“The world’s composed of leaders and sycophants, homeboy.” Leon tossed the lighter up and down as he spoke. “CEOs and yes-men, too, uh-huh, wolves and sheep, that’s the way of the world, always has been, I’m the leader, the CEO, the wolf, you’re the sycophant, the yes-man, the sheep.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Corey shrugged. “Can I see that lighter? Over all these years, I’ve never touched it.”
Leon tossed it to him. Corey snagged it out of the air. He turned it around in the lantern light, struck the wheel, igniting a flame.
“I think Mr. Rowland’s widow would like to have this,” Corey said.
“Think so?” Leon snickered. He raised the gun. “If you can make it out of the door alive, you can personally deliver it to her.”
“That’s quite an offer.” Corey pulled his bag in front of him, unzipped a compartment, and dropped the lighter inside. He kept the bag positioned in front of his chest. “Unfortunately for you, homeboy, the Detroit PD and the FBI gave me a better one.”
As a puzzled frown twisted Leon’s face, hallway doors exploded open. Heavily armed FBI agents in dark tactical gear rushed out with a thunderous clatter of boots and shouts of “FBI! Drop your weapon now!”
But Corey knew Leon, knew he would never go down without a fight, without taking someone with him. As agents converged on him, Leon aimed at Corey and squeezed the trigger.
Corey shielded himself with the overnight bag. It didn’t contain any clothes-it held a bulging plate of Kevlar armor.
Rounds punctured the bag, the impact rocking him backward, and then a cacophony of gunfire erupted, muzzle flashes brightening the room, the bitter odor of cordite infiltrating the air.
When it was all over, Leon’s bullet-riddled body lay on the floor, the wig askew on his head, fake beard soggy with blood. The crazy light in those eyes had finally been extinguished forever.
Looking at his one-time friend, Corey felt no sense of pleasure or vindication. A vague sadness weighed on his heart, and he thought of how his life and Leon’s might have turned out if they’d chosen different paths.
Agent Falco approached Corey. She wore tactical gear like the other members of her team. A walkie-talkie crackled on her hip; the operations vehicles they’d been holding at bay would be descending on the house like bees to a hive.
She extended a gloved hand and helped Corey to his feet.
“You got your man,” Corey said.
“Wish it had been alive.” She shrugged. “But it happens this way sometimes.”
In exchange for his cooperation in bringing Leon to justice for the murder of Rowland and his other crimes, the FBI and Detroit PD worked out a deal with Corey’s attorney that allowed him to remain free on all charges. The life Corey had built in Atlanta, and the testimony of character witnesses such as Otis Trice, had played a key role in the leniency he received.
“Here’s your wire, for what it’s worth,” Corey said. He stripped away the miniature microphone taped to the inside of his shirt and dropped it in her palm. They had recorded the entire conversation to capture Leon’s confession of the murder on tape.
It would, at last, close the case.
Falco shook his hand. “Thanks for working with us, Webb. It took a lot of courage.”
“I’m no hero. I only did what I had to do.”
A smile crossed her face. “Where you going now?”
“I owe a visit to a lady who would appreciate having this.” He unzipped the pocket of the overnight bag and fished out the lighter. “After that, I’m going back to Atlanta. I’ve got a wife and a little girl expecting me home soon, and I don’t want to keep them waiting too long.”