Irina quailed. This was not an argument she was ready to have. "Fine, fine. Go then. I will stay."
"'I will stay...'" Dee Dee said in a nasal imitation of Irina's voice. "No whining." She turned and stalked out the hotel door, down the hall to the elevator, where she allowed herself a grin. Irina was not adjusting well to being her bitch. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Sometimes it wasn't always pretty. Dee Dee was a long time student of human behavior, and understanding how to dominate and influence and persuade (short of the gun against the head, which of course works, but tended to be a one-time, short-term solution) was part and parcel of her skill set. Which is why she got the big bucks.
She checked out her reflection in the highly polished brass door of the elevator. She was looking *fine* -- skin tight leather jeans tucked into knee high leather boots, a black wool sleeveless jersey to show off her muscled arms, black leather jacket -- the butch blonde look rocked her bod, her hair and her attitude tonight.
Downstairs, she enjoyed the swathe she cut across the lobby, called for her new rental to be pulled up -- a classic Corvette, cherry red, well worth the premium to impress her latest and greatest partner, young Ms. Kiki Warren.
She might live long enough to be a real partner.
Tearing through the streets, the wind barely ruffling her short hair, Dee Dee grinned.
It's a full time job being Dee Dee Kozak. Not for the weak.
She pulled up in front of the Hyatt Regency, and had to stop to laugh and laugh. 'Neo Death God' didn't look *anything* like her Catholic School ID; Kiki Warren looked like a younger and shorter and thinner version of Dee Dee Kozak in her Heartbreak Hotel leathers -- black tights, black boots, leather jacket and wraparound shades.
She honked the horn, leaned over and opened the door and yelled, "C'mon, friend girl! Your chariot awaits!"
And the look on that little girl's face, when the facade of urban cool disappeared into the pure-d unadulterated delight of a teenage girl whose life had just cracked the Awesome barrier into OMFG cool --
-- was going to make it all worthwhile.
Mr. Smith, AKA Hank
Cruised down Nottingham Street towards Lake Avenue, one of the main drags downtown, just motoring to forget the pain the chemicals kept down to a dull roar, looked out the window and saw a cherry red Corvette come tearing the other way, two GORGEOUS blondes in it...and he had to laugh and watch them motor down away and pull into a parking lot, looked like that "Gentleman's Club" he'd just passed.
Lawdy. With a new face, new life, new body he'd...well, it was a nice thought. He popped another pill and made a few random turns and went on his way.
Nicholas Le Fronte, AKA Nico
Okay, so she had moves. He had to give her that. The OGA broad handed her a blown up 11x14 digitzed off a hard drive, and then several angle shots magnified of an undeniably Hmong face.
"Can you..."
Nina snatched the photos and said, "We're on it. I'll call you when we got him."
The OGA broad just grinned. "Do that, will ya? Make sure he's alive, Capushek. I want to ask him some questions."
Nina drove like she did everything else: balls to the wall. Completely relaxed, hands in the approved driving position on the wheel, cutting in and out of traffic with a complete disregard for the law and the flow of traffic, eyes cutting back and forth to the side mirror, rear view mirror, reading the windshield high up -- she was a good driver.
"Where we going?"
"See a guy."
Down Nicollet Street, down into the heart of what he recognized as Little Viet Nam town. Into the parking lot of a restaurant called Pho Tau Bay.
"We eating?"
"Not now, Nico."
He followed her. She was always at least two steps ahead of him. That pissed him off. She went right past the front desk, where a bird-like older Vietnamese woman looked up in surprise, returned the wave that Nina threw her. Nina went straight to the rear where four old Asian men sat at the farthest back corner booth. Nina stopped a respectful distance from the table, and nodded to a short and balding man with brown spots all over his face.
"Hello, sir," Nina said. Nico had never heard that respectful tone.
The men looked at Nico, who stopped beside Nina. She inched forward just a bit, and Nico honored the body language. She was in charge.
"He works for me," Nina said. "It's okay."
"Hello Sergeant," the older man said. "You are okay with us. Him, we don't know."
