Crazy Hearts

by Tara Janzen

  It had been a crappy plan from the get go. Par for the course when the guy coming up with the plan was Tommy Dunstan. Dumb Dunstan, they’d called him in school.

  Still looking through the window, Nate devised his own plan.

  A knife, he decided, pulling his folding knife out of his pocket and thumbing it open. Whatever medical equipment might be attached to Liam needed to be done away with quickly and efficiently. The only way to do it was to get in fast, cut the boy loose, and hustle him to the elevator.

  “Come on,” he said to Bobby Lee, and they pushed through the door of Room 320 like they belonged there.

  They did not.

  Two cops they had not seen through the narrow window turned and leveled identical “cop stares” at them, giving Nate a moment’s pause – which turned out to be a moment too long. Inside of a second, he’d been grabbed and slammed up against the wall so hard he saw stars. His knife clattered to the floor, his left arm was trapped, and his right arm was pulled up hard behind his back by someone else he had not seen through the window. He heard Bobby Lee make a dash for it, and saw one of the cops tackle him, and then another damned awful thing happened. Bobby Lee’s pistol came out of his shoulder rig and skittered across the tile floor – in front of a pair of cops and whoever was about to break his arm. Nate struggled to free himself, but the more he struggled, the more pain the guy administered.

  Geezus. The guy was mother-freakin’ strong.

  “Well, I gotta say, this just makes my day,” Lieutenant Loretta said, walking over to where Hawkins had one of Liam’s “visitors” hauled up against the wall. “It is just so much easier when the bad guys come to us, rather than making us chase them all over hell and gone.”

  She snapped a pair of handcuffs on the man and stepped back. “What’s your name, son?”

  All she got was a narrowed, brown-eyed glare from an over-juiced gym rat who looked like he worked out twenty-four hours a day and yet had already proven he wasn’t tough enough. Despite being dressed in a nice pair of black slacks and a pale blue polo shirt, he looked like bad news and trouble all rolled into one – an opinion reinforced by what appeared to be a bloodstain on the lower hem of his shirt, as if he might have wiped his hand there after he’d hit somebody a few times. His knuckles, indeed, looked like he’d been hitting somebody or something pretty damn hard.

  She picked up the knife and closed it.

  And then there was the gun.

  “Do you have a concealed carry permit for your pistol?” she asked the guy on the floor, bending down to pick up the gun.

  “Don’t need no permit. I’m from Georgia.”

  Cripes, she thought. Could it really be this easy?

  “What do you think, Superman?”

  “I think these two belong to you, Jefe”

  “Agreed. Weisman, call this in and get a couple of officers over here to pick up the trash...uh, excuse me, to escort these two fine gentlemen to our precinct. And read them their rights.”

  Weisman finished handcuffing the smaller man on the floor, then hauled him to his feet and walked him over to face the wall, next to his buddy. “Get on your knees and stay down. You have the right to remain silent...”

  “On your knees,” Hawkins said to the guy he was holding, helping him out by pushing him down. “Stay put.”

  “Superman my ass,” the guy said under his breath, kneeling nose-to-the-wall next to his buddy. The position was awkward enough to make a fast getaway next to impossible. “I could take you in a fair fight.”

  “Maybe, chingaleto,” Hawkins conceded to the big guy, “but I never fight fair.”

  “There may be more from where these two came from,” Loretta said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d stay until after they’re hauled downtown.”

  “I’m not going anywhere without my new best friend, Lieutenant.” He gestured toward the bed. “You can count on it.”

  Chapter Ten

  Tommy pulled up to the curb on Steele Street and parked on the opposite side of the street from the blue Camaro. He was good, so good. He’d tailed them all the way from the hospital, a couple of miles back, into the heart of downtown Denver and had them in his sights.

  The woman got out of the car, got the kid, and headed into an old building, while the prize of the century stayed put in the driver’s seat.

  Tommy checked the numbered address on the building, 738, then took a picture of the numbers, carefully fitting the street sign in the foreground. Satisfied with the photo, he added a text message - I found him, the asshole who stole your five million. He ain’t dead. Not yet, anyway

  He hit SEND, and grinned. That ought to fry Big Daddy’s balls real good...and get the old bastard on the next plane to Denver.

