by Amy Faye
"You thought, what? That you would give yourself full authority on this matter?"
"Sir," I begin, but I stop myself before I say anything more.
"Do you have anything on Beauchamp, yes or no?"
"We have circumstantial evidence placing one of his guys at a trade, guns for drugs, and we have an informant that puts those instructions in his mouth. He didn't say those exact words, of course—but we've got the conversation on tape."
"Then you need to get him back to Washington, Agent Maguire. If we've got evidence, we need to secure it here."
"I don't think that's wise, sir."
"You don't think it's wise?" His voice is sneering so his face doesn't have to. "I will tell you what's wise, Agent. You don't tell me, if you ever want to see 'Special' Agent. You do as I tell you, and that's that. Am I making myself perfectly clear?"
"Sir, I just—"
"No. I don't want to hear it. You get on the phone with your informant, you send him to Washington, to be debriefed by us. Then you go round up Beauchamp. Is. That. Understood?"
"I hear you, sir." It's about the best I can do right now to tell him that I'm not doing it.
"Don't give me that shit, Maguire. Do you understand my instructions, as they have been given to you—yes, or no?"
I take a deep breath in through my nose. This was my shot at getting past that fucking toad-looking man. I can't just keep going, keep looking at the ground just before my feet.
Eventually, someone has to look up, and they have to realize that there's more to the situation than the next little small fry. Eventually you have to grow the hell up.
"Yes, sir."
"And then get your ass back to D.C., along with the prisoner. We'll debrief you there, but if he's dealing with international drugs, we try him in Federal court."
"I really think—"
He cuts me off again, for the twentieth time. At this point I should just keep my mouth shut. He's not listening, and I'd get to sleep so much faster.
"You're still not listening to me, Maguire. You're still not listening. Bring him in, bring yourself in, both of you, to Washington D.C. No thinking. No, just one more thing. Get here."
"Yes, sir."
He hangs up the phone and I lay my head back down. This could have all been a bad dream. When I wake up in the morning, I'll forget, because when you wake—you forget.
I've had plenty of dreams that felt real in the moment, but when I woke up, they couldn't hurt me any more. They were gone. Just like this will, I assure myself.
I lay my head back down on the pillow, slipping into an uneasy sleep. Tossing and turning doesn't make for restful sleep, but it's the best I can do.
I force myself to keep going back to sleep until finally my alarm wakes me up. I wasn't exactly asleep at the time, but my eyes were closed. So when I sat up, rubbed the tiredness from my eyes, and stripped down to get into the shower, it counted as getting up.
The hot water felt good on my skin. I could feel it washing away the Arizona dust, the grime of dealing with filth all damn day. But it did nothing for my memory.
Donaldsen had called me, hours ago. My task force, what little of it I had, was gone. Out of my hands, out of Arizona. Back to D.C. where all of my assets can be chopped up into nice little bits.
My only asset goes with them, when they leave. Beauchamp is to be arrested and tried for illicit gun sales and for trafficking. They'll get a big success, or so they think.
Typical Donaldsen, can't see the forest for the trees. Can't see the big redwood, because it's blocked by a little sapling. He's going to fuck this up for everyone.
I take a deep breath. I can stop it, though. There's not much I can do, but I can do something. I consider the chances that Donaldsen didn't call anyone else.
The two factors weighing against each other in my head, as the hot water streams down my body, are that on one hand, Donaldsen has no respect for anyone, least of all me.
On the other hand, he has no patience for menial tasks. Things like making a round of phone calls in order to make sure his orders are followed are beneath him.
It could be that he hired someone else to do it. There are plenty of ass-kissers who just joined up with the bureau. They could use the help with their careers.
I was like that once, and I'm not going to make that mistake again. Investigator Martin Donaldsen was a poor boss, and a poor teacher. But he was good for one thing, and that was showing me how much of a mistake I'd made being a mewling kitten all those years.
After all, it did nothing to endear me to the man, and it never helped me with anything. Being a machine-cut bitch all the time? That worked good.
I turn off the shower, my skin starting to wrinkle and prune and shining a little red where I'd rubbed it too hard thinking about Donaldsen and how much I'd like to put my fist through his face.
That wouldn't be good enough, though. Nothing ever would be, not enough to make up for what he'd done.
I could try not to report my orders, but it's a matter of time. I have to pack up and go home, leave the big fish for someone else. Someone who was going places. Someone who wasn't me, evidently.
The idea occurs to me a moment later, an idea that I immediately dislike and can't stop thinking once it's hit me.
There is one other solution. One way that I can keep my pieces in play. A way that doesn't rely on Donaldsen's god damned money.
I pull out my phone and punch in Danny's number. Spider wants to be pulled, then pull him. Send him back to Washington, just like Donaldsen ordered.
I'll go in and get Beauchamp, and by the time I've got him, we might just about have another catch to bring back with us.
Chapter Twelve
RYAN
I don't know what time they think it is, knocking on my door, but I don't do business before dinnertime. Everything before then, that's my own time. For me.
I answer the door anyways. A red-headed woman that looks like she could—and would—kill a man pushes past me.
"Nice to see you this morning, Agent Maguire."
"Fuck you, Beauchamp."
I smile at the response. She's really starting to warm up to me, even after the short time we've known each other. It must be my electric personality.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"We've got word that there's a threat on your life, and I'm here to make sure it all goes off without a hitch."
I can hear the sarcasm in her voice. "If you don't want to tell me, just say so."
"Okay, well, how about this? Fuck off, I'm here for my own reasons. We need to get you out of here."
"What? Agent Maguire, this is my house. No business here. Never."
"Well, I found you, didn't I?"