"Should I send him away?" Nina said.
Nico tensed, then relaxed. Her ball, her call.
The older man grinned. His teeth were brown and yellow from smoking. "No, Sergeant. You say he's okay, we okay. Maybe you need some help today?"
"Yes, Mr. Pham. Very much."
"You want to eat?"
"Not today, sir. You know what happened in St. Paul?"
"Yes. Very bad."
"I'm looking for the people who did it."
The men exchanged looks, chattered briefly in Vietnamese. Mr. Pham had a look cross his face, briefly, that sent a chill through Nico; this old fuck was a killer, no doubt about it.
"We will help you. What can we do?" Mr. Pham said.
Nina unfolded the blown up photo of the man outside the Federal Building. "This man. I want him."
Mr. Pham took it from her and spread it on the table. The four men hunched over the paper like vultures at work. They chattered back and forth, ignoring Nina and Nico, their voices rising over each other in a shrill cacophony. One of them, with a sporty straw fedora stained with sweat pulled down tight on his head that went strangely well with his faded Hawaiian shirt, slapped his hand down hard on the paper, his words sharp and distinct. Mr. Pham shot back at him, hard and fast, an interrogation of some kind. Fedora Hat nodded once, sharply. Mr. Pham looked up at Nina.
"We know who he is. Did this man do this thing?"
"I don't know for sure," Nina said. "I need to find him. Now. And then I can tell you."
Pham chattered at Fedora Hat. The Hat looked at Nina and said in perfect, unaccented English, "Do you have an iPhone?"
Nina wasn't fazed. "No."
"I do," Nico said. "Why?"
The Hat said, "Let me see your phone for a minute."
Nico handed it over. The Hat took out his own iPhone, swept through the controls, watched Nico's phone ping, handed it back.
"I downloaded his name, address, phone numbers on an iCard to your phone," The Hat said. "He is not one of us. You understand? But we do business with the man he works for."
"Who is that?" Nina said.
The Hat looked at Mr. Pham, who nodded. The Hat touched a few buttons on his phone, and then there was another ping from Nico's iPhone.
"You have him," Mr. Pham said. "I tell you this now, Sergeant. We had nothing to do with what happened. We are Americans. We do not want this. This other man, we do business with him. If, if you find out this is true, I ask you, in return, that you tell us. We must do things if this is true."
Nina nodded. "You have my word, Mr. Pham. My word is good."
"Yes," Mr. Pham said. "It is. Make sure this one understands." He pointed at Nico, who nodded once, sharply.
"I understand," Nico said. "My word is good."
"I hope so," Mr. Pham said. "We are serious about our friends here."
The Hat smiled at Nina, ignored Nico. "If you need any help..."
"Thank you, sir. Not necessary."
"So we hear," The Hat said. "Thank you."
"Thank you," Nina said.
"When you come and tell us," Mr. Pham said. "Please stay to eat, then. Maybe you will have an appetite."
"We will," Nina said. "Till then."
She turned and walked away. Nico lingered, nodded, but the old men ignored him and went back to chattering at each other. Nico reached for the sheet, but Mr. Pham slapped his hand down on it.
"We keep," Mr. Pham said.
"Right," Nico said. "Sorry."
He follow
ed Nina out.
Nina stood outside in the lot, stared up at the sky.
"What?" Nico said.
She looked over at him. "You did good. Keep it up and I might keep you around."
"What? I didn't do a fucking thing except stand there."
"That's right," Nina said. "Which is exactly what you needed to do. These guys live and die by a code that's all about respect. Keep that in mind. We'll be seeing more of them."
"I'd like to have that lunch."
"You don't work these guys. They were working people before you were born. You play the game by the rules: respect. Do what you say you're going to do. Keep your boundaries clear from the get go. Don't ever mistake them for anything other than what they are: stone cold killers who have been running a criminal enterprise for longer than both of us been walking the earth. And they are also men of their word. They will do exactly what they say they will do. Remember that."
"I get that." He paused. "Thanks. For trusting me."