  His grin faded. That was the last thing he needed. Dammit, he should have thought things through a little better, kept the news to himself awhile longer.

  His phone dinged, and Tommy swore. But he didn’t dare ignore the incoming text.

  Dammit, boy, Big Daddy had replied. You listen to me, and you listen real good. Don’t do anything. Stay fucking put. I’m on my way, and we’ll blow this bastard right out of his rat hole.

  No way, Tommy thought. He wasn’t waiting for anybody. This was his game to run, and it was simple. All he had to do was stroll over to the other side of the street and get the “old” Liam. Just walk up on him with his gun drawn and kidnap the bastard, get him in the ‘Vette and take off with him. Hell, take off with him all the way to Georgia, and Big Daddy could eat his dust.

  Piece of cake.

  Right.

  “Hey, buddy, you got a cigarette?” A voice came out of nowhere.

  Geezus! Tommy ‘bout jumped out of his pants. Geezus.

  A damn long-haired hippy leaned in the ‘Vette’s driver’s side window.

  “Get off my damn car.” He scowled and gave the street a glance, wondering where in the hell the guy had come from.

  “Sure, man,” the guy said, but didn’t back off an inch. “You got a cigarette?”

  Tommy gave him a quick once-over and realized “hippy” probably wasn’t the right word, despite the guy’s long blonde hair, not unless he was the world’s cleanest and most damned fittest hippy.

  “Yeah,” he said, reaching in his shirt pocket. “Yeah, I got a cigarette.” Hell, he pulled out the whole pack and shoved it at the guy. “Now get outta here.”

  “Sure, man.” The “hippy” took the cigarettes. “But I was wondering if you had a gun.”

  Startled by the question, it took Tommy a moment to give the guy a “you must be the world’s biggest idiot” look. It was nobody’s business but his own that he had a snub-nosed .38 in the Corvette’s glove box.

  “And my buddy over there” the guy gestured to the other side of the Corvette – “wonders why you followed him from the hospital.”

  Tommy jerked his head to the right and froze solid from his brains to his balls. The only thing moving was his heart, and it was red-lined.

  The big bore of a .45 was leveled at his head, held steady in a strong hand, and above the bore was a face he knew all too damn well, but older, and crueler – and if there was one thing Tommy knew about, it was cruelty. Big Daddy had been a fine teacher about cruelty.

  “You carrying?” the “old” Liam Dylan Magnuson asked. “Or do you keep a gun in the glove box?”

  It took an eternity for Tommy to process the question, but it finally cut its way through the deep fog of fear muddling him up. Not that cutting through the fog did much good.

  “B-b-b...b-b...b-b-b...” Tommy couldn’t tear his gaze away from the man leaning in the ‘Vette’s passenger side window, and so help him God, he could not stop blubbering – even though he was damn sure his life depended on it.

  “Okay, I got it,” the old Liam said, reaching in and popping the glove box open. “Give my friend your wallet.”

  “Wa...wa-wa...wa-wa-wa...” Tommy watched as the old Liam cleared the .38 before dropping it into his pocket. But
Tommy still had his knife, thank God.

  “Yeah, your wallet,” old Liam reminded him, and gave the .45 a little lift.

  Tommy felt a dribble of pee soak his pants. Geezus! Oh, sweet Jesus, he could die here, right in gawddamn Denver and no-one would ever know what had happened to him.

  For cripes sake, grab hold of yourself, boy, he told himself. Grab the hell hold of yourself.

  With effort, he steadied himself enough to start fumbling around, doing his damnedest to obey.

  Pulling his shirt up a bit, he finally got the wallet out of his back pocket and handed it over to the “hippy.”

  “He’s got a knife, Jungle Boy,” the old Liam said. “Sheathed on his belt. And get his phone.”

  Jungle Boy? And how had old Liam guessed about his damn knife?

  Tommy looked down where he’d pulled his shirt up. Oh, no guess required – the sheath was exposed for all the world to see, with his knife sticking out of it.

  “Hand it over, pardner,” Jungle Boy said. And yes, Tommy could see some Tarzan in the guy, more than he could see any hippy. “All of it. Keep the knife sheathed.”

