Jason lowered the weapon the moment he realized the slender guy was actually a woman, the moment he recognized her. His pulse pounded in his throat, panic and power mingling to make every breath surreal. Cruz stared at him warily, her hand still on the pistol in her shoulder holster.
"You're part of this?" she asked, her voice incredulous.
"Part of what?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"
"I was wondering the same thing about you," he said.
"I'm the police." Her voice firm, a brook-no-bullshit tone.
"Yeah, but why are you here?
She hesitated, then said. "I got a phone call. Anonymous. He told me there was something going down I would want to see." She took her fingers off the butt of her pistol. "Do you know what that is?"
"One of the men who killed my brother is coming here tonight. But who would have called you?"
"How about you put down the gun, we figure that out together?"
Jason looked at her, looked at the Beretta. He'd crossed a line when he'd pointed at her – shit, when she saw it. Still. "I'm sorry I scared you. But there's an explanation. Let me get through it, okay?"
She shrugged. "Mr. Palmer, you're holding a gun. I'll agree to pretty much anything you say."
This wasn't how he wanted it to go. He bowed his head, rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, the muscles taut and hard. "I know how this seems." He looked up at her. "But will you just hear me out?"
After a pause, she said. "Okay. Who's the guy coming here?"
"His name is Anthony DiRisio, and he sells weapons. Military hardware. He's been selling to the gangs." He saw the confusion on her face. Spread his hands at his side, palms up. "Best I can guess, maybe Michael found out about it, and DiRisio killed him for it."
He thought he saw something pass behind her eyes, but all she said was, "How would the owner of a bar be mixed up in something like that?"
"Mikey was a crusader. Trying to save everyone," Jason said, remembering that last view of Michael, his brother's face angry and red. "Maybe someone he worked with told him, or maybe he just stumbled on it. But if he did find something like this, he wouldn't have been able to ignore it." He paused. "Wait a second. You said you knew him, that he'd talked to you about something. Was this it?"
Cruz shook her head. "He never said anything about weapons." She glanced around. "So. You're planning on shooting DiRisio?"
"No." He hesitated. "I don't know what I was going to do. I'm figuring this out as I go. All I know is that someone killed my brother and is trying to kill my nephew, and I'm not going to let that happen."
She nodded slowly, her forehead wrinkled, like she was thinking carefully. He let the moment stretch. Heard a car and glanced back at Lower Wacker, but didn't see anything. A soft wind carried a whiff of her perfume, something spicy and good, over a faint clean smell of sweat. "So now you know everything I know." He stared at her. "Thanks for hearing me out." She nodded, and he locked the safety on the Beretta and slid it into the back of his belt.
The moment his hands left the gun, Cruz kicked him in the balls.
He saw the move late, managed to shift position a little, but her foot still hit hard and square enough that the bottom fell out of his stomach and he gasped for breath, living that quarter second when his brain knew what was coming before his body felt it, and then wham!, ice-cold nausea flamed through his whole body, and he cupped his hands on his testicles and dropped to his knees, thinking shit, oh shit, and it took all his strength to process what he saw, her pulling her own gun, a businesslike automatic.
"Put your hands on your head."
He sucked air through his teeth. His last second shift in position meant that she hadn't connected fully, and he knew the worst of the agony would ease soon, but that was small comfort now.
"Hands on your goddamn head!" Cruz had the cop voice down: Firm, commanding, a weapon. His hands moved without him meaning for them to, the left and right finding each other, interlacing and squeezing hard to block out the pain. Cruz stepped behind him, gun never wavering.
He turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. "Jesus Christ, that hurt." Gasping the words.
"Shut up." She moved, and he felt his gun tugged away from his belt, heard it clatter against the earth. "Face forward."
He obeyed, his eyes on Lower Wacker, vision blurry. Knelt there, waiting to feel the cuff snap on his wrist, angry and frustrated and aching.
Which was when he saw headlights coming down the ramp.