Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

42

This cunt’s becoming bloody difficult.

Dwyer had his hand around the CZ, thumb on the safety. He had followed the big pro back north on 421 toward Indianapolis until the road turned into the main interstate. It was an easy tail in medium traffic and, not knowing the city, Dwyer couldn’t be sure exactly where they were headed when the big pro exited the interstate and rolled into the run-down part of town, until all of a sudden-bang-he did know, and a sense of disbelief, concern, and disgust exploded inside him. The big pro slowed and parked in front of 1701 Wilmette. Banco’s building.

Dwyer stuck to his training, rolling slowly by and turning three consecutive rights in order to reach the head of the block on Wilmette again, behind the big pro, where he could observe him and the building but not be seen.

How the bloody hell had the man come to be here?

Dwyer racked his brain but couldn’t, for the love of god, put it together to any satisfactory degree.

The big pro crossed to the front door, traced a finger down the tenant list, and pressed a buzzer. He waited a long time, but there seemed to be no answer. Dwyer had been willing to leave Banco alive, for the time being, to find out more about what had happened, who else might know anything, and to make sure his little insurance policy was only fictional. If the man recovered, miraculously, Dwyer could use him to help with the cleanup job he was doing. He was at the very least content to let the man die on his own. But that was yesterday. Now one thing was for certain: if the big pro was buzzed in, the Saiga shotgun was coming out of the trunk and Dwyer would enter and erase both of them right-bloody-now.

The big pro stood there, ringing the buzzer repeatedly to no avail. Either Banco wasn’t there or was smart enough not to answer. Dwyer imagined the big pro would find his way around the back door before long, and wondered whether he should take him there, before things went any further. But then the big pro took out his mobile and put it to his ear-he was answering a call, as he hadn’t dialed one. He checked his watch and hurried to his car at a pace that was just short of a run.

Dwyer was tempted to go in and cauterize the bleeding vessel that was Banco, but he’d have to go in shooting to do that, and he preferred to be elsewhere when Banco expired, not standing over him with a hot gun. He was also more than a little curious as to who the big pro was and where he was headed next, so he put his car in gear and followed.