Short Cut (The Reluctant Hustler Book 2)

by J. Gregory Smith

  VP gave running commentary in case she was on a camera feed we couldn’t see. “Big guy over by the red container. Let me switch here. Looks like hedge clippers or something.”

  “Lock cutters.” I recognized them immediately. “Going into the container.”

  Tom flipped through pages of manifest printout. “Cots, tents and furniture.”

  VP zoomed in the picture when the image flipped over and I could see that it was Mauser for sure. He hopped out of the container, light on his feet, like a tiger.

  The next one he opened but left before Tom could even locate the list of contents.

  I couldn’t take it. “Can’t the guard see this?”

  “If he were awake. Say the word, I have the cursor over the panic button. It’ll sound the alarm with all horns,” VP said. “But they’ll take off.”

  I pulled out the phone I used for Bishop and hit the autodial. “Hang on. VP, can you call the cops, anonymously, and get them on the way without scaring our guys off?”

  “No problem. I can spoof the number to something local.”

  “I thought you could. Hit them up, let them know you saw weapons. God knows those two will be carrying, and we need the police to be ready.”

  Bishop picked up and I’d definitely woken him up. “Robbery in progress at Delivergistics. Word on the street is it’s the cop beaters. Think you know anyone who’d be interested?”

  “Damn straight.” Bishop hung up.

  Rollie said, “They couldn’t think they’d have all night to dig around the place.”

  “They’re over by the trucks now,” Tom said.

  “Poking around the back, now moving to the cab.” I watched Grist mess with the lock to the door for the cab on the one in front. “They’re taking it! How’d they know the right place to look?”

  “The cavalry getting close you think?” Rollie asked.

  VP answered, “Just got off the horn with the cops. An eyewitness who didn’t want to give my name.”

  “VP, if they get this truck out of there, we lose, understand?” I could see Grist’s legs dangling out of the open cab.

  “You sure you want me to hit it?” she asked.

  I saw Mauser creeping toward the locked gate, not that it would survive a ramming from the truck if it came to that.

  “He’ll have that truck started in another second.” The instant I finished the sentence, the yard lit up with floods and shrill horns pierced the air. Grist’s legs spasmed in surprise and he slid out of the cabin like he’d been shocked.

  “Bitchin’.” VP chuckled.

  I imagined the snoozing guard falling out of his chair, but not for long. Mauser had a pistol in his hand as he made his way back toward the truck.

  Now between yelps of the Delivergistics alarm, we could hear the wail of incoming sirens, a bunch of them.

  Grist and Mauser seemed to argue for a moment before they decided on discretion and ran back toward where they’d made their way inside the fence line.

  VP followed them as best she could with the mounted cameras. We could see some blue and red light begin to wash the walls of buildings. The last glimpse we got of the two was a street view behind the Delivergistics building. Two dirt bike-style motorcycles shot out of view, headed in the direction of the waterfront.

  I called Bishop. He picked up right away, wide awake now. “Yeah, I got a buddy on the other line.”

  “Tell him they bailed on dirt bikes.”

  “They’re on it. Going to do a net and … dammit!”

  “What?” We were relying on Bishop now, as our feed still showed the site and a bunch of cops talking to the confused guard. He looked familiar, but I didn’t remember his name. Whoever he was, he owed us a beer. I had no illusions about his fate if he’d tried to confront Mauser.

  “They turned onto the train tracks. Cruisers can’t follow there. They’ll have to nab them on one of the cross streets.” Bishop’s frustration mirrored my own.

  I knew the area. There were more places to squirm past the pursuit and it wouldn’t take long before the cops were spread too thin.

  The rest of the chase played out on our speakerphone. Longer and longer pauses by Bishop punctuated by swearing while the police on the ground chased leads, which gave way to a report of the bikes found abandoned a mile away.

  Chapter 28

  Port of Philadelphia

  “Bet you didn’t think you’d be leading a parade, huh?” Bishop said as I sat in his cruiser at the head of a four-car convoy of police vehicles on our way to the Delivergistics site.

  “Not exactly low key,” I said, “but I guess that’s the point.” At least I wouldn’t have to explain to Cliff the reason for all the fuss. The break-in the other night had spooked him and I think he just wanted to get the problem as far from Philly as possible. I couldn’t blame him for that.

