Deep Dark Night Page 3

  I put my coffee down on the desk and shake my head. ‘I can’t,’ I say softly. ‘Like I said, I have to finish this. We’ll never be free of Monroe if I don’t.’

  ‘Then together we’ll get it done, and then we’ll go home.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, as my cell buzzes.

  I check the screen. Feel my pulse accelerate as I read the message from an unknown number:

  DuSable Bridge. 30 minutes. Bring the pawn. Come alone.

  4

  I have to get my hustle on if I’m going to make DuSable Bridge, where Michigan Avenue crosses the river, in thirty minutes. I’ve gotten my purse, with the pawn inside, and a can of pepper spray in the pocket of my Levi’s, but that’s all the preparation I had time for before I left the hotel.

  I walk fast. Scanning ahead as I weave around the folks on the sidewalk, not letting them slow me down. I know JT is tailing me a little ways behind – watching my six, looking out for whatever these Chicago mobsters have in store.

  And although I’m having to improvise, I’m real glad Critten made contact so fast. I’ve no kind of patience for Cabressa’s people getting a case of the druthers. I don’t have time for any messing around – I want to get this job done and get home to my baby. I check my watch. Walk faster. Just over fifteen minutes to make it to the meeting point.

  The screech of tyres alongside me makes me jump. I dart away from the traffic. Glance over my shoulder and see a blue, double-cab pick-up truck mounting the curb as the driver wrestles with the wheel. It’s hurtling towards me.

  I think, brake failure. My breath catches in my throat, and I dive across the sidewalk. The front of the vehicle just misses smacking into me and stops inches from the wall on my right. I exhale hard, but there’s no time to relax. The door of the rear passenger side swings open and, as a bearded blond guy with his expression set at a grimace grabs for my purse, I realise this isn’t a damn accident.

  Holding tight to my purse, I try to wrestle it away. Damn asshole’s trying to rob me. Well, I sure as shit won’t be allowing that to happen.

  ‘Let go, girlie,’ growls the blond man. He yanks the purse so hard that I lose my balance and stumble forward, slamming against the side of the vehicle. All around us horns are blasting.

  ‘You done?’ calls a man from the driver’s seat. I can’t get a good look at him from this angle. All I see is a denim jacket stretched over broad shoulders and a glimpse of the side of his head: dark hair, a pair of shades and a navy ballcap.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ says the blond guy.

  He tugs at the purse again, but I’m clinging on tight. I want to reach for my pepper spray but can’t risk taking my hands off the purse.

  ‘We gotta move,’ says the driver. There’s an undertone of panic in his voice now.

  The blond guy cusses. It feels like he’s losing his grip on the purse. I lean forward, pulling it to me. Next moment he slams the heel of his hand into my chest, shoving me backwards.

  I let go of the purse. ‘Asshole,’ I hiss at the blond guy.

  He ignores me. Yells to the driver, ‘Go.’

  The truck starts reversing. I grab for the shoulder strap of my purse through the still-open rear passenger door. As my fingers close round it the vehicle bumps down off the sidewalk. I grit my teeth. Can’t let them take the purse, it’s got the pawn I need to show Critten.

  I won’t let them take it.

  The vehicle stops. I see the driver shoving the gear into drive. The blond asshole is trying to tug the shoulder strap from me. I’ve a split second to make up my mind, so I choose. As the vehicle lurches forward onto the street I leap off the sidewalk into the back seat of the pick-up.

  ‘What the…?’ says the blond asshole.

  I use my momentum to power a punch into his bearded face. Capitalise on his surprise to grab the purse.

  He won’t let go. ‘Give it up, girlie.’

  ‘Never,’ I hiss.

  The car speeds down the street, throwing me back against the rear seat. The rear passenger door is still open and bashes against my feet with every bump in the road. The blond won’t let go of the purse and nor will I. We punch and slap, and when he tries to grab my face between his fingers I bite him. He recoils briefly, but I’m not in a good position – half lying, half sitting across the back seat. I get an elbow jab into his ribs, but it’s not as powerful as I’d like. Next moment the car races around a bend, and I’m thrown across the seat again.

