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Authors: Janey Mack

BOOK: Choked Up
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Chapter 46
Ivanović's replacement, a brawny lumberjack of a man with dead eyes and steel wool skin met us at the elevator doors. “He is waiting in library.”
Unfathomable, really, how my heels could click against the hardwood, while I was certain I was wading through quicksand.
Stannis paused in front of the closed French doors. “Of grave fortune, yes?”
I'm going to assume you meant of grave importance.
“Are you ready,
Vatra Anđeo?
”
Not one tiny bit.
I nodded.
He threw open the doors. We stared at the man cable-tied to Stannis's desk chair, and then back at each other, our eyes wide.
Whoa.
“It's about goddamn time you showed up!” Talbott Cottle Coles yelled. “Get me outta this fucking chair!”
The pupils in Stannis's electric blue eyes contracted to pinpricks. He laid a gentle hand on my head. “One moment, Maisie.” He walked out of the room.
Coles waited until he left. “What the fuck is going on, you treacherous cunt?”
Nothing good, you sonuvabitch.
I took a good long look at Coles behind the empty desk. Wiry, deeply tanned, with a Zoom white Hollywood smile, his salt-and-pepper hair recently darkened. Fear, tinged with the lingering smell of cigarettes, hung around him like a malodorous cloud.
He was wealthy and powerful and the mayor of Chicago. And he had paid someone not to scare or hurt, but to actually fecking kill me.
It wasn't until Stannis reentered the room that I realized Holst's “Mars, the Bringer of War” was now playing quietly in the background. “Close the doors, Maisie.”
“Hey. Hey now, Stannis,” Coles said. “I don't know what your game is, but let me go and I'll play along.”
Stannis slowly shook his dark head. “Your shooter is dead.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” Coles's eyes went tight. He tried to spin it, voice dropping into a tease. “You got me how you want me. Get rid of her.”
Stannis reached into his suit coat pocket and came out with a full fist. “You think I do not find out?”
He threw the contents hard at the table. Bullets clattered onto the steel desk, bouncing crazily in all directions. Coles cringed, jerking as some hit him.
“Your hitter cost me Ivanović.”
“That was Eddie V.'s hitter.”
“You work against me?” Stannis raised his palms. “To kill me?”
“No, never! You know I'd never hurt you,” Coles said. “He was ordered never to fire when you were there. Never.”
“Then who?”
Coles's chin raised, obstinate. “Her.”
“Maisie?”
The perverse green monster reared its head. “You are always fucking with her. Always.”
Stannis folded his arms across his chest. “I would say you are jealous like woman.” He shook his head. “But is insult to Maisie.”
He circled behind Coles, opened the lower desk drawer, took out the grisly black ash box, and put it on the desk.
Coles didn't flinch.
He had no idea what was coming. Stannis's legacy, the jar of finger bones, had been moved from the desk to the bookshelf behind him.
Stannis removed the old iron key from his pocket and set it on the desk.
No turning away this time. Not sure I wanted to, anyway.
I stepped forward, picked up the key, and unlocked the box.
Stannis's bright blues filled with emotion. “Claim your place,
Vatra Anđeo.
” He removed the brutal iron cleaver and offered it to me.
Holy Christ.
The skin tightened on the back of my neck.
I laid my hand on top of the blade and gently pushed it down toward the desktop. “No evil is as cruel as hope.”
Stannis's eyes sparked with delight.
“You win, all right?” Coles forced out a weak laugh. “I'm sorry I had someone shoot at you. I'll never do it again.”
Stannis turned to Coles. “You have choice to make, Talbott. To pay for your betrayal, Maisie will take one finger.”
“The fuck she will.” He yanked and jerked against the cable ties in impotent fury. “Touch me, bitch, and I'll kill your whole motherfucking family while you watch.”
“No,” Stannis said flatly. “You will not. I am
mesar
. The Butcher.”
Coles stiffened.
“Maisie will take finger or I will take your hand.”
The mayor sagged forward, his voice more a moan than a mumble. “Giveherit.”
“What?” Stannis asked politely.
“Give her the goddamn knife!”
Stannis offered the cleaver again. I gripped the battered handle and lifted it from his hands.
Oh God.
Stannislav's Buck knife appeared as if by magic. He cut the cable ties holding Coles's left arm.
