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Shit only got worse when I got a voicemail from Einstein about what he was seeing on his surveillance cameras.
“Lou, a pickup truck is coming down the driveway – did you send anybody out here? Oh no – it’s Jack Pollari, he just got out of the truck. He’s with that blond biker guy and a hot chick – OH SHIT, they’ve got guns! – ”
I hadn’t listened to the rest of the message. I’d had to round up Benjy and the others.
Ah, Benjy – now that had been a stroke of genius. Hadn’t really planned to off the kid – well, not this time, anyway. Not if Chuck had come through. But, hey – silver lining: now I’d wrapped up that loose end, too. One less witness to testify against me for the DEA.
Speaking of the Douchebag Enema Assholes, I hadn’t mentioned them at the showdown because I didn’t want Jack and Fiona to know Sloane had clued me in. The fact that they hadn’t brought it up either all but confirmed to me what Sloane had said. Made me wonder if they were wearing wires. They might have tried to get me to admit something if I hadn’t used Benjy as a distraction.
Guess I’d never know, since Chuck had fucked up his one chance at nailing them and got shot in the head instead.
All my problems were multiplying by the hour. The DEA was after me, which was a known fact. But now they’d recruited Jack, probably to do the dirty work they couldn’t – like blow shit up with a rocket launcher.
Speaking of shit blowing up, I was out a hundred grand for the lab. Not to mention I was deep in hock, my seven best guys were all dead – four at the meth lab, the rest at Jack’s house the other night – and I had at least three angry assholes gunning for me, plus a mystery sniper. Not to mention they had the federal government on their side.
Over in the plus column, I had my remaining boys digging up three million dollars worth of ice… I had an impending business deal to sell it… and I had a wild card named Sloane up my sleeve.
Time to make a phone call.
“Rodrigo,” I said as soon as I got him on the line. “Time to move up the time table, amigo.”
147
Fiona
DEA grunts scrubbed out the back of Sid’s car so he wasn’t driving around a bloodbath on wheels. After that, and with Fordham’s permission, Sid ran out and got Jack and me whole new outfits. (“Never, ever ask me to buy you skivvies again,” Sid griped.) Considering they’d been through two blazing hot days, a fire, a meth lab explosion, and a couple of shootouts, our clothes were a little ripe.
DEA headquarters had a bathroom with a shower. After a good scrubbing and a change of clothes, I felt almost human again.
Before we left, Fordham gave us all burners – cheap, disposable cell phones – and had us transfer any contact info we needed from our old phones (well, my old phone, seeing as Jack’s had been shot) into the new ones.
“In case Chief Peters decides he wants to perpetrate some illegal wiretapping or phone tracking before you take him out of office,” Fordham said, “he won’t know to track these new ones.”
Although when he said ‘take him out of office,’ it sounded more sarcastic than confident.
As Fordham was about to let us go, Sid grumbled, “Christ, now I gotta play Drivin’ Miss Daisy to you two with fuckin’ biker gangs shootin’ at my ass.”
“I might be able to help with that,” Fordham said. “Go on out front, Semper Fi, I’ll send ‘em around to meet you.”
While Sid went out to his car, Fordham took us down a long hallway and into a motor pool, where a small fleet of shiny new SUVs, sports cars, and motorcycles stood parked.
“Take what you need,” Fordham said. “They’re seizures from drug busts and gang shit we haven’t turned over to the regional office yet.”
“Really?” I asked in shock.
“Are you serious?” Jack asked, looking at a top-of-the-line Harley.
“Well, I want them back,” Fordham said in exasperation. “These are loaners for the next couple of days, not gifts. But as long as you’re going to get shot at, you might as well get shot at in style.”
I paused beside a Lamborghini.
“Maybe try to stay slightly inconspicuous, huh?” Fordham snapped.
I pouted for a second, then chose a shiny black Escalade instead. Jack took the Harley.
Fordham got the keys from a locked cabinet in the wall, then tossed them underhanded to us. “I’m betting hard on you assholes. Don’t make me regret it.”
“Why?” I asked.
