and waited. He crooned along with the song, his intentionally bad voice making the guards laugh.
“You sure ain’t got no future in music,” the driver said. “Jesus Christ, you’re terrible.” Dexter shrugged. “A man’s got to know his limitations, I guess.”
After they had driven for about three miles, they came around a bend. There was a gray Dodge Charger stalled on the shoulder of the road. A blond woman in a shearling coat and jeans was at the trunk, apparently trying to lift out a spare tire. Her long hair flowed from underneath a yellow cap, blowing like a siren’s mane in the chill wind.
“Would ya lookit that?” The passenger guard leered at the woman. “Pull over, Max. Let’s help her out.”
A green Chevy Tahoe approached from the opposite direction.
“You know we’re not supposed to stop, Cade,” Max said.
“You better not stop,” Dexter said. “You’re going to screw up my schedule.”
“Shut up,” Cade said. He turned to Max. “Look, it’ll take ten minutes. That young broad can’t change the goddamn tire by herself.”
“You just wanna get laid,” Max said.
“Hey, I’m a Good Samaritan. I gotta do my charitable deed for the day.”
“To get laid,” Max said. But he slowed the van and nosed behind the Dodge. “You got ten minutes. No word of this to anyone.”
“I’ll snitch on you,” Dexter said.
“The hell you will,” Cade said. He licked his fingers, patted down his eyebrows, and then climbed out of the van. Strutting like a rooster, he approached the blonde.
The oncoming Tahoe suddenly slashed across the road, snow spraying from the tires, and blocked off the van. Tinted windows concealed the occupants.
“Holy shit,” Max said. “What the hell’s this?”
On the shoulder of the road, the other guard noticed the Tahoe, and froze.
Dexter dug his hand in the coat’s left front pocket and clutched the grip of the loaded .38, also compliments of Steele.
A gunman wearing a ski mask and a black jacket sprang out of the Dodge’s trunk. The masked man shot Cade twice in the head with a pistol, and the guard dropped to the pavement like a discarded puppet.
Cursing, Max fumbled for his radio.
“Hey, Max,” Dexter said. “Look, buddy, no chains.”
When Max spun around, Dexter had the gun pressed to the wire mesh screen. He shot the guard at the base of the throat, just below the collar.
The guard’s eyes widened with surprise, and he slid against the seat, a bloody hole unfurling like a blooming flower in his windpipe.
The passenger side door of the Tahoe swung open. A refrigerator-wide black man attired like a correctional officer scrambled out and ran to the driver’s side of the van.
The ski-masked shooter bounded out of the trunk. The blonde took the ring of keys from Cade’s belt, and unlocked the van’s side door.
“Morning, Dex.” She smiled brightly.
“Hey, Christy.”
Moving fast, Dexter and the ski-masked man lifted the guard’s corpse off the ground and laid it across the floor of the van. In front, the guy dressed like a guard had gotten behind the wheel and was propping up the wounded guard in the seat to look like a passenger if one gave him a casual glance.
The dying guard was moaning entreaties to God in a blood-choked gurgle.
“Someone shut him up.” Dexter slammed the side panel door. “Fuck it, I’ll do it myself.”
Opening the passenger door, Dexter shot the guard twice in the chest, permanently dousing the struggling light in the man’s eyes. Except for the splash of blood on his coat, he appeared to be sleeping off a hangover.
“Good to see you, man,” the new driver said.
“Same here.” Dexter nodded, closed the door. “Let’s roll out.”
The ski-masked gunner scrambled behind the wheel of the Dodge, the blonde got in on the passenger side, and Dexter hustled in the back.
Beside them, the Tahoe backed up and executed a swift U-turn, maneuvering behind the prison van, which had begun to rumble forward.
Both the SUV and the van were driven by longtime colleagues, upstanding members of the Windy City’s finest.
“How long?” Dexter asked.
“Two minutes and fourteen seconds,” Javier, his former partner said. He had peeled away his ski mask. A native of the Dominican Republic who had moved to the States when he was five, Javier was a lean, bronze-skinned man with dark, wavy hair and a pencil-thin mustache.
Javier flashed a lopsided grin that reminded Dexter of their wild days working together.
“We kicked ass, Dex.”
“Like old times,” Dexter said.
“How’s it feel to be out?” Christy asked. Unlike every other member of the operation, she wasn’t a cop—she was Javier’s wife, and as trustworthy as any brother of the badge.
“Like being born again,” Dexter said. “Hallelujah.”
Christy passed him a brown paper bag that contained a bottle of iced tea and two roast beef-and-cheddar sandwiches wrapped in plastic. Dexter ate greedily. After four years of bland prison food, the simple meal was like a spread at a four-star restaurant.
A bag from Target lay on the seat beside him. He opened it, found a pair of overalls and a plaid shirt.
“The rest of the stuff?” Dexter asked.
“The duffel with all your things is in the trunk,” Javier said. “But you need to get out of that ape suit pronto, man. Who would I look like giving a prisoner a taxi ride?”
Dexter peeled out of the prison jumpsuit and dressed in the civilian clothes.
When they reached the main artery that ran through town, Javier made a turn that would take them to the highway. The prison van, followed by the Tahoe, went in the opposite direction.
They would drive the van over a hundred miles away and abandon it, and its cargo of dead guards, in a pond. With luck, it would be at least several days before the cops would discover it.
Dexter settled back in the seat and dozed. He dreamed, as usual, of her. She was weeping, screaming, and pleading for her life.
It was a good dream.
When he awoke over two hours later, they were bumping across a long, narrow lane, freshly plowed of snow. Tall pines and oaks lined the road, ice clinging to their boughs.
Javier