  Tommy finally got the knife sheath off his belt, wishing to hell he hadn’t peed himself and praying to God he didn’t do it again.

  The long-haired guy took his knife and his phone, then flipped the wallet open. “You know anyone named Thomas Edward Dunstan?” he asked the “old” Liam.

  “Tommy Dunstan,” the man said, his gaze fixing on Tommy and growing even colder. “Guaranteed, son, this is not going to be one of your better days. Get out of the car.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Man, oh, man, Skeeter thought, watching Liam from where she sat at the head of her and Dylan’s kitchen table. Hawkins, Liam’s self-appointed bodyguard, was at the other end of the table. Gillian and Travis, Dylan’s mandated, high-end additions to Liam’s Personal Security Detail, PSD, were sitting across from the young man, looking like they could kick every ass on the block - because they could. Dinner was leftovers from yesterday’s 4th of July celebration, and almost everyone was talking about cars – muscle cars, sports cars, clunkers they’d owned, and the fastest they’d raced.

  No one was going anywhere near the five-hundred-pound gorilla in the room – the who, what, when, where, and why of Liam Dylan Magnuson being at Steele Street. He was Dylan’s mystery to unravel, and they were all waiting for Dylan to show up – which apparently was going to happen about the same time hell froze over.

  Skeeter had to work at not calling her husband and telling him to get his butt out of the basement. She needed a little help here, almost as much as his little brother – his extremely sexy-hot little brother, so help her God.

  “And we’ve got a 1969 Yenko 427 Nova down in the garage,” Hawkins said, reaching for another slice of watermelon.

  Liam looked up from his mostly untouched plate. “A Yenko 427 Nova?” A note of awe edged the young guy’s voice, and Skeeter felt a little relief. Finally, something had caught his attention besides the front door.

  Sure, she understood. Only one thing had brought him to Denver – Dylan. But even two hours after Liam and Hawkins had arrived home from the hospital, Dylan was still with Creed and the poor sap Tommy Dunstan, who was undoubtedly having one of the worst nights of his life.

  But that was Tommy Dunstan’s problem.

  Her problem was Liam Dylan Magnuson the Fourth, not the Third. She knew the “Third” inside and out. But Liam the “Fourth,” or Liam Magnus, as he preferred to be called, well, he was something else. He looked rode hard, put away wet, and like he’d run through a gauntlet – and every time she looked at him, which was way too often, she was struggling a little with her heart.

  “Yeah, the Nova,” Travis added. “She’s a sublime bitch, and you are gonna flat-out fall in love with her.”

  “Bitch?” Gillian let out a short laugh. “The Nova’s a sweetheart, Liam, which is why Skeeter named her Mercy.”

  “Mercy?” Liam shifted his gaze to Skeeter, and her heart damn near sank into her stomach. The resemblance between him and Dylan was mind-blowing.

  “I, uh, used to race her at the Midnight Doubles,” she said. “And the Nova never showed any mercy. She took every race she ran.”

  “Cool,” he said.

  Yeah, cool, she thought. But not as cool as you, rock and roll boy.

  Besides his arm and leg, the doctors had put a couple of stitches in the side of his face, up along his cheekbone. He was going to have another scar, but with his looks – the whole silky-haired, hard-bodied, “I should be an underwear model for Calvin –

  “Skeet, can you pass the potato salad?” Hawkins interrupted her train of thought.

  “Uh, sure,” she said, dragging her gaze and her attention back to the table and the, uh, potato salad.

  She handed it off to Travis, and her gaze automatically drifted back to Liam.

  Rock and roll star, indeed. He was disturbingly sexy, even all beat up. And her husband had looked exactly like him at that age, devastatingly gorgeous, except without the tattoos, the long hair, and the gold hoop earring. Girls must have been throwing themselves and their underwear and God only knew what else at him every damn day of his life at twenty-two – and she’d have been eleven years old. He wouldn’t have noticed her no matter what she’d thrown at him.

  Why that should be twisting her up was not beyond her comprehension. It was embarrassingly simple. Jealousy.

  She was jealous of all the girls who’d fallen crazy in love with her husband before she’d been old enough to even be in the game.

