“Normally, I’d say yes, but I’d like to make this a quick interaction.” I sit on the couch opposite her. “I only want to talk.”
“I guess I know why you’re here then.” She looks at her hands, almost resigned.
“How do you know who I am, Ms. Whelan?”
“Call me Nat, everyone else does.” She tugs at a strand of hair then tucks it behind her ear, like she’s remembering not to engage in a bad habit. “He mentioned you’d come sooner or later though it might take a while. He said I should be ready. I’d heard there were guys like you in the city but I didn’t know about the group you run. My husband was into dumb things, always getting his fingers into all different pots, but he was a dumb man. A small fry.”
I go very still. A cold rush runs down my arms and pools in my fingers. He said. “Who are you talking about, Nat? Who told you about me?”
“He said I could call him when you came since you’re dangerous. He said he has people that can help me.” He rubs her face, visibly paler now. “I didn’t want to get involved. That’s why I tried to send you away at the door. I figured, hey, if he just up and walks, no big deal, right? No harm, no foul. Mickey’s a stupid bastard and he should rot in prison but Rees deserved what he got. You know my Rees stole guns from that those crazy brothers? Yeah, that’s right, stole guns from them, from a couple of psycho Polish outlaws. Rees was never too bright. Fingers in all the wrong pots.”
“Slow down,” I say, trying to digest the spew of information. “Rees is the man Mickey killed?”
“My husband. Ex-husband now, I guess. I came downstairs one night to find boxes of guns and ammo in our garage and I was like, Rees, you stupid fucking asshole, what did you do? Rees only laughed and said it was our ticket outta here into a better house with a real lawn and all that. He was obsessed with having a lawn and grass and the money to mow it. He wanted to ride around on a mower, drinking beer like those guys on TV. But then Mickey shows up a few days later, and him and Rees get into it in the back yard, and I guess Reed wasn’t too keen on handing over the goods without some kind of recompense, and Mickey pulls a gun and Rees pulls his, and I guess Mickey was faster. Since Rees is dead now. I saw the whole thing, and wasn’t gonna say a word until he shows up and tells me I should prosecute.”
“Who, Natalie?” I’m sitting forward now, spine tingling. A voice in my head’s yelling, get out. “You’ve mentioned a ‘him’ twice, but you haven’t told me who.”
“Nice boy, honestly. Very proper, sits very straight. He said he knows you, and that I should make sure Mickey goes to jail, and that you’d show up one day asking about it. Crazy how he was right, you know? I sort of wrote it off figuring who would care about a worthless guy like Mickey and my poor dead husband Rees?”
I reach out and grab her hand. She looks surprised and tries to pull it away, but I hold it tight, digging my fingers into the small bones at the edge of her thumb. She sucks in a pained breath. “Who told you that?” I ask, growling now.
“Danil,” she says, showing a bit of that panic I’d expected, “Danil Federov. My father knew his father back in the day. Please, let go of me, you’re hurting me.”
I release her hand and sit back, head dizzy. Danil Federov. He convinced this woman to stand as witness against Mickey. Why would he do that? To get the club back?
No, that’s too obvious, and I don’t think he’s patient. If he wanted the club, he could take it on his own instead of going to these lengths. It’s something else, something worse.
“Did you call him?” I ask, standing suddenly. I hurry to the window.
“I started to when I saw you from the upstairs window before I answered but it only rang a couple times before going to voicemail.” She sounds mystified. “He said he’s got lawyers. I thought maybe they could help? But you’re not the lawyer type.” She rubs her hand, glaring.
The horn outside blares, three long blasts.
“Shit,” I say, pulling my gun from the holster at my side. “Get on the floor,” I snap at the stupid woman, who stares at me with wide eyes.
“What’s going on?” she asks as the gunfire starts.
It’s deafening, and every instinct inside wants me to get down, stay down, and don’t move. But I throw myself at the door because Fynn’s out there in the car still, all alone, waiting for me. I dive outside as a black SUV sits in the street with the front and back windows open and guns pointing out like the needles in a hedgehog. The bastards fire on the house and my car and everything’s a hurricane of bullet splatter and shrapnel. Fynn’s nowhere, gone, I can’t see him behind the wheel anymore. Some dim voice hopes he made it out. I begin shooting back, running in a crouch, bullets scattering wildly all over. I hit the ground and roll until I come up against the Prius, using it as cover, returning fire when I can. I shoot out the front windshield and the back window and aim for the wheels. I manage to hit the front tire and it pops with a loud burst.