by Amy Faye
"Logan."
He waits a second to hear the response.
"Yeah, I don't like working this early, but listen. Things just got… complicated. Yeah. We need to meet somewhere. Your place alright?"
He pauses a minute.
"No, the bar's no good. Not right now. We need to do that job I was telling you about…"
Another pause. I can hear his brother's voice through the phone, the way that he gets riled up.
"I know I said we needed to wait. Things have changed. Look, I'll let you in on it when I get there, alright?"
He climbs onto the bike and kicks it to life. I climb into the saddle behind him. It's too small for two, but he acts as if he doesn't notice. I press myself up against him, pull my arms around him.
I notice the way our bodies are forced together in that close space, but I pretend not to. So does he. He takes the weight of the bike and controls it on the way out.
The drive is quick, easy. Nobody's on the road, not in a town this size. That's what makes it such a good place for his sort of business, I know. He ducks around a winding turn, more than ninety degrees, and it turns back in on itself after a minute. Like a snake or something.
When he finally stops, and I pull myself up off the back, I can feel my shirt clinging to me with sweat. The way that it shows all the lines of my body. I can't stand it, and it's more than just the afternoon heat getting to me.
He walks up to the front gate of the place. It's just a little wrought-iron fence, and he could probably have climbed it if he wanted to, but he doesn't. He pushes the button instead.
There's an intercom box right beside us, and for a minute I expect a voice to come out of it, asking who's there. Instead I just hear a buzz as the gate unlocks itself.
Ryan goes in first, holds the gate for me. It swings shut behind us on its own, closing with a loud clang that makes me wince.
He doesn't have to knock on the door because there's already a man at the door, built like a bear. He gives me a doubting eye as I walk up behind Ryan.
"Who's the cop?"
I don't look that much like a cop.
"It's not time to talk about that. We'll get into it, only—inside."
"Right. I got you, alright."
He steps back for Ryan and lets him pass, but as I try to push on through behind him, Logan's shoulder moves forward to block me. He leans down, and his voice drops to a low growl.
"I got my eyes on you."
I push him out of the way with my own shoulder, and he lets me through. There's no God damned way that I'm going to be treated like some sort of criminal by a Beauchamp. Being treated like a cop, though, seems to be worse.
I follow Ryan, who heads through and settles into a chair in the kitchen.
"Logan, this is our new best friend."
"She looks like a cop."
"That's because she is a cop. Why don't you introduce yourself, babe?"
"Agent Maguire, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. I picked up your brother—"
"That's enough, for now, Agent Maguire. We'll get back to you."
"You got picked up by the cops? Is that why you suddenly decided that you need to go after McCallister?"
"Bingo," Ryan answers, leaning forward against the back of the chair he's straddling backwards.
"So why the hurry-up now?" The bigger Beauchamp eyes me as he asks the question, but I let Ryan do the talking.
"My friend here, she's got her eyes on the big prize, but you know cops. Small-minded. They don't see the advantage in trading little old me for getting rid of the Crazy Horses."
"So you're giving them lessons, now? Is that what I'm hearing?"
We never got any shots of Ryan smiling at the Bureau. Just the typical criminal shit. All scowls and the forced neutral expression of mug shots. The last comment puts a big smile on his face, one that brightens up the room just by being there.
I can't resist any more. "We don't need any lessons on anything."
"She talks, too, huh?"
"She does a lot of things, you keep talking like that," I answer, flipping him a one-finger salute.
It's Logan's turn to smile at me, an insincere thing that still splits his face into a wide mask of good humor.
"She's here because, admit it or not, she needs me. You know how I am, can't ever turn down someone in need."
"No, you never can," Logan says, with a voice that sounds like he'd rather his brother figured it out sooner, rather than later.
"So we have to get things moving, and we have to get it moving today. Is that going to be a problem?"
The bigger Beauchamp leans back, his heavy body pressed back into the kitchen counter. I take the opportunity to look around better this time. Maybe I can get two for the price of one. Maybe three for the price of one.
To my surprise, though, Logan Beauchamp's place looks like the sort of place a guy might retire to. It's not big, but it's comfortable. It looks decidedly unlike the house of a man who runs a gun-running operation with his two brothers.
So distinctly that I almost have to wonder how the man who owns a place like this can do it, keep the two lives so separate. Still, he's obviously managing it somehow.
"If we're going to be moving that soon, we'll need to call the guys."
"Get Spider in on this one. He's been doing good work lately."
If he doesn't know about Spider, I had better make sure that Hawkins doesn't get pulled out any sooner than necessary. It is going to be very useful to have as many eyes on the inside of this operation as possible.
"Of course, Ryan. Anyone else?"
"Figure out an I.D. for the girl, too."
"She's not coming with us."
I can't stop myself chiming in. "No, I'm not coming with you. Are you stupid?"
"Oh, stupid? Maybe. But you're definitely coming with us."
Chapter Fourteen
RYAN
The job was already going to be tough, and I already knew what a challenge it was going to be. That was before, of course, we had two cops on the team.
