the Second Horseman (2006) (27 page)

She refused to look at him, instead staring straight ahead through the windshield. It wasn't really how he wanted to say goodbye, but there wasn't much of a choice at this point.

"It's been nice knowing you, Catherine. Good luck."

Chapter
THIRTY-ONE

Steve Ahrens stood just inside the yellow police tape surrounding one of the bays at the back of the Federal Reserve building. If he had his way, he'd have shut down the whole block, but the bank was just too important. The flow of trucks, vans, and armored cars continued unabated, weaving through the investigators and lab techs inhabiting the fenced parking area.

Not that it really mattered. There were no answers here. He glanced up at the top of the building and the deep blue sky beyond. Nice afternoon, though.

The representative from the Fed was standing next to an empty semitrailer having a heated conversation with the assistant special agent in charge of the San Francisco FBI office, though they were too far away for Ahrens to hear what they were saying.

He tried to match their grave, angry expressions, but after only a few second
s b
roke into a smile again. In truth, this was one of the best days of his career. The terrorism and white-collar crime that the FBI was so focused on these days, sucked -- a nasty combination of futile, depressing, and dull. But this was a whole different ball game. It would be entirely accurate to say that there was nothing in the world he would rather do than spend the next few weeks figuring out how Brandon Vale had pulled this off. God bless him.

Ahrens shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled toward the trailer, stopping when he was close enough to hear the two men's conversation, but not so close as to be noticed.

"... so when you couldn't get the lock off the back, that didn't raise any alarms?"

"Not really. It wasn't the first time we've had to cut it off. You know, those things get old, they rust, they malfunction. It happens."

The FBI man sighed quietly, taking on a vaguely depressed expression that Ahrens just couldn't understand. Maybe it was that the ASAC was so much older. Whatever it was, though, he seemed inexplicably blind to how incredibly lucky he was that someone had chosen his jurisdiction to walk away with the better part of two hundred millio
n d
ollars. It was like winning the cop lottery.

"And it took you another four hours to figure out the money was gone?"

"Three and a half/' the Fed representative shot back. "The bags we offloaded first had a lot of change and ones, which isn't all that unusual. When we noticed we were a quarter of the way through the truck and the denominations hadn't gotten any larger, we started to get suspicious. That's when we dug to the back and found the bags full of newspaper. At that point we called the security company and you."

Ahrens glanced toward the back of the bay and spotted the security company's rep talking urgently into his cell phone. A moment later, he hung up and started in their direction.

"Special Agent Dolan?"

"What?" the FBI ASAC snapped.

"The helicopter pilot's still unconscious, but now they're thinking he's been drugged. The chase cars, the truck, and the drivers have all fallen off the face of the earth."

"And the GPSes?"

"We stopped monitoring them when the Fed called in a safe delivery. No way to retrieve the data now -- it doesn't record anywhere."

"But they were working until then."

"Five by five according to our people. They've turned everything back on now." "And?"

"Nothing. No signal at all."

Ahrens crossed his arms and leaned back against the trailer, watching an agent a few years younger than him jog up.

"Have you gotten anything on signal jamming?" Dolan asked him.

"We've talked to everyone we can think of and no one is aware of any strange dead spots."

"So no one's actively jamming the GPS signals."

"That's our read, sir."

"Then they've set up in a natural dead spot. How many within a couple of hours of here?"

"Hundreds," the young agent replied. "They also could have lined a building with signal absorbent material. We're checking with all the manufacturers about recent purchases."

Another long sigh. "And the Budweiser truck?"

"We've talked with every distributor and trucking company we can find. As far as we can tell, that truck doesn't exist."

Ahrens wandered back out of the bay, ducking under the tape and scrollin
g t
hrough the address book on his phone. When he found the number he was looking for, he hit dial.

"American Security Holdings."

"Richard Scanlon, please. This is Steve Ahrens."

"He's out of the office. Let me see if I can connect you to his cell."

The phone went silent for a few moments before being picked up again.

"Steve. What can I do for you?"

"Guess where I am."

"Where?"

"Standing in the loading dock at the San Francisco Federal Reserve Bank."

Silence.

"Are you there still there, Richard?"

"I'm still here. But I'm not sure I want to be."

Ahrens grinned. "When you and I were talking this morning that brilliant little bastard probably already had the money hijacked."

"The money transfer from Vegas."

"Yup."

Ahrens had to pull the phone away from his ear to bring the stream of obscenities that followed to a listenable volume.

"We set that goddamn thing up so it would be impossible to get to! And then w
e r
earranged all the procedures after he went to jail. Shit, I was just talking to some of the guys who have the security contract on that. They had the thing down to a science."

"Apparently not enough of a science," Ahrens responded.

"How sure are you that it was Vale?"

"No evidence at all at this point, but come on. Who else?"

"How?"

"I'm not entirely sure yet, but I've got a few ideas."

"Shit. Look, I've got to run, but call me when you put the details together. And if in the meantime you catch that son of a bitch, do me a favor and shoot him in the ass."

Chapter
THIRTY-TWO

"Nice shoes."

Brandon glanced down at his feet and fought back a grimace. They weren't shoes. They were work boots. Honest-to-god work boots. He'd found a secondhand clothing store that let him trade his expensive new threads for a basic jean sweatshirt ensemble and a few measly dollars.

"Thanks."

