“Hi, sis. I forgive you for acting like a jerk yesterday. I found the Milwaukee cell phone. Motel lobby, at the Old Stone Inn, behind the ice machine. Weren’t you just there?”
“Where are you now?”
“On my way to Chicago. That’s where the next one is. You wouldn’t believe how much gas I’ve gone through the last few days. I think I’m getting about three hundred yards per gallon.”
“Harry, Alex might have been lying about Herb. You might be the next target.”
“Let her try for me. Slappy will take care of her.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I am too. After you left, I gave the monkey some pills, to calm him down.”
I shook my head, amazed. “You gave the monkey Vicodin?”
“I thought it was. But the wrong pills were in the bottle. I actually gave him Viagra. He’s been a little, uh, aggressive since then.”
“I bet.”
“I got him back in his cage by throwing in a cashmere sweater he’s taken a serious liking to. He and the sweater have been going at it non-stop for about eight hours. But if I open the cage, he’ll pounce on Alex like a starving man after a donut.”
“Be careful, McGlade.”
“I’ll be okay. If he jumps on me, I’ll be wearing earplugs and nose-plugs and keep my mouth closed tight.”
“I meant with Alex.”
“Slappy and I are ready. Does Mom like cashmere?”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Not this sweater. A new sweater. I was going to give this one to Herb.”
“Stay in touch,” I told him.
“Does this mean we’re partners again?”
“Just stay in touch.”
I hung up, did some more pacing, tried to eat a room ser vice turkey club, failed, did more pacing, tried to watch a movie, failed, called Tom again for an update when none was needed, did push-ups until my arms wouldn’t work anymore, paced, and finally around four p.m. Alex’s phone rang.
I picked up, expecting to see a text message. But instead I saw a photo, of Herb’s house, a red car parked in the driveway.
No, it wasn’t a photo. This picture moved, the car door opening.
This was a live feed.
I got on the phone, my phone, and hit the speed dial for Herb.
One ring.
A man was getting out of the car. Big, muscular, wearing a tight shirt.
Two rings.
The shirt had a logo on the back, large enough for me to read even on the small LCD phone screen.
1-800-MEATS4U.
Three rings.
But this couldn’t be the meat I ordered for Herb. That was being sent UPS, and not for another few days.
Alex. Somehow Alex knew about it.
The man reached into the passenger seat, removed a large white foam box.
Why weren’t the cops taking him down?
“Hello?”
“Bernice! It’s Jack!”
The big guy walked up to the front door. Two figures with FBI on their jackets rushed at him from both sides.
“Jack, the Turduckinlux is here.”
“I didn’t send the-”
Herb’s front door opened, and then an explosion shook the camera. I heard a shocking BOOM through the tiny speaker of my cell, so startling I dropped my phone.
My other hand clenched Alex’s phone, the screen fuzzy and gray. I watched, horrified, as the smoke cleared.
Herb’s front porch, and a large chunk of his house, were gone.
I picked up my cell, whispered into it, “Bernice.”
She didn’t answer. But in the background, I heard screaming.
CHAPTER 50
PERFECT. ABSOLUTELY PERFECT. The male stripper Laugh-O-Gram showed up with the package right at the scheduled time, and wore the meat shop T-shirt Alex had made for him, using the inkjet printer and an iron-on silk-screen design. She hopes the guy spent the five hundred bucks she paid him yesterday to make the trip from Milwaukee, because he certainly wouldn’t be spending it now.
Quite a lot of damage a few pounds of plastic explosive can cause. The house is trashed, and Alex can see several dead bodies inside. It would be fun to sit and watch the ambulances come, the corpses removed, but Alex has business to take care of.
Big business. The original plan. The real reason she’s in Chicago.
She tucks away her cell phone, checks her watch, then grabs her gear, which is resting on the dead body in the backseat. A few police cars whiz by, sirens blazing. Perfect. The authorities, and the media, will be going crazy over the bombing. Which means they’ll pay less attention to what she’s going to do in about sixty seconds.
Alex pulls up her hood, dons her movie star sunglasses, gets out of the car, and removes the M18A1. She holds it and the cord in one hand, the plastic trigger in the other, and waits for the truck to arrive.
It’s a minute late. Understandable, given all of the police traffic. There are other cars on the road, but Alex doesn’t give them any unneeded attention. She’s got tunnel vision, focusing on one thing and one thing only: the armored money truck, heading her way.
When it’s within twenty yards, Alex steps out in front of it, raising her hand up. The truck slows. Alex walks forward, waits for it to stop, then drops the M18A1 down onto the street and kicks it under the truck’s front end, directly beneath the engine.
She backpedals, playing out line, and then hits the detonator while the truck is shifting into reverse.
The M18A1 Claymore mine does what it was made to do: fire seven hundred steel balls in a sixty-degree outward pattern at 1,200 meters per second.
Not enough to seriously damage the truck, or hurt its occupants. Not even enough to crack the engine block or sever the drive train. But enough to shred the armored vehicle’s electronics under the hood.
It won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.
Moving quickly without rushing, Alex heads to the rear of the truck, sticking her cone of PENO onto the back door lock. She unwinds some cord, stands clear, and hits the sparker.
The armor is thick, tough. But so is a Sherman tank’s, and the plastic explosive makes easy work of the door, blowing it open so it hangs outward on its hinges. Alex waits alongside the truck, out of the line of sight, for the hopper to come out. A trained professional, one with enough experience to follow this training while in combat situations, would take cover and wait inside for Alex to enter. But an average guy with average training would want to get the hell out of there.
This guy is average. He fires twice, then comes jumping out of the cargo hold and racing down the street. Alex shoots him in the back. She approaches the truck low, on an angle, and makes sure there are no other guards. The driver wisely stays in the front cab. He’s protected as long as he doesn’t come out.
Alex isn’t concerned about him for the time being. If he wants to try to be a hero, she’ll deal with it. What has her attention are the canvas money bags on the floor of the cargo area. She has extra PENO and detonators with her, in case she had to deal with safes, and also an extra Claymore in case this truck turned out to be a bust and she needed to find another.
Alex uses her folder knife to cut open the first bag, and one look confirms that a second robbery won’t be necessary. The bag is loaded with banded stacks of twenties. Maybe ten thousand dollars’ worth.
And Alex counts twelve bags in the back of the truck.
She opens up the army duffel, begins stuffing in bags. She fits five, and can sling five more over her shoulders. The last two she has to leave behind-she doesn’t have time to make two trips. The driver has already called it in, and even with all the commotion the bombing has caused, the cops will be here soon.
Alex heads for the alley, following it through to the parking garage, waddling up a flight of concrete steps, and loading everything into the Prius. Almost home.