Then again, I put them there. It's a risk, and a big one, but I'm willing to take that chance. Especially if it means I can get a good view of what they've got.
Putting Maguire with Spider is going to be interesting as well. I don't think she realizes that I know—not yet, anyway. Nothing can stay a secret forever, but I can keep it a secret as long as possible, anyway.
One of them is no-doubt going to try to pass a message to the other. When they do, I just have to intercept it. Then, we'll see what we have to do next. What kind of tools they give us to work with, so to speak.
I take a deep breath. No problem. I can handle this, and I had God damn well better handle it, or things are about to go completely sideways.
The one thing I know for sure, as I strap the gun onto my hip and look up into the mirror: I'm not going back to prison. There's no chance of hell that I do that.
Maguire's gone, but she'll be back. She'd better be back, or things are going to get ugly between us. Then again, things were already going to get ugly between us. The only question is when.
I get onto the Indian, ear-phones in my ears, and wait a minute. Just in case she's planning to come by the house. The sick, twisting feeling in my stomach hits me before every job. I don't mind the risk, but I can't stand the way it hits me.
Then the guitar kicks in and the drum hits hard and I kick the Indian to life beneath me. Its engine roars out, but I can barely hear it through my music. I roll onto the road and head into the part of town where people put things that aren't supposed to be found.
The industrial district is where we do almost all of our business, legal or not. Our business or not, for that matter.
That does little to change the fact of the matter. The place is empty. Always is. Logan pulls in behind me as I turn into the area. I pull my hand off to wave. Spider pulls up next, then Rob Green. Maguire's nowhere to be seen, but then again she's not riding a bike, so it might be
a little weird for her to be right there alongside us.
I see her car the second we pull into the lot. She looks like a tourist, sitting there. She's got her phone out, jabbing away at it, looking confused. It's a better cover than most, I have to admit.
She looks up as we pull into the lot, and for a moment I wonder if the look that passes between her and Spider has any significance. Anything other than recognition, anyways.
It doesn't. Couldn't be. But they're acknowledging each other, which is something by itself.
She pulls out of the car. She's dressed light, which is probably for the best. I don't miss the blocky shape of the gun that's on her hip, hidden as it is by her jacket.
No words are spoken. They might give us away, and as quiet and dead as the place looks now, it's not empty. They've already heard us coming, and they know we're not whoever they're expecting.
We'd have pulled around back, if we were. I wave for them to follow, pulling my gun free, and I check the front door. Locked. I wave Rob Green over, and he opens it. Quick as can be.
The door's heavy. I make sure to hold it while the others file in. The whole place is dark. I close the door real slow-like. It would have slammed behind me if I wasn't careful. Good thing.
I motion them forward, keeping a close eye on Spider. Maguire follows close by, at my elbow, her weapon drawn and pointed down.
I see the first Crazy Horse a split-second after Logan does, and he's down after a shot fires out, my ears ringing even through the earphones that serve as ear-protection.
He drops to the ground. If they didn't know we were here, they definitely do now. They've abandoned any attempt at keeping quiet, instead opting to cry out to each other, signal where they are.
It doesn't take them long to figure which guy is dead, and I know they're not going to take much longer after that to start converging on our location.
The guy's got an automatic. I hold it up to show everyone. Everyone knows what it means. They hunch down behind cover. I hand the sub-machine gun to Logan. His kill, his gun, I figure.
The place is still dark, and we're still in a shoddily-constructed hallway the cordons off the office area from the main warehouse. Something moves in the dark, and I shoot.
The muzzle flash illuminates the hallway for a long instant, and I can see the guy go down. I'd like that automatic in his hands. Hell, I'd like it if the guys at our own warehouse had automatics like that.
All we can put together is a hodge-podge of whatever the client doesn't want, most of the time. Nothing like the matching gear they've got here. Nothing near as new, either. Not for our personal supply.
I can't afford to go grab it, though. They're going to figure out, and soon, that you need to move in pairs. Well, that's the bare minimum, anyway.
If the pair was just a little split, they'd just have to wait once they saw their friend go down, and I'd be an easy target there.
We settle in and wait. Ten seconds turns into sixty. A minute turns into two. They're waiting for us, and we're waiting for them.
Whoever is on the move has a disadvantage. The ones hiding will have cover, they'll be able to see the other side.
I don't like having to be the ones to make the first move, but the alternative is to wait for the cavalry to arrive, and that's not going to happen. No chance in hell.
I start moving first, and the others follow behind. Right before I get past the corner, I look back at the group. Maguire's still with us. After the first two went down she seems to have cooled it a little.
I grab the guy's ankle, pull him back towards me. The MP-5 in his arms comes with him, and I pick it up. I check the safety, check it's loaded. I already have it pointed into the darkness when I step around the corner.
A shot rings out, thuds into my chest. I go down hard, the pain exploding through me in spite of the bullet-proof vest I'm wearing. I press the trigger of the automatic in my hands and it jerks alive, spraying three shots in the direction where the first bullet had come from.
I can't hear the body hit the floor, but I see a crumpled heap of guy, sitting there in the darkness.