I growl, dipping my head out through the door to get a glimpse of the old Indian, still sitting there in the driveway. At least she hasn't gone so hellcattish that she needs to knock it over every time she goes by.
"So what?"
"So, someone's coming after you. And if I know where you live, they definitely know."
"That doesn't follow, boss-lady. You know where I live because you read it. Off my I.D."
"What's your point?"
She looks tired. I don't tell her. No reason to hurt the woman's feelings, after all.
"If you're so worried about it, come on. We'll get going."
"That's what I've been trying to tell you, you big God damned ape. Get your shit together, we're leaving."
I get my shit together. We leave. I toss her a helmet on the way out, which she looks at like it—and then as if I—had grown a second head.
"What's this for?"
"We're going out, you tell me."
"I have my own car."
"Nope. If we're going out, someone's leaving a vehicle here. You know this neighborhood? They're going to be in there the second I leave the driveway empty."
"Really? Even with your reputation?"
"Particularly with my reputation," I answer.
/> I can't begin to tell her how many times I've come back to find my T.V. missing, because I stopped counting myself a long time ago.
All I know is, it used to happen at least once a week, until I started leaving a car outside. People start getting weird ideas that there might be someone in there. Someone protecting my fucking T.V. from some petty thief.
I kick the Indian to life. I wait a minute for her to buckle the helmet around her full hair. It looks like a tight fit. I don't particularly feel bad for her, I have to admit. Oh, well.
The saddle isn't made for two, but I scoot forward a bit and give her space on the front. I can tell she doesn't know where to put her feet. I consider not telling her for a minute. I'm enjoying this a little too much.
Then again, she would have to ride with me if I didn't want her to be there, so I should be fairer to her. I lift my feet off the foot-holds on the side of the Indian and move them up to the highway pegs.
She puts her feet on the platforms tentatively, and then seeing I'm not going to use them, a little more firmly. No problem.
I tell her, over the scream of the engine, to wrap her arms around me. This is going to be a bit of a bumpy ride.
I feel her breasts pressing into my back, the way her soft body molds to mine, and I lift off my other foot and twist the throttle, let out the clutch and go.
The bike starts slow. I take a slow slalom to get a feel for it under the added weight of Agent Maguire behind me. Now I'm good, though, ready to take some added speed. We get going on the highway and head out.
If we're going someplace we don't want to be found, that rules out the bar. I'd rather go there. It's a good place, a place I control. A place where we can talk privately. But there's no way that's going to happen, not right now.
I need someplace that I would normally go. It doesn't take me long to figure out what the right answer is. I turn around at the next light and get myself going the right way.
Where would nobody go looking for me? Well, that's easy. It's not getting there that's hard, either. It's easy, in fact. So easy that I have had to avoid going there in the past.
The one place nobody would look for me is somewhere I can't go, and in this case, that means Crazy Horse territory. All I have to do is go hide under Brent McCallister's nose, and we can have a little talk and figure out where to go next.
The Indian screams out, both cylinders kicking smoothly beneath us. A nice, easy ride. I pull up to a stop in front of an Irish pub that I've never had the right to step inside.
It stands out compared to the rest of the area, an Irish joint in the middle of a town full of Mexicans. No problem for them, though, and the only problem for me is if I get caught.
The only thing going to get me caught, of course, is this bike. I pull it around back before kicking down the stand, leaning it down gently onto the concrete, checking to make sure it won't fall.
The asphalt here feels soft, soft enough that I might dig into it more than I'd like. But it's fine. Turns out there was nothing to worry about.
I turn back to Maguire and motion her to go inside. I follow her, watching her ass swish from side to side as she moves. She's got a body built for—well, not for what she's doing with it, I think.
She settles into a booth, barely lit. Like the rest of the place. An old, fat-backed TV shows a twenty-year old sitcom through static. The wonders of daytime television.
"What's this about?"
"We need to move faster, Beauchamp. We can't afford to wait on whatever the fuck—the stars to align, for you to get McCallister. I need him soon."
"So, what? You can arrest him instead of me? Don't rush me, Agent."
"You need that immunity we offered you. You need it to get out of here without getting arrested, or worse, ending up with a bullet in your head."
I can hear the threat in her voice, even as she's trying to hide it. As if she can't quite resist the urge to take a little dig at me, even when she's pleading for me to help save her bacon.
"And what happens if I don't go quickly?"
It only takes a split second, but I can see in her eyes, where she's trying to decide how much to tell me. One day she'll learn, but until she decides to tell me everything from the start, I have to wait on her.
"Some of my superiors aren't too happy about the immunity deal. You move fast, we can keep it on the table, but if you don't move, and I mean move, then we have trouble."
I don't tell her what she already knows. If that's the case, we already have trouble.
Chapter Thirteen
MAGUIRE
The dive around us is empty. I don't realize why Ryan is keeping his head down for a lot longer than I would have been willing to admit, but once I figure it out my head goes down as well.
The bartender doesn't bother us. I think that's probably part for the course in places like this, and I'm glad for it. More than that, though, I suspect that Beauchamp is glad.
One call from the guy behind the counter could bring a lot of heat down on both of our heads, and he's not stupid enough not to know it.
Which, I have to admit, makes it the perfect place for him to try to lay low. No way Danny's going to be looking here, and anyone else that Donaldsen sends is going to think about it.
But we can't stay here forever, not given who Beauchamp is, and the relationship he's sure to have with the owner.
He pulls out a phone as we leave. He puts his thumb down on the number two and holds it there. I don't get a good look at who he's calling, but he tells me anyways when the person on the other side picks up.
"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.
&nb
sp; "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?"
