He lay on his belly and extended an arm for Cruz. Water sluiced off her as he hauled her out, her feet scrabbling against the concrete.
When she was safely on dry ground, he flopped down on his back. He hurt in a hundred places, and his breath came hard. But they had made it. He stared up at the sky, the rain cool and cleansing. Clouds hid the stars. Cruz lay beside him, panting. Her upper arm touched his, and the warmth felt good. He lay still, not thinking and enjoying it.
Then Cruz jerked upright. "The briefcase."
He shook his head.
She stared at him. "You were reaching for it. I remember."
"It was caught." Jason sat slowly. He ran a hand through his hair, brushing twigs. "Under the seat. I couldn't get it in time."
Her eyebrows knit. "It had everything to save your life, and Billy's. You needed that briefcase." City light reflected off the clouds to paint her profile, and he saw something like understanding dawn there. "But I couldn't move."
He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing at all.
Cruz stared for a long moment. Then leaned forward to bring her face close. Her hair was matted and wet, and she had a leaf stuck to her neck, but she glowed anyway. "Thank you," she said.
"You would have done the same."
She smiled. "Don't believe it." Then she kissed him, her lips cool, her tongue sweet, and he felt something loosen in him. The Worm giving ground, and he realized that whatever else happened, whatever this thing between them turned out to be, he hoped he didn't screw it up the way he screwed most things up. He prayed that if it did end wrong, at least let it be a new screwup. A screwup that came of reaching for something more. Maybe even of daring to be responsible to someone else.
Then he heard a voice he recognized.
"Y'all kissing on each other after climbing out of the Chicago River?" Playboy sounded mean and close. "That's just got to be love."
CHAPTER 36
Full circle.
The first time they'd met, Playboy had been smiling and armed as he took Jason by surprise. Now here they were again, a few days later, history repeating itself yet again. Like a little kid making the same joke over and over: Not that funny the first time and worse with each repetition.
"Stand up real slow." Playboy wore a black track suit made of some shiny material. The Cadillac necklace gleamed from his chest, and in his right hand he held what looked to Jason like a Ruger P90, chrome over black. Behind him stood two men: a tall, skinny guy who kept shifting on his feet and a stocky muscle-man with tape across his nose. The wrestler Jason had hit with a car door. Full circle.
Jason took his hands from Cruz's hair, held them out at shoulder height. Twisted to get a leg underneath, then rose up straight and easy. His eyes drank the landscape, looking for any advantage. The only cover were the mounds of rain-spattered dirt behind Playboy, sloping ten-foot hills that hid the street beyond. He thought of diving for the river, but it was no kind of cover at all. It was only in movies that bullets didn't hurt once you hit the water.
"You a pain in my ass, know that?" Playboy shook his head. "Most people, they'd have called it a day after goin' off the bridge. Couldn't believe when Curtis," gesturing at the tall one, "said he saw y'all swimming for shore. But then, you a soldier, right?"
"Yeah," Jason said softly. "That's right."
"I feel that." He gestured with the pistol. "Toss your strap."
"Huh?"
Playboy rolled his eyes. "Your gun. Drop your gun."
"I don't have one."
The gangbanger raised the Ruger to point at Jason's face, the black hole of the barrel sure and unblinking. Jason stared back. "I don't."
"What'd you do with my Beretta?"
"DiRisio and his crooked cops took it from me."
Playboy's eyes narrowed at that. "DiRisio, huh?"
"Yeah. Same guy who hired you to grab me. Same guy who killed my brother."
Wind stirred leaves in the reedy trees along the water's edge. Playboy stared at him another moment, shrugged. "That was a nice gun."
"You want to give me the one you're holding, I'll buy you a new Beretta." Trying to play cool, just like the first time they'd met. To keep tensions from escalating. All the while, his heart vibrating against his ribs.
"Don't think so." Playboy gestured at Cruz with his free hand. "Stand up, sister."
Cruz started to rise, made it halfway, then staggered. Her legs went wobbly, and she moaned and fell. Tried to catch herself, her hands tangling up with her ankles. Jason lunged to help her, moving without thinking. She'd seemed stronger a minute ago. Standing up must have been the problem. "I think she might have a concussion."
"Yeah?" The voice bored.
"She's not part of our business."
Playboy snorted. "Man, pick your bitch up."
Jason's fingers tingled, that old battle rush. He knew then, knew with certainty. Playboy was here to execute them.
Jason had seen it more times than he could count. Mass graves and abandoned bodies. Hands tied or cuffed, two in the head. Sunnis at first, but before long plenty of Shi'as, too. Regular folk, mostly, caught up in a war they hadn't chosen to fight. Victims of political rivalries, or kidnappings, or plain evil luck. Caught beneath the wheels of circumstance and shredded like dolls.
But knowing Playboy's intentions didn't change anything. They were alone in a wasteland, unarmed, and damn near helpless. Jason grit his teeth and put an arm under Cruz's shoulder, lifted her slowly to stand. Her weight was awkward. Her right arm flopped behind his back, and it seemed heavy the way it hit him.
Playboy regarded them from five feet away, the gun sideways in a gangster grip.
"You're holding your weapon wrong," Jason said.
"That a fact."
"Yeah. The recoil is going to throw your aim off. Hell, a big.45 like that, you might end up punching yourself in the face."
"Want to bet," rocking the hammer back with his thumb, "whether it'll work or not?"
Icy water flowed through Jason's veins. This couldn't be the way. He hadn't walked beneath Middle Eastern suns to die on the banks of a shitty river. Hadn't found Cruz just to die with her. "Why are you doing this?" Fighting for time, his eyes darting.
"Mother fucker." Playboy's voice a chipped razor. "You really asking after what you did?" He stepped forward. "C-Note was like my brother. He and I been tight since we was shorties. You shoot the man in his bathrobe, and got the nerve to ask me why I'm doing this?"
"I didn't kill C-Note."
"Yeah, and my black ass is mayor." Playboy's eyes burned. He stepped forward, the gun level with Jason's eyes. "I loved that man. Not ashamed to say it. Nothing I ain't prepared to do to get those that killed him."
"We're not them." Anger powered the truth in his voice. Bad enough to think of losing now, when they were so close. But to die because of the handiwork of his brother's killer? The irony was too cruel. "It was DiRisio killed C-Note."
"A man staring down a gat'll say anything to survive."
Cruz moaned and sagged like she were losing consciousness. Her head flopped on his shoulder, and Jason tightened his grip on her. As he did, he felt her hand tap his back again. There was something weird about it. He looked over at her, expecting to see dilated pupils, pale skin, the classic signs of shock and concussion.