His were the last eyes Michael had seen before he died.
Jason knew it, knew it beyond doubt. It wasn't just that the guy looked the way Billy described him. There was something elemental, something that shivered the air between them. He tasted bile, a dark brown that burned his mouth. His brother was dead. Michael, with his good laugh and bad temper, who had bought Jason his first beer, who had told him what to expect under Mary Ellen Jabrowski's bra, and what to do with what he found there. Murdered and burned and his son hunted, and this man, standing right here, was responsible.
"Anthony DiRisio?" Cruz whispered.
Jason nodded. Reached for the gun. His hand found nothing but belt and shirt, and he remembered she'd taken it off him. He looked over, found her watching, eyes narrowed and weapon ready.
"Don't make me regret not cuffing you," she said.
He took a deep breath, blew it through his mouth. Fought a wave of nausea that was only partly to do with her kick. Turned to look at his enemies and tried to steady his thinking.
The two gangbangers headed for the rear of the Odyssey. DiRisio waited like they were gardeners he was ordering around his yard, acknowledged them with a nod and a smile that looked fake even from here, then turned and opened the back of the van. Inside, Jason could see what looked like wooden shipping crates. Then he realized what had to be in those crates, and ice chips flooded his veins.
The taller gangbanger, a mustachioed muscle-boy with a barbed-wire tattoo, hooted and slapped his partner on the shoulder. Looking like a kid on Christmas, he stepped toward the van.
DiRisio casually put a hand against his chest and shoved.
The guy flew, all stunned expression and swinging arms. The other banger yelled, reaching behind his back. He froze when he saw what DiRisio had taken from the van. Jason had never carried one, but knew it on sight. One of the world's most recognizable weapons, preferred by military and special ops teams in Christ-knew how many countries. Two feet of blued-steel capable of firing eight hundred rounds a minute.
A Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun.
The passenger door of the van opened, and another man stepped out, sighting down the barrel of another MP5. A trim suit and a stern expression beneath neat salt-and-pepper hair.
Cruz gasped, cut the sound off with one hand over her mouth. Jason felt his fists clench. Even knowing what this was about, it wasn't something he'd been ready to see. For some reason, he thought of the gang house earlier, the kids playing video games.
Under the threat of 1,600 rounds a minute, the standing gangbanger had taken a step back, raised his hands. His partner on the ground had the dazed expression of a a kid who'd fallen from his bike.
"Money first," DiRisio said. His voice bounced oddly off the concrete.
The gangbangers nodded, began moving slowly toward the pickup. Jason turned to Cruz. She stared straight ahead, her face slack.
"This is why Michael was killed. Those have to be the guys Billy saw in the bar."
She nodded numbly.
Suddenly an idea occurred to him. A beautiful, simple, perfect idea, and the weight of the world lifted off his back. This was the perfect opportunity. He couldn't have planned it better: Gangbangers, arms dealer, and weapons all in one place. No need for personal campaigns, and he'd be able to keep his promise to Billy. Both his promises.
"You're a cop," he said. "Call for backup."
But Cruz turned to look at him, shook her head. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because," she said, her voice matter of fact but her face slapped, "one of those guys is a cop."
CHAPTER 25
It couldn't be.
It just couldn't fucking be.
Cruz lay on the ground, the sun-baked dirt painful against her pelvic bone. Stared at the scene, something from a movie, men with suits and submachine guns doing deals in the ghastly yellow of sodium lights. Only it wasn't a movie, it was real, and one of the men was Tom Galway. Her partner.
Earlier she'd had the feeling that this whole case was like a train off the rails and hurtling through space. Now she felt the impact.
Then from behind came the most precise sound she'd ever heard. Perfect and sharp and clean, like God snapping his fingers.
A pistol cocking.
The veins in her neck throbbed, and the skin on her face seemed to tighten. She looked back, the move pure reflex. A man's silhouette blocked the glowing lights of the convention hotels on the other side of the river. She could only make out one detail, the only one that mattered, the gun held in both hands.
Beside her, Palmer had rolled up on his shoulder, bracing himself against the ground with his knuckles. He looked like coiled springs about to snap. It reminded her that she had a gun too, and she started to raise it. Not really thinking, just not wanting to die right here, on the shitty banks of the shitty Chicago River.
The silhouette said, "Don't."
She froze. The voice had been cool and unemotional, the kind of voice that belonged to someone comfortable dropping the hammer on his weapon. Her palms went dry. How deep had she gotten herself in here?
"Lose the gun."
She grit her teeth, looked around.
"Damn it, you stubborn cunt, drop it." By the reflected light she could almost make out his features, cruel lips with a white ridge of scar tissue cutting across his cheek from the corner of his mouth. If he was a cop, she didn't know him.
She set the Smith down on the dead grass, feeling her whole life falling away with it. Like the earth was tilting and she was unable to hold on. Arsons. Conspiracies. Mysterious callers. Gangbangers with submachine guns. Dirty cops and deadly voices.
Cruz looked over at Palmer, found him staring back at her. Cursed herself for taking his gun. She'd yanked it from his belt and tossed it, intent on getting the cuffs on, and there wasn't enough light to make out where it had fallen.
"I'm police," she said, pleased to hear her own voice come out steady. "No matter how bad you think you are, believe me, you don't want to be pointing a gun at a cop."
Scarface snorted. He cleared his throat with a long gargle, then leaned forward and spat phlegm on the grass between her feet. "Be quiet, cop." He straightened, raised his voice. "Hey." The sound was lost in the traffic noise from above. "Hey!"
"What?" Oddly, she could hear the response clearly. The concrete of the cul-de-sac must have bounced and amplified his words.
"Company."
"What?"
"Com-pan-y."
Cruz risked a glance back. The Italian-looking bruiser in the cheap suit, the one Palmer had said was named Anthony DiRisio, had the two gangbangers in the killing arc of his submachine gun. His stance was perfect, his posture calm. He reminded her of a cobra, hood flared, gentle rhythmic sway, ready to strike faster than you could see. Staring down the barrel of all that death, the gangbangers were posturing children.
Galway, meanwhile, had walked toward the fence, the MP5 still dangling from one hand, the other up to shade his eyes. "What have you got?" He reached in his pants pocket, then slung the submachine gun over his shoulder by its strap. Fumbled with something in his hands. A flashlight, a mini Mag-Lite.
The beam lanced out through the fence to stab Scarface in the eyes. He winced, raised one hand to block the light.
Cruz glanced at Palmer, saw the same thought in his face, and then they were scrabbling for their feet. Scarface whirled, his gun swinging over until she could see right down the black barrel, but she kept moving, twisting her body as she stood. The roar surprised her, the gunfire much louder than the muffled crack she heard through ear protection on the firing range. A gout of orange flame tore a chunk of turf not two inches to the right of her thigh. She froze, fear and sounds and revelation all combining to crush her, saw the gun coming up, this time the man aiming at her chest, a kill shot, no way he could miss. She watched his finger tighten on the trigger, knew she was dead.