Page 79 of Under Cover
“Keep having his back,” Crosby said seriously. “And being a decent human being. Believe me, it’s better than I ever had.”
Barnes looked embarrassed. “Get going before I take you home and make my wife feed you.”
And with that Crosby absolutely had to leave.
THAT WASthe plan, right? Crosby made his way up to his room, eschewing the elevator per usual and wishing he felt safe enough here to take a pain pill. The impairment to his reflexes, to his cognition, was just too damned much to risk.
But pain alone can be distracting, and as Crosby rounded the landing for the floor with Creedy’s flop on it, he heard the door to the stairwell open but was still not prepared for McEnany, barreling into him like a dragon made of white rage.
“You fuckingasshole!”
Crosby caught three fists to the face, one, two, three—and by the time the fourth would have landed, he’d ripped his arm out of the sling so he could block with his bad arm and land a powerhouse to McEnany’s jaw with his good.
McEnany howled and backed off, but he didn’t go down. Instead he pulled back and circled Crosby, looking for an opening that Crosby refused to give him. Crosby’s arm was a lightning fire, and one of his eyes was already swelling shut, but the idea of kicking McEnany down the stairs and hoping his neck broke was the fury point that kept him on his feet.
“What thefuck!” he snarled, parrying a feint without losing sight of McEnany’s shoulders and core, where all fighters telegraphed their moves.
“You’re supposed to be working forme!” McEnany growled. “And you had to go shoot up one of Creedy’s top guys!”
Oh fuck. It fucking figured. “Creedy’s top guy?” Crosby shouted, blocking a rabbit punch toward his throat—fucking nasty assed fighter, goddammit! “Creedy’s top guy was ameth addict. He shot a rookie through a wall because he was a fuckingcoward. We got called in because he was holding a knife to his wife’s throat. You wanted me to cover for that?”
“I want you to be some goddamneduse!” McEnany shouted, and he went sideways for a chamber kick, but Crosby had inches and pounds on him. Blocked the kick with his arms, blocked a flurry of them and then used the wall so he could throw his body sideways, catching McEnany with both feet in his core.
McEnany flew backward, landing on the stairs behind him, and it must have hurt, because he took his time getting up.
“Iambeing goddamned use,” Crosby hissed. “I’m being your fucking poster boy. You want to get your recruits in the unit? Do it now, because they’re starting to think white boys might not all be racist shitbags. But don’t blame me if your fucking candidates are too stupid or too crazy to pass the entrance qualifications. That’s onyoufor not training them up, and that’s onthemfor thinking they’re God’s gift.”
He stood back for a minute and assessed what McEnany was going to do next, because the man’s shoulders were forward and his fists were up, and this fight was not over.
“All I wanna do,” McEnany snarled, “is get back in good with the Sons—do you get that? The brass. That’s all you gotta do for me—”
“Well, whose ass am I kissing, tough guy? I don’t got no pride. You’re threatening my team, you’re threatening my girl. Whose balls do I gotta suck to get you out of my hair? ’Cause I don’t know what tales you had to tell the FBI to get me out on assignment this long, but I’m betting you’re running out of time.”
McEnany flinched, and Crosby realized he’d scored a direct hit. Someone must be riding McEnany’s ass to either produce a bust through Crosby or to return him to Special Crimes Task Force, and McEnany was feeling the heat. And today….
Crosby’s eyes narrowed, and he braced himself, ignored the fucking pain, and let loose with the final hit, the one that would turn McEnany into a berserker, more intent on carnage than on saving his own skin.
“And not just the brass,” Crosby finished, dancing a little on his toes. All those hand-to-hand training sessions, all those times he’d been pitted against Garcia, who was little and wiry, like McEnany, and who fought dirty ’cause he’d have to on the streets. Crosby knew he had to be quicker, knew he had to use his strength but not as a crutch—knew what had to be done.
“Shut up,” McEnany snapped. “You don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“Creedy’s pissed, isn’t he?” Crosby went on, feeling light on his feet and strong in his heart. A cut above his eye was pouring blood, but he wiped it off with the back of his bloody fist, the bandage taking most of it, even as his popped stitches seeped through the other side. “You promised him I’d get his boys hired, but Iliana Davies isn’t the problem, is she? His boys are the problem. And you lostmenon this gamble, and you can bet someone at the two-four is taking notice. So he’s riding your back, andyoushould be captain, right? And you gotta take orders fromhim, gotta take orders from thefeds, from whoever in the alphabets you’re trying to impress, and this whole time, the guy you planned to fuck the most,me, I’m doin’ okay, right? I’m a flatfoot, right where I started, and you’rescrewed,McEnany. You couldn’t piss down your own leg if your shoe was on fire, could you?”
McEnany’s roar reverberated up and down the stairwell, and he charged Crosby with all his might.
He got in a blow to Crosby’s jaw, but Crosby was stepping wide, so it hit just hard enough to bruise but not break. At the same time, McEnany’s momentum carried him past Crosby, across the landing, and he was overbalanced, expecting Crosby’s bulk to stop him. When that didn’t happen, his legs tried to take the stairs like a cartoon character’s, but his chest and shoulders and head leaned forward, forward, until he pitched down the steps, rolling as he went, landing on his back, bruised and bleeding but still breathing.
Thank fuck.
Crosby took the stairs two at a time, getting there before McEnany even thought about getting up. McEnany glared from his position, prone, right up until Crosby’s police issue boot came down to rest ever so gently on his throat.
“Crosby….”
McEnany swallowed, and Crosby saw real fear in his eyes.
“Who do you got watching my team?” he asked, flexing his foot.
“Creedy’s guys—he’s managing… gah!”