Rob Green grabs me, pulls me back, just in time to see someone else moving to take the guy's place. A shot rings out, but I'm free of the wall now, and the shots smack into the thin plywood walls instead.
I take a deep breath. I don't know how many are left, but I know it's at least one, and I know we've got to get this over with, and fast.
Chapter Fifteen
MAGUIRE
I don't want to ever even have to think about what went through my head, watching Ryan Beauchamp—drug runner, gun smuggler, and all-around scumbag—go down for what I thought would be the last time.
He opens up on the guy who shot him. How strangely like him. Someone runs up and grabs him, pulls him back, as if they were pulling him back from the brink of death.
That direction's a no-go then. Unless someone brought grenades, but that seems too much to hope for at this point. After all, why would they have brought grenades?
Someone steps forward, pulling something out of his pocket. I hear the sound of metal flinging itself against a plywood wall.
Why would they have brought grenades, indeed? The only thing that he shows of himself around the corner might be the bareliest part of one finger. I hear the thing slam into a plywood wall, and then I hear it rip a hole in the whole office section of the building.
We move fast, now. If Ryan is still hurting, he doesn't show it. In we go. I keep my gun down. Nobody's getting shot by me—not today. I'm not a criminal. I won't get myself killed if I can avoid it, but I'm not going to shoot anyone if I don't have to.
That would put me on the same level as them, and I'm not on the same level as them. I never will be. Not in a thousand lifetimes. Not in a million years.
I want to talk to Spider. To tell him my plan. If he knows what's going on, it'll be easier to get him not to have himself pulled out.
He could be in the wind in an hour if need be, especially if it was with Beauchamp's permission. Knowing that there wouldn't always be the chance of some gang member behind you, showing up like a magic bullet, would go a long way toward peace of mind.
Ryan sticks close to us. Sticks close to me, at least. Too close to get anything like a message off, besides an occasional slap on the back to let him know I'm here, he's got cover and support.
The entire raid is over within four minutes. I can hear shots going off in the distance. Easy. I know that we're not losing the gunfights because it doesn't take long before there aren't any.
Instead, I see McCallister's men moving towards the truck. Trying to get it out of there. It's big and painted plain blue. As inconspicuous as it can get. Well, that's great for them.
I force myself to focus up. They might be done with gunfights, but that doesn't mean that I am. We're at the end of the hall. There's a door, nice and big and in the dark it looks gray but it might be red or blue.
Wes motions for me to take the left side of it. Hawkins takes the right, and Wes leans back against the far wall and rears back to kick hard like a mule.
The door latch explodes through the hinge, splintering the door along with the shattered lock. The ring of the lock softly tinkles as it hits the floor, and Wes pulls out of the way as shots spray through the now-open door.
Hawkins pulls a grenade off his belt. In the dark I can see the cylindrical shape of a flash grenade. He gives it a light toss. The loud pop deafens even my ears. I should've covered them, I realize all too late.
We swarm the room. I can't hear my own voice as I start shouting, almost by rote: "Get down! Get the fuck down!"
There are three of them, there. One of them tries to bring a gun up, but he's dropped by Hawkins. The other two go down on their knees, hands up. They've got guns within easy reach, where they dropped them.
I step forward, kick them away. I don't know how motorcycle gangs feel about prisoners. Do they keep them? Set them free? Kill them?
Wes l
ooks at them, perplexed. Is there something going on here that I'm not understanding? I wonder if he recognizes these goons, even in the dim light. Maybe taking prisoners at all, or surrendering when there's a gunfight going on, those are the strange things.
My ears are still ringing so loud that I can't hear my own thoughts. But that doesn't mean that I don't see it when Wes grabs the guy and stands him up. He's rough about it. If he recognizes them, I think, they're not likely to be friends.
Then they're moving. Wes keeps his gun up, trained on their backs. He's giving them instructions, but God damn it all, I can't hear them. I wonder how anyone could hear again so soon after that fucking noise.
Still, when he points at me, and points at the door, I know what to do, more or less. I pass a gun on the floor. Pick it up. An automatic, like the others. Just in case I ever need it, and if I don't, it's evidence.
Then I take the lead. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm walking halfway backwards anyways, keeping an eye on the prisoners behind me. Keeping an eye on Hawkins and Beauchamp, as well.
I let Beauchamp call the shots, the ringing in my ears finally starting to subside by the time he points me in the direction of the door into the warehouse. I push it open. No surprises. I've already seen through the windows in the thin plywood walls what I'm going to find.
A few crates. It's a small place, compared to most warehouses, but then again there can't be that much to find. I already know what I'm going to find in there.
Someone's already on the forklift. When he pulls in close, I recognize the older Beauchamp. He picks up one of the pallets, drives off with it. They're loading up the truck, and they seem to be in a God damned hurry about it, too.
I swallow hard, the sound of blood surging in my ears almost as deafening as the ringing that had overtaken my hearing for minutes on end.
I feel a little light-headed. Hawkins goes on ahead, loads the prisoners up into the back of the truck. He's not explaining what's going to happen, but I don't have to guess. They'll be let off, eventually. Probably a few miles into the desert.
