Chapter 11 #2
“No need for that, Loverboy,” Dario replies. “If Cole comes for you, running, standing still, or hiding in a bunker? None of it will make any difference.”
“Let’s see what you can do, Loverboy.” Dario hands me a Glock 17, a pistol I could strip and reassemble blindfolded.
We’re at the Angeles Shooting Range, a long covered shelter with benches, paper targets set against a natural backstop of pale earth and rock.
There’s a scatter of guys using it, but it’s quiet enough that we have our own space.
We’ve all lost our jackets, bare from the waist up.
It’s too hot anyway, and the stiff Kevlar armor in elbows and shoulders isn’t conducive to firing.
My tattoos draw some interest, but no comments.
I’m first up, and I know these guys are good—Cole, at least. And I’ve already told him I was in the Marines.
The range is 50 yards, enough to make it a little challenging, but there’s no wind. I put eight rounds in a three-inch group, and Dario slaps the bench in respect.
Cole looks bored. “This is pointless.” He punches my shoulder, right over my Eagle, Globe and Anchor Marine tattoo. “Let’s go a hundred yards.”
He leads the way a few stations farther down, until we have paper silhouette targets at the right distance. Dario leans forward, squinting. “Uh… I think I can see those.”
“You’re not that fucking old.” Cole waves him forward, and I hand over the Glock. It still has nine rounds left.
Dario puts them all into center-mass, taking his time, a few good shots with some outliers.
It’s not a bad effort for someone without military training.
He grimaces, not bothering to reach for the spotting scope we’ve borrowed, and sets the empty weapon down on the bench.
“Your turn, Limey,” he says to Cole. “Don’t hold back. ”
This, I want to see. Just how good is Cole?
The issue is the weapon itself. The Glock is a service pistol, not a precision instrument. Stock sights, and the trigger is striker-fired, not match-grade. At this range, anything better than a five-inch grouping is luck.
And I’m not the only one with tattoos, though Cole only has two: a Pegasus on one arm, a parachute with wings on the other, Utrinque Paratus beneath. So I’m not surprised when he puts eight rounds into the silhouette’s head, tight enough to cover with a hand. It’s still damn impressive.
He sets the weapon down, leans forward to peer at the target, then sniffs like it was nothing. “It’s no fun when they’re not moving.”
Dario laughs and slaps his back. “All right, Jarhead,” he says to me. “Next target is yours. Are you going to let some Limey show us up?”
Yes. Yes, I am. I might be able to out-shoot Cole, but that would tip my hand too much. I left the Marines at twenty-two—ten years ago—and there’s no need to show my more recent FBI training.
I manage a decent ten-inch grouping into the target, enough to earn a nod from Cole but garner no suspicion. Ten years of rust, as far as they’re concerned, while every round I pulled felt like a deliberate betrayal of my training.
“Fucking Brits,” Dario laments, then shakes his head at Cole. “It’s a good thing you guys only have an army the size of Wyoming’s.”
Renner’s in the Art District unit when I get there on Wednesday morning, talking to Tasha across the table.
He greets me with a nod, which I return, then walk past him to get a coffee.
My pulse picks up. This might be the chance I need to get some more intelligence on the leader of this crew, enough to keep Mercer off my back.
“How did you get on in San Fran?” I ask casually, as I walk back in and take a seat on the sofa.
“Well enough,” he says, regarding me with those cold green eyes. “You’ll get paid, but it’ll be another week before we see it all.”
I wave it off. “I’m not in a rush. I know you’re good for it.” I take a sip of coffee, then ask the question he would expect. “What was the total haul?”
“About nine hundred grand raw—rings, necklaces, some investment Rolexes, which are worth half that after they’re fenced. But we got lucky on a hundred grand of bearer bonds. So the total is half a mill, of which your share is twenty grand.”
“That’s what, four percent?” I sniff. “There’re seven of us. How does that work?”
“It’s an even split, after costs and budget for future jobs.” He tilts his head. “Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.” I toast him with my coffee cup. “Future jobs work for me.”
“Good. Because we’re looking at another.”
I let my eyebrows come up. “So soon?”
“Yeah.” His gaze is steady, assessing me as much as I’m assessing him. “This one was mostly to get the kit we need for something else I’m planning, and we’re still short.”
“Really?” I say. “That sounds like a big job.”
“It is. That scare you off?”
I take my time replying. “Depends what you’re pulling,” I say at last, knowing he won’t give me any details and not making the mistake of asking for them. “If the plan is thorough and covers what it needs to—sure, I’m in.”
Renner nods. “Good. In the interim, we’re meeting this Friday to discuss the next job.”
“Will Raven be there?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
Fuck, Declan. Get your head on your goddamn job.
Renner seems to still, and his gaze goes even colder. Tasha glances away. “You need to know she’s already been hurt more times than I’m prepared to tolerate,” he says in his flat voice. “Fuck with her, and I won’t hesitate to burn you.”
This is the third time someone in the crew has threatened me while protecting Genesis, but it’s an opportunity as a much as a threat.
She’s nothing more than a tool, I remind myself.
“Cole said the same thing,” I reply, then nod to Tasha. “As did you, in your own way.” I meet Renner’s gaze. “My relationship with her is none of your business, but I will say this: hurting her is far from my intentions.”
“Too late,” Tasha mutters.
“That was a mistake,” I respond sharply, knowing she’s right and hating it. As much for the truth of it as for the damage it does my relations with them. “I told you already.”
She shrugs. “Just saying it like it is.”
Renner hasn’t looked away, and he gives me a slow nod. “I’ll accept that, for now. Be aware that the last time she was hurt, they didn’t find the body.”
“Chad?” I ask, letting him know I know. But no sooner have I said it, I realize it’s not the right answer. Dario said he was a vegetable, not that his body was missing.
“That wasn’t the last time,” Renner corrects. There’s no emotion in his voice, like I’ve just got my Tuesdays mixed up, not that we’re talking about people disappearing. “She doesn’t know about this one, so don’t mention anything, m’kay?”
Okay.
Genesis’s past flames are coming out of the woodwork all over, and then disappearing one by one.
I wonder how many there’ve been, and have to ease up my grip before I shatter my coffee cup.
“Understood,” I grind out.
So death threats from multiple people for how I treat Genesis.
If they’re that protective of her, it tells me how they’ll react if they find out I’m FBI: a bullet in the head, and Kurt dropping my body off at a nearby incinerator.
I can’t afford any mistakes, but now I’m wondering if Genesis already is one.