“That’s close enough,” Banco said, leveling the assault rifle at Dwyer more directly. He recognized it now. It was an H amp;K 33, of German make, the rifle of the Salvadoran army, and Banco’s old service weapon.
“What in fuck’s name happened, Banco?” Dwyer asked.
Banco shrugged. “I got the call. I went to the location. Just like the plan. I set it up-the elevator, the lights, the car-and I waited. I opened up on ’em and was walking him down to finish. But the fucking car was armored … and he had this guy with him-”
“You knew he’d have a man with him,” Dwyer said, doing his best to tamp down his anger.
“Well, this motherfucker wasn’t the one I expected. And he was good. Or lucky,” Banco said with disgust, gesturing at his wound.
“What type of guy?”
“Big. And tall. Dark hair, dark suit, mustache,” Banco said and it made Dwyer wonder for a moment before he refocused.
“What about your backup shooter?” Dwyer asked.
Banco just shook his head.
“You didn’t use a backup shooter?” Dwyer was shocked. A three-man team was minimum industry standard. “Are you fucking retarded or something, man? At least the bloody driver should have been a backup …” Dwyer tailed off when he caught the look in Banco’s black eyes.
“Fucking ’ell, you went in solo?” Dwyer asked, equal parts incredulity and disgust. “Why?”
“I needed the money, man,” Banco said simply.
“You were paid fifty K, with another fifty coming at the finish.”
“There’s no work. I couldn’t afford a split. It’s been two years since I’ve had any job worth shit. I needed all of it.”
“And look at you fucking now,” Dwyer said, his fury leaking out. “I thought you were a bloody professional.”
“Help me get well, and we’ll go finish this thing together,” Banco said.
“I don’t know about the second part there, Braveheart.” Dwyer shook his head. “The target’s all buttoned up now …”
A look of fear came over Banco as he realized what his failure meant. The two men stared at each other. Dwyer had been on ops down in Salvador with Banco. They’d been on bivouac together, a thirty-day stint, in shit jungle doing nasty things. That kind of time created a bond. He’d directed Banco’s fire, and Banco took orders and responded under pressure. That, and because he was familiar with the city, were why Dwyer thought to use him.
“Just so you know, Waddy,” he said, “I have some things in place if anything happens to me. Information you don’t want getting out.”
Dwyer stared at Banco. He didn’t particularly believe him. The guy had been no-bullshit, ex-army when he’d met him a dozen years ago. But he couldn’t be sure one way or the other whether Banco had put some insurance in place, so he played along.
“If anything happens to you? You’ve got one foot in the boat and it’s ready to cross the river, man …” Dwyer said.
“You’ve got to help me,” Banco said. The fear he’d been doing a good job keeping out of his voice made itself heard for the first time.
Dwyer acted like it affected him. “What do you think you need?”
“Sterile dressings. An IV drip of lactated Ringer’s solution. Or at least saline. Plasma expander if you can get it. And antibiotics-cephalosporin or even penicillin. Dilaudid or Percocet for the pain.”
“Fucking ’ell, anything else?”
“Find me a doctor who’ll fix me without talking.”
“That could take a while, being it’s the first time I’ve been in this shite burg.”
“I’ll be here waiting.”
Dwyer wasn’t going to be able to get a thing for Banco at this hour, short of robbing a bloody hospital. He fetched Banco a cup of water from the kitchen-he thought it was a nice touch-and took a last glance back and left, closing the door behind him.
37
At ten minutes to six in the morning, the air still night crisp, Behr trotted down the street in warm-up mode, toward Saddle Hill. He was thinking about why he had drank so much last night and why Kolodnik had found himself in the casino-building business and why he seemed to have moved back out as quickly as he’d gotten in. That’s when he saw Decker, dressed in shorts and a red T-shirt that read “USMC-American Spartans,” in the middle of the street, doing squat thrusts.
Behr came to a stop. “Surprised to see you here,” he shouted, since Decker’s headphones were on.
“You said oh-six hundred,” Decker said, pulling out an earbud.
“What’s today’s selection?” Behr asked.
“Alt rock playlist. Okkervil River, Black Keys, the Dead Weather. You know, the Jack White spin-off.”
“Terrific,” Behr said. It was too early to inquire further as to who and what any of the bands were.
“So what do we got?” Decker asked.
“Ten up, ten down. Full speed.”
Decker glanced at the upward slope of Saddle Hill, humping away over a rise, a quarter mile into the distance.
“Big hill. I thought this town was flat.”
“Mostly is,” Behr said.
They started out, and things quickly turned from a hard morning run to a full-bore pride competition-the kind Behr knew from his football days and supposed were common in the military, too. Behr led the way and set the pace; but by the fifth trip up, he found he couldn’t stay with Decker, fit and fast as the young prick was. Behr put his head down and pushed and felt the alcohol from the night before sweating out of him. By the eighth go-round, he’d started to make up considerable ground and wondered if Decker might fade. On the tenth trip down the hill, Behr lengthened his stride and got within twenty feet of Decker, in time to see him turn his head and spew vomit. Behr figured he had him, but instead saw there was no fade in the guy. Decker didn’t break stride. If anything, he accelerated and reached the bottom a good ten yards ahead of Behr.
They both grabbed their shorts and sucked air, and then Decker started laughing.
“Guess I shouldn’t have had those nightcaps when I got home,” he said.
“Didn’t slow you down any,” Behr said.
“Pounding ground till you puke’s a way of life in the corps. Especially with a freight train running up my back,” Decker gave Behr a whack on the shoulder. “Thanks, I’ve been going marshmallow since I got out.”
Behr had Decker as a boots-on-the-ground, triggers-up type, but if this was soft, he wondered just how hard-ass the guy must’ve been when he was in. They walked the short distance to Decker’s car, a steel-gray Camaro with meaty-looking black tires that were Armor All-ed to a high sheen.
“So, time to go pretend you’re working?” Decker asked.
“Something like that.”
“Gina heard from Susan that you took some rounds not too long ago,” Decker said, as he opened the car door.
“Been trying to figure out who flung ’em,” Behr said, “but I seem to be the only one around who cares.” Whether or not Decker understood what this meant wasn’t clear, but a version of that dark, distant gaze visited his eyes for a moment.
“Anything I can do to help, let me know,” Decker finally said, then got in his car, which he started with a rumble.
