In the Bag - The Wheelman

THE IRISH BASTARD NODDED. DEAL. SAUGHERTY smiled.

Of course, we’re probably not going to find your pal Crosby, so I’ll put you in that pipe in his place. Then I’ll go after him. The heister with the money. Sorry Katie—you’re beyond saving, sweetheart.

He watched Lennon quit Word and click the “Don’t Save” box. His weekend memoir disappeared.

Then he looked at Saugherty and made a pistol with his right hand.

“Yes. Guns. We’re going to need guns to get Katie, aren’t we? Well, brother, you just happened upon the right retired cop. Come on back to the room. Got a surprise for you.”

Not the faxed photo of dead Katie—Saugherty had already swiped it, folded it, and put it in his jacket pocket. No second mistakes.

The surprise was inside a green army duffel bag, the payoff for a favor he had done a Philly S.W.A.T. team member some years ago—covering up a wife-beating beef. In return, Saugherty had asked for a bag of tricks: heavy artillery stuff he could keep off the books. The bag certainly came in handy from time to time. This time being one of them.

Saugherty thought he’d be using this stuff in a standoff with some of his former colleagues, if it came to that. It was part of his exit strategy. But now it was looking like he had another option, after all.

“Isn’t this sweet?”

Lennon didn’t seem impressed. He chose two .38s, and it was obvious he didn’t know much about guns, as he didn’t do much in the way of shopping. He was like an amateur home owner grabbing the first available tool to stop the leaky kitchen faucet. Didn’t matter if it was a hammer or pliers or a screwdriver or a chainsaw.

Saugherty, on the other hand, chose carefully. He skipped the pistols and rifles. He wasn’t going to need them. Instead, he dipped into special ordinance: an oversized flare-gun-looking thing. It held two flashbang grenades, used by S.W.A.T. teams to disorient and confuse their targets. The sonic blast was enough to render ten men unconscious at close range. Eardrums would be burst. Nasal vessels would rupture. Eyes would bleed.

The bank robber was giving him a quizzical look.

“What? This? Flare gun. It’s a distraction. For when we go after your sister. This’ll confuse the hell out of the wops.”

That seemed to satisfy Lennon, who checked his pistols to make sure they were loaded. Of course they were. All part of the exit strategy.

And the other part was this: once they determined that Crosby was a no-show at his own funeral, Saugherty would dump a flash-bang grenade in Lennon’s lap. That might be enough to kill him, but probably not. Either way, he’d dump him and the pistol down the pipe, then hightail it out of there.

Track down Crosby. Squeeze him. Retire.

“Ready to go, brother?”