Blackjack (34 page)

IN THE
basement of Red 71, Cross was using a laser pointer to illuminate various parts of a crudely drawn street map he had taped to the back wall.

“He’s somewhere in here,” Cross said, the thin red line of the laser pointer aimed at a cross section of a tall building standing next to three others exactly similar. “We don’t know what apartment. We don’t even know what floor. Humberto controls the buildings, so he may even switch from time to time.”

“This Humberto, he never goes out?” Rhino asked.

“Once a week. To the airport. He meets an international flight on the south concourse. A different guy comes each time. Humberto meets this guy, talks to him for an hour or so; then the guy just turns around and gets back on another plane.”

“The courier still has to clear customs,” Buddha said. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“Sure. It’s a sterile corridor up to that point. No way to get in or out without the machines looking you over. But whoever comes in, he’s not bringing product, he’s bringing in a chip that’s smaller than a wristwatch battery. Nobody would give it a second look. And even if they did, so what? It’s a piece of plastic, not contraband. The courier clears customs, has a conversation with Humberto, and goes back home. That’s all there is to it.”

“Don’t make sense,” Buddha said. “That’s a lot of gelt just to get around a wiretap.”

“I don’t think that’s what it is,” Cross said. “Like I said, I think the courier’s bringing half of a puzzle. Like this one—” holding up the chip he got from Muñoz. “But the only way to see if it works is to try it: they all look alike. The way I got it figured, Herrera was playing both sides. Trying to get Humberto and Esteban to waste each other, each of them thinking they were partners with him, see?”

“So?” Buddha put in impatiently.

“So Herrera’s not around anymore. But he probably had chips stashed all over the damn place. Maybe Humberto thinks Muñoz hasn’t got the
only
one. Or maybe not even the right one. But it’s still his best chance. They go through this negotiation dance, but it’s really a stall for time.”

“This Humberto, he cuts the chip out of his own arm every week?” Buddha said, skepticism heavy in his voice.

“Maybe not. Maybe he’s got a dupe. I don’t know. But this much isn’t open for discussion: we’ve got to take Humberto at the airport. That job pays half a mil—that’s a buck and a quarter apiece.”

“You want to dust him at the airport, then chop off his arm right there? And—what?—throw it in an ice chest?” Ace asked caustically.

“No. We’ve got to bring him out of there, alive and in one piece. I think I know how to do it. Something I’ve been working on for a while.

“But Humberto won’t come alone. So I figure we take him when he comes back out of the terminal. Just before he gets into his car. Buddha can get an ambulance real close. What we need is a hideout. Someplace close to the airport. Quiet enough for us to do the rest of the job.”

“How you figure a hundred and a quarter apiece?” Rhino asked, leaning forward, his bulk imposing itself on the room.

“Me, you, Ace, and Buddha,” Cross replied, puzzled. “Tracker won’t take a dime, says he wants to prove in, first.”

“Righteous,” Ace said, touching the brim of his Zorro hat in a salute to a man not present.

“The way I figure it, Princess is in for a share, too,” Rhino squeaked.

“Princess?! He’s the genius who got us into this mess,” Buddha spit out.

“Then he’s the one who
brought
us the job,” Rhino snapped back.

“So give him half
your
share,” Buddha suggested.

Rhino slowly turned, focusing his small eyes on the short, pudgy man, not saying a word. Buddha gazed back, unfazed.

“Half a mil splits five ways real easy,” Ace said.

Cross nodded.

Buddha waited for a slow count of ten, during which Rhino never blinked. “Yeah, fine. But if one of you ever mentions this to my wife—”

CROSS PLUCKED
the cell phone from his jacket pocket in response to a soft, insistent purr.

“Go!”

“He’s in. On schedule,” Buddha’s voice was that of a man accustomed to speaking from cover, quiet but clear.

“You have his ride?”