  When I look back at the blond asshole he smiles, his lip curling up like a rabid dog. Raising his hand, he lunges towards me.

  That’s when I see the knife.

  5

  JT’s a half-block behind Lori when it happens. Tailing her at the distance they’d agreed; watching her six but not being too obvious about it.

  She reaches an intersection and turns the corner onto another street. It’s okay, it’s part of their planned route, but JT has a few seconds without eyes on her until he reaches the corner and makes the turn too. When he’s around the corner his breath catches in his throat. Up ahead Lori is having a tussle with someone in a blue pick-up that’s been parked across the sidewalk.

  Shit. JT’s seen enough ambushes in his time. He knows that’s what this is. Breaking into a run, his focus is on Lori and what’s going down half a block ahead. He sprints faster. Dodges around the line at a hot-dog stand and along the sidewalk.

  He doesn’t see the attack coming.

  One moment he’s at full speed. Next a heavyset guy wearing a leather jacket and shades steps into his path.

  JT moves right to scoot around him.

  The guy sidesteps, blocking him. ‘Steady cowboy.’

  JT skids to a halt. Keeps his eyes on what’s happening up ahead. Sees Lori battling whoever’s inside the truck. Next moment she’s yanked forward and slammed into the side of the truck. JT winces. Ducks around the heavyset guy.

  The guy reaches towards him. ‘Don’t…’

  JT ignores him. Pushes back into a sprint. Has to get to Lori.

  He makes it two paces before he feels it. First a sharp pain in his back, just above his kidneys, which he barely has time to register before the volts hit him. As his knees give way, JT glances over his shoulder. Sees the Taser in the heavyset man’s hand.

  ‘Should have stopped when I told you,’ says the heavyset man. ‘Didn’t want to have to school you this way.’

  Body convulsing. Nausea rising. JT tries to keep running, but his legs won’t obey him. As the volts keep pumping through him JT hits the concrete.

  His vision’s blurring, but he scans the street, has to know Lori is okay. The pick-up truck is reversing. Lori’s still fighting. She flies back from the vehicle then, as the truck lurches forward, she leaps inside.

  JT tries to call Lori’s name, but he can’t form the word.

  The truck accelerates rapidly.

  Then they’re gone.

  6

  My situation in the truck has gone from bad to shit. With the blond asshole wielding a knife, my priority has shifted from getting the purse back to getting out of here alive. It seems like the driver wants me gone too, but his asshole associate has other ideas. He lunges the blade towards me.

  ‘Just get her out of here,’ yells the driver.

  ‘I’m working on it,’ says the blond asshole as he thrusts the blade at me again, just missing my left cheek.

  I struggle, but he’s got one of my wrists in an iron grip and I can’t twist away unless I let go of the purse. I hang on a moment longer, mentally struggling with giving up the purse with the pawn inside for Cabressa. Slam an elbow into the asshole’s ribs. He bellows and swipes the knife at me, the blade scores along my forearm. Warm blood drips into my face.

  I let go of the purse and reach into the pocket of my jeans.

  The driver’s yelling at the asshole again, but I pay him no mind. I’ve got a plan to get free and clear, I just need to focus. I force myself up from the seat, and in the brief moment before the
asshole pulls me down I see we’re approaching an intersection. I don’t have long. Timing is everything.

  Shoving my boots against the offside door, I kick it open. As the asshole brings the blade down towards my belly, I yank the pepper spray from my pocket and fire it into his face. I keep spraying until he’s screaming for his momma, then I grab for the purse, get a hold of the shoulder strap and push myself across the backseat.

