Wheelman, The

little plastic window. The space inside the window was white, except for a thin blue line that bisected it.

“It’s not easy, getting a urine sample from an unwilling woman. We had to bring her around again, force her to submit, then render her unconscious for our own safety. Chloroform is a nasty, sloppy chemical. Crude.”

Lennon stared at the blue line, finally realizing.

“Not good for the baby.”

Realizing how stupid he had been.

That explained the secrecy, the weird moods. Of course. She hadn’t wanted to distract him from the bank plans. That was Katie. Anything important always waited until after a job. More connections formed in Lennon’s head. That was why she had insisted on somewhere nice—a resort—even though they had spent most of the winter lazing around. She had wanted the day to be special. An infusion of cash, a beautiful view, sunshine, an announcement.

Pregnant.

But who … ?

Lennon felt the room tip slightly on its axis.

Three For Flinching

WILCOXSON SAW IT: LENNON’S FACE TWITCHED. HIS knees even appeared to buckle for an instant. He had gotten to him. Hit him in the space between the plates of armor. Lennon was going to do anything he wanted. The rest was academic.

“So listen carefully, Mr. Lennon. Listen to mommy.”

Wilcoxson pressed PLAY, and the tape he’d prepared started spinning.

“Patrick, it’s me. The time is 11:43, Saturday, March 30th. I am here in Philadelphia, not elsewhere as previously arranged. I came back. They tell me you’re alive, and that you are supposed to bring them what they want, otherwise they’re going to kill me. This is what they told me to say. I’ll be unharmed and released if you do what they say.” A pause; some murmuring. “See you soon.”

Wilcoxson pressed STOP, then looked at Lennon on the video screen. The poor guy was working hard, trying to keep the emotions about Katie stuffed out of the way. After all, Wilcoxson had taught him years ago that the secret to any successful heist was taking human failure out of the equation. That meant taking humanity out of the equation. Hunger, lust, anger, joy had no place in a bank robbery. Somebody pops your partner, the guy you’ve been pulling heists with since fifth grade? Forget about it. Cry later; make your getaway now.

But this was easier said than done. Wilcoxson was sure that Lennon could think of nothing but Katie, and what might be happening to her. Russian fuckers, doping her and forcing her to pee into a cup. Rough hands over her. Tying her up. Stripping her. Probably smirking. Yes, Wilcoxson was sure it was eating Lennon up alive. It would eat him up, too, if the roles were reversed.

“I want you to drop those guns.”

And Lennon instantly lowered them. The man had a strange, blank look on his face, as if the only way to keep emotion in check was to completely unplug from reality.

“Drop them. On the ground.”

He did, like a zombie.

“Good. You’re on your way to saving the lives of your girlfriend and your unborn child. And by the way, congratulations. Now Mr. Fieuchevsky has a few parting words for you, before you go to recover the money.”

The Russian needed no prodding. He emerged from the booth, shotgun in hand, with a wicked smile like a Doberman bearing its teeth.

Wilcoxson had to watch this very carefully. Fieuchevsky had insisted on something, anything, to calm the raging forces inside. They had spent fifteen minutes up in Wilcoxson’s Rittenhouse Square apartment negotiating how much punishment Lennon should receive this afternoon. The Russian wanted carte blanche; as long as the bank robber could walk, he could recover the money. Wilcoxson said no, absolutely not. You can’t demoralize him right away. You have to give him some shred of hope, get what you want, then crush him like a bug. Save some for later, Evsei, he’d pleaded. You’ll get your chance.

The negotiations got down to specifics: after a heated exchange, Wilcoxson finally agreed to allow the Russian three body blows with the butt of the shotgun. No head, no chest, no groin. Then let Lennon walk away, and go bring back the money.

Personally, Wilcoxson thought the internal pain—wondering what was happening to Katie this afternoon—was punishment enough. But the Russian thought differently.

And as it turned out, Fieuchevsky threw all their negotiations out the window. The first blow was a rifle-butt hit to the face. Lennon’s head snapped in the opposite direction, and a geyser of crimson fluid sprayed out of his mouth. He staggered backward, hands flailing out, reaching for something to steady himself.

Christ, this Russian was a cocksucker.

Second blow: right to the chest, while Lennon was recovering from the first. A jackhammer shot to the ribs and protective sack around the heart. Jesus. Lennon was powerless to fight back. Fighting back would mean disaster for Katie.

Wilcoxson could have announced the third blow ahead of time. Of course. Groin. Now Lennon was on the floor, clawing at the industrial carpet, presumably trying to dig his way out of the studio. The man had better pray Katie carried this baby to term; it didn’t look like Lennon was going to have much luck reproducing in the future. Not with a shot like that.

Wilcoxson had to intervene when it looked like Fieuchevsky was going for a fourth, a fifth, and maybe even a seventeenth shot. He pressed the mike button and said: “Go now, Mr. Lennon. Save your family’s life. Report here tomorrow. Noon.”

Fieuchevsky stood there, shotgun hoisted up in the air with both hands, looking confused. Then he remembered himself and lowered the gun. He looked as disappointed as a man could.

Lennon crawled out of the studio.

Wilcoxson flicked off the mike and breathed. This might actually work.

“Shit,” said Holden Richards, standing up from behind the partition. “Remind me never to be on the other side of that gun.”

Anatomy of a Double Cross

HOLDEN HAD BEEN HIDING BEHIND THAT FUCKING partition for an hour now, waiting for Lennon to show up. It wasn’t comfortable, and his neck and back ached like a mother-fucker after that crazy shit yesterday.

Yesterday.

Fifteen minutes after the Wachovia job.

Wilcoxson had said, No sweat. The Russians are gonna pull their van out in front of you guys, surround you, put hoods over your heads, take you somewhere, pop the other guys, let you go.

Yeah, they pulled their van out all right.

Best Holden could figure it, Lennon was going too fast, and the Russians didn’t have time to get out in front like they had planned. So they just gunned it, and smashed right into the Subaru.

Sure, Holden had been bracing for a sudden stop, but not that fucking kind of stop. The Forester achieved liftoff, spun in the air a couple of times, landed top-first on the wet mud next to the Schuylkill River, then slid a while, so long that Holden was starting to think they were going to end up in the river, and that would be it. But no. The car skidded to a halt, the Russians got their act together and finally—finally—surrounded them with those crazy black submachine guns they got, but it didn’t matter. Lennon was gone, convulsing and spitting before he passed out. Bling was still awake, so Holden started hammering his face with his elbow. Who cares? Nigger was going down a tube anyway.

Truth be told, Holden felt a little bad about Bling. He was the guy who’d introduced him to Wilcoxson in the first place, vouched for him. Holden had no idea there was a loose network of dudes in his profession, scattered