People scrambled, dropped, covered their faces. Briefcases, phones, and umbrellas clattered to the floor and echoed in the new silence.
It was as if time had frozen, and Mackie used that solid moment to take stock.
She saw everything in sharp detail: the paralyzed faces of customers and bankers, the fat girl with the purple bangs, an office girl with big black glasses, a white-haired man with a red face that was turning blue.
She noted the clock on the south wall reading 2:03, the vid-cams on the pillars, the shock on the guard’s young face.
She could make it. She would.
She had the money, a loaded gun, and a clear path to the front doors thirty yards away.
Time resumed. The guard came to life and took a stance in front of Mackie, holding his gun with both hands. He looked young. Green. Terrified.
The guard shouted, “Drop it, miss. Cops are coming. You can’t get away, miss. Now, lower your gun. Slowly.”
Randy was speaking: Go ahead, Mackie. Make my day.
Mackie wanted to laugh. Firing her gun, she landed three shots in a tight pattern around the guard’s neck and chest. He grabbed his throat and, looking stupefied, collapsed to the floor. Blood spilled. He wheezed and exhaled his last breath.
Mackie scampered toward the guard’s body and scooped up his gun, and when she turned back to face the crowd, she was holding a gun in each hand.
That should give any heroes pause before rushing me.
She was on camera. She knew that. Cops were coming. But not very fast.
She backed toward the doors and pushed one open with her shoulder. She shouted into the bank, saying, “First person out the door after me gets a shot to the head. Have a nice day.”
And she was back outside in the gray morning.
Mackie drafted along behind a group of three white-collar tools on North Dearborn, unbuttoning her coat as she walked. Ten yards ahead was a trash can next to the bus stop. Mackie blended with the passengers getting off the bus. She emptied the pockets of her gray hooded raincoat and transferred the cash and her Ruger to the navy-blue coat she wore underneath the gray one.
She dropped her gray coat into the trash and kept moving, plumbing her pockets as she walked, smoothly putting on sunglasses and slicking on bright lipstick. She fluffed her hair. She had changed her appearance in maybe thirty seconds.
Mackie felt exhilarated as she continued on, walking north at a moderate pace, crossing West Randolph against the light.
She guessed she had about a couple thousand dollars, which would be enough to get the hell out of Chicago.
But the real plan, the one that included making an actual home for Randy and Ben in a new place, with new names—that plan had been destroyed when Randy died.
She had Sergeant Lindsay Boxer to thank for that.
She would thank her in person, though.
She could hardly wait.
CHAPTER 22
AT THREE IN the afternoon, the bustling Seattle waterfront was swarming with passenger arrivals, food and luggage transport, and other commercial vehicles bringing fuel and cargo into the Port of Seattle. A cruise ship was moored along the waterfront at Pier 66.
Yuki and Brady were in the backseat of their hired car, holding hands as the car nosed through traffic into a sliver of a parking spot outside the pier. The driver got out and opened the car door for Yuki. Brady exited on the other side and signed for the ride.
Their luggage had been sent on ahead, and Yuki took in the salty marine air and thought about the future. She was married! She was Jackson Brady’s wife. She loved her husband, loved him so much. And there was no other way to say it: her job wasn’t the center of her life anymore.
“There she is,” Brady called to her.
“She” was the FinStar, the flagship of the Finlandia Line, dead ahead, moored on the far side of the terminal. This grand ship would be taking her and Brady and about six hundred other people on a ten-day luxury tour of Alaska.
Even from here, the FinStar looked entirely awesome.
The car pulled away, and Yuki’s husband called out, “You okay?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his face full of concern.
“I’m not okay. I passed ‘okay’ about six months ago. I’m over the moon, Brady. I’m over Pluto.”
He grinned at her, put his arm around her waist, and walked her toward the terminal doors.
“I hope we can handle this, sweetie. Ten days with nothing to do but enjoy ourselves. It’s been about twenty years since I had ten days off.”
“I plan to spend a lot of time in bed,” Yuki said.
“Oh, no, not that,” he said.
They grinned at each other and kissed. And then, over the next two hours, they checked into their awesome, shipshape honeymoon hotel. They visited their cabin, bounced and wrestled on the bed, and at 5:00 p.m. they were on deck.