The Yo-Yo said nothing. He flicked off the safety, searched for that look in Chris’s eyes, and, for the first time in his career, couldn’t see it. He cocked his head.

“Ah, I see you’re in new territory. Well, that makes two of us,” said Chris.

“You got somethin’ to say, say it. I might even pass it on to your deadbeat friend. Before I waste him. But I’m already runnin’ behind.”

“You don’t want to risk being late, do you?” said Chris.

The Yo-Yo raised his gun and aimed it at Chris’s forehead.

“OK, OK, let’s talk about risk-taking, Yo-Yo, and how it applies to you, right now.”

Spencer wondered what time it was. He’d taken his watch off after burning his hand. He guessed it was past eight. They were late.

Suddenly the Yo-Yo opened the passenger door and got in. He pulled a knife from his boot, reached over and cut Spencer’s cable tie. Instantly, Spencer pulled his injured hand back to his body.

The hand with the knife remained on the steering wheel. Quietly, and without looking around, the Yo-Yo said one word.

“Drive.”

43

43

Showtime

And so you touch this limit, something happens and suddenly you can go a little faster. With the power of your mind, your determination, your instinct, and the experience as well, you can fly very high.

—Ayrton Senna

Johnny Boy’s SUV was rolling into Dearborn Heights. Eddie sat beside him. The car was silent, tense, both men feeling the stakes. They pulled up close by the armored truck depot: a windowless, concrete slab–sided building with a tunnel in its center.

They didn’t have to wait long before they heard the sound of multiple diesel units echoing from the building’s passageway like bears in a cave. The barrier juddered and rose and the white, snub-nosed front of the first cash-in-transit truck emerged. It clanked to a halt at the curb. Sunlight glinted off the truck’s turquoise-blue bulletproof windshield as it pulled onto the street and headed west.

Eddie and Johnny Boy watched it go by. They looked around for Spencer. By the time the next few trucks had steamed out of the hole, they were finding it tough to keep their cool. Eddie leaned forward, elbows on knees, watching the disastrous scenario taking shape through steepled hands.

Johnny Boy found himself willing Spencer to appear, refusing to believe his judgment could fail him so badly. The next truck that jerked to a halt curbside threatened to put the mother of all wrecking balls in that conviction. The white, swept-back hair of Max Petrovsky was clearly visible in the shotgun side of the cab. The truck pulled out and turned left. Engine rumbling, it slowly picked up speed, coughing up through its gears.

“Jesus,” said Johnny Boy.

“I told you,” said Eddie. “I fucking told you we were fucking up.”