“Because this is what I do, and I lost my license to do it legally. I swear to God in heaven, Gabriel, these past two days have been the most fun I’ve had in years. I’m back doing what I love, and I just want to keep on doing it.”
“I can’t,” Gabriel said. “I’m sorry.”
Mickey closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yeah, me too.” He opened a drawer and took out a three-ring binder.
“What’s that?”
“I was afraid you’d turn me down, but I figured even if I couldn’t be there with you, at least I could do something. So I put this together for you—no extra charge.”
He handed Gabriel the binder. The cover page said The Art of Blowing Shit Up.
Inside it was filled with hand-drawn diagrams on graph paper. Alongside each illustration, Mickey had neatly hand-lettered simple instructions. “What to Do” was in black. “What Not to Do” was in red. It was a step-by-step recap of his tutorial. At the end was an appendix—more than a hundred pages of detailed information on explosives pulled together from scientific journals, The Special Forces Demolition Training Handbook, how-to websites, blogs, and of course that must-read for every wannabe revolutionary, The Anarchist Cookbook.
“This is incredible,” Gabe said. “You did this for me?”
“No, I bought it at Bombs and Noble.” Mickey hawked up a laugh. “That’s funny, right? You can use that line in your movie. Of course I did it for you, asshole. I told you Mickey Peltz never disappoints.”
“Thanks. Let’s pack this stuff up.”
“You got about a hundred pounds here,” Mickey said. “Can you carry it?”
Gabriel pulled a retractable handle from his backpack, then rolled the bag on its in-line skate wheels. “I can pull it.”
Five minutes later, he stepped out of the lobby, leaned the bag against the side of the building, and took out his cell phone.
And then he saw it.
It turned the corner onto Skillman. Cop car.
Gabe held his cell phone to his ear and pretended to talk while he watched the car.
It’s just cruising. Looking for bad guys.
Sure enough, it drove past him, and he took a deep breath. If you only knew what’s in this bag.
Ten yards past the building, the driver hit the brake. Gabriel watched as the reverse lights came on and the cops backed up. The driver rolled down the window.
“Hey, buddy!” the cop yelled. “Stay right there.”
Gabriel froze.
Chapter 56
TWO COPS GOT out of the car.
Gabe looked them over. One was male, young, and big. The other was male, young, and bigger.
Officer Bigger walked up to him. The other cop went inside.
“Is this 33-87 Skillman or 33-97? The building address is rubbed off.”
“I’m not really sure,” Gabe said. “I don’t live here.”
The other cop came back out.
“Danny, this is the place. The guy’s name is on the bell. Fifth floor.”
“Looks like my partner solved it,” Bigger said. “Have a good day, sir.”
“You too, officer,” Gabe said.
He watched them take the elevator, and then casually sauntered over to the patrol car. And there it was, painted in blue and white on the rear fender: 19 PCT.
No wonder these guys had trouble finding this building. They’re from the 19th Precinct—the one Jordan and MacDonald work out of. This is no random parole check. They’re not just here to rattle Mickey’s cage. They’re trying to connect him to me.
Bag full of C4 or not, there was no going home now.
He walked to the corner, crossed Skillman Avenue, and leaned against a traffic light, where he could watch Mickey’s building and still stay out of sight.
Lexi was waiting for him at home. He called her. No answer. He tried her cell. Again no answer. He texted. Nothing.
Dammit. First she kills Fitzhugh, now she’s off the grid, and to top it all off, the cops have come for Mickey.
His heart was thumping. He dialed Lexi again. This time he waited for her voice mail to pick up. As usual, the outgoing message sounded chipper, perky, and happy.
“Hi, this is Lexi. I’m making some changes in my life right now. If I don’t return your call, then you’re one of the changes. Bye.”
“Lexi, it’s me. Things are turning to shit. I’m outside Mickey’s building, and the cops showed up. I’m pretty sure they’re going to pick up Mickey. I got forty-five thousand dollars’ worth of C4 in my bag, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop them. That’s all. Oh yeah, one more thing. Where the fuck are you?” he screamed.
Ten minutes later, the cops came out. Mickey was with them. No cuffs.