Chapter Five

 

DAVIS

 

I don't like it when he looks at me. He looks like he's seeing right through me. But I'm in control, and I know it. I repeat it to myself. I'm in control, and there's not a damned thing that he can do about it.

"What we want? We don't want little shits like you, I'll tell you that."

I don't like the way he looks at me, but I like the way that hit him. Right between the legs, where it hurts. I keep myself from smiling at the thought.

"What do I have to do with this?"

"I just want to be clear about what we're trying to get out of you, Ryan. If you were our biggest concern? Hah. We'd leave you be. You're nothing."

His teeth grit together in frustration, but he doesn't respond to my jab. Smart boy. Smarter than I'd expected, to be honest. But that doesn't much matter, not in the long run. I turn back to the observation room, as if to say 'this is how you do this, Daniel.'

"What I want from you is to get in with the big fish. I want you to get an in with Brent McCallister."

He sucks in air through his teeth. That's what I wanted. A real response.

"That doesn't just happen, babe."

"No? You don't say. They don't just hire on any old body?"

"Cut the sarcastic bullshit."

I lean back in, giving him another view he's going to enjoy more than I'd like him to. Well, whatever. Whatever I have to do to nail McCallister.

"That's why we're prepared to give you enough leash to hang yourself with, Beauchamp. We're going to cut you loose because you're the kind of guy who wants to make a name for yourself, and that makes you perfect for exactly one thing, and one thing only: getting in with McCallister."

"Okay, well, if you think that shit's going to happen, then you're sorely mistaken. But fuck it. You guys want to let me go? Fine, I'll go. But if I get the stink of feds on me, then we're already up shit creek."

"What did I tell you about language, Beauchamp?"

"You finally got that soap you're going to wash my mouth out with?"

"I can, if you're not careful. Is that what you want, Beauchamp?"

"Whatever you say, boss. You got all that on camera, right? You'll let me go when all this is over, when I'm done playing errand-boy?"

I let him see a little smile slip across my lips. "You see, Beauchamp? You can learn. There may be a hope for you yet."

I like the look of annoyance that crosses his face. I like watching him squirm, knowing that I have the control. It's not a feeling that he gets often, with women. He seems like the kind who likes to be in control in bed.

Well, he'll just have to learn how to hold himself back. Because he wasn't in the driver's seat this time, he's going to have to learn to ride bitch some time, and that's how it's going to be.

"Well, if that's how it is, give me that cup of water, and let me the fuck go, and get that big fucker back in here."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I know how this shit goes, and if I come back without a scratch on me, there's going to be some questions I don't look forward to answering, that's what it means."

"Alright," I said, already enjoying the idea of seeing this smug fuck get what's coming to him. "You hear that, Danny? He says he wants to make friends with you."

I hand him the cup, undo one of the handcuffs. His hand goes automatically to his wrist, rubbing the place where it was squeezed down too tight.

As I leave, he takes the cup, drinks deep, and crushes the paper in his large, thick hands. Danny's already there at the door, looking ready.

He was only ever good for beatings. A man from the wrong time, who might have fit in back in the sixties. Now, with all the cameras all over the place, there was no way that a bruiser like Danny would be able to do what he did best.

But if he had permission, well that was a very different thing. I pull the feed on the video camera as Beauchamp fits the key into the other handcuff, releases himself. Danny makes like a nice guy for a minute.

That doesn't last long, though. He pushes the table back out of the way a little, rolling his sleeves up. Beauchamp lifts his arms up, bracing them behind his head and getting ready for the beating of a lifetime.

It had better be a good one, I thought. He might have been the kind of stupid son of a bitch that gets into gun running, but he's right about one thing. It's too dangerous to go back out with nothing to show for his trip in to the station.

If he was never going to see the light of day again, they'd have gone in on him hard, and any one of McCallister's boys would know that. None of them were stranger to the insides of these cells.

They never got anything on them, though. Squeaky-clean. It was all innuendo and bullshit. None of them were strangers to the inside of these rooms, that was, except for McCallister himself.

So like it or not, Beauchamp was the only option, because whatever the fuck the good guys were doing wrong, someone must have been giving orders to the Crazy Horses.

I watched Ryan God damned Beauchamp for a year, and planned that grab for three weeks, and it couldn't possibly have gone one bit better.

Which made it that much more annoying that they were going to let him go, that they were going to give him immunity on that shit. But if it went down that I was the agent responsible for McCallister, then that was about all that it took to salve that pain.

I loosen my hands where I didn't notice them tightening into hard fists as Danny drives his own fist hard into Beauchamp's ribs. He stumbles back a step or two, breathing hard.

A few good hits will do that to a guy, and Danny knows how to hit. Could've been a real good boxer, if he wanted to. But instead, he wanted to be a cop. Like his daddy was, back in the day.

Well, there were no cops like his daddy, not any more. But sometimes it helped to have a bruiser on the squad, regulations or not.

Another shot comes in, batches Beauchamp in the gut. He turns over double for a moment, groaning in pain. Then he straightens back up, his arms locked once again behind his head.

If it wasn't for the breathing, if it wasn't for the way that Danny rubbed the pain out of his knuckles, I might not have been able to tell that he'd been getting hit for the better part of two minutes.

Danny pulls back his fist and jams it into the floating ribs, hard enough that one of them might have broken. He pulls back and watches Beauchamp straighten up again, his hands locked behind his head.

He braces again for the next hit. Danny should have stopped after the last one, but I understand. When you're dealing with a son of a bitch like Ryan Beauchamp, sometimes you bite off more than you can chew.