Read Online The Wheelman by Duane Swierczynski - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Duane Swierczynski
Ads: Link
answer came to him.
Shit.
Big Guy was in bed with the Russian mob.
Russian mob wanted the money.
Russian mob also probably wanted to talk to him about the dead boys in the pipe down by the river.
That’s why he was still alive. To be tortured later.
Lennon remembered the pistol in his hand. He squeezed the grip.
“Christ on a cracker,” Saugherty mumbled from the floor. “Sounds like a platoon up there.”
Lennon tried to count footsteps, figure out how many he was dealing with, but lost track. He looked around the garage, hoping for an answer. A way out. Anything.
“I don’t mean to be a downer, Pat, but I think you’re a dead man.”
Speed Loader
P ATRICK SELWAY LENNON MIGHT BE A DEAD MAN, thought Saugherty, but I’m not.
They keep underestimating you. They underestimated you right off the force, and they’re still underestimating you now. Mothers, too, of all people. Shooting him in the chest. Mothers worked with him in the Fifteenth District back in the day. Mothers always teased him about not wearing his armor. Saugherty wanted it that way—the guy who said fuck you to Level II. Saugherty secretly wore it anyway.
He had noticed an interesting side effect to a steady diet of Jack Daniel’s and pounds of bacon and beef burgers with no bun: rapid weight loss. Fucking Atkins. Amazing. Saugherty lost the fat, kept the muscle, and wore the armor without anyone knowing. Saugherty wore it all the time. It was his second skin. It was damn near a fetish, if Saugherty wanted to be honest about it. One more secret. One more way they kept underestimating him.
Mothers popped him in the chest, just like a good cop is taught to do. Center of gravity. And yeah, the blow knocked the living shit out of him. But no permanent damage. Skin badly bruised, not broken.
Saugherty had faked his writhing on the floor, but only to a degree. The shit hurt. Thankfully, Mothers didn’t go for the insurance shot. Thought one bullet was all it would take. Now Saugherty was going to find out what was really going on.
Saugherty knew the mayor-porking-the-Leon-Street-chick thing was bullshit. The mayor was straighter than a grizzly’s dick: a proud Baptist from North Philly, goo-goo eyes in love with his wife of thirty-five years. He had other shit he was involved in—namely, this cash disbursement in the neighborhood, which was a cover for some debt he owed old friends. White trim simply wasn’t one of his vices.
At the time, Saugherty hadn’t really cared. Mothers was offering decent money for a quick job, and that was that.
But now it was suddenly something else. Something worth more than $325,000.
Something that involved a large number of accomplices.
Saugherty was doubly glad he had given his gun to the mute bank robber. Originally, he had thought it was over-insurance: distract Mothers long enough to get off a clean shot of his own. That’s right. Mothers hadn’t even checked him for a weapon. His belt piece had gone to the mute guy, but Saugherty had kept a snub-nosed pistol in a short holster perched at the small of his back. Mute bank robber squeezes off a few rounds; Mothers takes one or two but returns fire, and Saugherty clips him from below. Perfect.
Now, Saugherty realized, giving up his gun to the mute was going to be essential. Let him make the first move, take the first hits. Saugherty tried to concentrate on how many footfalls he heard, how many guys were with Mothers.
If he were forced to guesstimate, he’d say three.
Hopefully, the mute could take out one, maybe two, before getting clipped himself. That left at least two for Saugherty. Not a problem, if he could surprise them. Mothers first—he was probably the most dangerous—then the others.
Saugherty reached down and wrapped his fingers around the hidden pistol.
“Hey,” he called up to the mute. “Aim for the center of gravity.”
The $650 Insult
T HE TWO FATHERS SAT TOGETHER AT A BOOTH IN THE Dining Car on Frankford Avenue,
Shit.
Big Guy was in bed with the Russian mob.
Russian mob wanted the money.
Russian mob also probably wanted to talk to him about the dead boys in the pipe down by the river.
That’s why he was still alive. To be tortured later.
Lennon remembered the pistol in his hand. He squeezed the grip.
“Christ on a cracker,” Saugherty mumbled from the floor. “Sounds like a platoon up there.”
Lennon tried to count footsteps, figure out how many he was dealing with, but lost track. He looked around the garage, hoping for an answer. A way out. Anything.
“I don’t mean to be a downer, Pat, but I think you’re a dead man.”
Speed Loader
P ATRICK SELWAY LENNON MIGHT BE A DEAD MAN, thought Saugherty, but I’m not.
They keep underestimating you. They underestimated you right off the force, and they’re still underestimating you now. Mothers, too, of all people. Shooting him in the chest. Mothers worked with him in the Fifteenth District back in the day. Mothers always teased him about not wearing his armor. Saugherty wanted it that way—the guy who said fuck you to Level II. Saugherty secretly wore it anyway.
He had noticed an interesting side effect to a steady diet of Jack Daniel’s and pounds of bacon and beef burgers with no bun: rapid weight loss. Fucking Atkins. Amazing. Saugherty lost the fat, kept the muscle, and wore the armor without anyone knowing. Saugherty wore it all the time. It was his second skin. It was damn near a fetish, if Saugherty wanted to be honest about it. One more secret. One more way they kept underestimating him.
Mothers popped him in the chest, just like a good cop is taught to do. Center of gravity. And yeah, the blow knocked the living shit out of him. But no permanent damage. Skin badly bruised, not broken.
Saugherty had faked his writhing on the floor, but only to a degree. The shit hurt. Thankfully, Mothers didn’t go for the insurance shot. Thought one bullet was all it would take. Now Saugherty was going to find out what was really going on.
Saugherty knew the mayor-porking-the-Leon-Street-chick thing was bullshit. The mayor was straighter than a grizzly’s dick: a proud Baptist from North Philly, goo-goo eyes in love with his wife of thirty-five years. He had other shit he was involved in—namely, this cash disbursement in the neighborhood, which was a cover for some debt he owed old friends. White trim simply wasn’t one of his vices.
At the time, Saugherty hadn’t really cared. Mothers was offering decent money for a quick job, and that was that.
But now it was suddenly something else. Something worth more than $325,000.
Something that involved a large number of accomplices.
Saugherty was doubly glad he had given his gun to the mute bank robber. Originally, he had thought it was over-insurance: distract Mothers long enough to get off a clean shot of his own. That’s right. Mothers hadn’t even checked him for a weapon. His belt piece had gone to the mute guy, but Saugherty had kept a snub-nosed pistol in a short holster perched at the small of his back. Mute bank robber squeezes off a few rounds; Mothers takes one or two but returns fire, and Saugherty clips him from below. Perfect.
Now, Saugherty realized, giving up his gun to the mute was going to be essential. Let him make the first move, take the first hits. Saugherty tried to concentrate on how many footfalls he heard, how many guys were with Mothers.
If he were forced to guesstimate, he’d say three.
Hopefully, the mute could take out one, maybe two, before getting clipped himself. That left at least two for Saugherty. Not a problem, if he could surprise them. Mothers first—he was probably the most dangerous—then the others.
Saugherty reached down and wrapped his fingers around the hidden pistol.
“Hey,” he called up to the mute. “Aim for the center of gravity.”
The $650 Insult
T HE TWO FATHERS SAT TOGETHER AT A BOOTH IN THE Dining Car on Frankford Avenue,
Similar Books
