Bolden racked his brain. Crown. Crown of England. Crown Cola. The Thomas Crown Affair. He’d always thought Steve McQueen in that glider was the coolest guy on the planet. The Jewel in the Crown. Wasn’t that some book he’d been force-fed in college? Crown… crown… What was the use?
“Two,” said Guilfoyle.
“I don’t know. I swear to you.”
“Three.”
“I don’t know!” he shouted.
Guilfoyle raised the gun. Even in the dark, Bolden could see the tips of the bullets loaded in the firing drum. A spray of orange erupted from the pistol. A terrific heat blasted his cheek. The gun roared. Too late, Bolden covered his head. And then there was silence. Seventy stories up, a gunshot is no more than a clap of the hands.
“Bobby Stillman,” said Guilfoyle. “This time’s for keeps. Count on it. One…”
Bolden shook his head. He was sick of saying that he didn’t know.
“Two.” Guilfoyle turned to Wolf. “Give our friend something to jog his memory.”
Wolf took a step forward, swinging the pipe as if he were trying a saber. Bolden inched backward, one foot on the girder, then the next. Another inch, then another, until he was three feet from the platform, balanced on a steel toothpick, and he couldn’t retreat any farther.
“It’s a mistake,” he said, keeping his eyes on Guilfoyle. “You screwed up.”
“All right then. Have it your way.” Guilfoyle took a last look at him, then turned and walked back into the office. Irish followed, closing the door behind them. A few seconds later, the elevator began its descent to the ground. Bolden watched its controlled fall. He kept imagining bodies tumbling through the air. Twirling slowly, gracefully, silently.
Wolf put a foot onto the girder, trying his weight on it. He held the pipe in front of him and advanced along the eight-inch-wide beam. “If you’ve got any wings, now’s the time to put ’em on.”
“Why are you doing this?” Bolden asked. He refused to look down.
“It’s my business.”
“What do you mean? You mean killing people?”
“I mean solving problems. Doing what’s necessary.”
“For ‘your team’? Who are you guys, anyway?”
“It’s our team, actually. Yours. Mine. Everyone’s.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Everyone. The country. Who else?” Wolf’s mouth hung open, shadows melting his features into a dark, vengeful mask. He stared at Bolden. “Jump.”
“Ladies first.”
“Smack me in the head, eh?” Wolf swung the pipe. Bolden spun away, the lead scraping his chest. Wolf came closer, too close to miss. “Long way down,” he said, drawing his hand back. “Enjoy the trip.”
Bolden launched himself at the larger man, wrapping his arms around his chest, squeezing him as tightly as he could.
“Sonofabitch, you’ll kill us both,” Wolf muttered angrily. His eyes were open very wide now. He dropped the pipe, his massive hands seizing Bolden, prying him off his body. Bolden clutched the muscled torso harder. For a moment, he felt his feet leave the girder. He managed to extend a leg. His foot touched steel. With his last bit of strength, Bolden tipped himself over the edge. Gravity did the rest.
He fell headfirst, the icy wind whipping at his eyes, streaming tears across his cheek. He felt Wolf near him, but it was hard to see. A silence louder than any scream flooded his ears. He couldn’t breathe. He was falling backward, arms flailing, his heels turning him around. Below him was blackness, and above him, too. Falling. Falling. He opened his mouth to yell. He gave a terrible, desperate effort, but nothing would come.
He was caught by a slack safety net three stories below. Somehow he’d managed to land on top of Wolf, striking him in the head with his elbow. The man lay still, eyes closed, a web of blood running from his nose.
Bolden crawled off the net to a girder. He lay there for a moment, the steel cold and rough against his cheek. He’d seen the net in the half-light. He’d thought it was closer. He got to a knee, his elbow aching badly, and figured that was what had hit Wolf. Pure luck.
The work elevator was situated on the side of the superstructure. Arms raised like a tightrope artist, he negotiated the steel beams, moving slowly at first, faster as his confidence built. A control box hung by a cable at the elevator. He snatched it in his hands and punched the green button in its center. The cables whirred efficiently, the elevator rising. He looked behind him. Wolf hadn’t budged. He lay still as a shark entangled in a drift net.
The elevator arrived. Bolden rode down in darkness. Guilfoyle was gone. He knew that much. There was no reason for him to stick around. Not when he had someone like Wolf to finish the job. But what about Irish? Irish would be waiting for the body to fall. He would be waiting for his partner.
Through the mesh grate, Bolden peered at the ground below. Because the elevator ran up the side of the building, and because there was only a cage and no doors, he had a good view of the entire construction site. The Town Car was parked inside the gates. No sign of the driver. He spotted Irish standing near a forklift at the opposite side of the site. The ember of his cigarette glowed and dimmed like a firefly. As the elevator approached the ground, he didn’t move. The elevator was quiet, but Irish had to be wearing headphones or earbuds not to hear it come to a halt.
Bolden slid open the grate and ran across the dirt, dodging stacks of plywood. The fence surrounding the work site was ten feet high and topped by a coil of barbed wire. The gate at the vehicle entrance was lower-maybe six feet-but there was still the barbed wire to contend with. He checked behind him, seeing Irish’s blond head begin to turn. Just then the front door of the Town Car swung open. A head rose from the driver’s seat.
“You! Stop!”
Bolden threw an upraised palm into the driver’s jaw, snapping his head ferociously. The driver hit the door and fell backward across the seat, one foot inside the car. Bolden heard steps coming from behind. He shoved the driver across the seat and squeezed in next to him. A keychain dangled from the ignition. Door still open, he turned over the motor and threw the car into drive.
The gate didn’t stand a chance.
7
Jennifer Dance stood from the examining table and gingerly probed the latticework of stitches running along the top of her left forearm. “How long do they have to stay in?”
“Seven days,” answered Dr. Satyen Patel. “Provided there is no infection. It looked to be a clean cut. Very easy to stitch. Can you flex your fingers? Everything feel all right?”
Jenny curled the fingers of her left hand. Thankfully, the blade hadn’t damaged any nerves. “Just fine.”
“I’m going to bandage it now. I want you to keep the arm dry for five days. Rub Iamin gel on the wound twice a day. No sports, no strenuous activity until you come back to have the sutures out. Expect some soreness, but that should be it. Do as I say, and there’s a good chance you won’t even have a scar. I do first-rate work.”
And you’re modest, too, added Jenny silently. She stood still as the doctor wrapped the forearm in gauze and applied a length of tape. Her last visit to a hospital had taken place a year ago. Her mother was suffering from terminal lung cancer and Jenny had flown to Kansas City for a final good-bye. There were no bruises to patch up, no long-simmering grudges. It was just a daughter’s chance to say thank you. I love you.
Instead of driving directly to the hospital after landing, she’d stopped at her brother’s house first. It was on the way, and frankly, she was scared of seeing her mom. The two drank a beer, and finally, she felt ready. When she arrived at the hospital, she found a priest leaving the room. Her mother had died ten minutes before she’d arrived.
“All finished,” said Dr. Patel, cutting the tape.