Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

grabbed a simple low-tech set of gear: a ring of bump keys and hammer. One specially crafted bump key would open any pin tumbler lock of the same make, so he had 90 percent of the standard domestically produced locks covered with what he currently had jingling in his pocket. It was the simplest form of lock beating this side of a battering ram, and a lot more subtle.

Behr waved lamely at two departing coworkers who had caught a ride from the barbecue and come back to claim their cars. It told him the party was over, and he guessed Teague would be along soon. He considered slim- jimming his way into the Traverse or, better yet, smashing the window with the barrel of his Glock, and reviewing the contents of the car. There was nothing in it, Behr realized. Teague would know better. After another four or five long minutes in the day’s last light, a Buick Enclave rolled up, its windows open, Reidy behind the wheel and Malick in the passenger seat. Teague piled out of the back and walked toward him with that rolling gait of his, and didn’t break stride when he spotted Behr.

“What’s up, buddy?” Teague asked, hale and hearty, and inscrutable behind a pair of dark sunglasses as he neared the car.

“You tell me,” Behr said, squaring to him and stopping his progress toward the driver’s door.

“What’s that, big guy?” Teague said, his keys out.

“I want to know what’s going on,” Behr said.

“Nothing’s ‘going on,’ ” Teague said, all hint of jocularity now gone from his voice. “Unless you keep standing there, in which case we’re gonna have an issue.”

“Do we already have one, Pat?” Behr asked. Teague didn’t move, but his mouth fell open, and Behr was about to follow up with more pointed questions when Reidy honked his horn.

“You ready to go, Patty?” Malick called out. “Six dollar pitchers of Leinenkugel’s at Taps and Dolls. You coming, Behr?”

“No, he’s not coming,” Teague said, putting a shoulder into Behr’s chest, moving him back a step, unlocking his car, and getting in.

“See ya tomorrow, then,” Malick said, and drove off.

Teague’s Traverse revved and shot gravel at Behr and left him in a billowing cloud of exhaust. He stalked off toward his car, thinking about his next move with Teague and wishing he had something in front of him to punch.

47

Behr walked along the filthy, ground-down carpet runner of the second story hallway of 1701 Wilmette. He’d returned to the building, which was a low-slung cracker box, typical in this part of town, cheaply built and aging badly. It was a wonder that someone had bothered to install carpet in the first place. The front door’s Kwikset had proved to be of little challenge for the bump key. He wasn’t well practiced, but after he flat-hand buzzed every apartment except the one he was going to, announcing “Pizza delivery!” to the few answers he received, he was surprised that no one rang him in. So he slid the bump key into the lock, flexed the hammer back, and let it go with a thwap. He turned the key and heard the tumbler click open, and he was in. It was so easy and smooth his heart didn’t even get to racing.

But it sure was now, as he neared the door in question. This time the bump had to be slick and precise and he only hoped he got lucky again, because he didn’t know what was waiting for him on the other side. Behr slowed his pace and walked quietly up to the side of the door, keeping his back to the wall and his body to the side of the frame so he wouldn’t disturb the hall light sliding under the door into the apartment.

There was no one in the corridor, and Behr bent and saw he was dealing with a Weslock. It wasn’t an expensive brand. They sold by the boatload at Home Depot. A sixteen-pound sledgehammer would do the job for certain, but that wouldn’t allow for much conversation once he was inside. He fingered through the keys on his ring and found the Weslock equivalent. He removed it from the ring to prevent any telltale clinking noise. He grabbed a deep breath, crouched, and slid the key into the lock. One last quick look up and down the hall. He flexed the bump hammer. And bang.

He turned the key-which rotated-and stood. Twisting the knob, he put a shoulder into the door and found himself inside a dimly lit, foul-smelling little apartment. A man around thirty years old with black hair and long sideburns, and sporting faded ink, rested on a filthy bed. He jolted in surprise at Behr’s entry and began reaching for something, though he was hardly able to move. In the grainy half-light Behr made out the silhouette of a weapon, a rifle, leaning against the wall on the far side of the bed. With a lunging stride, Behr crossed the room, rolled along the foot of the bed, and knocked the weapon away from the man. They wrestled for a moment, but the man was weak. He groaned and gave up nearly instantly, shrinking back against the edge of the bed. Behr got control of the weapon, raised it at the man, and gestured him up with the barrel. As the man climbed to his feet with much effort, Behr’s thumb found the safety and he discovered the weapon was ready to fire.

Behr took a step back to give himself room and noticed the man’s skin was mottled, as if he’d been doused with acid, but before long Behr recognized it as a skin condition, probably vitiligo. He also noted, with little satisfaction, that the assault rifle he held was fitted with a flash suppressor and brass catcher and was military grade. It was the same one that could’ve killed him, the one Breslau had suggested was home-modified. He was staring at the shooter.

“Who are you and where are you from?” Behr demanded.

The man didn’t answer, but it wasn’t due to defiance. He was doubled over clutching a wound on his side. There was an IV bag of saline hanging from a nail in the wall. The tube had ripped loose from the man’s arm during their struggle.

“I’m not going to hurt you. You understand English?” Behr said.

The man nodded.

“You know who I am? You recognize me?” Behr said.

The shooter nodded again. Behr noticed food and drink on a countertop in a kitchenette.

“Someone’s been here, bringing you supplies?”

The man nodded a third time.

Behr took a step forward. He kept one hand on the pistol grip of the assault rifle and used his other to move the shooter’s hands back. He saw that a round had entered low on the man’s left hip and ripped away the flesh at his flank. What remained was a viscous dark green that was going black.

“Did I do this to you?” Behr asked.

The man nodded.

“Who trained you? Who hired you? You were hired, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” the man croaked, revealing a Hispanic accent.

“Why were you shooting at-” but it was all Behr was able to say. He heard a single digital beep, then a hiss, and an instinct beyond any training he’d ever had caused him to throw himself on the floor behind the bed as the apartment exploded into a ball of orange fire.

Gasoline fumes and flames ripped through the air of the apartment as Behr reached and yanked the shooter down. But it was too late. The guy had caught a big stripe of a viscous, flaming substance that stuck to his back like a paintbrush slap. The man screamed as Behr tried to roll him on the floor and squelch the flames with his hands. While the flames didn’t spread, they just kept burning, down deeper into the man’s back, searing through his clothing and then his flesh. Behr found a blanket and tried to smother the flames, and finally had some success right around the time he realized he needed to get out of the apartment because it was burning around him. The heat was overwhelming-and worse than that, he was suffocating as every bit of oxygen in the place was consumed by the blaze.

The door was cut off by fire, so Behr grabbed the rifle, tore away a melted window shade, and smashed out the glass.

“One way out,” Behr gasped.

He grabbed the man’s charred and limp body and fed it out the window feetfirst and hoped for the best. Gravity sucked the man out of his grasp and Behr heard a thud before he grabbed the window sash, sprang through the opening, dangled, and dropped. He hit the ground with a painful roll and sucked in cool, fresh air and saw he’d