Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

73

Behr took the keys from Decker and drove hard north, the direction of both Gantcher’s office and home. They’d called 911 on their way out of the loft, but hadn’t even considered waiting for the response to come. There was no point.

“Scroll my contact list and dial Lowell Gantcher Work,” Behr instructed Decker, handing over his cell phone.

Decker did so, waiting with the phone to his ear.

“Lowell Gantcher,” he said. Then he covered the mouthpiece with a hand and told Behr, “She’s saying he’s not available.”

“It’s urgent, if he’s there, you have to put him on …” Decker continued. “You can’t? All right … Message? You tell him he better watch his ass.” Decker hung up. “She said she couldn’t reach him. Not that he couldn’t come to the phone. Tells me he’s not there,” Decker said.

Most people would probably just take Meridian to get up to Crows Nest. It was a straight shot and the main thoroughfare, but because of that it could be slightly slow going. The car had muscle to burn and Behr flew along N. Michigan, which though it angled slightly away from the center of town was free of traffic. He cut right on West 56th, and only hoped he was making up some time.

“You might want to take her easy,” Decker said over rain that sounded like marbles bouncing off the roof, “she’s American so she runs good straight, but she’s not much on the corners.”

Behr’s response was to gun it. He kept his hands on the wheel, his eyes on the road, and did his best to rope down his thoughts, which were jumping around inside his head. Trying the home address first was a gamble, but if they chose not to believe the secretary and went to the office first and he was at home, they’d be too late once again and it’d be over. Of course the reverse was true, too. Decker, for his part, was twisted around backward, reaching into the backseat and coming around forward with a multipocketed tactical vest, which he put on. Behr fought to empty his mind and drive. This was his last chance to get the bastards who’d nearly killed him and his family and who had destroyed Decker’s.

Behr took his phone back and dialed Breslau, who answered on the first ring.

“It’s Behr. Don’t know if you caught the nine-one-one, but Shug Saunders is down.”

Behr wheeled onto Sunset Lane, blazing past the homes of the rich and locally famous. Gantcher’s place was up ahead on the left.

“Fuck, I know it,” Breslau spat. “Where are you headed now?”

“To Lowell-”

Behr stopped talking because his cell phone connection had gone suddenly and completely dead.

“Shit,” Behr said. Glancing at the phone he saw the words “no service,” in the signal readout space. “You have reception?”

Decker checked his phone. “Empty triangle,” he said.

“The weather?”

“I don’t think so …”

“Signal jammer?”

“It’d mean they’re here,” Decker answered.

“Well, we can fall back, call it in, and wait,” Behr offered, pulling over.

“Uh-uh,” Decker said, reaching for the door handle. “Even if you want to, I get out here.”

Behr held the wheel, considering it for a moment, then turned to Decker. “There are two of them.”

“That we know of,” Decker amended.

“That we know of,” Behr agreed. “I’ll go in the front, you go in the back.”

“Front’s a bad approach,” Decker said, appraising the house with an expert eye.

“Choices?” Behr asked.

“None.”

“Hit the doors at the same time and meet inside.”

Decker nodded. “Wish I had my body rifle to cover you,” he said, opening his door gently and slipping out of the car. Behr did the same. “Gimme four minutes to work my way around.” The rain muffled their words.

“Four minutes. I have twenty-five after,” Behr said, crouched below the roofline of Decker’s car.

“Good,” Decker said.

He watched as Decker adopted a stealthy, stooped gait completely unlike his usual one. It resembled that of an Apache on a stalk, Behr imagined. Decker moved lightly and disappeared into the neighbors’ tree line, bending, ducking, and turning sideways, not disturbing a single branch. Within seconds Behr had lost sight of him altogether.

Behr was conscious of the heaviness of his own step as he dropped below the tops of the rhododendrons that ran along the street side of Gantcher’s front lawn and connected the open end of the U-shaped driveway. When he had crabbed across and reached the far side, Behr stayed low and leaped across the opening. He moved along parallel to the driveway, hugging some close-planted Japanese cherry trees. Their trunks were too slender to give him real cover, but he hoped they’d break up his silhouette a bit.

He made his way toward the house and paused beneath the last tree, standing very still, thick droplets of water slapping the leaves around him. He saw now that he’d have to cross the courtyard, out in the open, in order to make it to the side of the house and then ultimately a window or the door, or better yet a set of French doors off what seemed to be the dining room or kitchen. He glanced at his watch. Two minutes. He couldn’t let Decker hit the back door alone; God only knew what he’d be walking into. Behr drew the Bulldog.44 from the holster at the small of his back.

He dropped as low as he could-which wasn’t very, considering his height-and made his move. The gravel crunched softly beneath him. The windows appeared black through the rain, and it was impossible to see clearly inside the darkened house, but Behr thought he detected a streak of movement inside. It caused him to crouch further and raise his gun, but then his feet were ripped out from under him and he was slammed to the ground on his back. He had no air in him and saw white in front of his eyes. The triple hammering sound of three rounds, muted and distant, arrived almost like an afterthought.

Hit.

When his regular sight returned he saw translucent rain beads falling from black clouds and then he breathed and all the pain in the world concentrated in his chest and shoulder. He was railroad spiked to the ground and the oxygen blew in and out in a stabbing manner, but it was like pumping a ruptured inner tube-things were flapping around and not really inflating.

Get up, Frank, he urged himself. Nothing happened. He felt his arms swimming against the gravel beneath him, but couldn’t tell if he was moving them or if they were merely in spasm.

The bullet that he’d avoided in the parking garage had finally found him. Other words and thoughts washed through his head, along with images. Decker. Susan’s face. The sonogram image of his tiny son. Breslau’s wide nostrils and clenching jaw. Gina, awash in blood. Kolodnik. The police, politicians, the Caro Group-he was as done with organizations as they were with him.

Family, he thought, and friends-if he could ever collect a few, and keep them-were all there was, and he’d hold on tight to that if he could just get up …

But he was down and he was going to stay down, and he wasn’t ever going to see his child, because whether he bled out or was finished by someone standing over him at point-blank range, he was going to die here.

Get up, man.