Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) by Robert Gregory Browne Read Free Book Online Page A

punishment God intended: an eternity in hell.
     Their only hope was that her husband would soon join her.
     Unfortunately, no one expected that hope to come to fruition anytime soon. Despite the best efforts of the Chicago Police Department, the FBI, and the ATF, neither Alexander Gunderson nor his two surviving comrades could be found.
     The FBI, plagued by the more pressing concerns of Middle East terrorist cells, speculated that Gunderson and crew had fled the country, possibly to Cuba. The police commissioner, countering criticism that the CPD was asleep at the wheel, insisted they had headed for the mountains of Wyoming or Iowa, seeking refuge among the local militias.
     Neither scenario made sense to Jack Donovan. And as the publicity surrounding the Northland First & Trust robbery sank deeper and deeper into the back pages of the daily newspapers, he refused to give up. He maintained that Alexander Gunderson hadn’t left at all, but was holed up somewhere within the city limits.
     Waiting. Watching. Planning.
     Gunderson would never, Donovan insisted, leave his beloved Sara behind.
     

10
     
    W ILL YOU HURRY up, for crissakes? He’s waiting.”
     “I’m coming, I’m coming.”
     The bitch in the Chevy Suburban dabbed at her nose, snapped her compact shut, then climbed out and slammed the door. The sound reverberated through the underground parking lot like cannon fire.
     Her husband, a balding butterball in a three-piece suit, was already standing at the parking-lot elevator, watching with a scowl as she straightened her skirt and checked her reflection in the passenger-side window.
     “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “You’re not gonna screw the guy. Come on!”
     Gunderson had half a mind to cap the butterball right then and there.
     Count your blessings, asshole. At least she can walk.
     Gunderson sat behind the wheel of his Jeep Commando, which was parked across the aisle from the Suburban. He’d been watching these two pathetic retards ever since they’d pulled into the stall five minutes ago. Neither looked particularly happy, and he had no clue where they were headed, but when they returned, they’d be considerably less jovial than they were now.
     He was about to steal their wheels.
     Gunderson had spent six months of his sophomore year of high school at the Illinois Youth Center downstate. His offense had been unsophisticated and impulsive: a smash and grab of his shop teacher’s prized Datsun 240Z.
     If six months at the IYC taught him anything beyond what the juvenile-court schools called an education, it was the wonders of the slim-jim and the screwdriver. No more smashing and grabbing for Gunderson, he now had the tools he needed to forge a career, and forge it he did.
     The next few years were spent organizing and operating a car-theft ring that quickly became a top priority for the Chicago Major Crimes Division. Cars were stolen, stripped, and dismantled in less than two hours, their parts often sold for three times the value of the car itself.
     Those days were long behind him now, but Gunderson still knew how to use the tools of the trade. In fact, he’d copped this crappy old Commando with nothing but a slotted two-inch Craftsman. The Jeep had served its purpose well, but now he needed something roomier. Something that said soccer mom.  
     The Suburban was the perfect choice.
     The elevator bell rang and Mr. and Mrs. Waste-of-Space stepped inside, the Husband of the Year still complaining about how late they were as wifey-poo adjusted and readjusted her ample, if sagging, bosom.
     Gunderson waited for the doors to close, checked to make sure the aisle was clear, then swung his legs out of the Jeep and crossed to the SUV.
     Approaching the driver’s-side window, he fed the length of a slim-jim down past the rubber, gave it a little shake and a tug. The lock popped open. Once inside, he pulled a stubby screwdriver from his pocket, jammed it into the ignition,