Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

DAVIS

 

I can't point the gun at him. He's moving to pick up Danny's gun from where it fell on the floor, and he could shoot the big oaf any second now, but I can't force myself to point the gun at him.

"Stop," I say. I try to sound more confident than I feel, but it doesn't come out even a little bit right.

"You going to make me?"

Ryan turns. He's got a darkness in his face that reminds me out of the blue that he's not just some pretty boy.

The part of me that feels the fear now wants to put the gun down. I want to tell him that I'm sorry for coming here, that we'll leave. It's what he wants and he's going to get what he wants.

But then the training takes over.

"Put it down, Beauchamp, or I swear to God you'll have a new hole to breathe out of." My hand tightens on the gun.

"Not until you tell me what you're doing here. Do you have a warrant?"

"No, but—"

"Then tell me what the fuck you're doing breaking into my house, or come back with a warrant."

I take a breath. There's a lot more going on here than I'd like. Someone needs to calm down, and it's going to be me—whether I like it or not.

I slide my pistol into it's holster and show my hands. Ryan slips the magazine out of Danny's weapon, and cycles the bullet out of the chamber before handing it back to him. He sets the magazine on the table.

 

"One of these days, you're going to piss off the wrong guy," he growls. Ryan looks exhausted, and a big part of me knows why he's so annoyed. Part of me doesn't blame him for it.

But there were more factors at work than whether or not Ryan was happy with me about my plans.

"Spider's dead," I tell him. I'd hoped to break it to him easier than that, or at least give myself some sort of lead-in. But he's not looking patient.

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Two things. First, there was a note attached. One that made it imminently clear that it was retribution for the robbery you pulled yesterday."

"Okay."

"Second, because you drive a very specific, very recognizable, bike, Beauchamp. A bike we saw driving away from the body being dumped." Danny's not picking up the subtlety of the situation, and I haven't told him anything I didn't have to.

"Well, what can I say? I wasn't there."

"If we thought you could have possibly been there, then you'd be in irons, Beauchamp."

Danny's pissing him off. I can see it in Ryan's face. I don't know whether to stop him, or kiss him. Ryan pissed off looks just as incredible as Ryan any other time.

In the current situation, though, a pissed-off Ryan Beauchamp will be a wild card we need in play. I just have to hope, for my sake, that Danny doesn't push him hard enough to get himself hit in the face. I don't want to have to broker that situation.

"So that leaves three more," Ryan answers. He's ignoring Danny now. That's the right way to go. I try to send him all my positive thoughts. I don't know if he gets them or not.

"Exactly," I tell him. I try to get it across to him that I don't want a complete list, not in front of my partner. I don't know if he gets the message, but he does what I want.

"Which means we're in a real hurry."

"Why don't we just arrest this… upstanding citizen? Gang violence isn't our problem, boss."

"Why not, boss?" Ryan mimics the voice, then switches back to his natural voice. "I'd love to hear this."

"You know why, Danny. The sons of bitches watching the Crazy Horses aren't getting it done. We get them, we get credit for it."

"With Donaldsen breathing down our necks, though…?"

"Even with Donaldsen breathing down our necks. He can't block our getting the credit for the catch, if we get him. He'll sign on and pretend the whole thing was his idea, just you watch."

"If you say so," Danny agrees. He sits back from the table. "I don't know what this guy's bringing to the table, though."

Ryan speaks up. "Have you met Brent McCallister, Agent Ball?"

"No, and if you say you have, you're a liar," Danny growls. "Not in two days."

"You know what they say—squeaky wheel gets the oil." Ryan looks like he's enjoying this, now.

The doubt on Danny's face builds into disbelief and then anger, but he keeps a lid on it, and as he tries to figure it out, I can see he's having less and less trouble believing.

"You met McCallister?"

"Did I say I had?" Ryan shrugs. I can't stand it when this son of a bitch plays coy. I can't stand it one bit, and I can't help but find it sexy as hell.

"Don't play games with me, Beauchamp." I try to put an edge to my voice, an edge that I might use with Danny when he steps out of line. It doesn't work.

"Well, let's just say that there's a damn good reason that you ain't found the guy in a while."

"What? Are you about to tell me he's dead?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Ryan sits forward, leaning his weight on his elbows. "But he's not in Arizona. He's not in the United States. He's not in Mexico. He's incommunicado, and nobody inside seemed to be trying to reach the guy. Is he dead? I figure so, but maybe not."

"So you don't really know anything, then, is that what I'm hearing, Beauchamp?"

Danny's frustration plays into my hand, now. He needs to keep it under control, but he might just have it under wraps for now. I could kiss him. I won't.

"Well, I wouldn't say that, now." The smile across Beauchamp's face looks like he's gotten away with something. "You have pictures?"

"Of what? Your bad hair days?" I enjoy the way he rolls his eyes at my barb.

"Of the big names in the Crazy Horses. You want to know who's running it, I can tell you that much. But no names. They probably used fakes. I know faces, and those don't change so easy."

"Alright," I agree.

It takes twenty minutes one way to get into the office, five to print off photos, and twenty minutes back. Forty-five minutes total.

It takes about thirty seconds to pull up pictures on my phone. I'm sure as hell not supposed to have them, but as long as Danny doesn't rat me out—and he never has before—there's nothing to worry about.

Ryan flips through the pictures for a minute before he drops the phone onto the table. "There. Those two."

He jabs a finger at it, as if to drive the point home more, somehow.

There are four people prominently walking down the street in the picture. "Which two?"

"This guy is the one who they had hitting me. He's a good hitter, Agent Ball. You'd like him." Danny lets out a sharp breath through his nose. "This one seems to be in charge, far as I can tell."

"That's Marissa Scheck. McCallister's girlfriend. Fiancée. We figure she's his messenger."

"Well, I never saw her make a fuckin' call to consult with her husband-to-be. I'm thinking maybe they've cut out the middle-man. Ya think?" He gives me a look that suggests that it doesn't take much thought.

He's right. It doesn't.