“I don't think I can do this.” I walked to the edge of the desk, as stiff and jerky as a bird.
“Oh, you're going to fucking do it, all right.” Coles snorted in disgust, all bravado now.
Stannis moved the box to the edge of the desk. He put Coles's hand up against it. “Choose finger.”
“Aren't you the goddamn prince of darkness?” Coles laid his little finger onto the heavily scarred edge. The realization that this was not a onetime thing for Stannis swept across his face. He tried to swallow, couldn't, and cleared his throat.
Coles could die if Stannis took his hand.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
You can do this. Just like chopping carrots at home with Thierry.
“Open your goddamn eyes!” Coles snapped.
I raised the cleaver up past my chin. Stannis reached out, lowered my wrists down to slightly beneath my shoulders, and nodded.
One . . .
Feck it.
I swung the blade down as hard as I could.
It felt like chopping a slab of ballistics gel with a piece of glass in the middle.
Coles screamed and jerked up his arm, spittle and blood spraying as he cursed. Stannis grabbed his forearm and wrapped his hand in a white cotton towel.
Coles jerked away, his injured hand tight to his belly as he rocked back and forth against the cable ties holding him in the desk chair.
Stannis grinned at me, the enormous close-mouthed smile of a proud parent. He nodded and reached out his hand to my face. “
Vatra Anđeo.
” He wiped his thumb across my cheek, then held his hand away to show me the blood he'd rubbed off.
My vision dimmed at the edges.
I knew what he wanted me to say, so I said it. “
Moj đavo
.” Coles kept swearing. The pristine white towel on his hand was rapidly turning bright red with blood.
“Put your arm above your head, Your Honor,” I said.
“What the fuck are you standing there for?” Coles yelled at me, panting and whey-faced. “You've had your fun, you stupid whore. Now go get me a goddamn cup of ice so I can go to the ER and get the fucking thing reattached.”
Stannis spun the desk chair to face him. He dropped a heavy hand onto Coles's shoulder and leaned down until their noses were inches apart. “No, Talbott. It no longer belongs to you.”
“The fuck it doesn't. It's my goddamn finger!” Coles's cheeks darkened to an apoplectic brick red. “It's my fin—”
A knock sounded. The door opened enough for Kontrolyor to poke his head in. “Boss?”
“Get him out of my sight.”
Kon came in, opened a knife, and began cutting through the cable ties.
Stannis put his arm around my shoulders and turned us so our backs were to Coles.
Coles gasped as Kon stood him up.
“Stannislav . . .” Coles said. “Please . . .”
We stayed perfectly still until Coles stumbled from the room, Kontrolyor closing the door behind them.
“He has a vengeful temper,” I said.
“Talbott will look at his hand every day and remember. He will do nothing.” Stannis walked over to the desk, picked up the little finger, and held it out to me. “Come, Maisie.”
I forced myself to take it.
It was still warm.
My head spun. Somehow, I floated over to the plinth with Stannis. He turned on the light beneath the glass cage.
I looked right in, not even minding that I knew the driver's finger had already been removed and placed in the jar on his desk.
I hardly even noticed that the five other fingers were almost ready to join the driver's and that the bones of a man's hand are so very fragile without the sinew and tendons.
“Do not disrupt the Staphylinidae.” Stannis slid the lid back. “Slow.”
Smooth and unhurried, I lowered my arm into the cage and gently laid the mayor of Chicago's little finger in a nest of wood chips in the rear right corner.
Chapter 47
The kitchen was full of Stannislav's men from last night's wake for Ivanović. “
Vatra Anđeo!
” they stood, toasting me with coffee, juice, and at least a couple of screwdrivers.
I had officially joined the ranks. In what capacity, I wasn't exactly sure. Chopping off Talbott Cottle Coles's finger made me more of a mascot than an equal.
Sweet Jaysus.
I am the rally monkey of the Srpska Mafija cartel.
Kontrolyor was making totally normal American breakfast food: French toast, bacon, and eggs. I stood at the counter eating a piece of bacon, focusing on the crispy, salty goodness, trying to force the latent Coles guilt to the back of my mind.
It wasn't like I had a choice, I kept telling myself.
My conscience has gone deaf to logic.
