Chapter Thirty-Four

 

RYAN

 

I have the bike hidden next to a dumpster behind a warehouse. I don't know what they're storing here, but it doesn't look like the kind of place that gets checked often, and I don't have much worry about a dump truck coming and mistaking my bike for it.

After all, I'm leasing the unit half-a-block over, and I happen to know that trash collection is Thursday morning. So now I'm just leaning out enough to see. I don't know where else I'm supposed to go.

The Crazy Horses are big enough that they've got layers of protection. One of those is that some places, like the Irish pub that I did my part to roughen up, are as legit as they come.

I can walk into them, and sure—I'm not really supposed to go in. But they might not even know who they're being paid by to watch the place. They certainly don't realize that there's any connection to the drug trade.

Then you get the clubhouses. Maybe sometimes a guy with real connections—someone who's met Scheck, once or twice. Someone who McCallister might have heard his name. They go there to drink. But to call them friendly? Hardly.

And of course, Scheck wouldn't go in there, either. But someone might know about the business. That's where we usually get our information. People who are too stupid to keep their mouths shut, and know just enough for us to make money off it.

Then you have places that Scheck might go—warehouses, places where guns or drugs are moving through. But that's not going to be her usual haunt, either. Nor any of her goons. They'll go there to check up.

The place they took me when I got myself picked up looked a hell of a lot like a warehouse, on the outside. But I've been in warehouses plenty of times. Working places.

This wasn't that. So if they're going to hang out anywhere, then this place is as good a chance as anything. Fortified, familiar, comfortable. I don't know that this is the only place that fits. It probably isn't. But I have to hope that this is the one that someone picks today.

There's parking in the back, but I'd have to get far, far too close to the front door for that. They've probably got guys on surveillance. They're not just standing outside, though, which is why they haven't noticed me yet. At least, that's what I hope. It's what I tell myself.

I have to wait a long time before there's any movement at all. A truck passes by. It's bright red, probably five years old. The springs creak as it turns onto the street, and then it passes right on by. It came from somewhere else, and it's going somewhere else.

A long time passes. I stopped keeping track after the first hour. With the long odds I have to deal with, there's nothing to do but just assume that I have to wait all day for someone to come out. When I do, then I can make decisions.

More movement. This time, a car pulls out of the driveway next to the warehouse that isn't anything like a warehouse. I get a glimpse of a woman with big, dark glasses covering most of her face, but I wouldn't mistake that face anywhere. Not even through the thick tint.

I make a mental note of the license plate, make and model. I'll recognize it again if I see it, and I intend to see it quite well. The bike's right where I left it, and it starts on the first try. I resist the temptation to thank it.

By the time I slip back onto the road, the sun is already pretty high in the sky, and the street is just as empty as it has been the rest of the day. I take a guess at the light and risk it.

There's nothing else I can do, not really. Besides, I have to assume that she's just finished the night's business. If she's heading home, that's into town. Not out of town. So it's a little bit of an educated guess.

I speed a little. I only have to make up three minutes, but at these speeds, that's a little over two miles, and two miles provides a lot of opportunity to lose someone who can't see you.

She doesn't lose me, though. It only takes three or four minutes to catch a glimpse of that black sedan. It stands out, classic Volvo sharp lines.

It's polished so well that it looks brand new. The sort of thing you might find at a car show. There might have been something to talk about between us, if she hadn't decided to cause trouble for me.

It takes another minute to catch her up properly, but I can't afford to get close. The minute she recognizes the bike, it'll be all over. She'll just walk me right into a trap, and I'll be dead before I can get the kick-stand down.

Scheck pulls off into a residential area. Somewhere about as nice, I figure, as Logan's place. Not the same, though, and not close.

I follow her through the streets that twist in on themselves like a snail's shell until she pulls into a driveway. I keep going and double back a couple streets over.

Just like I'd hoped, the car is empty when I pull the bike up. I kick the stand out and pull the weapon from my pocket. This is going to have to go fast, because I'm not exactly a hard man to identify—and I'm certainly not a man without enemies.

She doesn't have a gate. Just bars over the door. Well, there was her first mistake. I use the gun as a club and smash the lock. The bars, freed from the padlock she keeps it locked with, swing open easily.

I have to take a risk to make things quick. I turn the gun around, fire two shots into the handle and push. It swings open easily. The air-conditioned air inside whooshes into my face as I step through.

She's running already, two long steps away and trying to duck under my reach. I bring up a knee hard, one that catches her as she tries to duck under grabbing arms that never materialize.

Scheck crumbles to the ground. "What the fuck—Jesus! Don't kill me."

She's got her back pressed against the banister by the stairs now. I can see in her eyes that she's trying to figure out what to do next. The choice to stay there doesn't seem to be on her radar.

"Where's my brother," I ask. I thumb the hammer on the pistol to accentuate the point.

The look on her face is unmistakable. She twists it up in confusion, like I'd asked her how many hula hoops she's eaten in one sitting.

"What?"

I'm already getting a sinking feeling in my stomach.

"Logan Beauchamp. What have you done with him?"

"Ryan, I don't know what you're talking about."

"'You don't know what I'm talking about—' Bull shit. You're trying to get revenge for that job we pulled on your boys. I get it. Where is he?"

"Ryan, please, I don't—" she sucks in a breath and closes her eyes for a long moment. "We don't have him."

Now she's in control of herself again. Her fingers clutch at her long sleeved shirt. I might have worried if it didn't cling to her the way it did, and if I couldn't see that she's not hiding anything in it.

"Fine, then. Who does?"

"I don't know. Are you going to shoot me?"

I haven't decided yet. The decision gets made as the words come out of my mouth.

"Not yet."

Her eyebrows move up in understanding.

"Then get out of here."

I lean back against the door, the handle practically falling apart where I shot apart the lock. I gesture at it with the gun before pointing it back at Scheck as I pull a phone out to call Davis.

"You'll want to get that looked at."