  I leap from the truck as it starts to swing left across the intersection. As I crunch and roll across the sidewalk I think I’ve done it – gotten free and kept the purse. But as I uncurl myself I realise that’s not true. The shoulder strap is still in my hand, sure, but the purse has been severed from the strap by a clean cut.

  Hot damn.

  I slam my palms against the sidewalk in frustration.

  The blue pick-up speeds away.

  7

  The sirens are getting louder. JT can’t be here when the cops arrive.

  He feels dazed. His body’s stopped convulsing, but his limbs are leaden and unresponsive. But staying put can’t happen. He needs to move.

  Looking up at the crowd that’s gathered around him, JT searches for the heavyset guy in the leather jacket and shades. He catches snippets of the conversations. Sees the pity in the rubberneckers’ eyes.

  ‘…poor bastard didn’t stand a chance…’

  ‘…argument or whatever…’

  ‘…just left him flapping around and ran…’

  The heavyset guy’s gone – melted into the crowd and away. The sirens are coming closer.

  Clenching his jaw, he rolls onto his side and forces himself up to sitting. His vision blurs, and a wave of nausea surges through him. JT clenches his fists. He can’t sit here on the sidewalk – he has to get to Lori.

  The memory of her disappearing into the truck replays in his mind, firing him into action. Gritting his teeth, he forces his body to move and scrambles to his feet. He stands, swaying for a moment.

  ‘Are you okay?’ says an older lady in pearls and a tweed skirt, her face creased in concern.

  JT tries to answer but can’t form the words. Instead he turns in the direction the truck took Lori and takes a step. Stumbles. And just manages to stay upright.

  ‘You really should sit down,’ says the lady.

  JT doesn’t look back. Bruised, wobbly, he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and heads for DuSable Bridge.

  8

  I wait on the bridge. Alone. My chest aches from where the blond asshole punched me, and blood’s smeared over my forearm from the slash of his blade. I’ve got no purse, no pawn to show Critten, and there’s no sign of JT.

  I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

  On either side of the bridge skyscrapers tower – huge, glinting buildings of glass and chrome reflected in the water running beneath me. They say there’s honour among the old-school mobsters, and that being honourable is a real good thing. I guess that’s true, but the honest truth is, sometimes honour will get you killed. In this world disagreements are settled in blood, and respect and strength are king. Getting mugged and bloody sure as hell isn’t the way to win the Cabressa family’s respect.

  I check my watch. They’re late. Thirty-four minutes have passed since the message from the unknown number. The traffic continues along the bridge, a steady stream of SUVs and sedans. The foot-traffic is minimal, and I feel kind of exposed standing here, leaning against the iron railings, not doing a whole lot of anything. I glance around again. The breeze tickles against my face and makes my hair billow around my shoulders. I tuck it behind my ears.

  A homeless guy ambles past me. ‘Got any change?’ he asks.

  I dig in my pocket and pull out a few quarters. ‘Sorry, it’s all I got.’

  He smiles, exposing blackening teeth. ‘Thanks, lady.’ And then sings me a couple of lines of an old Cole Porter song.

  His voice is so good it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention, and for a moment I forget the pain in my chest and why I’m here on the bridge.

  Then I hear tyres slowing against asphalt and turn to see a black SUV pull up alongside me. It’s got Illinois plates featuring the Bulls and dark tinted windows. My heart starts hammering, and I forget about the homeless guy with the stunning voice.

  The rear passenger-side window slides down. The man inside has curly black hair and wears a dark suit that’s tight around the biceps – Critten. He looks at me over the top of his shades. ‘Get in.’

  I do as he says and climb inside. Try not to look fazed. The back seat seems too small. Critten’s bulk takes up far more space than I do, and him being so close makes me feel trapped and claustrophobic. A flashback to the bearded asshole and getting mugged plays on a loop in my mind. Critten might look more gentlemanly, but the threat feels real similar. I force myself to stay calm. Clasp my hands together, attempting to disguise that they’re trembling.

