A police officer stood at the edge of mayhem, a tight grimace on his face, waving the Lincoln past the accident scene. Karas slowed at the sight of flashing lights, smoke, and EMT personnel surrounding the burning wreckage and Damon's mangled pickup. Pieces of autoplastic and glass pellets littered the wet pavement.

"Looks like a bad one," said Pat. "One minute, a guy's on his way home with a pizza and a six-pack, next minute the poor bastard's lying under a sheet in the middle of the road."

Karas lowered the window and craned his neck, trying to see around the back end of a slow-moving SUV. He glanced toward the accident scene, watching two figures in helmets and face shields, dousing the flames with suppressant foam. "Timing." He shook his head. "I don't know why I always think about that."

"Huh?"

"Fifteen seconds earlier or later, at least one of them goes to bed tonight never knowing how lucky they are."

########

McQuaid jogged down the driveway, his takeout bag swinging. By his calculations, he had fifteen minutes to wolf down his meatloaf and mashed potatoes before the pickup crew arrived. He entered the security code, then unlocked the heavy door, grunting as he pulled it open. When he stepped into the garage, he spotted the raised bay door and the Honda idling outside. His brain temporarily short-circuited before sending his hand to the light switch.

Horrified when fluorescent light filled the hallway, Blake froze, gym bag in hand.

McQuaid called out, "Who's there?"

Blake retreated, crunching slivers of broken glass.

McQuaid drew a gun, wielding it like it was the first time he'd ever held a firearm with the intention of using it. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed. No signal. He cursed, treading carefully toward the hallway, waving his gun indiscriminately. Discovering the shattered frosted glass, he shouted, "Come on outta there! Come on! Cops are on their way."

In the pitch-dark office, Blake flattened himself against the wall flanking the door, his chest heaving, the hammer gripped in his hand.

########

Behind the bar, Rachel obsessively checked her phone. No missed calls or texts. She dialed Damon. The phone rang then rolled to voicemail. She jumped when Lou snapped her butt with a bar towel.

"Move that sweet ass of yours," he said loudly. "Customers are thirsty."

"You trying to make me stab you?" she growled.

Patrons at the bar cracked up.

"Put down the damn phone and get back to work."

########

In a blind panic, Blake broke from the garage. The heavy bag he dragged upset his balance, the floor suddenly going crooked. His bulging eyes, desperate for orientation, swung upward to where the sky should be. Landing awkwardly on his hip, hysterical, he lunged for the Honda's door, his trembling hand flailing for the door handle. Up onto one knee, he found it on the second attempt and pulled. He tasted his scalding breath as he muscled the bag into the car, snot running from his nose.

BANG! A gunshot rang out from inside the garage.

He clenched his eyes when he felt the bullet whiz past his neck. He dove behind the wheel, yanked the door shut, then caught a glimpse of McQuaid staggering out of the garage, his pistol raised.

Blake ducked, piloted the car around the side of the building past McQuaid's parked car, and up the gravel driveway toward the used car lot. He ripped off the ski mask, tossed it onto the seat, then wiped the sticky residue from his face. As his car sped to the crest of the driveway, he was blinded by headlight beams.

The Honda narrowly missed colliding head-on with Karas' Lincoln. A cascade of stress hormones sharpened Blake's focus, his pulse pounded like a runaway horse.

"Jesus Christ!" Karas shouted, whipping the wheel. He squinted over his broad shoulder watching the Honda skidding dangerously close to a car on its way through the lot. It spun out of the driveway, onto the road. The Lincoln jerked to a stop, the Booty's takeout bag lurched from Pat's lap. He jumped out, gun in hand, shouting, "Get after him! Go! Go!"

Karas threw the car into reverse and mashed the accelerator.

Pat started down the driveway on foot, prepared for an encounter.

########

As the Honda raced down the four-lane, Blake checked the rearview mirror. So far, no signs of Karas' Lincoln following him. A startling series of tones from his cell phone jolted him. Seeing a list of missed calls and messages from Rachel, he called.

