The Devil’s Share (21 page)

“Thanks,” she said. She reseated the magazine, put the gun on the nightstand.

“You're burnt,” he said.

She touched the left side of her face, where the hair had been singed. The skin there still stung. “It's nothing.”

“Maybe you should sit down.”

She sat on the bed. He pulled the room's single chair over. “It hurt?”

“Not too much anymore.”

“Maybe you need to see a doctor.”

She shook her head. “You talk to Sladden?”

“Talked to the woman who runs interference for him. Asked him to call me. He hasn't yet.”

“He needs to know what happened.”

“If he doesn't already. For all I know, he took off when he heard about that business in Nevada. He's smart. He knows when to pull his head back into the shell.”

“Let's hope.”

“Fill in the details. How did it play out?”

“C-4, I'd guess. Rigged to the trunk somehow.”

“Hicks,” he said. “That's his style. Question is, do they know you're alive.”

“If they don't, they will soon. It'll buy me a little time, but not much.”

“Time for what?”

“To figure out what I'm going to do next.”

“What's there to do?” he said. “Christ, you were lucky to walk away as it is. It's done.”

“They owe me money. You, too.”

“I'll take the loss. Way things went, I want to stay as far away from the fallout as possible. You should, too.”

“They might not let us.”

“What's that mean?”

“That old man is trying to cover his tracks. Maybe he's panicking, trying to hedge his bets. Get rid of anyone might be a problem.”

“You think they planned it that way? What happened in the desert? Killing those men?”

“I don't think so. But I don't know for sure.”

“They might come looking for us, finish it up, is that what you're saying?”

“Maybe. I'm sorry for bringing you into all this.”

“No way you could have known.”

“Not good enough. Five people died out there. That shouldn't have happened. I let it get away from me. I fucked up.”

“You didn't pull the trigger.”

“Might as well have. It was my responsibility. I put it together.”

“Nothing you can do about it now.”

She got up, went to the window, pushed the curtain aside and looked out. The floodlit motel lot, then the interstate going past, nothing but fields on the other side. Knowing he was right. And knowing it didn't matter.

“You need to take some time,” he said. “Think about this. You make a move, do it for the right reasons. I'll back you, whatever happens. You know that. But think it through first.”

“Sladden was the only one knew all of us,” she said. “And now you say he might be in the wind. Would he sell us out, if there was enough money involved?”

“Unlikely. He knows if he did, he'd never get the chance to spend it.”

“Maybe I should make a trip to Kansas City. See what's what.”

“And why would you do that?”

“If he's there, maybe I can straighten things out with him. Try to repair some of the damage I caused.”

“I don't think he'd like that. Not with all this heat.”

“I owe him some money, too. That he'll like. But mostly, I need to know where he stands. If Hicks or Cota contacts him again, I want to know about it.”

He shook his head slowly. “It went bad. Nature of the beast. We all knew the risks. Keegan and McBride, too. Lay low for a while. I'll reach out to Sladden again when he surfaces, see what he has to say.”

“If you can find him. How long a drive to Kansas City from here?”

“Eight, nine hours, maybe. But if you're going, I should go with you.”

“No,” she said. “This is on me. Go home to Lynette. I'll call you, let you know what I find out, how it went.”

“You shouldn't go at all.”

“I screwed up some things,” she said. “I need to fix them.”

*   *   *

Sandoval said, “Come on in,
jefe.
Grab yourself a beer. Everybody's here.”

The hotel was in Chicago. When Hicks walked into the suite, there were three men sitting around a table, drinking beer. He'd never seen them before, but knew their kind. Close-cropped hair, tight black T-shirts, tattoos. One had a long pink scar on the side of his neck.

Hicks nodded at them. He was tired from the flight, hadn't been able to sleep on the plane. Sandoval went into the kitchenette, came out with an open bottle of Dos Equis, handed it to him.