  I’ve always felt an element of fear about the jobs I do. In the right dosage it can help you. It gets your adrenaline firing, makes you think clearer, faster – gets you alert and ready to tackle anything that comes your way. But if the fear builds too much, all that good stuff swings things around; the nerves make you hesitant, jumpy and too cautious. That’s when you start making mistakes. And mistakes, in my world, can be fatal.

  As the doors lock and we move out into the traffic I know that I’m trapped. My heart rate accelerates.

  Critten leans across the leather seat and checks me for a wire. I say nothing, don’t complain. Feel kind of violated, but I figure there isn’t any point. He’s showing me I’m his prisoner now, in this car, so I have to play by his rules. I decide to let him keep thinking that for now.

  Satisfied there’s no wire, he speaks. ‘The boss liked your sample. He wants the rest.’

  I frown. ‘What sample?’

  Critten smiles. ‘The pawn.’

  I’m confused a moment. Then I hear a cellphone ringing. Glancing down into the footwell in front of Critten I see my purse. Guess that it’s JT calling me. Glare back at Critten. ‘You had your people mug me?’

  ‘You’re in our city now, wanting to play with the big hitters. We needed to test how tough you are.’

  I cuss under my breath. Hot anger rises inside me but I keep my tone cold and hard. ‘I don’t like to be treated like I ain’t got a lick of sense.’

  ‘I get that,’ says Critten, adjusting his shades. ‘Turns out you’re real impressive for an itty bit of a girl.’

  I hold his gaze. Narrow my eyes. ‘I’m a woman not a girl.’

  Critten nods. ‘You’re tougher than your back-up guy for sure.’

  ‘What the hell did you—?’

  ‘Cool it. He’s fine.’ Critten smiles, showing a set of impossibly white teeth. ‘A little tickle with the Taser never hurt no one.’

  The flames of anger in my belly leap higher. ‘You bastard.’

  Critten shrugs. ‘You needed to understand the situation, Miss Anderson.’

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘That you need to do as we say, or you’ll regret it.’

  I give a little shake of my head. Look Critten up and down. To hell with respect and getting in with these assholes. They might dress like gentlemen but the only thing these people understand is tough talk and tougher actions. My tone is granite hard as I say, ‘Don’t let your mouth write a cheque your ass can’t cash.’

  Critten stares at me a long moment. Just as the silence is getting real uncomfortable and I’m thinking I’m going to need to make a leap from another moving car today, he laughs and slaps me on the shoulder. ‘You’re quite a girl, Miss Anderson.’ He passes me my purse. ‘You’ve got a deal – eight hundred thousand for the chess set. Let’s hope your ass can cash the cheque your mouth’s written.’

  I’m relieved Cabressa’s taken the bait, but I’m still real angry. But I don’t let either emotion show; instead I think fast, and start to outline my proposal for the exchange. ‘No problem. Let
’s do this by—’

  ‘You play poker?’ Critten asks, interrupting me.

  I frown. Lie. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Friday night at eleven, come to suite 6311 in the Skyland Tower.’

  ‘And then what?’

  Critten smiles. ‘Then you play.’

  This is not what I expected, but I say nothing. Wait for him to continue.

  ‘Stay in the game until you’re heads-up, just you two. Then bet the pieces and let him win.’

  That makes no kind of sense. If I’m betting the pieces so Cabressa can win them, what about the money? My cover story is that I’m here to sell the pieces – it’ll fall apart if I seem too eager. I narrow my gaze. ‘No. That doesn’t work for me. I need to get paid.’

  Critten thinks a moment. Huffs and puffs a bit like this is a big inconvenience. Then begrudgingly says, ‘Okay. Have it your way. Once you’re heads-up, Cabressa will put in your fee as a bet of eight hundred thousand dollars, or something of that value, and you’ll bet the chess set to match him. He’ll lose the game, and you’ll keep the money, but you’ll let him keep the chess pieces as a gift, a mark of respect for a good player.’