Wheelman, The

Pure White

THOSE S.W.A.T. GUYS DON’T DICK AROUND, SAUGHERTY thought, as the smoking flashbang grenade pistol twirled once and slipped out of his hand. It didn’t have far to fall. Saugherty was already flat on his back on the concrete floor.

He sniffed blood, briefly noted that his eyes felt like burning charcoal briquettes, then passed out.

But not before he had one more thought: Shit, I’d hate to see the other guy.

Here Comes the Groom

SAUGHERTY WOKE UP SOME TIME LATER. IMMEDIATELY, he knew that someone else had beat him to consciousness.

He could hear him moving around.

The best idea right now: play dead. Which wasn’t difficult, considering he had a bullet swimming around his armpit somewhere, and he was partially numb. Then, look for an opening. Take it. Just like he always did. Saugherty could imagine that sentiment etched on his tombstone.

Saugherty was used to playing dead and stealing peeks. He used to do it when he was eight years old, during sleepovers at his cousins’ house. His teenaged female cousins. The ones who slept only in panties. And who often grew thirsty in the middle of the night and bounced off for a cold glass of Delaware Punch. God, Saugherty missed those sleepovers.

But here, now, something bugged him. He’d blasted that flashbang grenade right in the middle of the three of them: Lennon, and his two Italian pals. If he wasn’t mistaken, the grenade actually nailed one of the wops right in the balls. No way he was up and about—checking bodies, smoking cigarettes, ordering pizza. Probably not his twin brother, either. Could be Lennon, but that didn’t make sense either. Saugherty had been standing a good ten yards behind Lennon. If Saugherty had been knocked out, Lennon’s head should have been knocked off.

He took a chance.

He peeked.

Nope. There was Lennon, sprawled on the concrete in what appeared to be a supremely uncomfortable position. Even for Tantric sex.

Which meant …?

A rough hand slapped him across the face. Saugherty’s eyes popped open.

“Hey there.”

The guy looking down at him … now this was a new character entirely. Saugherty tried spinning through his mental Rolodex but came up with a big goose egg.

“Who are you?”

“Michael Kowalski,” the guy said. He was thin yet muscular, with slightly beady eyes and razor-sharp black hair in a crew cut. He was wearing all black—even the gun rig strapped to his chest. “And you?”

“Saugherty. I’m an ex-cop.”

Then, playing a hunch:

“You look like you’re on the job, too.”

“I am. Sort of.”

“FBI?”

“Used to be. Bank robbery squad.”

“And now?”

“Something else.”

“CIA?”

“Something like that. It’s a department they don’t talk about much on the evening news.” Michael scanned the area around the pipe. “There are a lot of dead bodies. Some are already pre-bagged. What happened here, Saugherty?”

All of them dead? Including Lennon? Saugherty felt the white heat of hope burn in his stomach. It even eased the pain from the bullet.

“Guy in the white tracksuit is a bank robber. Did the Wachovia job on Friday. I’ve been pursuing him freelance. At the request of the mayor himself.”

Yeah, that sounded good. Even started out being true. In a way.

“The mayor? Really?”

“Yeah. Check with … well, Lt. Mothers is dead. But check with his replacement. You’ll see.”

Michael considered this.

“Are you sure the guy in the white suit is dead?” asked Saugherty. “He’s one tough fucker.”

“I checked for a pulse. Not much going on there. If he’s not dead yet, it’s a matter of minutes. So … wait a second. I can’t keep calling you Saugherty. That makes it sound like we’re in a bad TV cop movie. What’s your first name?”

A pause. “Harold.”

“Harry, is it?”

“No. Harold. That’s why it’s ‘Saugherty.’” He coughed up something wet. “Ah, shit, don’t make me laugh.”

“Harold, who are these other guys? They don’t look like bank robbers to me.”

“Some mobsters, I’m guessing. This bank robber, Patrick Selway Lennon, had a money-laundering deal with them.” Wow. That was good. Keep spinning, keep spinning. “There was even talk that they did the scouting for the Wachovia job. A pure moneymaker. They’re basically a bunch of washed-up losers trying to get back in the game.”

“Interesting,” Michael said, then walked over to the dead twins. Or what looked like the remnants of the dead twins.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

“Those your guys?” Saugherty asked.

“Nah. My guy’s over there.”

“Who?” Oh no. What was this? Was he one of Perelli’s guys?

“The bank robber in the white tracksuit. He was my brother-in-law. Or was going to be, anyway.”

Even though he was numb, Saugherty could feel the icy-blast effect of a cold fusion bomb in his stomach.

“Which brings me to my next question, Harold.”

“Yeah?”

“Why is there a photograph of my dead fiancee in your jacket pocket?”

Saugherty didn’t have an answer for that one.

So Michael Kowalski picked him up and threw him down the pipe.

Family

KOWALSKI CLEANED UP AS FAST AS HE COULD—YEP, there were sirens approaching. And no cover would be adequate to explain his presence in the middle of a Camden, New Jersey, bloodbath. Not even his government creds. So his valediction would have to be on the short side.

He rolled his dead brother-in-law-to-be over on his back.

“Nice to finally meet you, Pat,” Michael said.

Lennon stared up blankly. Dark blood had leaked from his tear ducts, nostrils, and ears—as if his brain were a tomato and someone had squished it.

“This is not how I imagined our first meeting. I was looking forward to our time in Puerto Rico. A little baccarat, some steaks, some rum. Not this.

“Well, perhaps this. Eventually. A brother-in-law on the Ten Most Wanted list can