Tick Tock

Chapter 94

SAVORING THE LAST BITE of his Magnolia Bakery cupcake, Carl Apt crumpled the wrapper and, without breaking stride, hook-shot it at the corner garbage can he was passing. It bounced off the light post a foot in front of the can before landing in the exact center.

Bank shot! Yes! Swa-heeet! he thought as he pumped his fist.

Wiping frosting off his nose, he continued to walk south down Christopher Street in Greenwich Village. He now wore a pair of black suit pants, a crisp white shirt, red silk Hermes suspenders, and an undone red silk Hermes tie. The point of buying the outfit at Barney's after killing Wendy was for him to blend in on the street, and it was working like a charm.

Except for his gun in the laptop bag strapped to his side, he could have been just another Wall Street hump trudging home from a busy day of destroying the world's economy.

Despite the APBs and whatever video the NYPD had of him, he knew he was okay. He knew how hard it was to catch someone with means on the move if he didn't want to get caught. With his ATM card and Lawrence's dough, he could walk around forever if he wanted. If he didn't do something stupid to get himself arrested, he would never get caught.

And the last thing he was was stupid.

He was on his way to one of his safe houses, the one in Turtle Bay, where he was going to gear up for tonight's grand finale. He could hardly believe he was almost done. There was only one more name to go. One more target. One more hit. It was a doozie, too. He was actually looking forward to it because it was the biggest, ballsiest challenge of all.

Spotting an HSBC Bank on the opposite corner, he remembered he was running low on cash. How much would he need? he thought as he crossed the street. Two hundred? Screw it, three. After all, it was only money.

"Hey, bruva. How about a dollah, bruva?" said someone at his elbow as he was carding himself into the alcove of the bank.

He looked up and shook his head, smiling.

He'd seen white street guys with rasta dreads before, but never a pudgy Asian. The short Chinese-looking guy even had a six-string guitar with a Jamaican flag on the strap.

New York was a trip. You never knew what was going to happen next. He was going to miss it.

"Maybe, bruva. We'll see," Apt said.

WELCOME TO HSBC, the screen of the ATM inside said. PLEASE INSERT YOUR CARD.

"The pleasure's all mine," he mumbled as he followed the instructions.

His account kicked out a thousand a day for expenses. Since he didn't have to use the whole grand every day, there was more than nine grand in it.

Tonight when he was done, it would have a lot more.

Eight million more, to be exact.

It was his big payday. His retirement money. The real reason he was going to such incredible lengths to take out everyone who had ever crossed his dearly departed and extremely wealthy friend, Lawrence.

He wiped the smile off his face. He had to stop thinking about it. After all, he wasn't done yet. Couldn't start counting those chickens. Couldn't get cocky now.

He typed in his card's PIN: 32604. It was the date he'd killed his Delta Force boss. The day he'd shown bad-ass Colonel Henry Greer who really had the bigger set of balls. Greer had tried to get him transferred, but he'd ended up getting himself transferred, hadn't he? Into the great beyond.

Apt was busy reliving his own Ode to Joy of putting two ACPs in the back of the big, ball-busting bastard's head, when a little screen popped up that he'd never seen before: