His account kicked out a thousand a day for expenses. Since he didn't have to use the whole grand every day, there was more than nine grand in it.
Tonight when he was done, it would have a lot more.
Eight million more, to be exact.
It was his big payday. His retirement money. The real reason he was going to such incredible lengths to take out everyone who had ever crossed his dearly departed and extremely wealthy friend, Lawrence.
He wiped the smile off his face. He had to stop thinking about it. After all, he wasn't done yet. Couldn't start counting those chickens. Couldn't get cocky now.
He typed in his card's PIN: 32604. It was the date he'd killed his Delta Force boss. The day he'd shown bad- ass Colonel Henry Greer who really had the bigger set of balls. Greer had tried to get him transferred, but he'd ended up getting himself transferred, hadn't he? Into the great beyond.
Apt was busy reliving his own Ode to Joy of putting two ACPs in the back of the big, ball-busting bastard's head, when a little screen popped up that he'd never seen before:
CODE 171. INVALID ACCOUNT.
He cocked his head at the screen like a poked rooster.
Huh? he thought. That was funny. Not funny fucking ha-ha, either. Not even a little.
He hit the cancel button, trying to get back the card to try again. But nothing happened. He tried it again, hitting the cancel button harder this time. Same result. Nothing. Shit. Why wouldn't it return his card?
He punched in his PIN again. Nothing.
He pounded the screen, clanging panic bells going off in his head. What the hell was this? What the bloody fuck was going on?
After a moment, the screen changed, and the PLEASE INSERT YOUR CARD crap came back up.
No! he thought, cupping his head with his hands. How could this happen? Without the card and the money, he was wide open, on his own, completely and utterly screwed. Something was wrong. Very goddamn wrong.
'How about that dollah, bruva?' said the Asian street musician, stepping in front of him as Apt exited the bank.
There was a snick sound as Apt whirled instantly. He embraced the man from behind, knife already in his hand, blade in, the way they'd taught him.
The derelict's guitar gonged against the sidewalk as the kid dropped to the sidewalk, holding his slit throat. Apt, already at the corner, calmly went down into the subway pit, Metro-carded through a turnstile, and hustled down the crowded platform.
A train came a second later, and he got on it without caring where it was going, his mind a blank screen of burning, pulsing, white-hot rage.
Chapter 95
Lawrence Berger's lawyer, Allen Duques, lived in New Canaan, Connecticut. His house was a nine-thousand- square-foot Tudor mansion on a fifteen-acre estate set back off an unpaved road filled with similar ridiculously ostentatious castles.
Apt knew this because he had been there twice, running errands for Lawrence. Apt knew Duques was the executor of Lawrence's estate, which was why he was paying him a visit.
Apt used an electrical meter to check the rear chain-link fence for voltage, then bolt-cut a hole in it, all the time listening for dogs.
Through the window of the massive five-car garage was, of all things, a blue Mercedes convertible. It was an S65, even nicer than Lawrence's, with something like 600 horsepower.
Apt smiled at his luck as he checked the load in the suppressed Colt M1911 pistol. Instead of the rental car, which he'd left on the service road, he'd drive the German luxury rocket out of here when he was done.
He walked quickly around the perimeter of the imposing house until he spotted where the underground power and phone lines went in behind some azaleas. Sparks shot from the bolt cutter's blade as he snipped them both at the same time.
He started to pick the rinky-dink lock on the rear kitchen door, then decided instead to tap in its window with the handle of the bolt cutter. He was inside, approaching the dining room, when he saw it. A paper printout banner stretched chest high across the threshold:
MR. APT, I KNOW HOW UPSET YOU ARE. I AM NOT HOME. THERE IS A CELL PHONE ON THE DINING ROOM TABLE. PLEASE HIT THE REDIAL SO WE MAY SPEAK. ALLEN.
A trick? Apt thought, listening very carefully. Duques was smart, almost as smart as Lawrence.
After a minute, Apt broke through the banner and picked up the Motorola in the center of the huge antique Spanish farmhouse table.
'Carl, I'm so glad you called,' Duques said with audible relief.
'Where's my money, Allen?' Apt said.
'I froze the account. I didn't know any other way to contact you. There have been some developments.'
'You have my complete, undivided attention, Allen.'
'I'm sorry to tell you this, but Mr. Berger is dead.'
Carl closed his eyes as he took a long deep breath. Knowing this was coming didn't make it hurt any less.
He opened his eyes and stared at the painting over the sideboard. It looked French Impressionist, but he could tell right away that it was actually a cheap French Impressionist knockoff bought in Vietnam.
Carl swallowed, his eyes watering.
Lawrence had taught him that.
Lawrence had given him everything.
Chapter 96
'Was it his heart?' Apt finally said.
'No. It looks like he committed suicide. He had some sort of pill hidden in his mouth when he was arrested. At least that's what the police are saying.'
Carl thought about that. Lawrence dying alone. His friend. It broke his heart. If only he could have been there.
'Carl, are you still there?'
'Yes,' Apt said, hiding the sadness howling through him. 'What now?' he said.
'First off, in case this is being recorded, I would like to state that I, Allen Duques, am in no way complicit with any illegal activities, but am merely in the process of dispensing the will of the Lawrence M. Berger estate, of which I am sole executor.'
'Whatever,' Apt said. 'Where's the money?'
'Yes, of course. In front of you, down the hallway, is my den. Do you see it?'
Apt crossed the room and pushed through some French doors.
'I'm there.'
'Excellent. On the leather couch are two valises.'
Apt clicked on the desk light.
'The black suitcases?' Apt said, spotting them.
'Yes.'
