Shoot 'Em Up by Janey Mack Page B

wreathed Nyx’s face. “You’re in.”
    â€œA toehold,” I cautioned.
    â€œA test. And one you’ll pass. I’ll see to that.” He sucked his lower lip. “Let’s keep this out of Sawyer’s field of vision. At least until the deal goes down. Or off. No point knocking over the hive if it’s a washout.”
    â€œYessir.” The hubris of ego was a remarkable thing. He actually assumed I’d kept Sawyer in the dark. “Umm, Mr. Nyx? Don’t you think you should know my name?”
    He stepped into my space, leaned down, and whispered, “What makes you think I don’t already know everything about you, Maisie?”
    A tiny shiver skittered down my spine.
    Nyx straightened and crossed the room. Wes opened the door for him.
    â€œPut it in motion,” Nyx said.
    Wes nodded and closed the door behind him. He lumbered over and sat down heavily at a tiny table.
    I took the chair opposite. “Hey—can I ask you something?”
    â€œYou betcha.”
    â€œWhat is Liten Soot-ees ?”
    â€œLittle Sweetie.”
    â€œReally? Because the way Nyx says it, it sounds anything but.”
    Wes’s lips twitched.
    â€œI’m Maisie.”
    â€œNice to know you. Alrighty then, you told Nyx that El Cid wants you to fly down on Thursday, right?”
    I nodded. “One-way, first-class ticket.”
    â€œWhich means you can’t carry the cash. Too many variables with the airport. Sixty K isn’t worth stressing our assets.”
    How much does it take to be cost-effective?
    â€œThe money will weigh around seven pounds.” Wes chewed on a fingernail, thinking. “Where will you be staying?”
    â€œHotel Lucerna.”
    â€œNo problem, then.” He smiled. “I’ll FedEx it to you.”
    Seriously? “Don’t they have dogs trained to smell out currency ink?”
    â€œDuh.” Wes rolled his eyes. “That’s why we coat the inside of the FedEx boxes with lynx urine.”
    â€œUgh.”
    He gave a high-pitched but good-natured giggle. “The money will arrive scent-free, plastic-wrapped inside activated-charcoal deodorizer bags.”
    Sure thing. “And it’ll just show up, unmolested at the hotel desk, no sweat?”
    Wes looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Of course. It’ll arrive with the Sentinel ’s NAFTA certificate of origin and proforma invoice. Customs won’t give it a second look.”
    â€œA Chicago newspaper has a duty-free custom’s entrance number?”
    â€œThey will by this afternoon.” He shook his head. “You are a green one, aren’tcha?”
    That’s me. The perpetual rookie.
    â€œI’m betting he’s planning to have you drive the product back. Weekends are the busiest border crossing times. The heavier the traffic flow, the less likely you are to get searched.” Wes leaned forward and put a slightly sweaty hand on mine. “Don’t think about what you’re doing when you come back with the product. You’re just returning a package to the DEA.”
    He gave my hand a damp squeeze.
    I nodded, smiling, wanting to pull my hand away but standing firm. “Thanks for the advice.”
    He finally let go. “Anytime.” He heaved himself to his feet and walked me out to the front of the store. “Have a good day, now.”

Chapter 13
    I gratefully took the scalp on the taxi limo to the Hotel Lucerna. Even with a spray tan, I stuck out more than a constitutionalist at a DNC rally. Ciudad Juárez had the highest murder rate in Mexico. But travel advisories don’t mean jack to a Chi-town Irish gel working undercover.
    Yeah, right.
    The driver pulled up in front of the eight-story cream-colored resort hotel. I overtipped him and wheeled my black Victor-inox Spectra hard-side into a lobby of marble-tiled arches and wrought-iron furniture with overstuffed cushions.
    At 2:00 p.m., the