The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(89)

He wanted to kick the door down and do some damage. Do it old-school.

But Dinah’s oldest boy was under his care. Lewis couldn’t leave him, at least not yet. He’d watch and wait a few more minutes, see what happened next.

He wondered if the kid knew how to drive. It would be a help. Twelve was old enough to learn.

But Dinah was inside. He couldn’t leave her, either. He looked at his watch. He would give it fifteen minutes. Then call the cops and go in.

“Aren’t you going to go get my mom?”

The kid was looking at him. Lewis couldn’t get over how much he looked like Jimmy.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am. But not yet.”

He heard the faint tick of the second hand and kept both eyes on the truck. He thought about what these assholes were up to. It had to be about money. It was always about money, one way or another. So how could a man make a profit by putting a big bomb together with a hedge-fund asshole?

Lewis had been thinking about it since last night. He was pretty sure he had it figured out.

He didn’t think the target even mattered.

It probably didn’t even matter if the bomb actually went off.

A bomb found at the Federal Reserve Bank of Chicago, or at any regional headquarters of a big commercial bank, would send the markets into the tank. If Skinner knew when that would happen and planned ahead, he would clean up.

Lewis briefly wished he could get online and make a few trades.

Instead he waited.

And counted.

He was about ready to send the kid to the Boys and Girls Club and kick in that warehouse door when Skinner showed up.

Not in the busted-up Bentley, Lewis noted. But in a very nice Audi SUV, which he parked beside the box truck like he owned the place. He walked around to the back of the truck and climbed up the loading dock and inside.

So Peter was right about the hedge-fund asshole, which meant Lewis was right about the financial part.

—

After a minute or two, Skinner sauntered out to his car and drove away.

Lewis had the little Radio Shack transmitter in his hand, ready to blow the charge on the truck’s engine block. The 10-gauge was muzzle-down in the footwell, ready to put some holes through the driver of the truck. Then the radiator, then the tires. Better to blow it up here in a neighborhood of single-family houses, where evacuation would be relatively simple and fast, than a more dense target area. Like downtown Chicago. It was only ninety miles away.

“Okay, kid. Time for you to get out of the truck, take that dog, and get as far away from here as you can. Someplace safe.”

“Sir, I’m not going anywhere.”

Kid had that same stubborn look as Jimmy, too. “Listen,” said Lewis. “I ain’t askin’, I’m tellin’. The shit is about to hit and you gotta be somewhere else. There gonna be bullets flying and God knows what. And your mom would skin me alive if something happened to you. So get out the truck and walk away from that warehouse. I want you at least two blocks away.”

“Mister, that’s my mom, and my little brother.” The kid’s mouth was set. “I’ll duck down low. Nobody will see me. But I’m not leaving.”

Lewis was starting to think that he wouldn’t win this one. The engine would shield the kid some. It wasn’t the worst idea, except for the bomb. But if the bomb went off, wouldn’t none of them be left in one piece. The cold autumn wind blew through the open windows. The dog panted in his ear. He opened his mouth to reply when a skinny shave-headed guy in a Marine’s dress uniform came out and climbed up into the driver’s seat of the big box truck. That would be Jimmy’s missing Marine, Felix.

“Get down. Now,” said Lewis. He opened the door and stepped out of the Yukon. He laid the 10-gauge across the hood and flipped the power switch on the transmitter, arming the radio. He put his thumb on the little red button.

Then the guy with the scars came out holding the smaller boy by the arm, not gently.

“Shit,” said Lewis, and took his thumb off the little red button. He watched as the guy with the scars pushed the kid up into the cab of the truck on the driver’s side, and the missing Marine scooted over to the passenger seat to make room. Then a tall, rangy white guy with a nice coat and a cop haircut—had to be the cop Lipsky—came out with his hand hard on Dinah’s arm. Lewis was stunned by the sight of her, even half a block away. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to see her without that tightness in his stomach. He didn’t think he wanted to.

Had she been wearing handcuffs before? She wasn’t now. Lipsky hustled her up into the driver’s seat, and Lewis knew he’d lost his chance to blow the engine block. It would kill Dinah, and the boy, too.

Lewis only had the 10-gauge. At that distance, he might well kill everyone in the cab of that truck with a single pull of the trigger. And he wasn’t going to do that. It paralyzed him, just the sight of her. So there he stood, one foot on the ground, one foot still in the Yukon, unable to decide. Kill Dinah and her boy, or let the truck go. Let them all go.

Then the damn dog started barking, loud enough to be heard in Chicago. Lewis saw Dinah turn her head and look right at him, eyes wide. The cop shouted to the Marine and stepped up to the running board. He reached in through the open window and started the truck with a diesel rattle. Then he spotted Lewis with his cop eyes and pulled out his pistol.