Hardin took out both of the 9mms he taken from Corsco’s men, held one in each hand.
“Not yet,” he said.
“Get up on their ass,” Hernandez said.
“Can’t lose them in here,” the driver said. “We hang back, let them park, hit them as they get out of the car.”
Hernandez nodded. That was the smarter play. Had to relax. Too much blood flow to his cock, he guessed. Just like being with a hot woman. The little head turning off the big one.
CHAPTER 87
Munroe had the chopper spun up and was hightailing it for the Loop. He was tracking the GPS on both Lafitpour’s and Hickman’s phones. Pretty clear they were on foot, walking north across the Loop. And neither one answering – calls going straight to voicemail.
Had to give Hardin credit. The whole west burbs thing was smoke and mirrors. Now he was crashing the deal, pushing Lafitpour into some fast meet where Hardin pulled all the strings.
“How long?” Munroe asked into his mic.
“Be downtown in thirty. Don’t know where I’m going to put this down, though.”
“Wherever I tell you,” said Munroe.
Munroe took a breath, let it out, started thinking. There was what you wanted and there was what you had, and they were almost always two different things. So Munroe started working through what he had.
The deal with Hardin was going to go through. Lafitpour would punch in the numbers and the $15 million would go wherever Hardin had him send it. Munroe was pretty sure that as soon as the money turned up wherever it was going, Hardin would have someone waiting on the other end to spread it out and make it disappear. That was the smart play and Hardin hadn’t done anything stupid yet. Munroe wasn’t going to be able to yank the chain on the transfer, pull the money back.
And, with $15 million and a twenty-minute head start, Hardin could get seriously gone.
Feds in raid jackets had been the plan for the first Hardin meet, but Munroe was hoping this to keep this one unofficial until after Hardin was dead. Guess that wasn’t going to happen. Had to do something to slow Hardin down.
Munroe called the director of the FBI – he didn’t have time to explain who he was to the field office guys in Chicago.
“What can I do for you Munroe?”
“I assume you have a rapid response team on call in Chicago?”
“Yeah.”
“Got a short clock situation here, Bill. Hickman, US attorney in Chicago; used to be one of your guys?”
“Yeah?”
“He’s being held hostage by a Nicholas Hardin and a DEA agent named Wilson.”
“This the thing we were supposed to be in on a few days back? Terrorist, drug lords, lots of other bullshit?”
“Gotten a little hairy since then, but yeah. I don’t have time to explain now, but I’m going to link you to the GPS on Hickman’s phone. Get a tactical team on that signal soonest – and I mean in like ten minutes. I’ll be there in twenty. It is imperative that Hardin and Wilson don’t get in the wind. And tell your boys these are dangerous folk. Hardin’s former scout/sniper, former Foreign Legion. Wilson’s got a mess of cartel notches on her belt, and they’ve both killed people this week.”
“You telling me you don’t want us reading them their rights?”
“You can read them. It just might be better if they can’t hear them when you do.”
“Do what I can, but you may get there before we do.”
Feebs were on their way, but them being on time was going to be a close thing. But the whole operation had officially gone sideways. Things were going to get loud and messy, which was exactly not what the big boys in DC wanted when they tabbed Munroe for this assignment. Munroe went through his mental ledger, started making calls, calling in chits, firing up the threats-and-favors apparatus. When you know you’re gonna ruffle some feathers, it’s good to have all your carrots and sticks lined up.
CHAPTER 88
Lafitpour and Hickman stepped out of stairwell and started across the sixth floor of the garage. Half empty up this far. They walked to the wall Hardin had told them to.
“We’re here,” Lafitpour said into his phone.
“Hang tight,” Hardin answered.
Al Din took his ticket from the machine, waited for the gate to go up, and then started up the ramp.
“Do you know what floor they are on?” he said to the phone.
“They just passed the cam on five,” Tokyo answered. “Only got six and the roof left.”
Al Din accelerated.
On five, Hardin started seeing more empty spots, things really thinning out at the back of the floor, toward the ramp to six. That’s why he’d told Lafitpour to meet on six. Hardin had scouted the garage a couple days earlier. This time of day, six was still mostly empty. Hardin didn’t want to go up to seven. Seven was the rooftop, no overhead cover. If somebody managed to put a long gun in play, he didn’t need to make it easy on them. Wilson cut the wheel, started up the ramp to six.
The SUV followed, half a floor back.
As soon as they made the curve on the ramp, out of sight of the SUV, Hardin nudged her arm. “Floor it. When you hit six, get to the far end as fast as you can. I’m going to roll out behind the pillar there. Pull in to the right, wait until you see them make the turn at my end, then get out. You’ll have the car for cover. If they don’t see me, we’ll have them between us.”
Wilson nodded, her face hard and unmoving.
She shot out of the ramp on six and across the floor, slowed as she made the turn at the far end. Hardin opened the door and rolled out onto the cement. Wilson sped away.
Lafitpour and Hickman stood by the wall at the east end of the sixth floor, turning to look as they heard a car accelerating up the ramp. A black Honda shot out and across the floor two rows to the west of them. Lafitpour just caught a glimpse of Hardin as the car passed. The black compact slowed radically as it turned at the far end. Lafitpour had just enough of angle to see Hardin roll out of the passenger door and come up with a pistol in each hand.
He heard another engine straining and saw a black Explorer erupt from the ramp, four men inside, the man in the passenger seat holding a submachine gun at port arms.
“Where’s the fucking car?” Hernandez yelled as the Explorer charged onto six.
“There,” the driver answered. “To your left.” Hernandez saw it, parking head in near the elevator. Bad angle, too much shadow to see in the windows. The driver pushed the truck hard, braked, tires squealing as he made the turn at the far end, circling back toward the Honda. The driver’s door opened, the woman got out.
Hardin squatted down on the west side of the pillar making himself as small as he could, a minivan to his left, blocking the view from the direction of the ramp. He heard the truck accelerate across the floor. He didn’t look, just straightened to a crouch as the truck passed behind him, screeched around the curve. Hardin held both pistols out in front of him. He’d be more accurate one handed, but he was a good shot with either hand, or with both, and there were times when more lead mattered.
“Where the fuck is Hardin?” Hernandez said as the truck curved around the pillar at the far end of the floor and zeroed in on the Honda. Better angle from here. Wilson was standing on the other side of the car and he couldn’t see anyone in the passenger seat.
Wilson dropped down behind the Honda’s engine block, her S&W in a two-handed grip, her arms braced on the hood of the car. To his left, Hernandez sensed movement and turned just in time to see Hardin, to see the back driver’s-side window shatter, to see the Skull shooter’s head explode. Hernandez rolled forward, trying to squeeze down into the footwell, feeling a ripping burn across the back of his shoulders as a round tore a furrow through his flesh. The air was full of the sounds of gunfire, a steady staccato beat from behind and to his left, Hardin firing, and then a slightly higher pitched ripping as Miko cut loose with his MP5 out the front passenger-side window.