said.
“Don’t know,” said Lynch. “Tell you this, though. I am really fucking tired of getting shot at.”
Lynch put a hand to his face, some blood, splinters. Felt around. Nothing seemed serious. Close thing. Damn close thing.
Fenn stopped screaming, blubbered something.
“What?” Lynch asked. His ears were ringing.
“I’ll talk!” Fenn said. “I’ll fucking talk!”
CHAPTER 107
An hour later, Lynch was sitting on a gurney down in the ER. Nurse was finally done picking shit out of his face. Hardin was sitting in a chair across the way. Lynch told him he could go, knew he was blowing town, but Hardin said he’d stay, wanted to hear how things worked out.
Starshak and Bernstein walked in.
“How you doing?” Starshak asked.
Lynch just shrugged. “What’s up with Fenn?”
“Round skipped off his pelvis, nothing serious. Already trying to talk to us, told him he has to wait until he’s out from the anesthetic. DA says his being under could screw the deal. But I think they’ll have to sedate his ass to shut him up. We’ll get what we need. Doing the interview in an hour. Hickman’s getting a warrant ready on Corsco. Trying to get on our good side, I guess.”
“Trying to get his face in front of another camera, more likely,” said Bernstein.
“What about the old lady?” Lynch asked. “What the fuck was that? Corsco?”
Starshak smiled. “You want to tell him, Bernstein?”
“You bagged the Eagle,” Bernstein said.
“The Eagle? That was the fucking Eagle?”
“I know,” Bernstein said. “I expected somebody a little more badass.”
“From where I was sitting, she looked pretty badass,” Hardin said.
“You weren’t sitting, tough guy,” said Lynch. “You were hiding under the bed.”
Hardin laughed, stood up. “So we’re good? We got our happy ending?”
“Yeah,” Lynch said.
“That shit you told Fenn about me testifying, you know that’s not happening, right?”
“Yeah, I know.” Lynch said. “We’ve got what we need. Corsco’s toast.”
“And that’s all you wanted out of this?”
“Fuck what I want. Not like I’m gonna stop the drug trade or solve the Middle East. But this is my town. Corsco’s been shitting where I live.”
“Glad I could help,” said Hardin. “Now, I have a flight to catch.”
“Someplace nice?”
“Tahiti,” Hardin said.
“That’s pricey.”
Hardin shrugged. “Say what you want about Munroe, he pays well. You ever want a nice South Seas vacation, let me know. On me.”
“Wilson’s going with?” Starshak asked.
“Yeah,” Hardin said.
“Don’t know if I could relax with her around,” said Lynch. “She scares me a little.”
“Scares me a little, too,” Hardin said. “I just figured that was love.”
CHAPTER 108
Five hours later, Hardin and Wilson were in a limo on the way to O’Hare for their flight to Papeete. “Wish I’d had time to pack,” said Wilson.
“They’ve got stores there,” Hardin said. “Nice stores.”
“So we’re really rich?”
“Really, really rich.”
Hardin heard Corsco’s name on the radio, asked the driver to turn it up a minute.
“Tony ‘the Blade’ Corsco was arrested at his residence today on charges of conspiracy to commit murder. US Attorney Alex Hickman told reporters that further charges are expected. In a stunning development, actor Shamus Fenn, who is recovering from a drug overdose, is reportedly involved in the case and has provided key evidence–”
“You can turn it off,” Hardin said.
They rode in silence for a moment, Wilson leaning over and resting her head on Hardin’s shoulder.
“Think anybody will come after us?” Wilson said.
Hardin shrugged. “Have to deal with us if they do. By the way, you’ll need this.” He pulled two French passports from his jacket pocket and handed one to her. She flipped hers open, then took his and looked inside.
“Jean and Fantine Bernard. Really? I didn’t know that Fantine had a last name.”
“I don’t think she did, but you need one for a passport. Bernard is kind of like the French version of Smith. Fouche arranged the papers. He thought the names wer
e romantic.”
“Husband and wife, huh? This makes it official?”
Hardin pulled her hand up, kissed it. “All the sacrament I need.”
Wilson turned toward the window a moment, her hand went to her face. Hardin thought she might have brushed away a tear. Then she turned back.
“Fantine,” she said. “I’m stuck with that?”
“I could call you Fanny, I guess.”
“I may have to kill Fouche for this someday.”
“That’s probably harder to do than it looks,” said Hardin.
“Isn’t everything?” Wilson said.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Man, doing a second acknowledgements page is tough. I mean what do you do? Thank all the same people again? Um, in some cases, yeah, you do.
So thank you again to my agent Stacia Decker and to my Team Decker stable mates Chuck Wendig, Joelle Charbonneau, John Hornor Jacobs, Steve Weddle and Seth Harwood who have all lent support, and, occasionally, booze.
Hat tip to my siblings, Tom, Maura, Brendan, Marty and Pat, who have put up with me longer than anyone. (Marty gets special mention for making his in-laws and friends buy their own copies of my last book when they asked to borrow his.)
Thanks again to Emlyn Rees and the team at Exhibit A. A special thank you to Paul Simpson, without who’s sharp eye I would have embarrassed myself a couple of times. And to Stewart Larking, what can I say? Another stunning cover.
