Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

ended up right next to the shooter, who was still and emitting a whimper as plaintive as any sound Behr had ever heard. He looked for some unburned flesh near the shooter’s wrists and forearms-there was little-and hoisted the man up and over his shoulder and headed for the front …

48

Enough was bleeding enough.

Dwyer had to admit it to himself. The solo play was over. Dwyer had been inside. He’d brought Banco some Gatorade, a sandwich, fresh bandages. He’d left some simple saline intravenous fluid and tubing. He’d explained he couldn’t get the more therapeutic stuff without a license, and that he was working on it. He’d left him something else too, a last surprise. It was just under the lip of the kitchenette counter. The mobile phone’s internal clock was timed for fifteen minutes. Dwyer planned on being across town, under the shower nozzle in his shite hole by the time everything was finished. He was just leaving, taking his time, sitting in his car for a bit, making sure he’d thought everything through, when the big pro showed up.

Bugger me, Dwyer thought, another few moments and they would’ve been face- to-face. He watched the big pro go to the door, try something with the buzzer, wait a bit, and then set about letting himself in.

“He’s bumping it,” Dwyer said aloud. It was clear enough to him, even from down the street, what the big pro was doing. He’d seen better, but the bloke wasn’t half bad at it. The man was dogged. He was a hunter.

Dwyer’s anticipation grew as the big pro disappeared inside. Two for the price of one, Dwyer thought. His eye went from building to dashboard clock and back as he waited. And then he heard the muffled crump. There was the sound of breaking glass. Smoke appeared from the far side of the building. Then he couldn’t believe his eyes at what he saw next: the big pro giving a fireman’s carry to Banco’s limp body. Dwyer opened the car door and set a foot on the pavement, ready to run straight at him and put two in his dome before he knew what had happened, but then a series of residents made their way, coughing and frightened, out the front door of the building. It was show enough for Dwyer. He put the car into Drive and took off before the police and emergency services arrived to set up a perimeter.

Now, pacing around his room, Dwyer took out his mobile. Going it alone was one thing, but he’d have to be a frigging idiot to go any further so. He dialed a number from memory and waited while it rang, and then he heard the familiar voice come through.

“ ’Ey?” It was his boy, Rickie Powell, a hard Sandhurst chappie and regular hooligan who’d earned his nickname “Ruthless” many times over.

“Oi, Rickie. Dwyer. Where are ya?”

“Waddy, ya fuckin’ Cambrian! On Ibiza.”

“Work?”

“Nah, ’oliday.”

“Bewt. Which side?”

“Which side? You think I’m in Ibiza Town with all them rich quiffs? I’m in fucking Sant Antoni, getting smeared on cider and porking fat German chicks.”

“Sorry to interrupt your vital mission, but I’m on a damage-limitation job and could use you to rally up.”

“Fucking ’ell. Can do.”

“Tidy.”

“You’re doing me a big favor. These Bavarian twats can drink their weight in beer, I’m goin’ broke …”

It went on like that for another five minutes before Dwyer snapped to and asked, “Can you come in on a blank, then?”

“Not without flying back to Leeds first. Me blanks are in the safety deposit box at the bloody bank-just have my legitimate passport with me,” Rickie told him.

“Come on straightaway, then, no matter,” Dwyer said. “Go and get yourself packed, we’ve got work to do …”

49

Behr sat with his back against an ambulance on the dusty lawn in front of the building, coughing out smoke. He’d given his name and brief description of what had transpired, first to the 911 operator when he called in the fire, then again to the first patrolman on the scene. He watched while paramedics and the police and fire departments arrived simultaneously and put out the building fire, which they’d managed to contain to a few neighboring apartments, made sure the residents were safe, and EMS tried to stabilize the shooter. A paramedic gave Behr water and oxygen and cleaned and bandaged the burns on his hands, which were only first and second degree.

He’d been lucky. The shooter had been far from it. They had him on a stretcher, on his side since his back was so badly burned. One paramedic hung an IV and placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, while the other worked the radio.

“We’ve got a male-Hispanic, I believe-in his thirties, late or early unknown … Abnormal respiration … We have black nasal and oral discharge … Burns greater than sixty percent of his body … Deep burn pattern … Chemical accelerants …”

The care-giving paramedic spread gauze along the burned man’s back and looked up at his partner. “Christ, I think this guy’s been shot-lower left quadrant. Not too recent either … He’s septic.”

“Probable GSWs, lower left quadrant,” the one on the radio said into the handset.

“Repeat. Did you say GSWs or burns?” a voice came through the radio.

“Yeah, GSWs. Burns also.”

“Shit, he’s shocking,” the one on the ground said. “Pulse two ten, and spiking.”

“Let’s move him, stat,” the radio op said.

“Trying to stabilize him first.”

“Nothing to move if we wait, partner.”

“Roger that, let’s roll.”

“He’s hypovolemic, we’re on the move,” the radio man said into the handset.

They used straps to secure him to the gurney and carried it toward the ambulance. Behr got a chance to see the shooter’s face as he went by-his lips grossly swollen, one eye glassy and blank, the other burned shut, the hair on the back of his head gone. Whatever information the man had may as well have been locked away in a Swiss vault. Behr didn’t have much experience with serious burns, but he didn’t see the guy making it.

Behr stood as the ambulance was closed up and did his best to order his scrambled thoughts. He’d tracked down the shooter. The man was for hire, some kind of pro-ex-military, a mercenary-something he didn’t see every day. Someone-his support or handler-had brought in supplies. And someone had firebombed him. Or Behr. Or both of them. He didn’t get much further than that, because as the ambulance sped out, sirens wailing, a dark Crown Vic rolled onto the scene and a familiar, unwelcome figure climbed out. It was Lt. Breslau, chesty and overheated in his suit, his jaw in major pump mode over a lump of gum.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You need further medical treatment?”

“No.”

“Good. What kind of Caro business brings you out into this mess?” Breslau wanted to know.

Behr could only stare him in the face. “Unofficial,” finally came out of his mouth.

“Who’s the well-done slab of meat they just carted away?” Breslau asked.

“Jose Campos. It’s an alias,” Behr said.

“Great, a spic John Doe to unravel.”