He took thin, shallow breaths. Watched the figure grow closer step by step. Counted down the feet. Twenty. Fifteen. At ten feet he couldn't stand it any more, and threw himself upwards, lunging forward and bringing the gun to bear quick. The figure reacted fast, one hand flying to a shoulder holster.
"Don't move!" He stepped closer, weapon ready, willing the guy not to draw, not to make him do anything he didn't want to. And as he did, he caught the cinnamon skin, the eyes wide with panic, and realized who the figure was, and then they both said it at the same time.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
CHAPTER 23
Jason lowered the weapon the moment he realized the slender guy was actually a woman, the moment he recognized her. His pulse pounded in his throat, panic and power mingling to make every breath surreal. Cruz stared at him warily, her hand still on the pistol in her shoulder holster.
"You're part of this?" she asked, her voice incredulous.
"Part of what?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"
"I was wondering the same thing about you," he said.
"I'm the police." Her voice firm, a brook-no-bullshit tone.
"Yeah, but why are you here?
She hesitated, then said. "I got a phone call. Anonymous. He told me there was something going down I would want to see." She took her fingers off the butt of her pistol. "Do you know what that is?"
"One of the men who killed my brother is coming here tonight. But who would have called you?"
"How about you put down the gun, we figure that out together?"
Jason looked at her, looked at the Beretta. He'd crossed a line when he'd pointed at her – shit, when she saw it. Still. "I'm sorry I scared you. But there's an explanation. Let me get through it, okay?"
She shrugged. "Mr. Palmer, you're holding a gun. I'll agree to pretty much anything you say."
This wasn't how he wanted it to go. He bowed his head, rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, the muscles taut and hard. "I know how this seems." He looked up at her. "But will you just hear me out?"
After a pause, she said. "Okay. Who's the guy coming here?"
"His name is Anthony DiRisio, and he sells weapons. Military hardware. He's been selling to the gangs." He saw the confusion on her face. Spread his hands at his side, palms up. "Best I can guess, maybe Michael found out about it, and DiRisio killed him for it."
He thought he saw something pass behind her eyes, but all she said was, "How would the owner of a bar be mixed up in something like that?"
"Mikey was a crusader. Trying to save everyone," Jason said, remembering that last view of Michael, his brother's face angry and red. "Maybe someone he worked with told him, or maybe he just stumbled on it. But if he did find something like this, he wouldn't have been able to ignore it." He paused. "Wait a second. You said you knew him, that he'd talked to you about something. Was this it?"
Cruz shook her head. "He never said anything about weapons." She glanced around. "So. You're planning on shooting DiRisio?"
"No." He hesitated. "I don't know what I was going to do. I'm figuring this out as I go. All I know is that someone killed my brother and is trying to kill my nephew, and I'm not going to let that happen."
She nodded slowly, her forehead wrinkled, like she was thinking carefully. He let the moment stretch. Heard a car and glanced back at Lower Wacker, but didn't see anything. A soft wind carried a whiff of her perfume, something spicy and good, over a faint clean smell of sweat. "So now you know everything I know." He stared at her. "Thanks for hearing me out." She nodded, and he locked the safety on the Beretta and slid it into the back of his belt.
The moment his hands left the gun, Cruz kicked him in the balls.
He saw the move late, managed to shift position a little, but her foot still hit hard and square enough that the bottom fell out of his stomach and he gasped for breath, living that quarter second when his brain knew what was coming before his body felt it, and then wham!, ice-cold nausea flamed through his whole body, and he cupped his hands on his testicles and dropped to his knees, thinking shit, oh shit, and it took all his strength to process what he saw, her pulling her own gun, a businesslike automatic.
"Put your hands on your head."
He sucked air through his teeth. His last second shift in position meant that she hadn't connected fully, and he knew the worst of the agony would ease soon, but that was small comfort now.
"Hands on your goddamn head!" Cruz had the cop voice down: Firm, commanding, a weapon. His hands moved without him meaning for them to, the left and right finding each other, interlacing and squeezing hard to block out the pain. Cruz stepped behind him, gun never wavering.
He turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. "Jesus Christ, that hurt." Gasping the words.
"Shut up." She moved, and he felt his gun tugged away from his belt, heard it clatter against the earth. "Face forward."
He obeyed, his eyes on Lower Wacker, vision blurry. Knelt there, waiting to feel the cuff snap on his wrist, angry and frustrated and aching.
Which was when he saw headlights coming down the ramp.
CHAPTER 24
Jason turned his head as best he could, fighting through the icy core of pain from his testicles. Cruz stood behind him, her gun holstered now, cuffs in one hand, the other reaching for his wrist. He could see that she was staring over him, past him, to where a black Odyssey was pulling down the ramp to the cul-de-sac. It was hard to tell from this angle, on his knees with his balls on fire, but she looked kind of spooked.
"Get down," he hissed, and pulled his hands from his head.
She saw him move and reached for her own gun. He froze with his hands up. "Look, arrest me later, okay?" He met her eyes, pleading. "That's the guy who killed my brother." Jason heard the engine grow closer, saw the sweep of headlights moving across the dead grass. "Get down."
She narrowed her eyes, and for a moment he thought she was going to refuse. Then she drew her pistol, and, training it on him, dropped just as headlights washed above them. The guard rail and fence on the side of Lower Wacker cast enough shadow that he doubted they'd been spotted.
The van was a couple of years old, dusty and dinged up in the way city cars tended to get. The driver pulled it in a circle, the front facing out, engine running. Ready to bolt at a moment's notice. Tactically sound. The windows were smoked, and he couldn't make out anyone inside.
Jason looked over at Cruz. "Now do you believe me?"
She glanced back at him. "All I see is a van," she said, but her voice had lost its gruff edge.
"Wait."
"For what?"
As if on cue, a second set of headlights bounced off the drab concrete. "The buyers."
A lowered pickup, bright purple, with a spoiler, rolled next to the van. Two men got out, the echoes of the car doors hollow and flat. At this distance, he couldn't make out much about them beyond Hispanic coloring, shaved heads, and tattoos.
Cruz turned, her gaze appraising. "How did you find out about this?"
Before he could answer, the door to the van opened, and the world stopped turning.
The man stood six-two, with the stocky build of a dockworker, heavy slabs of muscle that came from labor. Balding and in need of a shave. The unmistakable bulge of a shoulder holster. Carriage at once rigid and languorous, the way career soldiers could make standing at attention look as comfortable as a sprawl in a hammock.