“Black Mercedes. Four-door S-Class. Bodyguard left on foot so he could meet up when the target walks out. Driver’s already out of the picture—replacement set.”

“Roger that. So it’s down to two … unless you scoped any backups?”

“Negative. Came in with driver and bodyguard, front seat; just him in the back.”

“Then get rolling,” Cross said, breaking the connection. He turned to Rhino. “They’ll probably page the driver as
they get close to the back exit. That way, he can pull out of the parking area, swing around, and be waiting when they step off the curb.

“He’ll have another bodyguard hanging around, somewhere else. You take him. I’ll get Humberto. Ace’ll already be behind the wheel of their Mercedes, but they’ll never get close enough to see that. You and me, we ride crash-car on the getaway; we all meet back at the spot if we get separated.”

Rhino nodded. “You really think that contraption’s gonna work?” he asked, pointing his index finger—the one with the missing tip—at what looked like a particularly awkward pistol: instead of a butt, the pistol’s handle was a long, narrow canister.

“It’s gas-propelled,” Cross explained. “Same stuff they use in air conditioners. We should get around eleven hundred feet per second. And it won’t make a sound.”

“It only works for one shot?”

“One’s all we get.”

“Why don’t we just finish this guy? What do we need him alive for?”

“Muñoz wants him dead,” Cross said. “But he’s only paying us for an arm, not a body.”

THE PHONE
purred again. Cross snapped it to his ear. “What?”

“Moving.” Buddha’s voice. “Me, too. You got two minutes, tops.”

“Moving,” Cross echoed, pointing a finger at the windshield. Rhino keyed the motor of the Shark Car, threw it into gear. Cross was punching a number into his phone.

Twenty seconds later, he said “Go!” and closed his phone.

HUMBERTO WAS
standing on the wide curb, a broad-chested man at his side, obviously that on-scene bodyguard Cross had been expecting. The bodyguard spotted the Mercedes rolling toward them and stepped forward, reaching for the handle to the back door.

Cross moved out of the shadows cast by a thick concrete pillar, the gas gun up and aimed. Humberto grabbed at his neck as he fell. His bodyguard whirled just in time to meet a .22 hollow-point with his left eye.

Rhino pocketed his silenced pistol and charged forward, carrying Humberto’s body in one hand as another might a suitcase.

The Mercedes pulled off.

An ambulance rolled in, its rear doors popping open. Rhino tossed Humberto inside. The ambulance doors closed as it took off for the exit, lights flashing. Rhino ran to the Shark Car and jumped into the open back door, his movements acrobatic despite his bulk. Cross, now behind the wheel, mashed the pedal. The Shark Car chased the ambulance, easily passing it within a half-mile.

When the Airport Police arrived, they found one dead man, devoid of identification. And no shortage of highly contradictory accounts from spectators.

THE AMBULANCE
pulled to a stop in the shadows of a bridge abutment, just a few yards off the freeway. The Shark Car was already waiting—Cross had placed the anonymous vehicle so that it would be parallel to the ambulance.

He stood watch as Rhino threw Humberto’s limp body over his shoulder and transferred it to the Shark Car’s trunk.

Buddha took the wheel of the Shark Car; Cross moved to the shotgun seat. Ace and Rhino took the back, weapons out, each man covering a different rear window.

As the Shark Car pulled away, Buddha said: “I spraydusted as good as I could, boss. But you never know what they’re gonna find when they vacuum that bus.”

Cross pulled a small radio transmitter from his jacket, checked the blinking red LED, and tripped a toggle switch. A heavy, thumping
whoosh!
followed. The sky behind them became a red-and-yellow fireball.

“What they’re gonna find is some dead meat,” Cross told Buddha. “Well done.”

AS THE
Shark Car entered a quiet community of tract houses, the phone in Cross’s jacket sounded. He opened it up, but didn’t speak.

“Clear at six.” Tracker’s voice.

Cross broke the connection and gave the thumbs-up signal to the men in the back seat.