the Second Horseman (2006) (22 page)

It took a few moments for Brandon's eyes to adjust to the building's shadow and pick out the two men hidden in it.

"You two hear that?"

"Yeah. One hour. We're ready."

"Where'd you get that stuff?" he said, pointing to their clothing. They were both dressed entirely in black, with strategicall
y p
added pants and plastic body armor covering their arms, knees, and torsos.

"The motorcycle stuff you got us was sturdy as hell, but it was a little heavy," one of them responded. "Daniel found this. It's for mountain biking."

"Is it going to be enough?"

"We hope so, sir."

Brandon shrugged. "Me, too. So, one hour. And stop calling me sir."

"Are you absolutely sure I can't help you find anything?" Brandon asked.

There were a lot of drawbacks to his plan, but the inability to control stupid shit was practically a theme. And a perfect example of that theme was the jackass who was now wandering around the tiny store examining every item of snack food as though it were a precious gem. There hadn't been so much as a rabbit hopping across the highway in the last forty minutes and then this pinhead rolls up in his bright yellow Hummer.

"You should check out the Smart Food. That stuff kicks ass," Brandon said hopefully.

The man gave him a brief smirk and then went back to reading the ingredients on a box of Ho Hos.

Brandon glanced out the glass door an
d s
aw his gay couple watching. If this dumb
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ass didn't make a decision soon, his morning was going to take a significant turn for the worse.

"Cheetos?" Brandon suggested, stealing a quick glance at his watch as the man started toward the counter carrying a bag of chips. He was one of those flashy young rich guys who seemed to have no time for anyone but themselves, which was a good thing, since Brandon was completely undisguised. The bitter truth was that everyone and his brother was going to know he pulled this job. Not only were there basically flashing neon signs pointing to him at every turn, but all those bastards needed to nail you these days was a little flake of skin or a hair. A quick match with a similar cast off from his prison bunk would add yet another conviction to what was becoming an overly long list of convictions.

"Ten minutes!" Brandon shouted, stepping through the glass doors and watching the taillights of the Hummer turn onto the highway and disappear.

Catherine was already sitting in the decoy truck hidden a few hundred yards up the road, and his gay couple was still walking their now somewhat tired poodle. Brando
n w
as about to check his watch again when he caught the sound of a distant helicopter. Carl's voice crackled to life in his ear a moment later.

"I got the chopper and what looks like three sets of headlights. They're approximately five minutes from your position."

"Did everybody get that?" Brandon said, using the throat mike hidden beneath his turtleneck. "Five minutes."

They all responded and he started back to his cash register, feeling the giddy lightheadedness he always did when a job was about to go down. This time, though, there was a less familiar glimmer of dread beneath it.

They came around the corner in a perfect line, the unmarked white Peterbilt pulling a similarly unmarked white trailer, flanked by two nondescript Ford Tauruses.

They eased into the station and all three drivers got out. Brandon watched from behind a snack cake display as the guards looked around the station and, not registering a threat, went for the pumps. The truck didn't need refueling and the driver headed for the bathrooms. When he reappeared, he lit a cigarette and stood just outside the door.

The poodle began to bark right on cue, and its new owners cooed convincingly as they shepherded it toward the pumps. Still no recognition of threat from the guards. More like vague amusement.

Brandon started across the small store, opening the door, and stepping outside. At the sound of the little bell screwed to the frame, the quiet gas station erupted.

Pistols appeared from the pastel waistbands of the formerly innocuous gay couple's pants and the two body-armor-clad men hiding alongside the building burst out holding submachine guns.

"Anybody who moves is dead!" one of the men said. Brandon wasn't sure who, but the delivery was perfect. He almost threw his own hands up.

The team fanned out in a maneuver that could only be described as elegant, with one pistol-wielding and one machine-gun
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wielding man covering each guard from an angle that wouldn't allow a stray bullet to hit anything that could blow them all up. Neither of the chase-car drivers -- both formidable-looking men -- had any chance to react at all. Surprise and fear crossed their faces for a moment, replaced quickly by anger and resolve as they slowly raised their hands.

The truck driver nearly sucked in his cigarette, freezing for a good three count before turning to run and finding himself staring down the barrel of Brandon's unloaded pistol.

"Relax, man. Keep smoking," Brandon said, locking the door without taking his eyes off the driver. Based on their information, he wasn't going to present any real problems. He wasn't a former cop or anything and not even much of a tough guy as truck drivers went. Plus, he'd been married for twenty-four years and had two girls in college. That kind of a lifestyle had a way of making a man sensible.

"Are you guys fucking crazy?" someone shouted over little Pierre's barking. "Do you have any idea how much security there is on this truck? There is no way you can get away with this. But you might still be able to run . . ."

Brandon grabbed the driver by the shoulder and pushed him in the direction of his two companions, who were now lined up against the pumps.

"Gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please," Brandon said, leaving the driver under the watchful eye of one of his armored colleagues and jumping up on the hood of a Taurus. "Obviously, we want what's in this truck. Now, I understand that some of you have police backgrounds and are good at what you do, but we've spent years planning and training for this and we're professionals, too. There's no reason for anyone to get hurt. Plan A doesn't include any violence at all. But most of our backup plans end up with all of you dead. In fact, I think it's fair to say that none of the men aiming guns at you can even remember how many people they've killed in their lifetimes."