"I don't," Nina said. "I wanted to see if maybe some day I will. Get in the car. You got that location mapped out?"
"Here, it's on Google Maps."
"I want to run the name, look for priors and what else we can get on this guy before we take him."
"What about the OGA broad?"
"She knows me. She knows what she's got. We'll hand her the whole bag. We don't do progress reports. Fire and forget, that's how we roll."
"Glad you're including me."
"Don't push it."
They drove off down the mean streets of Lake City.
Lance T
This old fucker can *drink*, Lance thought. They'd started on cognac, shifted to brandy, and the old man was still going on about the old days in Saigon, his party houses in Vientiane, the whorehouse he ran in Patpong, Thailand, and his house on the beach in the Phillippines, the women he'd fucked, the booze he'd drank, and, after a while, the men he'd killed.
That part made Lance a little uncomfortable. Okay, a lot, because that wasn't his area. He was on the fringe of that, and he didn't want to be reminded how close.
"Oh, yes, baby, do it to me one more time!" the old man crowed as one of the dancers did a number to Britney Spears. "Lance, my friend, perhaps that girl would give a private dance for me...later, maybe, my friend?"
Lance bit his lip to stop his smile from spreading too far. One of the girls had already complained that she didn't want to do a dance for someone older than her grandfather in a wheelchair. Customers were supposed to keep their hands to themselves, and it hurt bumping into the wheels and the armrests of the chair!
Gawd. The things he had to do.
"So Tony," Lance said. "Aren't you supposed to be hiding out?"
The big silent Hmong warrior who sat at the table next to them, a series of empty Coke glasses in front of him, glared at Lance.
"I *am* hiding out," Tony Po said. "Who is going to look for an old man in here!"
He choked on his brandy. "I am hiding in plain sight! Nobody looks for an old man where the young men are!" He gestured to the waitress. "More brandy!"
"Hay for my horses!" Lance said, waving at the waitress, who shook her head, hiding her grin, and brought the old man another brandy.
"You want another Coke?" Lance said to the silent bodyguard.
The bodyguard shook his head no, arms crossed in disapproval. Lance shrugged and turned to his guest.
"Tony? You want to move the party upstairs? I got plenty of room up there..." Lance began.
"No! I like it here!"
"Hell, everybody likes it here..."
Kiki Warren
Squirmed in the Corvette's passenger seat. "Am I going to like this?"
Dee Dee laughed. "Oh, honey. C'mon. How many strip clubs you been in?"
She pulled into the lot, waved off the valet. Kiki noticed that Dee Dee backed her Vette into a slot, near an exit door.
"Is that so if we need to get out in a hurry we can go this way?" she said.
"You're sharp, Kiki. That's why we're going to go far together," Dee Dee said. "When you go anyplace, you want to think about your exit strategy. How do you get in? How many ways out? Where do you park your car? If the valet takes it, he's got to get it for you. Want to wait if you're in a hurry? Or if someone pays off the valet to stall you? No. So we plan for the worst, and if it doesn't happen, then we're golden. If the worst happens, then we're golden. Get it?"
"I saw that in a movie. Old one, RONIN."
Dee Dee laughed and laughed. "Doing your homework? Where you been all my life, Kiki? I think I'm going to steal you away...get that ID of yours handy."
Kiki got out. This so rocked! She didn't let her excitement mask her checking things out, "situational awareness" is what the guys on the internet called it, scoping things out, far and wide, and she said, the tone of a proud student, to Kiki: "Like should we be watching that van over there?"
She pointed at the white van that had pulled up into the lot and then turned around and faced out, the engine idling while the valet was waved off.
