Knock Out Read Free

it.
    “That girl—she was vicious, whacked out. I bet I’ll be seeing more white hairs than I had five minutes before these bozos came charging into the bank.” Buzz put his hand on Savich’s arm. “You know what? When I believed in my gut I’d reached the end, I saw my grandmother, isn’t that strange? I think I was a little kid and she was yelling something at me.” He swallowed, shook his head.

    Savich said, “It was close, but only Mac got hurt, that’s what’s amazing, with all those bullets flying around.”
    “We lucked out. We surely did.” Buzz grinned over at Sherlock, who was speaking to the assistant manager. “Your wife, right? Mac told me about her, said she was a pistol, said he was looking forward to seeing her at the gym.”
    AFTER THREE HOURS OF exhaustive debriefing at the Hoover Building, Savich took a call from Jumbo Hardy of The Washington Post. Jumbo said only one word, “Why?”
    “One of the robbers had a gun in the security guard’s ear. He was going to kill him for the sport of it.”
    Jumbo was silent for a moment. “That’s Buzz Riley, right? Retired cop?”
    “Yes.”
    A pause, then, “I spoke to him. He told me that girl was going to kill you too. Jeez, Savich, that was a hell of a risk you took.”
    It beat lying there watching Buzz get his brains blown out, Savich thought, and knew his own brains had been on the line too. He said what he’d said a dozen times already, the last time to Director Mueller himself: “I had no choice and no time. I had to act.” Savich could hear Hardy typing on his laptop.
    “Oh, yeah, I checked the hospital. The girl you kicked in the gut— of all things, you injured her duodenum, and maybe her pancreas, something the doctors only see in auto accidents. My friends at the hospital tell me she’s in surgery. She’ll probably make it, but she’s not going to be a happy camper for a while. You know her name?”
    Of course they knew all the robbers’ names now.
    “Good try, Jumbo. You know I can’t give that out yet.”
    “I hear the FBI agents who’d just pulled up outside the bank brought down the fourth bank robber as he was fleeing. That right?”
    It was, but Savich said, “We’re still sorting everything out. I’m sure you can get all the details from Mr. Maitland.”
    More typing on the laptop, then, “Hey, Savich, I wouldn’t be surprised if a bank customer sues you for endangering his life.”
    He wouldn’t be surprised either, Savich thought as he punched off his cell, given the deadening fear and the human need to blame someone when bad things happen. And the robbers were all dead except for the teenage girl. As he pulled on his jacket, he remembered the hundred-dollar bills scattered over the bank floor, some of them float-Ing on the rivulets of blood from Jennifer Smiley’s neck. He closed his office door, saw Sherlock, and went to her.
    “Good move with your cell,” she said, and hugged him. He held her carefully, a habit now, since her surgery two months before. “I’ve told everyone else, but not you, Dillon. We were on the road in a minute, no longer. We heard everything on the speakerphone.
    Riley told me the girl was going to kill you, Dillon, she was just going to shoot you and dash out of the bank, laughing.” She hugged him tighter.
    Agent Ruth Warnecki said, “He’s alive, Sherlock, and I’d say he deserves a pizza.” She paused, turned to stare hard at Savich. “Sherlock might be used to you playing fast and loose with your hide, but I’m not. I’m asking you real nice, Dillon, don’t do that again, okay?”
    He managed a grin. “Do you know I was at the bank to check on Sean’s college fund? There was some sort of entry error that I couldn’t deal with online.” He shook his head, laughed at life’s improbabilities. He said, “You’re right, Ruth, a pizza sounds good.”
    AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK that night, Mr. Maitland called to tell him they’d found the getaway car, the image