Page 29 of Under Cover
A moment later, Harding’s voice went to that tone they associated with him talking to a victim or someone under fire. “Ma’am, I’m putting you on speaker with Crosby and Garcia.” His grim mouth twitched. “The cute boys.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” she murmured. “I’m so glad. Where’s my hunky blond boy?”
“I’m here, honey,” Crosby answered. “You sound upset. What’s doin’, you calling on Christmas?”
“We’ve got a gunman here,” she said, and Crosby straightened immediately while Garcia hopped up as though zapped. “He thinks we can’t see it, but he keeps fondling his piece. I’ve got my bouncers passing the word to clear people out, but I don’t want the po-po here, darlings. That’s a good way for a lot of rainbow blood to hit the streets, if you know what I mean.”
“We do,” Crosby said, jerking his chin toward the gun lockers. Harding followed them, phone out so they could converse while Garcia and Crosby armed themselves. “But baby, you know we’re in Manhattan. It’s a good twenty minutes if we drive like the wind.”
“Yeah, I hear you,” she murmured. “But I’m saying, this guy’s jumpy, but he’s looking for someone. Please don’t come in here guns blazing and shoot up my club. The po-po hates us bad here, boys. You’re the only ones I trust.”
“On our way, sweetheart,” Crosby said. “Hold tight. And I’m gonna have my boss call the po-po and have them on standby, no lights. You stay on the line with our boss here, and if things start to go bad, have him talk to the po-po. Everybody’s afraid of him. He’ll keep them in line.”
“Thanks, boys,” she murmured. “I’m not going to tell you to hurry because I want you to get here alive. It’s snowing out there.”
“Sit tight, Chartreuse. We’re on our way.” He made eye contact with Harding with those flinty blue-gray eyes, and Harding nodded, picking up his cues. Without breaking stride, Harding wheeled and went back to his computer, probably accessing cameras around the club so they could get a feel for their possible gunman, as well as calling the local police and filling them in on the sitch.
They were in the department-issue SUV and heading down the I-278 Expressway when Harding came on comms.
“I talked to the local police, and Chartreuse isn’t wrong. They were willing to go in with guns blazing, but sitting and letting someone calm the situation down isn’t their thing. So you guys hit the place with lights, no sirens, take charge, and go in as patrons. Your girl says she’s getting people to trickle out the back exits, a few at a time so as not to arouse suspicion. She’s found the man’s kid—trans female—and the girl thinks her father is there to… I don’t know. Get her to change her mind? It’s going to be tricky there. I’m going to say Garcia should take point on this one.”
“Roger that,” Crosby said, and Garcia was warmed by the idea that he didn’t even hesitate. They worked hard to tailor the best person on the team to the situation—the club wasn’t a place where good Irish Catholic ex-football players went to hang out, no matter how much Garcia had been dreaming of that guy walking through the doors on any given night.
THEY ARRIVEDat the club and took a moment to suit up, pulling their coats and sweaters off to put Kevlar on underneath, and then putting sweaters on over the vests. After that they pushed past the puzzled, worried club goers wandering out of the building in ones and twos. A bouncer—a woman Crosby’s height with the muscles of a body builder and a granite jaw—stood monitoring the door. She wore a T-shirt stretched tightly across her chest, but a T-shirt as opposed to a bikini top was her only acknowledgment of the snow that fell softly from an ash-gray sky. She scowled at the two of them until Garcia said, “Chartreuse called us. She wants us to handle the sitch so the police don’t escalate.”
The woman nodded and stepped back, but her expression didn’t soften one bit. “He’s in the far corner, hugging the bar. She’s kept the music on so he hasn’t noticed the crowd thinning.”
Her voice was a low bass rumble, and Garcia sort of wished she was Kevlared up and ready to party with them.
They were about to enter the club when Garcia, acting on impulse, grabbed Crosby’s hand. Instead of jerking away or asking why, Crosby moved in closer, like they were a couple out on Christmas, going into a club to celebrate.
When Crosby tightened his grasp and his breath brushed Garcia’s cheek, Garcia had to fight not to lean into him, to turn toward his warmth, to run his lips along that strong jaw. Crosby gave him a guileless smile and spoke directly into his ear.
“He’s by the bar,” he murmured.
Garcia’s eyes flickered around the place, and he gave a nod and a smile. “Spiked eggnog?”
“Beer.”
That brought a sudden grin Garcia couldn’t contain. “That’s my boy,” he murmured. With a little chin nod, he sidled up to the bar and found a seat two seats down from a middle-aged white guy hunched over in a trench coat, a caricature of a bad guy, a dark figure emanating anxiety and clutching something to his chest under the coat. He was one of three white males in the room, including Crosby and the bare-chested bartender in black pants, a bondage harness, and a red bow tie.
He wasn’t hard to spot.
Chartreuse was at the corner of the bar, letting the very butch, very blond bartender serve their nervous gunman, and Garcia nodded to her. She plastered on a smile and sauntered over, looking festive in a red Santa Clause skinsuit with flesh-colored tights and a Santa hat. Her lashes were flecked with glitter, and glitter makeup adorned her cheeks. Garcia caught Crosby’s unfettered grin and felt his chest—cold from the proximity to the gunman—warm a fraction.
God, the guy was perfect.
“How’re my cute boys?” Chartreuse purred. “We having a Merry Christmas?”
“We are now,” Crosby said, his innate courtliness making the statement charming instead of smarmy.
“What can I do for you boys?” She gave a furtive glance to her right, where the bartender was blocking their suspect’s view of her.
“Soda water with lime,” Crosby said. “And a twist. You know what the twist is, don’t you?”
“Whisper it to me,” she murmured, and both of them leaned over the bar while she put her face near theirs.
“Who’s he eyeballing?” Garcia whispered.
