by Amy Faye
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.
"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 whoev
er 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.
