Page 104 of Under Cover
“Ready?” he said to Garcia.
“On it.”
He glanced at Downey and said, “Could you… I dunno, make sure the cat’s still inside when you’re done with Pidgeon? He’s got water and tuna and shit, but I don’t want him out on the streets alone. He’s got no collar, and he’s a little skinny under all that fur.”
Downey’s dark eyebrows hit the line of her dark blond hair. “Sure, Agent. We’ll take care of your cat.”
Garcia cackled. “Oh my God. Wait till I tell the chief you said that. You’re getting a whole new coffee mug!”
Crosby grunted and gave Pidgeon one more nod, indicating their business was done, before following Garcia out into the night.
THEY BOTHgrunted after they’d climbed into the department issue and Crosby steered it away from the curb.
“Same make, same model, same windows, same chassis,” Garcia muttered.
“It’s like our mechanic got his degree at wizardry school or something,” Crosby agreed. “This thing steers like ass.”
Garcia’s next words were tentative. “So, uhm, you sure it’s the steering?”
Crosby grimaced, because he could hear where Garcia was going with that and didn’t want to admit he might be right. But if they were going out on an op tonight, he owed it toeverybodyto be honest about his physical condition.
“I am stupid tired after not doing much at all,” he admitted. “I mean, put me in if I’m needed, but I may serve you all best by hanging back with the long gun and keeping you safe that way.”
Garcia let out a breath. “I cannot tell you how happy I am to hear that you’re only stupid tired and not full-out stupid. Keep us briefed on how you’re doing.”
Crosby let out a raspberry. “Iamstupid. I hung out with them. I listened to them talk. They talked about video games, they talked about getting polluted and trashing places, and they bitched about their foreman. They may have mentioned ‘the big bitch’ two or three times, but I swear to God, I always thought they were talking about a piece of equipment!”
Garcia’s rather manic chuckle warmed him. “I mean, that’s fair, right? Guys I worked with in ATF used to call our grenade and missile launchers ‘the big bitches.’ It took us a long time to assemble that file on Beauchamp—I mean Beechum. We were spending all our time on Cavendish.”
“Yeah, well, if we can link him to this warehouse and to Marcy Beauchamp or Beechum or whatever, it’ll be worth it,” Crosby agreed grimly.
“But first we gotta see what’s what.” Garcia pulled out his phone and hit Harding’s preset, making sure the whole thing was on speaker.
“Harding,” came the growl over the phone. “I’m on my way to Red Hook and the warehouse with Natalia—”
“And me!” Harman snapped from what sounded like the back of Harding’s personal vehicle.
“You’re not supposed to be here!” Harding retorted, before getting back on the line and trying to sound professional. “What can you tell us?”
“Carlyle and Chadwick picked the wrong goddamned night to make a stand, sir,” Crosby said. “They’re getting a big fucking shipment tonight, and Beechum’s going to be there. Pidgeon told us that she does look to somebody. We figure Cavendish, but—”
“I finally found the shell company that owns the warehouse,” Natalia said. “And we have the link.”
“Way to go, Tal!” Garcia crowed. “Because if we all survive tonight, we can walk right up into Police Plaza and arrest that sonovabitch.”
“That’s who you want to arrest?” Crosby asked, curious. “Because I’m more excited about McEnany and Creedy.”
“We all have our goals,” Garcia declared magnanimously. His face hardened. “Those boys, I wouldn’t mind killing.”
“Anyway,” Harding ground out, obviously too focused to want to ride herd on them like he usually did. “Carlyle and Chadwick havenotreported in yet, but I got hold of Swan and Pearson. They’ll meet us on-site with Davies. There’s an empty vehicle depot about a block away from the warehouse, so we can meet there and stick to the shadows.”
Garcia cleared his throat, and Crosby took a shaky breath, realizing his back, neck, and arms were shaking just from steering the shittily maintained department-issued vehicle around.
“Sir,” Crosby said, hating to admit this but afraid of what would happen if he didn’t.
“You sound like shit,” Harding said. “Are you good to go?”
“Sixty percent,” Crosby assessed coldly, his stomach knotted. “Unless things get bad, you may want to keep me in overwatch.” If his team was in trouble, he was damned if he sat on the high ground and watched them get hurt—or worse.
