the Second Horseman (2006) (19 page)

That prompted a deep scowl from Scanlon. And he hadn't even seen the bill from the iTunes store yet.

"How's everyone doing?" he said, watching two men dangling from either end of a single rope slung across the top of the truck. As the truck weaved, the man on one side would swing helplessly away from the trailer, while the other was slammed into it.

"Okay, I suppose. We got Catherine a private tutor from a local trucking school and she's getting straight A's so far. But I have my suspicions that she's sleeping with the instructor."

That earned him another frown.

"Anyway, at the rate she's improving, she'll be fine by the time she has to do it for real." He pointed toward one of the men hanging from the truck, struggling to hold on to something that looked like an enormous roll of wallpaper that he had partially applied to the side of the trailer.

"The real stickers are still being made, but we managed to get some blanks to practice with. Unfortunately, they weigh a lot more than we thought."

The truck swerved and the man wrapped his arms and legs around the roll as he swung out into the air. His momentum pulled off a couple of feet of sticker, but when he was inevitably slammed back into the trailer, he was able to smooth it back down and apply a few more feet before he swung away again.

"At that rate, it's going to take an hour to get that sticker all the way across the trailer," Scanlon said.

Brandon nodded. "Just holding those rolls while you're hanging is really difficult -- let alone getting them stuck on. And God himself couldn't get them straight."

"So what are you saying? That it can't be done?"

"Not by normal human beings. But as much as I hate to admit it, these guys aren't normal humans. They may be a little brain
-
dead, but if you point them in a direction, they don't let anything get in their way."

"They're not brain-dead," Scanlon said. "Not by a long shot. They just don't think in the same way you do. People like you and me spend all our time second-guessing orders. They get the job done."

"You can tell me that all day long, but I still think they're hopeless. Except Daniel. Now that's a guy you could steal some shit with."

"So what I'm hearing is that everything's under control?"

"My end is fine. You just make sure you come through with yours," Brandon said, walking over to a concrete pillar and opening a glass case containing a fire hose.

"What are you doing?" Scanlon asked.

"I'm curious about how well those things will stick if they're wet."

The force of the hose almost knocked him backward, but he managed to stabilize himself and use the stream to blast the man hanging from the side of the truck as it passed by. To his credit, he found a way to maneuver so his back took the brunt of the jet, swearing loudly enough that it was audible over the roar of the motor and the hiss of the hose. Catherine didn't even slow down. She just turned on the truck's wipers.

"Is that really necessary?" Scanlon said. His tone suggested that he already knew the answer to his question but disapproved of the pleasure Brandon was deriving from dousing his new colleagues.

"The long-term weather forecast looks good, Richard, but you can never trust a weatherman. If everything goes right, we'll be doing this on a straight, dry road. Everything never goes right, though, you know?"

Brandon pointed to a steel box with three buttons on it. "Push the blue one, would you?"

Scanlon did and they were engulfed in darkness for a few seconds before Catherine found the truck's headlights. Maybe it was just his imagination, but Brandon would have sworn that she actually sped up a bit. That was the spirit.

"How are you doing with all this?" Scanlon said as he watched the two men struggle to complete their tasks in a darker, wetter reality.

"All of what?"

"You know what I'm talking about: Being broken out of jail, being backed into a corner on this job. Being responsible for millions of lives. It's a larger arena than you're used to working in."

Brandon pulled the remaining earphone from his ear and hung it over his shoulder. "You know I just want to do my patriotic duty, boss."

Scanlon let out a quick rush of air that was impossible to read. It may have been a laugh. It may have been a death sentence.

The bottom line, Brandon knew, was that he needed to get the hell out of Dodge after this thing was over. If Scanlon was on the up-and-up, then he'd just shrug and forge
t a
bout it. If not, a head start wouldn't be a bad idea.

The exact logistics of his escape, though, were starting to look a little complicated. His old accomplices were undoubtedly being watched by Scanlon's people, and if not, certainly by the cops. He had no money of his own to speak of. No passports or IDs anywhere close. And if his face wasn't already adorning every post office in the country, it soon would be. If he was particularly lucky, he might get a spot on America's Most Wanted. A career in television. Just what he needed.

The ironic thing was that it would all be incredibly easy if he just sabotaged the heist. But how could he with this much at stake? So now he had to figure out a way to pull the damn thing off but then disappear before he became more useful as a liner for a shallow grave than a thief.

"It's turning into a disaster, Brandon."

He glanced over at Scanlon, who was no longer watching the show, but staring off into the darkness at the edge of the headlights.

"What is?"

"The world. This country. You should be pissed off about what my generation is leaving you."

"Should I? The way they tell it, everything's going great."

Scanlon's smile seemed a little sad. A little tired. "Only believe about ten percent of what the government tells you."

"What are you talking about, man? You are the government." He pointed down at Scanlon's feet. "Look at you. You're wearing wingtips, for God's sake."

The truck sped by again and Brandon opened the hose up for a few seconds, dousing the man hanging from the other side.

"I worked so hard for so many years to just try to keep things at a simmer," Scanlon said. "And now everything's exploded. The government decided to go out of its way to make the rest of the world fear and hate us and then told me to protect the American people from that world. The problem is, it's impossible."

"Is that why you quit the Bureau?"

He nodded.

"But it's gotten better since then, right? I mean, all you ever hear is how much money they're spending on homeland security."

"Just because you spend money doesn't mean you get anything for it."

Brandon shrugged. "I honestly don't think much about the government. If they ever start a draft, I'd dodge it. I don't really pa
y t
axes. And the chances of me getting shot by some security guard is a hell of a lot higher than me getting blown up by some Arab guy."