The man sitting on the other side of the tiny room had a thick, tangled beard and an insane glint in his eye that made him look like an unhinged member of the ZZ Top fan club. Combined with his ragged and malodorous clothes, he'd pretty much nailed the shopping-cart-pushing homeless-man thing. Brandon was going for more of a "hardworking guy down on his luck" look.

"Nice pants."

Brandon nodded noncommittally. "Thanks."

They both jumped up when a plump woman in her late twenties poked her head in. "I'm ready for you now, Brandon."

He walked hesitantly into the small, cluttered office and stood facing the desk. "I'm Jennifer Ralston," she said, sticking her hand out. "I hear you wanted to talk to me."

She had an unnervingly steady gaze and a handshake that hovered somewhere between empowering and overpowering.

"Brandon Ellis," he said. "But I guess you knew that already."

Ralston, by all reports a tireless advocate for those who wanted to better themselves, ran the homeless shelter Brandon had slept in the night before. And though he really had no interest at all in bettering himself, he was willing to fake it occasionally.

"So what can I do for you, Brandon?"

"I need a job and I heard you might be able to help me find one."

Her expression wasn't suspicious exactly, but it was clearly designed to impart that she'd heard every hard-luck story ever devised. "I see . . . Tell me, what brings you to us, Brandon?"

It occurred to him how much fun it would be to just tell her the truth. He was willing to bet that she hadn't heard anything like his story before.

"I suppose the same thing that brings a lot of people here. I moved from the Midwest with barely enough money to make the trip, had some bad luck . . He let his voice trail off for a moment. "And here I am."

"Do you have a drug problem? Please excuse my bluntness, but I've found speaking directly is the best way to communicate. Understand that I'm not being judgmental. We have all kinds of programs to help you."

This really sucked. Couldn't Catherine have had the simple decency to leave her cash-stuffed purse open on the kitchen table instead of demanding a fistful of receipts every time he spent a quarter? Now he was out on the street with no money, no IDs, and no bank accounts. At least none he wanted to risk trying to get to.

"No drug problem," he said, not meeting her eye. "Can't even afford to drink anymore."

She drummed her fingers on a stack of notebooks, silently appraising him.

No question, she was a tough nut. At one time or another, she'd probably been faced with half the con men, sociopaths, and grabby losers on the planet. But he wasn't asking for much -- just a way to make enough money to get him across the border.

"I do have some contacts, Brandon. But I also have a lot to lose by calling them on your behalf. I've used my credibility with them to get a lot of people jobs -- to help a lot of people. And every time I send them someone who . . . who isn't up to it, I lose a little bit of my ability to help people in the future."

He nodded. "I totally understand, Ms. Ralston. But I'm really smart . . ."

That was true.

"And I'm super hard working . . ."

A bit of an embellishment.

"I've just had some bad luck lately . . ."

The understatement of the year.

He hit her with his most earnest and subservient smile, but found it difficult to keep it plastered to his face. It was horrifying enough to have to get a job, but to have to beg for one? That was just cruel.

Chapter
THIRTY-THREE

"Tree. Out. Yes?"

Brandon wiped the sweat from his face, forgetting to take off his glove first and leaving his eyes full of dirt.

"Goddammit!" he shouted, blinking through the tears as the tiny Mexican man looked on impatiently.

"Brandon! Tree! Yes?"

"Hey, don't mind me. I'm just going blind here," Brandon replied. The Mexican just shook his head in general disapproval.

They were standing on the expansive lawn of some semi-rich guy who apparently hadn't been watering his plants. The trees in front of the house had dropped all their leaves and the shrubs were turning an alarming shade of black.

Why was this his problem? Because that evil witch Jennifer Ralston had gotten him a job on a landscaping crew. Now he hadn't been expecting a job selling lingerie to supermodels, but he had been hoping for something air-conditioned. A cushy banking gig. Or a security guard. Yeah. That would have been sweet.

"Tree," the man said for the third time, jabbing a finger at it and then a thumb toward the truck in the driveway.

"Lunch," Brandon countered.

"Como?"

"Lunch! Uh . . . Almuerzo. Si? Almuerzo."

The man glanced at his watch, a bit confused. "Son las dlez."

"Bullshit."

He held his wrist up as proof. Nine fifty
-
eight A
. M
. How was that possible? That meant he had ... six more hours of this.

Another quick jab in the general direction of the tree and the man was off, leaving Brandon to sag against his shovel. His injured shoulder was killing him, though he knew that it was more psychological than physical -- his subconscious protesting this waking nightmare.

There had been nothing about the heist in the local paper. The cops had apparently decided to keep things quiet. That wouldn't last long, though. Pretty soon, his picture was going to be on every television in America and the million problems he already had would double. At least.

If he were more of an optimist, he'd just lie low until the nuke story broke and then reappear just in time for the parade in his honor. A vague smile spread across his face as he pictured himself sitting on a flower
-
covered float, perfecting that insincere wave that beauty contestants did so well. Brandon the Savior. Brandon the Hero.

It wasn't going to happen that way, though. If there was one thing the government didn't like, it was to be embarrassed. They'd sweep the whole thing under the rug, placating Scanlon and his crew with this promise or that and then sending a hit squad after the little thief who had made it all possible.

It was getting hard to keep track of his ever-expanding fan club: Scanlon's guys, that creepy asshole who'd snatched him from Catherine's place, the cops, the FBI. And who knew? If things went right, maybe the Ukrainians and a bunch of Arab terrorists would join up, too.