Flash Bang Bang Bang - The Wheelman

MONDAY P.M. [LATER]

“Tell the boys I’m coming home.”
—WILBUR UNDERHILL

* * *

WHAT IMPRESSED LENNON MOST, THINKING BACK ON it, was how everything seemed blurred—dreamlike yet harried—after they left the hotel. Earlier in the day, the drive to the Northeast had taken forever. Now, I-95 was all but empty and they rocketed down the length of the Delaware River and crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge (yeah, again) to the Camden side within minutes. It was more like experiencing a fevered deathbed flashback than actual life.

Then they pulled up to a concrete parking pad within view of the pipes. And it got even worse.

Lennon couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

There were three people down there carrying two body bags toward the pipe. At first, Lennon thought he was watching a replay of his own near-burial from Friday night. But no, these were three different people, carrying—presumably—two different corpses to the mouth of the pipe. The one that was due to be covered with a thick slab of concrete in the near future.

Saugherty saw them, too. “What is this? A Mafia fire sale? Bury all of your dead now while prices stay rock-bottom? Who the fuck are these guys?”

Lennon squinted. He made one of them out.

Big guy. Pasty. Tortoiseshell glasses. Ugly moustache.

It was the guy from the South Philly basement. And his buddies. The ones who had held a gun to Katie’s head.

The body bag.

Plastic.

Sized just right.

Katie.

The blurring stopped. Everything seemed clear now.

Lennon turned, pointed one of the .38s at Saugherty’s armpit—not covered by Kevlar—then pulled the trigger.

The ex-cop had been distracted by the strangers. “What … ?” Then, upon looking down. “I … can’t fucking believe this.” A dark damp stain spread down across the sleeve of his shirt.

Lennon left the car and made his way down to the pipes. He heard the driver’s door creak open behind him. Saugherty was trying to crawl out. Let him. He’d finish him later.

The gunshot hadn’t alarmed the three guys down below. After all, this was Camden. But the creaking door was another story.

They all looked up in Lennon’s direction.

By this point, Lennon was racing toward them, a gun in each hand. He had only two thoughts. First: see Katie with my own eyes. Then: exterminate. The rest would fall into place.

“What the fuck?” said one of them.

“Hey, it’s him,” said the big guy with the tortoiseshell glasses. “The bank robber.”

Lennon shot him right between the lenses.

His two pals dropped the body bag and reached for their weapons, but Lennon stopped and aimed a pistol at each of them and shook his head. No.

This wasn’t the deterrent that Lennon hoped it would be. They drew their guns anyway. Pointed them at Lennon.

“He wants you to open those bags,” said a voice.

It was Saugherty, that crazy bastard. Staggering toward them with that oversized flare gun in his hand.

“Frankly, I’m just as curious as he is. So why don’t you do us all a favor and unzip ’em?”

The two henchmen, who looked like twins now that Lennon had a chance to think about it, appeared puzzled. But not for long.

Gunfire snapped to life everywhere.

“Oh, fuck me up the ass!”

Bullets sparked off the concrete slab, and ripped through fabric and flesh.

“Shit! Shit!”

Then came a phhhh-WOOM sound.

In the microsecond it took for Lennon to lose consciousness, he came to realize: Yes, this was it.

This was the death flashback.

All of it.