  And now here he was, sitting right in front of her, like he’d materialized out of a time-machine – Dylan at twenty-two years old, but not really Dylan, just close enough to scramble her brain.

  “So, Skeet,” Gillian said, “have you heard anything from Kid and Nikki? When are they getting home?”

  Skeeter looked over at her friend, a little confused. “Uh, they’re still in Paris. You know how they love Paris.” Everybody at Steele Street knew how much Kid Chaos, an SDF sniper, and his artist wife, Nikki, loved Paris. And everyone knew they’d be home next week.

  But if Gillian’s expression was any clue, that hadn’t been the point of her question. The real question was “Do you know you’re staring a hole in that boy?”

  Yes, she knew. Thank you.

  Skeeter deliberately ran her gaze over Gillian and across Travis, operators professionally known as Red Dog and Angel, and her unspoken question – when she returned her attention to Gillian - was equally clear, as in “What “edge of the world” are the two of you dropping off tonight?”

  They were geared up, gunned up, and had left their rucksacks by the door. Dinner with the Steele Street crew and Dylan’s dopplegänger, she was certain, had not been on their agenda tonight.

  They were mission-ready, but not for a Steele Street mission.

  Most of their work had gotten so black and came from so far up the food chain at the Department of Defense, she didn’t have a clue what the two of them were doing out there in the big, bad world anymore. Neither did General Grant, which had surprised the hell out of her.

  But if the tubby backwoods boy, Tommy Dunstan, and the two hicks Lieutenant Loretta had booked, were any indication, working a PSD for Liam Magnus was way below their pay grade. And yet, Dylan had ordered Gillian and Travis to the thirteenth floor – which made her wonder what kind of intel Dylan had gotten out of Tommy Dunstan, and what the stakes really were in this fiasco.

  As if on cue, Travis’s phone rang. He answered with a single word, “Go.”

  A second later, he hung up, nodded at Gillian, and as one, they rose from the table.

  “Good luck,” Gillian said, leaning over the table to shake Liam’s hand.

  “Gents.” Travis followed suit, shaking Liam’s hand and giving Hawkins a nod before turning to Skeeter. “Skeet, thanks for dinner.”

  Without another word or wasted movement, they crossed the room, hoisted their r
ucksacks to their shoulders, and walked out the door.

  Gone. Just like that.

  But still on her radar. Something more than just the endless, black-on-black mystery missions was happening with the two of them. She had a few ideas, some of which made sense, and one that was downright unthinkable – but she was thinking it.

  Maybe it was time for her to hack into Dr. Brandt’s files at Walter Reed Medical Center and find out what the hell was really going on with Red Dog and the Angel Boy.

  Well, now that The Avengers have left, Liam thought, watching the door close. Damn.

  He’d seen a lot of things in his life, but he’d never seen anything like the two people who’d walked out the door – ripped, armed to the teeth, beautiful in a real badass sort of way, and serious as a pair of heart attacks.

  Hawkins – another certifiable badass - had called the woman “Red Dog.” Could a name get any cooler? And Red Dog had called her boyfriend “Angel.”

  Red Dog and Angel – oh, hell, there was a song in there somewhere.

  What a night.

  What a freakin’ crazy night.

  When he’d gone looking for Dylan Hart, he’d expected to find a high-end car dealer. But these guys were no car dealers, no matter how much iron they had in their multi-story garage.

  So, what in the hell had he gotten himself into? Some sort of off-the-grid paramilitary group? That was the question that had kept his head down through most of the meal - that and wondering why his brother hadn’t shown up yet. Hawkins and Skeeter had told him Dylan was here, in the building. So where in the hell was he hiding out, and why?

  Because he doesn’t want anything to do with you, punk.

  Yeah, yeah, Liam got it, but he hadn’t dragged himself halfway across the country to get stiff-armed by some joker who didn’t think he was worth the time of day.

  Screw Dylan Hart. He hadn’t come here looking for a handout. He had the guy’s letter from the New York lawyer – and every reason to believe it didn’t have a damn thing to do Daddy Jack’s “missing” five million dollars. No, Liam would have bet his Porsche and his Stratocaster the money had been sitting in Switzerland for the last twenty-three years.