David Levien - Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

One of them, probably the younger of the two, had mined the ground near the rear steps. He’d used something fragmentary and incendiary that was homemade yet effective and would’ve killed him outright had he not felt the hard metal underfoot and dove away just in time. Dwyer should have been looking for it, or something like it, after seeing they’d killed his SAS boy. Only true players could have done that to Rickie. What was it that Ruthless had said? When pros lock up, everyone gets hurt .

Dwyer’s own arrogance, the way he’d taken Behr lightly and only thought of killing him and not the reverse, was the true sign of his age. Suddenly his belief in his skills outstripped his ability. Miraculously, he’d made it to the car, used a sweatshirt to blot his tattered face, and drove out of there before any police had arrived.

Now, at a rest stop off I-65, he rinsed his torn-up thighs with bottled water and used the rest to wash down half a dozen codeine and acetaminophen and two Adderall. He was far off the road, away from the abandoned car park, tucked into thick trees where he fed Rickie’s belongings into a fire he’d built in a metal rubbish barrel. The clothes were burning well, already beyond recognition or provenance, the same with the Elvis glasses, which melted immediately when he tossed them into the flames. He added the GSM mobile jammer, along with the rest of his equipment, to the mix. It was time to travel light. Finally, he dropped Rickie’s passport in and watched the crimson cover curl, peel back, and liquefy, revealing the photo page. Black ringed holes spread across Rickie’s young, unsmiling face, before he disappeared altogether.

Dwyer limped back to the car and used the map feature on his smart phone to plot his route: straight north to Lake Michigan, then northeast on I-94 to I-196, until Route 31 would take him straight into the wilderness country of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, to Traverse City if he could make it that far on land, where he’d boost a boat and steer it around Mackinac Island into Lake Huron and Canada. From there, depending on how and if his face healed, he could bus over to Nova Scotia and catch on with a merchant ship headed for the UK, or maybe even a flight to London if the heat dissipated enough. Dwyer sketched the route in detail on paper, then texted home a coded message: kits in dens . That would give Sandy an idea of what was going on and what to do. Then he took the SIM card out of the already clean phone and cracked it into pieces and let them blow away on the post-rain breeze.

He started the car. He would have to dump it soon and switch into a stolen one for the second half of the drive. He had so far to go, but all he could think about was getting back to Wales. All he could picture was Sandy, her fine hands treating his face with boric acid solution and spreading calendula and comfrey salve over the burns on his legs. He pulled out of the rest area, back onto the interstate, and started traveling.

There was noise, and white lights flashing in his eyes, and it was bone cold. He felt steel against his skin and heard tearing, then felt even colder as his shirt was cut away. There were voices, talking to each other, not to him, and scraping and digging in his body. His every nerve felt raw, as if they were plugged into a surging electrical current. Then there was a sharp jab. A needle. It was held in place with tape. A burning erupted at the spot of the puncture, it was agony, but soon a warm, floating sensation carried him away, as if in a bubble of saline. Sound became muffled as he entered a gauzy tunnel. Was he dying or already dead? He might’ve been. But he didn’t think so. Then, black.

His eyes opened. It was much later and everything hurt. He was flat on his back. He felt pinned in place, but not by any restraints, just his own inability to move. He stared up at the plastic diamond grid of the light fixture above him for what felt like hours, gathering himself, and then was finally able to turn his head. He saw her there, her blond hair spilled along the edge of the bed where her head was down.

“Suze.” The word was a croak, a gasp.

She rose up, a look of abject relief on her face.

“You came back.”

“I came back,” she said.

He felt himself smile. It felt like everything inside him was going to tear apart.

“You crazy jerk,” she said. “You had surgery. A collapsed lung. They gave you blood. You were a couple quarts low.”

“How long have I …?”

“Thirty hours or so, maybe a little longer,” she said. She was completely scrubbed free of makeup. He’d never seen anything as beautiful as her face.

“Dwyer?” Behr asked, his eyes cutting toward the door.

“The guy you were chasing?” she said. “There was-what did they call it? — a blast crater and lots of blood, but he was gone. Police are looking for him all over the place. They said they’re sure they’ll get him. Soon.”

His eyes closed in pain. No they won’t … Behr knew the man was gone again on the same dark wind he blew in on.

“And Decker?”

“He’s … okay. They sewed him up-a hundred and thirty-seven stitches-and he left. He just walked out,” she said. “They released Gina’s body to him and he had her … them … cremated this morning.”

Behr pictured Decker, alone in his Camaro, a blister on the highway, driving toward some unknown destination, bent on ungettable revenge.

“Was there a service?” he asked quietly. The words were coming more smoothly now, but it was easier to whisper than talk. “Were you there?”

“Not sure if anyone was …” Susan said, “I was a little busy.”

That’s when Behr realized she was dressed in a robe, over a hospital gown. “You had him?” Behr asked.

“He wouldn’t wait. I went into labor while you were under. Dr. Bezucha has privileges here, and he came.”

“And I missed it.”

“You did. Won’t say you didn’t miss a lot, but I’m sure it wasn’t pretty.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“And how is he?”

“He’s unbelievable,” she said. Behr couldn’t lift his head to see. She wheeled a clear plastic bassinet around the foot of the bed and close to him. In it, like a cotton-wrapped doll, was the baby, with a furrowed brow and his pink nose peeking out between a swaddling blanket and tiny watch cap. She lifted him, his eyes closed like a kitten’s, and showed him to Behr.

“Your son,” she said, with the first smile he’d seen on her in weeks. “Weighed in at eight-eight, so thank god he didn’t wait any longer.”

“Kid’s a light heavyweight,” Behr said, hardly recognizing his voice for the mystified joy in it.

“So, Frank Junior? Little Frankie?”

Behr, feeling as weak as he ever had in his life, shook his head with all the force he could muster. “No. He’s gotta do better-be better than me.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears as she held the boy up to him.

“Then it’s Trevor, because we wanted to go with a ‘T,’ ” she said. “And Frank is his middle name. Don’t even try and argue.”

There was so much to be strong for and to protect. With effort he reached out and touched the tiny fingers in front of him and held them for a moment, before his arm tired and fell away. The baby woke then, and Behr’s head sank back onto the thin pillow as he stared into the eyes of his son.