Page 110 of Under Cover
“We need her info,” Harding and Crosby said at once.
Out loud, Crosby said, “You can’t kill me, Marcy. You take me out and my associate behind you takes off your head.”
“You’re bluffing,” she said, and in response, Garcia stood, pistol in hand, and shot her in the back.
She fell forward, her weapon clattering from her hand while she fought for breath.
Crosby stood, gun still out, a bloody red patch on his shoulder testifying to a duck he hadn’t made fast enough. After he skirted the HVAC units, he and Garcia converged on her, until they were standing, one on either side, holding their guns to her head.
“Can’t breathe,” she gasped, twisting as she slid down the smooth surface of the units. Garcia half expected Crosby to help her down, because he was just that gallant, but his boy was breathing hard, his face pale and sweaty, and Garcia figured he’d had enough. Instead he took her weapon, put the safety on, and slung it over his shoulder while Garcia frisked her and cuffed her and she gasped for breath.
“Did the vest hold?” Crosby asked.
Garcia ran his hand impersonally along her back and then down her front, making sure it didn’t come back bloody.
“Looks like it. Can’t vouch for her lungs, though.”
“Lots of shit can happen through a vest,” Crosby agreed. “Especially when you get hit twice in the same day. How you feelin’, Marcy? You feeling like being a Son of the Blood is a prime deal right now?”
She grunted, “I’m true to my people,” and Garcia wanted to sigh. It was just so fucking pointless.
“No you’re not,” Crosby contradicted, squatting to look her in the eye. “You think paying your people in drugs is being true to ’em? ’Cause I’ve seen the junkies on your payroll. They coulda had lives, Marcy. You took them. How’s that feel? You think you’re being true to the police force? ’Cause how many cops have you killed with drugs or in this stupid war with cops who do their job? You being true to white people? I gotta tell you, most of us think you’re giving us a bad name. Wehateyou. So far, you’re a murdering, drug-pushing attention whore, so don’t ask me to respect your integrity, okay?”
She fought for breath, but Garcia could tell it was getting a little easier. “What do you want?” she asked.
“Who do you report to?” Crosby asked. “We’ve got a warrant looking into your communications, your financials, your living space, vehicle space, and colorectal health, but give us the name anyway and we won’t make messing with you our mission for life.”
“She shot you?” Garcia asked, not sure he was okay with that deal.
“Twice,” Crosby said on a deep breath. “Kevlar. Wonderful stuff. Naming our first kid Kevlar.”
It was on the tip of Garcia’s tongue to say they were naming their first kid Gabriel because they’d need all the strength they could get when Harding’s voice came over comms.
“If you two have a kid, we’re naming it Joliet Jake Blues. Now hurry the debrief because we’ve got to land a helicopter on that roof and it’s not that sound, so you two have to jump off first.”
“I’m sorry,” Crosby said, sounding numb. “Did you say jump off?”
“Fucking genius here greased the bottom rungs,” Garcia muttered, flickingatMarcy Beachamp’s forehead.
“Don’t… touch… me… you—”
The racial slur she uttered was no surprise, but the fear and venom were a bit of a shock.
“Look, lady,” Crosby muttered. “We’ll get out of your hair, but we want names, numbers, and where to look in the financials. You would not believe how many people in prison do not believe your white supremist bullshit. Not even the white supremacists. You’re going to want all the help you can get.”
At the mention of prison, Marcy’s expression went from pained to stricken, and Garcia knew they had her.
“Drug trafficking, Marcy,” Garcia all but sang. “Drug trafficking, corruption, attempted murder, obstruction of justice—”
“And a partridge in a pear tree,” Crosby hissed. “And remember you’ll be tried here in New York with us liberals. Nobody’s going to give you a fucking break for being a Son of the Blood.”
Garcia squinted. “How does that work, anyway? I mean, those people don’t like women. We’ve been listening to their tapes. As far as they’re concerned, you are—and I’m quoting here—‘a hole, a gash, or a whore.’ I mean, thebestyou got is ‘the big bitch.’ What’s the appeal?”
She was still breathing, but he had to check that when she swung her cold, lifeless eyes to meet his. “At least I’m better than somebody,” she said, and Garcia sucked air through his teeth.
“Sad, lady. Who’s your boss?”
“Courtland Cavendish,” she murmured, and she sounded broken, like that little bit of truth was the last little bit of fight she had in her.