They pulled up a few car lengths back. Zeb grabbed the bag, got out, and walked to meet the AtoB guy. As soon as the bag changed hands, their dark and quiet environment detonated. Lights, sirens, revving engines. A dark sedan, red light flashing on its dash, lurched out from the parked cars and barred Rosso’s way. Up ahead, a blue-and-white plunged down the up ramp and raced toward the courier truck, stopping with a little screech, bull bars touching the truck’s radiator grill, hemming it in.

Zeb knew what this was. This was a ten-to-fifteen stretch for him. He was carrying dirty money and a buddy’s unlicensed weapon, which could be linked to God only knew what, all with two months of parole still to run. But most of all, Zeb knew this was a setup. And as far as he was concerned, the guy at the wheel was responsible, because even though Zeb had just dived back in the car, Rosso was just sitting there, doing nothing—a man hired for his ass-kicking driving hots. The blue-and-white’s bullhorn echoed around the gloom, battling the sirens.

“You in the car. Switch off your engine and put your hands outta the window! Now! Do it now!”

Rosso froze, weighing the stakes, the house in Anchorville, until he felt Zeb’s gun poke him hard in the side.

“Go, Rosso! Go, you motherfucker!”

Rosso glanced in the rearview. Zeb was serious, alright. And he was right. Rosso was in enough trouble with Johnny Boy as it was. The glance in the rearview told him their back was still clear. Good old DPD with its shitty little budgets. He threw it in reverse, put his hand on the back of the passenger seat and they took off. Fast and smooth. Oh, Rosso was good. No panic in his driving, however hard his heart was beating, however much he was thinking about Zeb sticking a gun in him. They went backward up the down ramp without even skimming the curb.

Going too fast to turn and with no space to do it anyway, they raced backward along the next level up. They turned onto the up ramp so fast Zeb had to scrabble with a handful of gun against Rosso’s seat to stay upright.

Rosso had found his flow. They hit the next level. The sound of the police sirens had fallen away. One more turn, one more ramp, and then they were flying out into the blinding sunlight, wheels barely touching the ground.

Straight into the police tow truck waiting at the exit.

Rosso had seen it at the last instant but too late to do anything except brace against the wheel. But as Zeb’s head went through the side window and hit the doorsill, his gun fired, through Rosso’s seat. Blood sprayed the windshield.

Across the street a guy in a little green-and-white truck watched it all. He made a call.

7

7

Buckle Up