CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
GRACE
There’s a cruiser parked out front of City Hall, but around the back it’s quiet.
My burner bings. I check the message.
It’s a go.
I hope Hunter’s okay. After I actually explained the plan aloud, I myself tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t have it, stubborn as a proverbial mule.
Bit like someone else you know, isn’t it?
Shut up, Brain.
A delivery truck pulls up, the shutter door opening with a whine.
That will do.
I wait until the security guard comes up to meet the delivery guy before slipping behind them and into the loading dock.
I grab the first box I see and tuck it under my arm, continuing on like I’ve got a purpose. I used to sneak backstage to concerts like this when I was a teenager. Act like you’re meant to be there and it’s surprising the amount of places you can get into. Suffice to say Steven Tyler was pretty surprised to see me when I accidentally stepped into his dressing room.
I take the door at the end of the dock and come out into a hallway. A man in a suit, a cell to his ear, smiles as I walk past. I can practically feel his eyes glued to my ass.
I sniff the air.
Yep, smells like corruption alright.
Nothing pisses me off more than men in power using it to their own advantage. As if there aren’t enough problems in the world.
I turn a corner and spot a cop coming the other direction. I open the door to my immediate left and slip inside, a man at a desk standing to greet me. He looks me up and down, puzzled. “Are you my 1:45?
I open the door and check the hallway, the cop passing by.
“Um, no,” I smile, and swing back out into the hall.
“Pity,” I hear his reply muffled reply.
I take the emergency stairs until I come up to the third floor.
I pull in a deep breath, can picture Hunter doing the same, steeling himself before his part of the plan.
Here we fucking go.
I dump the box and walk quickly up to Nathan’s office, past the ditsy Pam Anderson clone he has for a secretary, slamming the doors to his office open and storming in.
He’s there, sitting at his desk… thank the good Lord. I never even considered the possibility he might not be here.
You’re getting sloppy. Focus.
I close the doors and lock them.
He stands. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I walk up to his desk slowly, swiping the cell on his desk away when he goes to reach for it. “Setting the record straight, because fuck me is it muddy at the moment. You could dredge the Hudson and still not come up with something this dirty.”
Nathan smiles, the sudden resemblance to his brother striking. “And you, singular, are going to ‘set the record straight,’ as you put it?”
I shake my head, taking the gun I shoved down the back of my pants out and bringing it up to his chest. “No. I’ve got a friend. Nathan, meet Wesson. Wesson, meet Nathan.”
Poor Chewie couldn’t make it.
I see Nathan swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “This isn’t funny anymore.”
I have to laugh. “You’re god damn right about that.”
I see his eyes searching his desk for something to use as a weapon, to get help… anything.
There’s a knock on the door. “Mr. Johnson? Is everything okay?”
I lift the gun to his head. “Tell her it’s fine.”
When he doesn’t respond, I pull the hammer back and lower it to his balls. “Do it.”
“It’s fine,” he says, calmer than I expected. He lowers his voice. “You know, you’re fucking dead when my brother gets here.”
“That’s funny given he’s on the other side of town right about now.”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re doing, Detective, do you? I’m fucking untouchable. I fucking own this city.”
“You sound like a cliché,” I tell him. “Like every other cardboard character whose head got too big and pockets too fat. You’re going down.”
“Like that bitch Rachel, because she was nothing to me.”
I resist the urge to pull the trigger. “So you killed her, because of your brother’s big fucking mouth. He couldn’t help it, could he? Boasting about the empire of human misery you two have built.”
Nathan leans over the desk, the façade gone for good. “You knew her. He told me that. He also told me she begged for him not to do it, even as he slipped the knife in, begged for forgiveness like the little slut she was.”
I tense, my finger twitching against the trigger.
“Do it,” he laughs. “I’d love nothing more than to die knowing you’ll spend your days being gang-banged by the guards at Queensboro.”
I keep it together. “Oh, I’m not going to jail. You are.”
He spans his arms, puffing his chest out. “Like I said, you can’t touch me.”
With my free hand I reach into my pocket and take out my burner, the one that’s been on speaker this entire time with my friend Tony from the FBI.
“You’re right. I can’t touch you, but the Feds sure as hell can.”