This guy is average. He fires twice, then comes jumping out of the cargo hold and racing down the street. Alex shoots him in the back. She approaches the truck low, on an angle, and makes sure there are no other guards. The driver wisely stays in the front cab. He’s protected as long as he doesn’t come out.

Alex isn’t concerned about him for the time being. If he wants to try to be a hero, she’ll deal with it. What has her attention are the canvas money bags on the floor of the cargo area. She has extra PENO and detonators with her, in case she had to deal with safes, and also an extra Claymore in case this truck turned out to be a bust and she needed to find another.

Alex uses her folder knife to cut open the first bag, and one look confirms that a second robbery won’t be necessary. The bag is loaded with banded stacks of twenties. Maybe ten thousand dollars’ worth.

And Alex counts twelve bags in the back of the truck.

She opens up the army duffel, begins stuffing in bags. She fits five, and can sling five more over her shoulders. The last two she has to leave behind-she doesn’t have time to make two trips. The driver has already called it in, and even with all the commotion the bombing has caused, the cops will be here soon.

Alex heads for the alley, following it through to the parking garage, waddling up a flight of concrete steps, and loading everything into the Prius. Almost home.

As she pulls down the circular driveway, heading for the exit, she hears police sirens. She stops at the exit gate, lowers her window, and sticks the parking stub into the slot. The automatic machine flashes twelve dollars-a ridiculous amount to have to pay for parking less than an hour. Alex reaches for her purse, but it isn’t on the passenger seat. She looks around the Prius, on the floor, in the back, and her purse is nowhere to be found.

The hotel. She left it back at the hotel.

“Is there a problem?”

The voice is coming through a speaker, attached to the gate machine. A parking lot attendant.

“No,” Alex says. “Just looking for my cash.”

Alex unclips her folder knife, cuts open the nearest bag of money. Something catches her eye, and she checks the rearview and sees the guard is coming up behind her, holding a walkie-talkie.

Alex considers killing the guard, but there’s the possibility he has a partner, and has already called in her license plate number. That could get linked to the armored car robbery, less than a block over, and Alex will be pulled over by the first cop who sees her.

She fishes out a wad of fifties, breaks the seal. The guard is getting closer. If he looks in the car, he’ll see the bags of money. If he looks really close, he’ll see the body still in the backseat.

Alex shoves a crisp fifty into the slot. It sucks up the cash, then spits it out. Alex tries again, with similar results. Then she notices the sign on the machine.

Only accepts $1, $5, $10, and $20 bills.

The guard is almost at her back bumper. Alex practically laughs at the absurdity of it. She’s got maybe a hundred grand in the car, but can’t find twelve lousy bucks.

She slits open another bag, and fate smiles on her-it exposed a sheaf of twenties. Alex peels one off, sticks it into the machine, and the gate rises.

Alex waits for the road spikes to go down, then hits the gas, pulling out of the parking lot, swerving to avoid an oncoming police car, and tearing down the street, driving as fast as the Prius can handle.

CHAPTER 51

THE FEEBIES ARRESTED ME AT THE HOSPITAL.

“I’m sorry,” I told Special Agent Dailey as he put on the cuffs. In front of me, not behind. Professional courtesy. “Coursey was a good man.”

Dailey looked positively haggard, the neutral expression he constantly wore replaced by a drawn-out, faraway look.

“He’s the one who answered the door. He told Sergeant Benedict to stay back.”

“Where is Herb?”

“Intensive Care. He just got out of surgery.”

“Can I see him?”

“I have orders to bring you in.”

“Please,” I said.

“I can’t. The SAC wants you in custody.”

“He’s my partner. You know how important that is.”

Dailey stared at me, then nodded. He took my elbow and escorted me down the hospital hallway. His grip was heavy, but I felt it had less to do with me running away, and more about giving him something to cling to.

There were guards in front of Herb’s room. One of them was Tom Mankowski. He was in a rumpled, filthy suit, standing almost a head taller than me. His blue eyes appraised me kindly.

“I was at the neighbors’. When the car pulled up, we were ready to move in. But Sergeant Benedict told us to hold off. He thought it was some steaks you were sending him. Actually, that saved a lot of lives. We lost three, but it would have been four or five more if he didn’t order us to stand down. Me included.”

I nodded at him, turned my attention to the door.

“Ten minutes,” Dailey told me.

I went inside.

Herb was under an oxygen tent, the clear plastic windows looking futuristic and strangely cheap. Ban dages were swathed around his chest. Two tubes were taped to his face, one going up his nose and the other jammed down his throat. Another tube-I guessed it to be a drain-snaked out through his ban dages, taped to the bed rail along with his IV. His eyes were closed, puffy. The steady beep beep beep of his vitals drilled into me, accusing, blaming.

Bernice was slumped in a chair next to him, some gauze on her forehead, her hand under the tent and clutching her husband’s. When she saw me she stood up and threw her arms around my waist.

I couldn’t hug her back because of the handcuffs, but I put my head on her shoulder.

“How’s he doing?” I managed.

“Critical. His chest is all messed up. The bomb-it was packed with roofing nails.”

“What did the doctors say?”

“They wouldn’t give me a clear answer. I had to scream at the head surgeon. He told me…” Bernice sobbed, her body shuddering. “Jack, his chances are fifty-fifty.”

Fifty-fifty. The toss of a coin.

“I’ll find her,” I said.

I expected her to tell me that’s what she wanted. That I’d better.

I was wrong.

“No,” she said. “You should let this go.”

Bernice drew away from me, teary eyes staring back at her husband.

“We were talking about you earlier, Jack. The Job is killing you. It has been for years. Herb’s seen it. He’s watched you die, a little each day.” She paused. “You need to quit.”

“I have to finish this, Bernice.”

She looked at me sadly. “Oh, Jack, there’s always one more thing you have to finish. One more crime to solve. One more perp to catch. Someone hits, you hit back. You’re always hitting back. Sometimes, the best thing-the sane thing-is to just walk away. That’s what Herb wanted you to do.”

“He wanted me to quit?”

“He wanted you to be happy. And you’ll never be happy if you keep heading down this path. Happiness isn’t having complete control, Jack. Happiness is realizing you don’t have any control at all.”

I stared at my partner, a lump in my throat, and everything everyone had told me over the last few days suddenly made perfect sense.

And I knew what I had to do.

I had to let it all go.

“I have to go, Bernice. But I understand. When he wakes up, tell him…tell him I…just…just give him this.”

It wasn’t easy fishing it out of my purse with my hands cuffed, but I managed, pressing it into Bernice’s hands. She held it up.

“Your badge.”

“Last night…” I took a big breath. “Bernice, last night, I almost…I thought it was the only way, you know, to stop the pain. But I don’t need to die. Only part of me does. The cop part.”

“You’re resigning?”

“I’m done. It’s over. Tell Herb I love him, and I quit, and I’ll be over next week for Turduckinlux.”