“Let me do the introductions,” Sandoval said. He nodded at the man with the scar. “This is Banks. We used to call him Cicatriz back in 'Dad. For obvious reasons.”

Banks nodded at him.

“And this ugly motherfucker's Finley.” He was the youngest, dark hair, good-looking, wore a silver cross outside his T-shirt.

“And Schumann here, he's my partner. My
life
partner.”

“You wish,
maric
ó
n,
” Schumann said. He was blond, arms thick with muscle. His upper left arm was circled by a tattoo of a bandolier of .50-cal ammunition.

“Have a seat, man,” Sandoval said. Hicks took the fourth chair. Sandoval sat on the arm of a couch. “You got some news for us?”

“I do,” Hicks said, the three men watching him. “Deposits went into all your accounts today. Twenty K each. Another twenty when we're done.”

“Sandy didn't tell us much,” Schumann said. “Might help if we know some more. Like what exactly it is you're expecting from us.”

“The mission's simple,” Hicks said. “But there's two parts to it, maybe three, in different locations. I'll be along for most of it.”

“Heavy work?” Finley said.

“Nothing you haven't done before.”

“Speaking for myself,” Schumann said. “That could mean a lot of fucking things.”

“You've done more for less, I guarantee you,” Sandoval said. “Everybody's gettin' paid. That's the important part.”

“What about gear?” Finley said.

“I'll have everything you need,” Hicks said. “Transport, too. You don't need to worry about any of that. I'll have you covered.”

“Forty K's a lot of money,” Banks said. “I figure we're going to have to earn it.”

“You will,” Hicks said.

Sandoval leaned forward between them, raised his bottle. They all did the same, clinked bottlenecks. Hicks touched his to the others' last.

“Vive la mort,”
Sandoval said,
“vive la guerre…”

“Fuck that
mort
bullshit,” Schumann said. “We all work, and we all go home.”

“That's right,” Hicks said.

 

TWENTY-TWO

Sladden's limousine company was on Interstate 64 just outside the city. She didn't know his home address. They'd met only once, a year earlier, when she'd delivered his finder's fee for the work she'd done in Detroit. In his sixties now, he'd been a pro himself, back in the day, but his last prison bid ten years ago had broken him. Now he stayed on the sidelines, helping put together crews, acting as a go-between, taking his cut. It was safer, more lucrative.

She slowed as she drove by. The office was a small house with a parking lot in front instead of a lawn. Three Town Cars were parked on an adjoining lot, gleaming under lights. The office windows were dark.

She'd called the office an hour ago, but no one had answered, and no voice mail had picked up. Gone to ground, she thought, when he'd heard about Nevada.

She made a U-turn, headed back, then pulled into the lot of a darkened ice cream shop across from the office, killed the lights and engine.

Her watch said nine
P.M.
She took out the burner she'd bought that afternoon, tried Sladden's number again. It buzzed a dozen times. She hit
END
, called Chance.

“I'm here,” she said. “Just drove by the office. Might be someone in there, I don't know. Tried his number again. No answer.”

“Something spooked him.”

On one side of the house, a driveway led around to a rear yard bordered by trees. From this angle, she could see a dark Lincoln parked there. It hadn't been visible from the highway.

“There's a car,” she said. “But I don't see anyone moving around inside the house. And all the lights are off, far as I can tell.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Not sure. Go take a look, I think. Maybe something in there tells me where he's gone. Might find a home address, too, be my next stop.”

“Drive away.”

“I can't. I need to know what the situation is. I don't want to be looking over my shoulder all the time, wondering if he turned, what he's thinking.”

“He'd never rat. Never has, and he's had plenty of opportunities. And anyway, suppose he did already. How do you know there aren't half a dozen federal agents inside there with vests and shotguns, waiting for you to come through that door?”

“I don't.”

“My point.”

A car passed, its headlights briefly illuminating the front of the office, the parked limos.

“I should have come with you,” he said.