His speech was having the desired effect. He definitely had everyone's attention, and the two guards seemed to be losing whatever confidence their work history might have provided them. On the negative side, the driver looked terrified. Brandon was going more for hopelessly intimidated. Intimidated people did exactly what they were told. Terrified people did stupid, pointless stuff.

"Look," Brandon continued. "This truck is not full of medication for your mom. Or an anthrax virus terrorists could get their hands on. It's just money. And not even your money. If it disappears, the whole thing's just gonna end up as a pissing contest between the government, the casinos, and a bunch of insurance agents. Nothing worth dying for. So if we all stay cool, in twenty
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four hours you'll be sitting in a police station telling your story and we'll be sitting on some unextraditable beach sipping drinks out of coconut shells. Does everyone understand?"

They just stared.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question. Does everyone understand?"

Heads started bobbing and then a few mumbled yeses. Lucid, but not very enthusiastic. Brandon glanced at his watch. These stops were carefully monitored by the security company running this operation. They recognized that it was then the shipment was most vulnerable and timed the stops to the second.

"Okay, then. Let's saddle up."

The pumps were removed from the cars' tanks and the drivers were herded into their respective vehicles, with one swishy killer in each passenger seat. The two men in body armor climbed into the cab of the truck, dragging a black duffle behind them. The driver started to follow, but Brandon grabbed him by the back of the shirt, shaking his head and pointing to a set of headlights coming up the road.

The decoy truck, which he'd found on eBay, was an almost exact duplicate of the one containing the money: A ten-year-ol
d w
hite Peterbilt with a mattress behind the seats and an old-school bolt-on wind fairing on top.

It glided to a stop and Catherine jumped out, jogging over to him and giving the driver a quick appraisal. "Everything okay?"

"Perfect," Brandon said a bit hesitantly.

"Then why do you sound so worried?"

"Because it means all our bad luck is going to come at once."

She managed an eye roll that actually had some humor in it and then jerked forward and kissed him on the cheek. He was surprised enough to actually stumble backward.

"Good luck," she said, disappearing into the cab of the real truck and slamming the door behind her. Brandon stood there for a moment rubbing his cheek, then started pulling the driver toward the decoy.

Chapter
TWENTY-SIX

Brandon watched the truck Catherine was driving ease into the left lane and he leaned forward to see better. Instead of staring at the cash-stuffed trailer, though, he watched the dark windows, trying to get a glimpse of what was behind them.

"Did you see that kiss?"

The driver tensed, wringing a drop of sweat from his hand that slid down the steering wheel.

"My relationships with women have been screwed up my whole life, you know? Started with my mother, I think. Then I went into this kind of work and that made it even worse. I mean what kind of woman would put up with me running all over the country at a moment's notice and waiting for the cops to kick in our door? I'll tell you: Not good ones. Not ones like her . . ."

The driver's eyes were locked straight ahead and his face was frozen and pal
e e
nough to be almost corpselike. Brandon pulled the pack of cigarettes from the man's shirt, lit one, and held it out. "Seriously, man. You need to relax. Weren't you listening to what I said earlier? The only way you can get hurt is if you do it to yourself. And why would you, right?"

The man's nod had a panicked earnestness that made Brandon wonder if he was actually listening or if he was just in the mode of agreeing with everything. He accepted the cigarette, though, and it seemed to help a bit.

"Okay, Rob ... It is Rob right? Rob Taylor?"

The particular tilt of this nod suggested that he was now aware Brandon knew where his daughters went to school. Definitely not a step in the right direction.

"Okay, Rob. Here's the deal. There's been no change. You're just going to drive this truck exactly like you would the real one." He showed the man a list of code words Scanlon had provided. "You're gonna check in on nice regular intervals just like you always do. The last thing you want is to get stuck in crossfire between us and a bunch of SWAT guys, right?"

No answer.

"Right?"

"Right."

Brandon reached beneath the seat and retrieved a belt made of surplus military webbing and parts from cell phones and walkie-talkies. The buckle had been replaced by a small padlock.

"Put this on under your shirt."

"What is it?"

"Just put it on, please."

A glance at the gun in Brandon's waistband brought Taylor around and he did as he was told, skillfully maneuvering the truck as he slid the belt around his waist. Brandon tightened it and clicked the lock shut, then flipped a switch that caused a red light to come on.

"We can hear everything you do and say over that thing," Brandon said. "It's essentially a speakerphone with an open line."

All true. It turned out that one of Scanlon's guys was a wizard with electronics.

He reached over and pulled up the man's shirttail. "See that wire? The thick black one? It's not actually a wire at all. It's plastic explosive. Not much. Just enough to cut you in half."

Now that was a lie. It was really a piece of stereo cable he'd picked up at Radio Shack.

"Oh, my God! Oh, Jesus!"

"Now listen to me, Rob. Concentrate now.

If for some reason, you were to shut off the connection between us, then I can reroute the power to the explosive and . . He let his voice trail off, feeling increasingly guilty. He'd not only never hurt anyone in his history of criminal acts, he'd never threatened anybody. But there just hadn't been time to come up with something more elegant.

"I got a family. I --"

"Good," Brandon said. " 'Cause the last thing I want to do is blow you up. People getting cut in half by explosives tend to attract a lot of attention. And people in my profession hate attracting attention. We hate it more than anything."

He pulled a modified walkie-talkie from his pocket and spoke into it, confirming that his voice was clearly audible over the speakers installed on the belt.

"Okay, sounds good. You know, they say communication is the cornerstone of a good relationship."

"They do?"

"I think so, but like I said, I haven't had a lot of luck with relationships."