Mr. Smith, aka Hank
Damn it. Missed his turn, or maybe it was just the Hand of Fate on his steering wheel. Lake City was a river city, and all the downtown streets were a maze of one-ways that had grown up over the years along the cart tracks where goods were hauled up from the riverboats to the thriving village at the intersection of the waters. So if you weren't tuned in all the time, and completely familiar with the streets, neither of which applied to him right now, it was easy to miss a turn and get turned around. Not that he had a particular destination in mind; just driving around, out for the night for a pint and a fight...okay, just kidding, since either one would strain his bodily mechanism to the breaking point, and he wasn't going to have that till he got done what he came here to do, the covert-overt agenda (damn, this whole hall of mirrors thing got tiresome...), so it was back around the block, and there was that strip club, The Trojan Horse, and I'll be dipped and triple fucked, if that wasn't Jimmy John Wylde his own self in front of the club, opening the car door of that funky FJ Cruiser and letting out one of the most Divine Incarnations of the Goddess that Mr. Smith had ever laid his eyes on, good or bad...
...and in the parking lot, the sliding doors of a white van opened up, and something deep inside ol' Hank went PING PING PING and he saw movement that came together someplace faster than the speed of light that said: Shooters.
Hank cut across a lane of traffic, sliding the car in a bootiful lil ol bootlegger turn and locked it in place across the exit to the parking lot, hit the door and got out, as quick as he could, G-17 out and coming up, and shouted "Jimmy John! Targets two, targets two!"
As soon as he saw the muzzles of the AKs he started his firing cadence, keep up the fire, which is why he liked the 9mm, lots of beans in his shooter, and a good bonded round like the Speer Gold Dot would fuck them up just as good as his old trusty .45 ball, but he had more of them, hell, he had over 100 rounds in magazines on his body, take that motherfucker!
He stayed behind the engine block, no fire and maneuver, too old, too cold, too rolled in the old deep shit, but he could still roll heavy when he had to, though it might take him out, because THIS was not something he was read in on, and if they were trying to tag Jimmy John WITHOUT reading him in on it, well, he'd just have to fuck up their whole day, though he doubted the people he worked for would want him pissed off, and the first guy he lit up, at least three rounds into the torso and one into the neck before he went down, but hell, he was pumping out lead as fast as he could, give Jimmy John time, give him time to read it and either get in the fight or get the fuck gone...get outta here, Jimmy....
Jimmy John Wylde
At the first shot, I grabbed Lizzy and ran her towards the door. Silent Kai grabbed her and I yelled "Get her inside, call the cops!"
And I grabbed my brand new redone Glock 19, the grip rough in my hand and a perfect fit, just like Deon, little finger feeling for the extension of the Dawson mag and I p
ied out around the corner of the building where the guard shack for the parking lot was taking fire and...
"Jimmy John, get outta here! Get outta..."
That was Hank's voice.
"NO!" I shouted, and I came around, putting fire down range where Hank's cone intersected and overlapped with mine, and the white van was in that intersection. There were two down and one half in and out, the driver either dead or wounded because Hank was servicing the shit out of the driver's windshield, keep 'em in the vehicle, take away their mobility, bonded bullets on glass, through the glass and into the body of the car, and I kept it up on the open door, put some through the sheet metal into where the occupants would be huddled back, because there is nothing more frightening than bullets tearing through sheet metal when you're inside a metal box and can't get out, unless it's on fire... and I saw a leg come out and put one through it and then grabbed for another Dawson mag, slapped it into place and then --
-- Hank had stopped, too. Ears ringing, I looked around. No sirens yet.
"Jimmy! Get the fuck out of here!"
"No! You go! Go! I got this!"
And then a black Suburban smashed into Hank's Cherokee and knocked it, and him, back about ten feet.
The Cherokee burst into flames...
Dee Dee Kozak
This was a pretty fuck up if ever there was one. Dee Dee was no stranger to gunplay but she preferred a particular type; she was an ambusher, a shooter from a position of surprise with all things stacked in her favor. She most decidedly was *not* someone who sought out a gunfight face to face and head to head without a whole ton of back up, tactical air, indirect and direct fire, maybe even some drones with Hellfires. Now, just who the hell was this about?
All of that went through her pretty head a whole lot faster than it could be said, or written, as she sussed it all out. Now, just WHO the hell was that shooting at that van, and WHO the hell was shooting at him and was this about her, or just that random violence thing that crops up from time to time?
Too Wylde Page 11