Stannis came into the kitchen looking like
Vogue
's idea of a European magnate. He kissed my cheek. “Today, we go to crematorium. Talk of Ivanović.” He gave a somber glance at one of the men. “He will take Ivanović home.” He raised an apologetic shoulder. “Is not place for you.”
Talk about a governor's reprieve.
I nodded. “Are you okay?”
“After today, yes. Slajic will provide for Ivanović's family.” He pulled a money clip from his pants pocket and started to thumb through hundreds. “Go shopping. Have nice day.”
I stopped his hand with my own. “I only like to shop with you.” I pulled a single hundred from between his fingers. “But I will have a nice lunch.”
He laughed. “You are good for me.”
 
I was officially off-leash.
And it felt fantastic. I walked with a spring in my step the eight blocks to my dummy apartment's underground parking lot.
I got in the Hellcat Challenger, sucked in a lungful of new car smell, and hit the radio. A clean version of “Damn It Feels Good to Be a Gangsta” started playing. I left the garage, letting my tires squeal a little on the turns. The irony alone had me laughing so hard I stopped the car at the mouth of the garage until I caught my breath.
I put my sunglasses on and told Siri to play The Specials' “Pressure Drop,” then took off for Special Unit like a bat with the winning lottery ticket out of hell.
Anita, as usual, met me at the door. “Good to see you, Rook.” She gave me a two-finger salute. “You know the way to Sawyer's office.”
That I do. That I surely do.
His office door was electronically ajar by the time I reached it. I knock-entered.
Walt's face was as welcoming as a snow bath.
Brrrr.
“What happened?”
“It's been handled, sir.” I cringed inwardly as I realized how completely stupid that sounded. “The shooter was after me. Renko's bodyguard was collateral damage.”
Jaysus, that sounded harsh.
“Why you?” His voice was as uninterested as if we were talking about how bad the Bears would be this year.
“Eddie's trying to force his way into Renko's operation. Veteratti's in a coke addict's downward spiral. Paranoid, aggressive. Renko figured Eddie tried to take me out to teach him a lesson and hired Black Hawk to hunt the hitter.”
Sawyer took a sip of tea, and put the cup back in the saucer. “Go on.”
“The next day, Black Hawk calls me to pick up Renko at The Storkling. Violetta Vetterati's right-hand man, Jimmy the Wolf, is holding him. Vi offered up an honor debt to forgive Eddie's participation for brokering the hit.”
Walt sighed. “More than enough of an excuse for Constantino to clip him.”
“Vi tells us the shooter's been liquidated and his employer would be delivered to Renko's penthouse.”
Sawyer's lips twitched. “Are you telling me we have a Murder One on the table?”
“Umm . . . no.” I cleared my throat. “This is where things get a little . . . hinky.”
“Hinky?”
“Can I go off the record?”
“You do realize, Maisie, that we are the police. Sworn to uphold the law.” Sawyer folded his arms across his chest. “There is no ‘off the record'.”
“Yes sir.” I took a deep breath. “Talbott Cottle Coles was who they delivered.”
He blinked. “The mayor of Chicago. Hired a hit man to kill you. Why?”
I shrugged. “Jealousy.”
“And you yourself do not have a sexual relationship with Stannislav Renko?”
“No sir.”
The enormity of the situation fell on me like a piano from a silent movie.
Jaysus. We weren't only talking termination, we were talking serious time. What kind of sentence does an undercover cop get for first-degree assault of a city official?
I must have gone as pale as I felt.
“I take it we're at the hinky part.” He sat back in his chair.
I nodded. “Renko's loyalty for Goran Slajic is absolute. He would never kill Coles due to his position.”
“And?” Sawyer prompted.
“Coles got to choose. I could take his finger or Renko would take his hand.”
Walt Sawyer's face creased in amused disbelief. “And where is the Honorable Mayor Coles now?”
“I'm not sure.” My knee started bouncing. “After I chopped off his left pinkie with a sixteenth-century Serbian cleaver, one of Renko's men took him to Northwestern Memorial Emergency Room.”
Walt Sawyer raised a palm to me and turned his chair around for a full two minutes. He spun back around. “Upon reevaluation, that conversation was off the record.”
Whew.
I nodded so hard my teeth rattled. “Yessir.”
