I shut off the engine, left the key in the ignition, grabbed the gym bag, and got out of the Hummer. Debbie and Fitchburg stood like sentinels in front of Fitchburg’s Impala, the wind whipping through the garage, blowing rain and mist across the empty parking spaces. They had to adjust their stances as the wind rocked them sideways. They were both wearing jeans and dark sweatshirts.
Somewhat reassured by the pressure of the Glock against my back, I strode over to within maybe ten feet of them.
“Nice weather we’re having,” Debbie called, shouting over the howling gale.
“We are the sunshine state,” I called back. “Where’s Becky?”
“Show me your gun.”
“What makes you think I have a gun?”
She deadpanned a look at me. “Slide it over.”
I reached behind me and grabbed the Glock. So much for the reassuring pressure. I put it down and kicked it across the wet cement. Fitchburg then kicked it off to the side, where it came to rest against one of the half walls that ran the perimeter of each floor of the garage.
“Is that my money?” She nodded at the gym bag.
“All eight hundred.”
Debbie gave Fitchburg a look. He stepped over and snatched the bag. He took it back, unzipped it, and pawed through the neat bundles of cash.
“No paint bomb,” Fitchburg said. “Just a lot of cash.” He pulled a brown plastic trash bag from his pocket and dumped the contents of the gym bag into it. Then he flung the gym bag aside. “That should take care of the GPS.”
“No GPS,” I said. “I just want my wife. You have your money. Where is she?”
“One more thing,” Debbie said. “The computer drive.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore, y’know,” I said. “Skip cracked the security. He made a backup. The contents are out. Nate Hungerford is through. You won’t be able to extort any more money from it.”
“Is that why you think we want it?” Debbie said. She and Fitchburg exchanged amused looks. “What did I tell you at the mall? I’m a professional. I was hired to obtain that flash drive and I will have it in my hands. I don’t give a shit what’s on it or why. Could be pictures of the governor wearing panty hose in bed with a goat. I don’t care. Nothing on that drive has anything to do with us. But we’re being paid for a job and we will complete that job. We have a reputation to maintain.”
“You didn’t need to shoot Skip.”
She offered a half shrug. “Judgment call. We were getting frustrated. Plus, we hadn’t shot up someone’s place in a long while. That was fun.”
Fitchburg walked over and held out a hand. I wanted to kick him in the balls, but I restrained myself. Instead, I reached into my front pocket and pulled out the flash drive. I handed it to him.
“It still has the password,” I said.
Fitchburg held it out for Debbie, staying where he was. He couldn’t toss it to her—the wind was just too fierce. So she stepped over, took it from his outstretched fingers, and brought it close.
“This looks like the real thing, Mike,” she said.
“It is the real thing. I want to know where Becky is.”
“You didn’t switch it for a decoy? Try to pull a fast one?”
“No. Like I said, the info’s out. It doesn’t matter anymore. Just hand over my wife and I’ll forget I ever saw you.”
“Forget me?” Debbie placed the flash drive on the floor and crushed it with her boot heel. “After all we shared? I don’t believe that.”
Fitchburg was watching her. As soon as the flash drive had been pulverized, he turned to me with a malevolent grin.
“I’ve been waiting a long time to do this,” he said. I saw a metallic glint in his hand. Uh-oh. I took a half step backward. But it wasn’t far enough. Fitchburg lunged at me savagely, driving his knife blade directly into my stomach.
I went down, the air completely gone from my lungs. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move.
“What the hell?” Fitchburg said. He flexed his wrist, looking at his knife. The blade was clean. The blow hadn’t felt right. He’d likely had a lot of experience stabbing people and knew that something was wrong. “You’re wearing a vest. You son of a bitch. A vest.” He raised the knife. “You don’t have a vest on your neck, though.”
Fitchburg brought the knife down toward my throat. His forehead suddenly burst open in a spray of flesh, blood, and bone. He toppled backward, the knife flopping out onto the wet concrete.
Jimmy.
I had recovered enough to immediately roll out of the line of fire. Then I fumbled for the .22 pistol strapped to my ankle. I didn’t see Debbie. As soon as Fitchburg went down, she must have sprinted for the Impala, the stairwell, or up the garage incline to the next floor. I held the pistol out in front of me, looking for her.
The Kevlar vest had saved my life. Without it, Fitchburg’s blow would have punched a hole through my gut and out the other side. Thank God for Jimmy and all his kick-ass new gear.
“Debbie!” I called. The garbage bag containing the money was gone. The Impala was still there. “Debbie!” There was no response. I crawled along the low concrete wall, taking care not to pop my head up. A four-foot piece of sheet metal careened into the garage through the open sides, rumbling like thunder, and eventually lodged itself against an interior wall.
Through the wind and rain I head footsteps running, getting louder. I raised the .22 and whirled around, ready to squeeze the trigger.
It was Jimmy. He looked like he had fallen into a swimming pool. The Remington was in his hands, presumably the weapon that had just scrambled Norman Fitchburg’s brain.
“She’s getting away,” Jimmy shouted. “She went down the exit stairs. I saw another car on the first level. I thought it was just left there, but it was probably hers.”
“What kind of car?”
“Toyota. Camry, I think.”
It was probably Debbie’s. Her insurance policy in case things went bad.
“What about Becky?” I asked.
Jimmy shook his head. “No sign. I looked in the car. Even pounded on the trunk and bounced the shocks. There was nobody in there. I looked in the stairwells on the first two floors and didn’t find anyone. I didn’t have time to do more. I had to get into position. Good thing, too …”
We both instinctively looked over at Fitchburg’s prone form. The blood from his perforated head mixed with the rain into a dark, shiny puddle under his body.
“Check the Impala,” I said. “Don’t touch the body. Bag the knife. I’m going after her.”
As Jimmy moved to the Impala, I put the .22 back in its holster and raced to the Hummer. I revved the big engine and slammed it into gear. I saw Jimmy shake his head over the Impala’s opened trunk. Becky wasn’t in there.
I spun the SUV’s tires and nearly skidded into a concrete barrier as I careened down the floors of the empty parking garage. The Hummer thudded over the speed bump at the open gate and shot out into the raging maelstrom.
There was a flash of green to my left and I caught a glimpse of Debbie’s Camry speeding down the street in the rain. I stomped on the brakes and jerked the wheel hard to the left. The big Hummer’s back end switched places with the front end and I mashed my foot on the accelerator.
Keeping my eyes on the blur of green racing away from me in the torrent, I couldn’t help but notice the flashing blue light in my rearview mirror.