Shoot 'Em Up by Janey Mack Page A

Special Unit. Empathy, awareness, and compassion cannot be consistently faked.” He made a minute adjustment to his cuff. “What else?”
    â€œThis assignment is larger in scope than I’m comfortable with.” Talk about the understatement of the year. “I’ve never purchased illegal drugs before, much less smuggled them across the border. And I have to trust El Cid to get me stateside.”
    â€œHe will.” Sawyer nodded reassuringly. “The first time, everyone desires the deal to go smoothly. I find greed takes hold by the third.” He raised a palm. “If the situation collapses, stay silent. Nyx has the resources to recover you.”
    â€œGot it.”
    â€œThere’s been another shooting. Two dead. Gun not recovered, but a 5.7x28 mm cartridge was. Special Unit will be liaising with Ditch Broady and the ATF regarding the original directive—recovering the FN Five-seveN MK2s. Any questions?”
    Yeah. A big one. “Is Lee Sharpe transitioning to be a field agent for Special Unit?”
    â€œWhy?” Sawyer cocked his head. “Do you have a personal interest in Mr. Sharpe?”
    â€œNo sir.” But he’s made no secret he has one in me.
    â€œGood. Have a care, Maisie. Intense bonds often form during stressful and perilous situations,” he said carefully, not answering the question. “Speaking of attachments, there have been no known communications between Stannislav Renko and the Srpska Mafija, nor with any of his men in Chicago.”
    â€œHe hasn’t reached out to me.” I bit back a smile at the confirmation that Stannis had gone to ground. Hank had the patience of a spider. It would be a good long while before he’d go near a phone and even longer before he’d let Stannis near one.
    â€œLet me know when he does.”
    * * *
    I parked in the ramp off of Clark Street and walked the two blocks to Giarrusso Dry Cleaners, where the sign said, Drop your pants here and you’ll receive prompt attention .
    A buzzer rang when I opened the door. A girl in full fifties pinup–style makeup took one look at me and called over her shoulder, “Wes!”
    A podgy guy wearing a gray Men’s Wearhouse suit came from the hallway behind the counter. “You Sawyer’s?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’m Wes Dorram. C’mon back.” I followed him back through the hallway to a steel door. He knocked twice, then let us inside.
    Nyx was on a cell phone, Ferragamos on the battered oak desk, working the long-limbed, long-haired Euro-look. “No, no, I haven’t. Which doesn’t mean I won’t.” He laughed.
    I stood at attention, listening to Nyx talk, all flattery and platitudes.
    Guess he saves the friendly patter for criminals.
    Wes stood at the door, hands folded, placidly chewing the inside of his cheek.
    Eventually, Nyx hung up. “Sawyer’s Liten Sötis. ” He came around to lean against the front of the desk. “Let’s see what kind of middleman you are.”
    â€œFive kilos, sixty K,” I said.
    â€œNot too shabby,” Wes muttered.
    Nyx shot him a dirty look. “Product will be stepped to shit.”
    I gripped my wrist behind my back. “El Cid said it’s the going rate for uncut in Juarez.”
    â€œDid he?”
    Hank’s Law Number Nine: Confidence is not competence.
    Still, AJ wouldn’t toy with me. I carried too much family baggage for sport. “Yes. It’d run seventy-five K stateside.”
    And now for the bad news. Because you made sharing the good news so very much fun already.
    I squared my shoulders. “I . . . uh . . . have to deliver the money to Juarez. El Cid said he’d help me get the heroin across the border.”
    â€œBargain shopping on behalf of the DEA?” He folded his arms across his chest. “How industrious.”
    â€œHe didn’t give me a choice, sir.”
    A Cheshire-cat smile