Lynch got to the machine, Wilson squatting down on the right side. Lower than waist high now, the machine didn’t even come up to Lynch’s shoulder, but it felt right and he was out of ideas anyway.
Two minutes.
“Anything?” Lynch asked.
“Fucking dark,” she said, her arm behind the machine to her shoulder. “I feel something. Can’t reach it.” Lynch grabbed the top of the ATM and wrenched it away from the pillar as hard as he could, felt some of the stitches in his leg tear loose. It moved a few inches, made a beeping noise.
Wilson got her arm in deeper, grunted, came out with the last tube. Lynch held his bag open, Wilson dropped the device in, and he zipped it shut.
“What the fuck?” said the guy that Wilson had backed off.
“Servicing the machine,” Lynch said. The screen now read ATM OUT OF SERVICE.
“Asshole,” khaki guy said, scowling at him.
Lynch just smiled. “Got the last one,” he said into the comm. “Call off your dogs, Munroe. We’re coming out.”
He and Wilson headed up the stairs toward Adams Street. He heard a soft thump, felt the bag bounce on his hip.
“Guess we’ll find out if those bags work,” said Wilson.
CHAPTER 101
A little after 8pm now. Back at the Federal Building. Munroe gave them an update on their lines. They had the device back up from Argonne for show and tell. At least they had the germs out of it. Wave it around, talk about intercepting several of these on US soil. Nothing about the train stations, of course. Nothing about pulling five of these out with seconds to spare. Munroe needed the public pissed, he explained, not scared shitless. Press had asked, seeing as how they’d had dozens of uniforms in both stations in the middle of the afternoon rush. Just precautionary was the response. Given the day’s events, just making sure.
Lynch and Bernstein sat on a bench in the hall behind the briefing room where they were going to hold the press conference, both of them too drained, too tired anymore to fight any of it. The brass wanted the Chicago PD contingent on the dais, dress blues, front and center. Starshak had taken their keys, sent a unit to bring their uniforms down. Bernstein had to wear his jacket open because of the sling. Lynch couldn’t get the pants from the dress blues over the bandages on his thigh. Department press guy had them open the side seam up, the guy positively giddy with the results, saying that the two of them looked like that Spirit of ’76 painting, the bloodied patriots, Lynch telling the guy to get the fuck away from him.
Munroe stopped by, his camel hair coat on.
“Not staying for the show?” Lynch asked.
“TV? I don’t exist, remember. Besides, I’ve got to catch a plane to Nevada.”
“Vegas?” Lynch asked. “Haven’t gambled enough for one day? Or do you want to pick up a couple of hookers?”
“Hooker sounds good about now,” Munroe said. “But no. Other business.”
“Not Vegas,” Bernstein said. “Henderson. The air base.”
Munroe shook a finger at him like he was naughty.
“Henderson?” Lynch asked.
“They fly the drones out of there,” Bernstein said. “Pakistan, Afghanistan, Yemen, wherever. Every time you hear about some yahoo getting a Hellfire up his tail pipe, it’s some joystick jockey at Henderson pushing the button. While I was waiting for our show to kick off, I caught the crawl on bottom of the screen on CNN, something about the Mexican president jetting up to DC for emergency consultations. That has to be about the cartels. Come morning, I’m betting a few people south of the border are going to wake up dead.”
Munroe shook his head, smiled again. “Bernstein, you ever want to move up in the world, get in touch. Of course, I’d probably have to kill you some day. You do get on my nerves.”
“Get in touch?” Bernstein said. “How am I supposed to do that?”
Munroe just smiled again, turned and left.
A minute later, Hardin and Wilson walked down the hall. Hardin in some kind of military uniform, Wilson in a pants suit.
“Halloween?” Lynch asked Hardin.
“Foreign Legion duds. The French want to play up their end.”
“And they just keep a set at the consulate for emergencies?” Bernstein asked.
“Hell if I know,” Hardin said.
“DEA don’t have a monkey suit for you?” Lynch asked Wilson.
“I’ll stand by their damn podium, but they can’t make me say anything, and they can’t dress me up like a goddamn Barbie.”
Lynch just nodded. Wilson had more balls than the lot of them.
Hardin looked at Lynch. “Munroe said you need a favor.”
Lynch nodded, grunted up to his feet. Leg was really barking at him now. He hobbled a few yards down the hall, Hardin following, Lynch talking for a couple of minutes, Hardin nodding.
Hickman stuck his head out the door to the briefing room looking like somebody’d shot his puppy. He’d been bumped to the back row. The Secretary of Homeland Security was taking over MC duties, flew in from Washington to get his face in front of this operation which, evidently, had been his brainchild. That’s why the whole show got pushed back another couple of hours.
“OK,” Hickman said. “Let’s go.”
An hour later it was over. The DC crowd was hanging back, schmoozing the press. Lynch and Bernstein slid across the back of the room toward the side door.
Johnson was there, of course. She saw Lynch, excused herself, walked over.
She looked down at his leg, looked up.
“You OK?” she asked.
Lynch gave her a half smile. “You keep asking me that. I will be.”
She nodded, gave a weak smile back. “Me too, I guess.”
She held his eyes for a moment, then leaned forward, put her hand on his cheek for a moment, then left.
“You two through?” Bernstein asked.
Lynch just nodded.
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 102
Shamus Fenn was out of the ICU and in a private room at Northwestern, watching the press conference on TV, talking on the phone.
“You square things with Corsco?” Fenn asked. He was talking with Bernie Alger, his lawyer and agent.
“He hasn’t called back yet,” Alger said. “But we gotta talk about how to spin this coke deal. You were making progress with the whole abuse thing, so I’ve chatted up some of the high-profile TV shrink types, got a couple of them ready to give you a pass on the OD, chalk it up to some kind of post-traumatic stress. You’ll have to go on their shows, though. But we need to get our story straight on that, make sure we keep it all consistent.”
“Get that guy in from LA, what’s his ass, the shrink I’ve been seeing. I’ll play it out with him, and then we’ll get him to make a statement,” Fenn said.
“Yeah, OK. You’re clear on the Chicago end. They aren’t moving ahead with any charges. So you’re good there. Only free radical is this Hardin fuck.”
“What I hear, he’s got enough problems,” said Fenn.
They talked for a bit, working out their PR strategy. Suddenly Fenn stiffened in his bed, bumped the volume up on the TV. They were marching everyone out for the press conference. Saw that Lynch fuck and his partner. And next to them, Hardin.
Fenn listened, dropped the phone to the bed after a minute. From what Corsco had told him, Hardin was dead or was going to be. Now he was a hero.
“Shamus?” Alger said. “Shame? You there?”
Fuck, Fenn thought. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Starshak and Lynch stood in the back row. The room the Feds were using for their press conference was hot as hell, seeing as they had an overflow crowd, every damn network and cable outlet trying to cram a crew in, dozens of light rigs baking everybody. They’d rushed the show, getting it out just in time for 10pm news, getting the first draft out in front of everybody before the media had a chance to start developing theories. They were slapping a national security Band-Aid over the whole deal. It was a good way to keep anybody from taking too close a peak at the forensics or details, because God knows some of that was going to smell funny.