Power and Empire

35

Dominic Caruso accelerated Kelsey Callahan’s Bureau-issued Ford Expedition down the on-ramp of the President George Bush Turnpike, heading toward Plano. He’d insisted on driving, despite Callahan’s objections. She already suspected him of being complicit in the murder of a couple cartel members, though she hadn’t said much about it, but the run-in with the Garland PD detective had left her leg bouncing like the needle on a sewing machine. Caruso considered talking to her about the incident but quickly decided that he was in mortal danger of getting his head bitten off.

Turf wars notwithstanding, whoever killed Aaron Bennet had come gunning for Callahan. The fact that the killer or killers went to Buttermilk Place instead of Buttermilk Circle gave Caruso a little peek into their intellect and psyche — but, in his experience, assassins hit the wrong person more than a quarter of the time. Two of the first fugitive cases during his early career — when he worked for the FBI more than just on paper — had been victims of mistaken identity. In both cases, the killers had realized the screwup and rectified it in short order.

Caruso checked the rearview mirror several times a minute as he drove, knowing that the people who wanted Callahan dead were very likely back there now. Traffic was heavy and it was getting dark, which would work to Caruso’s favor if he needed to avoid an attack but made it easy for any bad actors to blend into the sea of headlights behind him.

He took the exit toward Campbell Road, watching to see if anyone followed. Three sets of lights came off behind him. He turned left to pass back under the freeway, but instead of continuing down Campbell, he camped out at the green light, squirting through just as it turned red to make a quick left back up the frontage road to the east, paralleling the turnpike back in the direction they’d come from. No one behind him did anything crazy to follow.

Callahan turned to look at him but said nothing. She obviously knew he was working to shake off any unseen tails.

Caruso glanced across the dim interior of the Expedition. “How long since you’ve had anything to eat?”

“I’m fine,” Callahan said.

Caruso decided to press the issue. “Seriously. How long?”

She gave a dismissive shrug. “I don’t know. I had that coffee for breakfast.”

“Before that?” Caruso said. “I’ve been with you since before seven this morning and I haven’t seen you eat so much as a breath mint. You’re starting to look a little hollow around the cheeks.”

Callahan beat her head against the headrest. “We’ve known each other for what, twenty-six hours? I don’t think you’re allowed to call me too skinny.”

“What?” Caruso grinned. “You’ve called me bastard, son of a bitch, and asshole — along with pretty much every other name in the book over that same time period.”

“I did not.”

“Not even in your brain?”

Callahan laughed out loud. “That doesn’t count.”

Caruso turned his head to look at her as he drove. “So you admit it?”

“I admit that I may have thought one or two unflattering things about you.”

“Good,” Caruso said. “Then I’ll admit I am hungry. Can we please get something to eat?”

Moco pounded his hands against the steering wheel, craning his head left and right in search of the lady cop’s Expedition. He cursed Gusano for eating the dab. He’d been forced to eat the rest of his hash oil plain. Without the benefit of the coconut oil, it wasn’t doing a damn bit of good.

Taillights flashed and blinked in a confusing river of red. Oncoming headlights blinded him. She’d gotten away from him — and now the boss was going to set him on fire — or pump him full of so much dope he wouldn’t pass out while the guys cut his feet off with a chainsaw.

This. Could. Not. Be. Happening.

The Worm sat with his nose pressed against the passenger window, head bobbing to his tunes. He held one of the Glocks in his lap, which was the only thing keeping Moco from shooting the stupid bastard in the back of the head.

Moco’s mobile phone buzzed as he merged back onto the turnpike. It was the kid.

“What?”

“You want me to wait outside or follow them in?”

Moco’s stomach did a flip. “What are you talking about?”

“They’re going into the restaurant,” the kid said. “Want me to sit on her car?”

“What restaurant?” Moco shot a look at Gusano. “Never mind. Just tell me where you’re at. We’ll meet you outside.”

“Texas Roadhouse,” the kid said. “I’m on the north side of the parking lot.”

“Wait there for us.” Moco ended the call. He turned to Gusano, suddenly feeling as if he might make it through the night without getting his feet sawed off. Even his anger at the Worm began to fade. “Get ready, my friend.”

Gusano raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain we are going to the correct restaurant?” His tone said he was serious.

Ten minutes after he cut back under the turnpike at Brand Road, Caruso sat with his back to the wall across the booth from Callahan, watching her slather cinnamon butter on a Texas Roadhouse hot roll. She spoke with her hands as much as her voice and was imbued with such energy and fervor that her red hair bounced in time to her words. The food animated her and she appeared to forget about Detective Little and the dead bodies at Matarife’s ranch.

Two hot rolls down, Callahan suddenly put both hands flat on the table and looked across at Caruso with narrow eyes. “You know why they’re trying to kill me, don’t you?”

Caruso started to say something, but she cut him off.

“It’s not because I’ve gotten into their business, if that’s what you were going to say. I muck up people’s illegal criminal enterprises all the time.”

“Okay.” Caruso shrugged. “Enlighten me.”

Callahan gave a tired smile. “It’s because they don’t think I’m playing by the rules.”

“But you are.” Caruso did a quick scan of the room before making eye contact to show he was listening.

