A dead guy, facedown on the floor. The back of what appeared to be Holden Richards’s head. And Katie, handcuffed backward to a pole.
Holden was holding a butcher knife in one hand and trying to loosen Katie’s pants with his other hand. The button on her jeans was already undone, the gold zipper halfway down.
Relief flooded Lennon. Katie was alive. Even better, she was alive, and not guarded by a phalanx of beefy Russian gangsters. Just Holden, the little fuck.
Soon to be
Katie saw him and smirked. She was still here.
“My
Holden’s head whipped around, knife in hand, fabric in the other, looking like the cover of a rape counseling video. His mouth flopped open.
“Lennon? Who told you to come here?”
Lennon responded by aiming the gun at his face.
“The only reason he’s not shooting,” said Katie, “is that he doesn’t want to get blood all over me. Now put the knife on the floor, fuck-o, and crawl backward.”
Holden seemed to think this over; the knife in his hand jumped a bit. But after realizing that his only option— stabbing the girl, getting shot in the head—wasn’t a good one, he relented. The knife clanged when it hit the floor.
“Now kiss the floor, facedown. That’s it. Slide away … slowly. Toward the bed. Uh-huh. By the way, you know that wet stuff you’re lying in? It’s piss. Never handcuff a pregnant woman to a pole all day.”
Lennon watched Holden shudder.
“The keys to these cuffs are in the dead guy’s pocket,” Katie said. “I hope.”
Lennon checked both front pockets; the keys were in the left. He uncuffed Katie, then gently helped her crawl to a lying position on a dry spot of the floor. Katie touched his cheek, ran a thumb across his chin. She smirked again. Lennon winked. He leaned in close to her ear. He whispered:
Lennon was supposed to be a mute. But too many people could interpret sign language. So Lennon had taught Katie—who had been born in Massachusetts, not Ireland—some Gaelic, which they used in secret, or in sign. She told him she was tired.
Lennon walked over to Holden. His objective was now relatively simple: Holden had sold the Wachovia job to somebody. Lennon needed to know who, and where the money was now. He wasn’t very good at the heavy stuff— even in bank situations—but the way things were going, Lennon didn’t think he’d have too much trouble improvising on the spot.
Something caught his eye. An iridescent flash of blue reflecting from a window in Wilcoxson’s bedroom.
“Patrick,” Katie said.
She’d seen it, too.
Blue, then red lights, flickering through the air outside the window.
The lesson: if you can manage to make it past the first thirty-six hours, you have a strong chance of going the distance, making a long run. Of course, your captured compadres might rat you out, so it’s best to avoid your usual haunts, especially the place where you planned the caper.
It was rapidly approaching the thirty-six-hour mark, and there were two heisters still at large. Lennon and Holden. The cops were outside.
Lennon decided he wasn’t going to be the one picked up. He was going for the big run.
They had no idea how many were waiting outside, or if the Feds were involved. They had no escape routes in mind; neither of them knew the building all that well.
“And what do we do with him?” Katie asked, gesturing to the bedroom door. Lennon had gagged Holden, then handcuffed him, face-forward, to the pole. Then he’d locked him in there with his dead friend.
Killing Holden would be a waste. Lennon was already responsible for the deaths of at least six people, and that was about six over his personal limit. He used to pride himself on his choice of a nonviolent criminal profession.
“Let the FBI have at him,” Lennon whispered.
“Does he know anything about Wachovia?”
“Nothing important.”
“Okay then.”
There wasn’t much time left. If the guy down at the desk had any brains, he’d know the exact door through which to send the police.
“Let me grab my luggage, and let’s go,” Katie said. “That’s a nice suit, by the way. It almost distracts from your face.”
“Tell you about it later,” Lennon said, still taking care to keep his voice low. He didn’t know if Holden could hear them or not, and he still wanted to keep his speaking voice a secret.
Up or down? Katie decided they should go up. The Feds would expect their fugitives to see flashing lights and try to scramble for the exits. That’s why they flashed the lights in the first place. There were eleven more floors above Wilcoxson’s apartment. Plenty of places to hide. If they could find a cooperative neighbor.
“Do we have a plan?” Lennon asked.
“Yes,” Katie said. “We knock. If nobody answers, we go in. If somebody answers, we show them that gun of yours—nice gun, by the way.”
“Tell you about it later.”
“Did it come with the suit?”
Lennon smirked at her.
They settled on the eighteenth floor. Not quite the luxe penthouses, but nice enough views to guarantee some serious space. Better to keep someone under wraps in a bigger place. You could isolate them in one room, move around in the others. Breathe a little, plan your next move.
“Which one?”
“That one. 1809. It’s going to be my wedding date.”
Lennon cocked his eyebrow. “Your what?”
“I’ll tell you about it later. Ready?”
Katie knocked while Lennon pressed himself up against the outside wall, Sig Sauer clutched in both hands. Nothing. Katie glanced at Lennon and cocked her eyebrow. Lennon raised his index finger. Steady on.
Still nothing.
Lennon nodded. He handed the gun to Katie, who aimed it, chest-level, at the door. Katie stepped back and Lennon prepared to boot the bastard in.
A lock tumbled, then clicked into place. The door slowly opened.
Here we go.
Katie steeled herself. Waited for a face to appear. Lennon froze, mid-kick.
A guy in a tuxedo opened the door. But he didn’t wait to see who was there. He turned around, without looking, and walked back down a long hallway. They could hear the faint din of conversation and a wailing saxophone, deep inside the penthouse. A party.
Katie shrugged, grabbed her luggage, and walked in.