“No reason to. I just need to talk to him if he's around here, see where he stands. And if he's in the wind, I need to know that, too, plan accordingly.”

“Wait for me. I can be there by morning.”

“No. Sit tight. I'll call you when I know something.”

She shut off the phone, pulled on a pair of leather gloves. Still no sign of movement across the street. She got out, closed the door just short of latching, went around and opened the trunk. The Glock was in a paper bag under the spare tire in the wheel well. She eased the slide back to check the chambered round, then wedged the gun into her belt in the small of her back.

She zipped up her windbreaker, closed the trunk, waited. Two cars passed. When the highway was clear, she crossed quickly. The limo area would likely have video cameras, so she kept clear of it, went up the driveway. The Lincoln was parked by a side door, nose first against the house. She laid a gloved hand on the hood. It was cold.

A security light went on above the door, lit up the car. She stepped back out of its glare.

There were blue and yellow recycling buckets against the house. She took the blue one, upturned it, and slid it toward the side door, then backed into the shadows again, waited. After a few minutes, the security light clicked off again.

She could hear her own breathing, feel the beat of her heart. Five minutes by her watch, the night still, and then she took the Glock from her belt, moved up to the side door. The light went on again, and she stepped up onto the bucket, shattered the bulb with the gun butt. The yard fell dark again.

She got down, put the bucket back, then stood against the wall in the new darkness, waiting to see if the noise would draw anyone.

Another five minutes. She took out her penlight, switched it on, played the beam across the side door. Saw for the first time the black gap along the jamb. The door was closed but hadn't latched. She switched off the light.

She could walk away now, as Chance had said. Get back in the car, head home. But then she'd never know what she'd left behind here, or who might be coming after her.

The Glock at her side, she went up the three steps to the door, pushed it open with gloved fingers. Darkness inside, an acrid smell. She listened, heard nothing, then went in, switched on the penlight again.

Ahead of her, a dark empty kitchen. To the left, a narrow corridor with cheap paneling. Two doors opened off the hallway. She moved toward the first one, shone the light inside. A small bathroom, just toilet and sink. The second door was closed.

The hallway ended in a carpeted office. Two desks on opposite sides of the room, filing cabinets against the wall. The smell stronger here, bitter, scorched. Faint light came through the front windows.

Above one of the desks was an open metal cabinet, car keys hanging inside. Across the room, a small red glow. She raised the penlight, saw a credenza along the wall, a coffeemaker atop it, the red light at its base. That was where the smell was coming from. No coffee left in the beaker, just a burned crust along the bottom. A thin crack ran down the glass. She touched the switch, shut it off.

A car went by on the highway, its headlights coming through the drawn shades, moving across the room. She waited until it passed.

Another smell in here, one she couldn't identify. She shone the penlight around. Next to the coffeemaker, a fax machine, color brochures lined up neatly on a table beside it. A copy machine in one corner. Beside it, a silver Mesa safe, the door open. There were papers strewn on the carpet around it, ledger books. She edged around the desk, bent to pick up one of the ledgers, and saw the body there.

It was a woman in her sixties, splayed out on the floor beside an overturned swivel chair. She wore a dress, had one nyloned leg tucked beneath her. Her eyes were open. There was a thick pool of blood under her head, dark spatter on the paneling behind.

All the desk drawers had been pulled out and emptied onto the floor—papers, brochures, office supplies. She imagined the way it must have happened. They'd come in the side door, moving fast. The woman at the desk here, standing when she saw them, then taking a round to the forehead. The blood on the floor was dark but still shone. She hadn't been dead long.

She played the light across the desks. Printers, but no computers, just cables leading nowhere. That meant they'd likely had laptops, and whoever had done this had taken them.

She went back down the hallway to the closed door. It was unlocked. She opened it, shone the penlight down wooden steps to a carpeted floor. She listened for a moment, then touched the wall switch inside the door. Fluorescent ceiling lights blinked on downstairs.