“Ah,” Callahan said. “But they don’t know that. Your buddy, John — or whatever his name is — grabs Flaco and pressures information out of him, and then blows away Matarife’s yard help and his girlfriend… naked in the swimming pool. Except your friend’s pretty good at staying hidden, so they can’t find him. I’m the face of the investigation, so they’re coming after me.”

Caruso put his hands on the table as well, an interrogation tool called mirroring. She’d be familiar with it, but he did it anyway. “I want you to think about something,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Do you honestly believe that someone who calls himself ‘the Slaughterer’ and sells human beings at online auctions or murders them on camera really gives two shits if you play by the rules? I doubt he even sees any rules.”

Callahan shrugged. “Maybe not,” she said. “I thought it might get you to spill something useful about your friend John… What was his name again? I know he’s gone off the reservation — and when this is over, it’ll be my job to stop him. Our job, really.”

“Nice try,” Caruso said. “I need to hit the restroom. If the waitress comes back while I’m gone, order me a bone-in ribeye, medium rare, and broccoli.”

Callahan nodded, eyeing the last roll. “Are you gonna eat that?”

The restrooms were to the right, but Dominic Caruso turned left, heading for the front door. There were several emergency exits, but there was only one public entrance to the restaurant, and he’d made sure he had a table that watched the door. It wasn’t likely, but anyone who was bound and determined to kill Callahan might decide to come in through the kitchen. Caruso decided he’d do a quick check of the parking lot to look for anything out of the ordinary. Their waitress caught him as he was walking past a big barrel of peanuts in an alcove just inside the front door.

“Everything all right, hon?” the young woman with wide hips and a black ponytail asked.

Caruso held up the keys to the Expedition. “I forgot something in the car,” he said. “I think my friend could use some more hot rolls, though.”

The cowbell on the front door clanged, and Caruso saw the reflections of two men in the plate-glass window as they entered behind him. The waitress said something about getting the rolls for Callahan, but Dominic stopped listening as soon as he saw the Santa Muerte tattoo on the reflection of the man in the lead. He was short and stocky, with the brim of a tattered denim baseball cap pulled low over a flat nose. The man behind him was taller and staggered a little, like he might have had a bit too much to drink. Both wore their shirttails untucked — a convenient way to hide handguns.

Caruso kept his back to the men and his head down.

“It’s a forty-five-minute wait,” the hostess told the two men, obviously hoping to persuade the shady newcomers to go somewhere else.

“That’s okay,” the man with the flat nose said. “We’re meeting friends. We’ll find them.”

Caruso waited for both men to walk past before holding a finger to his lips so the waitress could see. When they were out of earshot, he leaned in and said, “I’m FBI, call nine-one-one and tell them there are federal agents on scene.”

“What—”

“Do it now!” Caruso hissed. He reached inside his shirt collar to pull out a gold FBI badge, letting it hang from a chain around his neck. Ahead of him, the men worked their way around the bar area, stopping to look at each booth as they went by. Callahan was on the other side of the restaurant, short enough that she was hidden behind a high wooden barrier. Caruso had taken the gunfighter seat, so her back was to the door. He estimated the men would be on top of her in less than a half a minute.

He rested his right hand on the .40-caliber Glock 22 in the holster under his jacket. There was no way to know how many off-duty cops were in the restaurant. He didn’t want to draw the pistol too early, for fear of a blue-on-blue shooting. He took out his cell phone with his left hand, glancing down just long enough to punch in Callahan’s number.

It went immediately to voice mail.

Caruso cursed under his breath.

Thirty feet ahead, the guy with the flat nose motioned to his partner, who had stopped to watch a soccer game above the bar. The taller man shrugged, swayed on his feet a little, and then the two men turned down the row of booths where Callahan sat. She was in the back corner, the one that had given Caruso the wall — which meant that they’d get to her last. But it also meant she wouldn’t see them until they were almost in her lap.

Caruso took slow breaths, planning his next move. The wall beyond the two bad guys made for a decent enough backstop. But the booths on either side were packed with people. A little boy climbed in and out of the booth where his parents sat, and chased crayons that rolled across the floor. Caruso was an excellent shot, but little kids were like quicksilver in their ability to dart into the line of fire.

The two guys from Santa Muerte were five paces away now, so intently focused on what they’d figured out had to be Callahan’s booth that they didn’t bother to look behind them. The taller one was now in the lead.

Caruso picked up his speed, closing the distance in moments. He could sweep his jacket, draw, and fire two rounds from the Glock in a hair under one second. But the men were both armed, and stacked one in front of the other. He’d have to shoot more than twice, and those would have to be head shots.

Caruso’s hand closed around the grip of his Glock when the tall guy and Flat Nose were four steps from the booth. He shouted, “FBI!” at exactly the same moment a teenage boy to his right slid into the aisle to block his path.

The Santa Muerte soldiers spun, dragging pistols from under their shirts.

Caruso grabbed the teenager with his left hand and shoved him sideways, out of the line of fire, while he brought the Glock up. The startled kid had no idea what was going on and fought back, infuriated that Caruso would lay hands on him. He grabbed at the table in an effort to push himself up, screaming bloody murder. Caruso pulled the gun back to keep the kid from knocking it out of his hand — or accidentally eating the barrel.