Free The Wheelman by Duane Swierczynski

had to be going, too, and thanked Fieuchevsky profusely for the $8.95 breakfast.
    Outside, in his silver BMW, Perelli ripped open the envelope. His jaw dropped. It contained a personal check for $650. In the memo line were the words: “College window bars.”
    The fucking bars on the dorm window.
    Three thick-necked Russkie goons come pouncing in on his daughter, and all the commie bastard has to offer is $650?
    Perelli wanted to puke up his chipped beef. All over that Fieufuck-sky’s car windshield.
    And then he had the nerve to ask for a favor.
    Find this guy. Patrick Selway Lennon. A bank robber.
    Ah, fuck you, you Russian prick. Find your own asshole, then finger it a few times for good luck. Those Russian bastards, sweeping into town, acting as if they’ve run things since forever. Smirking over the flurry of indictments in the crazy summer of 2001. Then there were the goofy antics, like the cops finding that one-legged bag man under the bed of the boss’s wife while the boss was on trial for his life. The Russians, picking over the spoils of a once-great empire.
    Perelli drove away mad. Really fucking mad.
    The Third Crew
     
    W HEN THE BLACK GUYS WITH THE GUNS ENTERED the garage, Saugherty saw right away he had guessed right. There was Mothers, plus three other guys. Not that it made him feel any better.
    Maybe the mute would get lucky and clip two of these guys. Leaving only two for Saugherty. Not great odds, but it could be done.
    “Cut him out,” said a voice.
    Two dudes with blades started snipping the bungee cords off the mute. The mute had obviously hidden the gun somewhere for the time being. Come on now, Saugherty thought. Start spraying. Pop pop. One guy, two guys down. Leaving two for Saugherty. His gun hand was already getting sweaty. It was hard playing dead while steeling yourself up for action at the same time. His chest hurt, bad. He hoped he wouldn’t have a muscle spasm at an inopportune moment.
    Then, something unexpected happened.
    The mute bolted from the table—an old thick wooden door Saugherty had found trash-picking in Mt. Airy years ago—and pulled it over on himself at the same time. He scuttled across the floor of the garage, the door on his back, looking like a crab trying desperately to hang onto his shell. The mute was trying to use the door as a shield.
    The three guys with the guns laughed. They catcalled, “Hey, white boy. Where you going?” Who could blame them? It looked pathetic.
    “That door ain’t going to help you, Mr. Lennon,” Mothers said, a smile on his lips.
    The guys removed submachine guns from their puffy coats. Loaded clips. Switched off trigger guards. The two others had black semiautomatic pistols, which they yanked on to pump bullets into the chambers. The garage was full of the sound of clean sharp metal clicks. Just one submachine gun would be enough to cut Saugherty and the mute in half. Hell, these guys had enough heavy firepower to launch an assault on a police precinct.
    “All we need is one arm,” Mothers continued. “The rest don’t matter. These guys here can surgically remove your limbs through that fucking door in seconds. You won’t live long, but you’ll live long enough to be useful to them.”
    The door wobbled. Was the mute finally going for his gun?
    And if he was, what the fuck was he hoping to accomplish with it?
    The situation had gone from fucked to cluster-fucked. The only tactical advantage Saugherty had was that all four men now had their backs to him. He could try to stand up and get off six rapid, clean shots into each … no, that was ridiculous. He couldn’t possibly take down more than two without the others spinning around and spraying him into pieces.
    The door lifted a few inches from the floor of the garage. The business end of Saugherty’s Glock poked out.
    The guys laughed even harder and readied themselves to take aim.
    What the fuck was the mute thinking?
    “Okay. Will somebody kindly remove this bastard’s