"Babe? Blake?" she said.

"Yeah." he couldn't wet his lips. "It's done." He barely recognized the sound of his own voice.

"I tried to call. Are you all right? Babe?"

"Uh-huh. Yeah. Went good. Good."

"So were you--"

"I'll see you after work." He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat beside his laptop and continued driving, diverting onto side roads in case he was being followed.

As he crossed the West End Bridge, he looked toward Point State Park, where the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers converged to become the Ohio. Just beyond the park, downtown Pittsburgh was illuminated and gleaming with holiday decorations and he wished that he was one of those people down there, with their minds on nothing but getting ready for Christmas. Winter was coming late this year and Thanksgiving was two weeks away, but snow or no snow, there was no stopping Christmas.

Fifteen minutes later, he parked at the curb in front of the old, brick home, scoping the quiet neighborhood street. He snagged the canvas bag from the back seat, stumbled out of the car, then crept toward the house on rubbery legs, the bag yanking on his shoulder like it was full of car batteries.

########

When Pat barged into the garage, he discovered McQuaid holding a towel to his head. "They got the money?" he asked.

McQuaid nodded sheepishly.

Pat dialed his cell phone. No service. "Fuck! Where's your phone?"

McQuaid gestured toward the landline.

Pat dialed Karas. "Hey. You see him?"

"Negative."

"Get the old man down here."

McQuaid lowered the towel to reveal a weeping wound.

Pat paced angrily. "You didn't hear that garage door open, McQuaid?"

"I was watchin' TV," he said, fear swimming in his eyes.

"Musta had it on pretty fuckin' loud."

########

Rachel trotted toward her Honda idling in Booty's parking lot. When she slid into the passenger seat she almost didn't recognize Blake. He looked like a stranger. "What happened?"

"It's all good." He handed her his laptop, his face gray as pavement.

"Did you hear anything from Damon?"

"Damon?"

"Yeah. When I couldn't get you I called him. He said he was going to warn you."

Blake shook his head, his face droopy like he was crawling his way out of anesthesia.

"But you got the money."

"Uh-huh."

She didn't have the information required to fully assess the situation but she sensed trouble. The only words of comfort he offered were that he had the money. Bad news was coming, she could feel it.

"You sure you're alright?" she asked.

He answered with an unconvincing nod, then put the car in gear.

########

In the garage, a sharp rapping on the metal door startled McQuaid. Pat pushed the door open. A gangly elderly man with broad shoulders and thin lips charged in with Karas trailing.

"Uncle Geo!" McQuaid gasped.

Geo's wispy white hair crowned his red face. There was nothing frail about this seventy-year-old man. He was like a grenade with the pin pulled. He shot a steely glare at McQuaid. "How does a thing like this happen?"

Pat asked, "You want me to call Nico up in Erie? Tell 'em we ran into--"

"I'll make that call," Geo said. His nose took him to the bagged take-out containers. He flipped open the lid for confirmation. "You walk across the street to that diner and leave my money in this building unattended?"

"It's takeout." McQuaid's voice quavered. "I was gone for a couple minutes. Ten minutes tops."

"Someone's been watching you. Planning this." He crossed his long arms over his chest and set his scuffed shoes a shoulder-width apart.

McQuaid grimaced, pressing the towel to his head.

"Two men?" 

"One broke into the office," McQuaid replied. "The other one was out there in the car."

"What kind of car? Big car? Jap car?"

"Couldn't see too good. I fired. Don't know if I hit anything."

"It was a foreign sedan," said Pat. "Small. Dark color."

"How many people have this garage door opener?"

"Just the Shop Super, I think," McQuaid replied. "I'm really hurtin'. I need a doctor."

"The boys'll take you," the old man said. "On your feet."

McQuaid went pale at the realization. "I'll make it good. Every penny."

Uncle Geo scowled.

Karas gripped McQuaid's arm. "Come on, guys," McQuaid pleaded to no avail as they escorted him out.