Chapter Nine

 

DAVIS

 

Beauchamp picks up his phone promptly. It's a surprise, given the sort of man he is. An odd glimpse of a responsible person, underneath the layers of scumbag that he seems to want to show to the world.

"Who is this?"

I smile to myself, the idea that I can call this bastard any time I want, and when I say 'jump,' he'll have to say 'how high?'

"Who do you think it is, baby?"

I can hear the frustration on his side of the line, even as he doesn't say anything. There's not much he can say, is there? I have him just about dead to rights, and that's how it's going to be from now on.

"How did you get this number?"

I can't get this grin off my face. Can't stop myself from feeling a little pleasure at being able to yank his chain.

"You think we'd hold on to your phone for two hours, and we wouldn't even bother to get your phone number? What do you take us for, Beauchamp? Idiots? We got you."

"Fine," he says. I can hear the sound of movement in the background. Someone's there with him, and if that puts him in an uncomfortable situation, I'm all that much happier.

"How's your infiltration going?"

"I've got a plan, but it's not like it's going to get done all in one day. That ain't how this game works, babe."

"You'll call me by my name, or not at all."

"Fine, what's that?"

"Davis. That's 'Agent Davis,' to you."

"You don't have a first name?"

"Not one you need to be calling me by."

"Fine, then, 'Agent' Davis. Why are you fuckin' on my phone?"

"I just thought I should be checking up on you."

There's no reason to get to the real purpose of my call, not too soon or too quickly. Beauchamp still has an important lesson to learn.

The first lesson in dealing with me, especially when I have the full might of the American government behind me, is that I'm not on his time. He's on my time, and if I want him to wait then he waits.

The sooner he learns it, the better. I wait a long time before I continue, driving home my lesson without ever needing to explain it.

"Did you fuckin' need me for something?"

"Yes, Beauchamp. You need to figure out the routine around here. You report in. To me. Directly."

"Fine. Where do you want to meet?"

"That bar of yours was an awfully nice spot. I believe you were just pouring me out a drink when things went so badly for you."

"It's not a mistake I'll make again. No. You can consider the bar off-limits. Too risky to have you there."

"Listen here," I purr. "I'll go where I like, and you'll get the place ready for me. You don't want anyone seeing me there? Get them out. I'll be there in fifteen minutes, and I expect a cold beer to be ready for me."

I hang up the phone before he has a chance to answer, and slip into the car. It's too upscale for the area. I'll stand out. But that never mattered before. I don't care about blowing his cover, not really.

Because he still has plausible deniability, if they draw a connection between him and the cops. He got picked up earlier that day, and now the lead agent is hassling him.

No muss, no fuss, and if he can't figure out how to deal with that, then he's not as useful to me as I thought he could be.

The drive takes two minutes less than I expected. I don't bother taking a lap around, but it wasn't hard to see Hawkins driving away on the hog the government paid for him to buy.

There's another bike as I pull up, one I don't recognize. Not Hawkins's, and definitely not the old thing that Beauchamp rides. I shrug and keep moving. If he didn't get everyone out, then that's his mistake.

It's not mine, and that's all there is to it. Well, he can play it how he wants, for now. I'll do what I have to do to keep my pieces in play, but I'm not going to coddle him.

I push the door open and look around. The place is dimly lit, a handful of tables with chairs upside-down on top. Maybe fifty people could fit in here. It'd be cozy, though.

The only things lighting up the bar are the neon sign—creatively reading "BAR"—and a single overhead light that shines down on Ryan's face. It gives him an appearance that looks like it's carved out of marble.

"You said you wanted to see me?"

"Who's bike is that?"

"Don't you worry about him. He had to catch a cab home. Too much to drink."

I put on my best bitch face. What's he going to do—call me on it?

"I got a call today, from my guy."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. We have people up and down your organization." I take a dramatic pause, searching his face for signs of doubt. "And I don't want you going after my guys."

"Well, it's too late. I already found him. That's his bike outside."

It isn't, but I make a face as if I'm buying it. "You wouldn't have—"

"I did."

I don't know what to do, now. He's calling my bluff, and I can't let him see that I'm not upset by it.

"You son of a bitch, you think you can get out of this by getting rid of our guy on the inside? You think that's the limit of what we're able to do?"

"I think you're all talk."

His expression isn't one that shows any doubt. He's got a poker face to beat them all, but even still… no doubt.

I unholster my gun, put it on the counter. "You're in this, now. And there ain't no way out, and if you hurt one hair on his head, I swear to Christ, I will—"

"You should've said something sooner. He's gone."

I swallow hard. Is that a confession? Can I use that?

"You god damned idiot. You fucking moron."

He doesn't respond to my insults. I shouldn't have been making them. It's making me look weak, and I know it, but the way he's looking at me—

"You just signed your own death sentence, you idiot."

"I don't think so, 'Agent' Davis. I think you need me, or you'd have kept me in that cell."

I grit my teeth. "For now, maybe."

"So cut the tough-guy act. You're all talk, and you've got nothing going for you. Maybe if you stop pulling this bullshit, I'll play by your rules."

"Oh, you'll straighten up—"

Ryan puts his hand on my gun, pushes it away from me a little way down the bar. The easy way he does it is completely natural, completely doubtless. As if he owned me, and there was nothing I could ever have done.

I can feel a little surge of something that might have been arousal. I love it when I've got a fight on my hands.

I swallow hard, look him in the face. I have to do something, have to prove I'm still in control. I wind back and take a wide swing at his face.

He sways back and it swings hard past his nose, and then I can feel his arms grabbing my by my shoulder, pulling me up and over the bar and then he's got control of the situation, and I've got to hope he's not going to use it.