“We need to shut Renko down. Now. With the influx of money from the theft of two dozen brand-new luxury cars, Slajic's entry into the arms market is a given.” Sawyer rubbed the back of his neck. “Chop shops, the New York Mob, hit men, and kidnapping the mayor are one thing. Gunrunning with the Mexican cartels via Chicago takes precedent. Any ideas?”
“Renko never wanted to heist the new cars,” I said. “He thought it a fool's enterprise when chopping is so much safer and cost-effective. He's too clever to use the salt storage facility or hit the closed transports again.”
“What if the stolen cars weren't new?” Walt spitballed.
“Chopped, they're worth more than new . . .” I stopped, the pieces of an idea fitting together like parts of a Revell SnapTite model. A slow grin spread across my face. “I need to make a call.”
Walt set his desk phone in front of me. “Proceed.”
I took out my iPhone. “Would you mind facing the other direction, sir?” I asked Walt Sawyer as my cheeks went fire red. “It's . . . I'm shy.”
His eyes widened in disbelief. “Moments ago, you confessed to chopping off the mayor of Chicago's finger, and yet you're embarrassed for me to watch you flirt with a suspect?”
“Exactly.”
Walt spun his desk chair toward the wall.
I dialed Alfonso Javier Rodriguez's private number from the card and put it on Speaker.
“Hello?”
“El Cid? This is—”
“Maisie McGrane from Chicago?”
Whoa. He knows my name. That's . . . bad.
“Yes, it is.”
“What does a girl from a family of cops want with El Cid?”
“Half,” I said.
“What?”
“Half my family is police. The other half is defense attorneys.”
He laughed politely. “As enticing as the opportunity to be arrested and then defended sounds—”
I'm losing him.
“What can I say?” I paused, then dangled a little
Fight Club
. “You met me at a very strange time in my life.”
He hesitated, unsure if I knew what I'd said. He threw back, “And it's ending one minute at a time.”
Gotcha!
I spun Walt's chair around and replied to El Cid with a grin, “C'mon, it'll be fun.”
“Two things I'm not willing to lose are my freedom and my life,” he warned. “You still with Renko?”
“Yes,” I said. “Any interest in brokering a deal?”
“I thought you were a smart cookie,” he said. “Cutting out your boyfriend isn't clever.”
“It'll still be Renko and Grieco's deal. No reason we can't scratch each other's backs. I'm in it for a finder's fee.”
El Cid was plenty interested now. “For what?”
“My genius. What kind of interest do you think Carlos would have in two dozen perfectly restored vintage muscle cars?”
“A helluva lot. What's your cut for these raceable dreams?”
“One percent,” I said.
“Why so little?”
“A bull and a bear can escape the slaughterhouse, but never the pig.”
Jaysus Criminey, I'm starting to sound like Stannis.
“Of course, if you can convince Grieco to ask this of Renko, you, too, deserve a commission,” I said, setting the hook. “A car, of your choice, as a gift.”
“It can't come with Grieco's containers.”
“You'll have to meet it in Juárez,” I warned.
“Done.” El Cid went silent, considering. “I want a 1971 Chevelle SS 454.”
Walt typed the car into his computer and swiveled the screen. A restored model ranged anywhere from $35K to $50K. “Really?” I asked. “That's your choice?”
“I'm no little pig, either. The Chevelle is a workingman's car. Chevy made a lot of them, they're fast as hell, easy to get parts for, and anyone can work on 'em. Even the idiots in my pit crew.”
“The show's in a week,” I said. “You're gonna have to work fast.”
He let his voice go low and husky. “No worries, Maisie baby.”
I hung up.
“A non-starter, I thought.” Walt tapped his fingertips together. “How did you turn him around?”
“Quotes from the movie
Fight Club
.”
He frowned, puzzled.
“With five older brothers, I pretty much know all the words to the Godfathers,
Goodfellas
,
Tombstone, Fight Club,
the first three
Star Wars,
and every Tarantino movie.”
“It's that easy?”
I didn't think it was that easy.
“Pretty much.”
Walt leaned back in his chair and tapped a pen against his lower lip. “For Special Unit, forty thousand dollars is a reasonably cost-effective buy-in to the Grieco Cartel.”

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