"So you'd describe your political philosophy as apathy."

"Nope. Enlightened self-interest and practical self-reliance. What am I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for the government to show up with a handout? I'd be waiting a long time."

Scanlon shook his head slowly. "It wasn't always this way. But now it seems like it gets worse every year. The government's become completely effort-based. They tell you that they're working to put ten thousand cops on the street, and when they do it, everyone cheers. But that isn't a goal. The goal is reducing crime. Funny how no one ever mentions that." He folded his arms in front of him, still staring into the darkness. "Think about it. Billions of dollars and millions of man-hours have been spent on border security since 9/11. Do you know what's been accomplished? Nothing. How do I know? Because the country is still full of illegal immigrants and cocaine. If we can't stop that, how can we stop a terrorist from strolling across our border with a nuclear weapon?"

"You know what you guys just can't seem to understand, Richard? It's all about motivation. If drug dealers get a bunch of coke over the border, they get a new Ferrari. If a Mexican gets a job in Texas, he feeds his family. If a Muslim terrorist sets off a bomb in Washington, he gets fifty virgins in the afterlife. But if some government employee catches one of those guys or doesn't catch one of those guys, he gets the same paycheck. It's a losing battle."

"People work jobs for more than just a paycheck, Brandon."

"Yeah, I know -- power and notoriety, right? Come on, Richard. How many people do you know in the government who aren't in it mostly for themselves? I mean, when a senator can't sleep, is it because he's thinking about what's best for America or about how he's gonna get reelected?"

Scanlon didn't answer, instead silently watching the truck speed back and forth through the warehouse.

"But not you," Brandon continued. "You're a true believer. Here to save the day."

Scanlon seemed unwilling to look away from the darkness. "No. I'm getting old. And I couldn't do any of this even if I was thirty again. You've returned to save the day.

It's up to you now."

The truck sped by again, but Brandon didn't turn on the hose. "Are you dancing around a point here, Richard? Because if you are, I have no idea what it is."

"I want you to be a fundamental part of this organization, Brandon. Not just a onetime contractor. We're a little off the map here, and you're used to working in that territory."

Brandon had no idea how to respond to that and didn't for a few moments. "What about my vineyard in South Africa?"

"It's there if you want it."

The truck pulled to a stop about twenty
-
five yards away, and Daniel came jogging out of the darkness toward them.

"How'd it go?" Brandon said, relieved to have an excuse to escape from his conversation with Scanlon before it got any crazier. He was starting to think the old man was losing it.

"Chuck is having some problems getting the thing on straight. He just doesn't seem to have an eye for it. You should let him do the copter and put me --"

Brandon shook his head. "You're in the copter Daniel. Buy the guy a level or something."

Catherine jumped from the cab as the two dripping men lowered themselves to the ground and began peeling the stickers from the side of the truck in preparation for round five. Or was it six?

"The stickers work fine when they're wet, but the swinging's a problem," Daniel continued. "It'd help if we could get a line under the truck to attach both guys together. That way they wouldn't come away from the trailer on corners. Hard, though. You can't just toss the rope underneath. It might get caught in the wheels, which would definitely ruin your day."

"It should be straight and dry where we're doing this, Daniel. But you never know."

"Train for the worst and hope for the best."

"I couldn't have said it better myself."

"Nice shooting," Catherine said, wringing out the sleeve of her shirt.

"You look good out there, Cath. How's it feeling?"

"No problems. I'm still getting the hang of it, but in a few days I'll be solid."

"Hey, one more thing, Brandon," Daniel said. "The wind is really catching the stickers -- and there's gonna be even more wind out there in the open desert. I've been thinking, can we get little crescents cut int
o t
hem? Like banners have? It might reduce the drag."

Brandon grinned and glanced over at Scanlon. "See? That's why I love this guy. Great idea. I'm on it. Lunch?"

Daniel looked back at his men. "I'd like to do one more run with the weaving first. Probably not a great idea to do it with them full of raw fish eggs and champagne, you know?"

"Suit yourself," Brandon said, turning the warehouse lights back on and swinging an arm around Catherine's damp shoulder. "You'll have a snack with me, though, right? You're looking a little peaked."

"Am I?"

"Wasting away to nothing."

"You always know just the right thing to say, don't you?"

It was only an old card table, but the silk tablecloth and artistically arranged dishes gave it an air of elegance. Brandon had found an ice sculptor who'd do a giant dollar sign and a missile for a reasonable price, but decided at the last moment that it might be over the top.

"You've gotta try this stuff, Richard," he said pointing to a can covered in Cyrillic writing floating in ice water. "It's beluga."

Scanlon's jaw tightened and he glared at Catherine. "Did you authorize this?"

She pretended not to hear, concentrating instead on filling a plastic plate with peeled shrimp.

"How much did it cost?"

"If you have to ask, you can't afford to eat it," Brandon said, sprinkling some chopped egg on a cracker. Scanlon stood with his feet planted for a few seconds, but then just picked up a plate.

"What's the story with those," he asked, pointing to a table stacked with plastic devices that looked like a cross between air fresheners and hot air popcorn poppers.

"Signal jammers -- work on cells and satellite transmissions. Got 'em off the Net. Wait . . ." Brandon dug around in his pocket and held out a plastic box the size of a pack of cigarettes. "I got this little portable one free with my order. If you're ever in a movie or something and someone starts talking on their cell, turn it on and they're done. Illegal, but supersatisfying."