  Bishop’s idea was a good one. We’d have a loud and visible presence while I got the truck away from the site and if everything looked good, the local police would drop back. Bishop even seemed like he was doing some of the officers a favor, as opposed to the other way around. Officially, the perps were unidentified, but Bishop used some of his most trusted contacts on the force to make sure the officers knew who the real suspects were and the cops wanted Grist and Mauser in the worst way.

  “Glad to be of service. Those two have balls, I’ll give them that, but they’ve got to know they blew their chance.”

  “We’ll see,” I said. “Cliff told me things are going so bad for Grist and Mauser overseas that the Philly cops will have to get in line behind the Iraqi army and several jihadi groups.”

  When we reached the site, I saw another marked car and suspected a couple others as being unmarked. Dave the guard let us in but checked both our IDs anyway. The rest of the police convoy fanned out onto the street by the entrance. The whole place felt on edge.

  Bishop pulled up to the office. “Got me on speed dial?”

  “Yup, and so you know, Rollie, Tom and VP are riding shotgun in Rollie’s car, but will stay out of your way. They’ll be in his old blue Delta 88.”

  “Rolling in the Bomber? He must be serious. Hope nobody bleeds in it this time.” Bishop once nursed a gunshot wound in the ass in the Bomber’s back seat.

  “Amen to that, and thanks Bishop.”

  “Thank those two assholes for pissing off an army of cops,” he said. “Get through this part and you can thank me later.”

  * * *

  Cliff handed over the last folder of paperwork like it was contagious. “Here you go, Kyle. I hope all the motorcade you brought does the trick, but I guess you won’t have to worry about being bored.” He lowered his voice. “Any idea what they were looking for?”

  “Who knows, with those two.”

  My deflection didn’t seem to satisfy Cliff. The police had already told him that at least one of the guys breaking in fit the description of the man who assaulted a cop before leading a chase in a stolen cruiser. Cliff never said if he noticed that the apartment in question just happened to be right across the street from Rollie’s place where I lived.

  He held his hands up. “I’m not asking for specifics, I just want to know if I need to worry about World War III breaking out in the compound.” Cliff paused. “Or getting kidnapped on my way home.” For the first time, I noticed the outline of a pistol grip printing from under his shirt.

  I never knew Cliff to be a gun guy or one to buck the company no firearm policy, so he must have been spooked.

  “They’d have to be crazy to come back here. I bet they high tailed it for good. But if they didn’t, they must have seen the cops and the dogs. Doesn’t look like it was drugs, anyway.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he said. “Jeez, I think I’ll manage a copy store next if we end up folding.”

  “I’ll see you back here in a few days.” I shook his soggy hand and forced myself to wait until I was out of his office before wiping my palm on my pants.

  * * *

&nbs
p; There were still smudges of black powder from the police fingerprint dusting on the inside of the truck. The would-be thief had worn gloves, reinforcing the impression that this was the work of a pro and not a random doper.

  Otherwise the truck showed no ill effects from the other night and the engine turned over on the first try. I’d already doublechecked all the hookups and the trailer itself was empty.

  The truck was destined for a yard in Pittsburgh, a short hop compared to the cross-country hauls most truckers were normally tasked with. Over in Iraq it wasn’t the distance but the risk that made the difference. In other words, I felt right at home.

  As I pulled the rig out through the gate, I waggled an aluminum can of energy drink at Dave the guard. He waved back. Like Cliff, I couldn’t help but think he was kind of glad to see me go. I checked my mirrors and watched first Bishop, then a procession of Philadelphia police cars pull into formation behind the truck. We hadn’t gotten a whole block up the street when I heard a siren yelp and one of the cop cars passed me with all lights flashing.

  The driver pulled back into my lane and kept with the lights. Now all the traffic ahead of us magically parted and we cruised out of the city in style.

  “I could get used to this,” I told Bishop over the phone as we approached the on ramp to I-95 South.

  “Don’t get too spoiled,” he answered on speakerphone. “These guys won’t be able to stick around much past the city limits. A few will hang in for twenty miles or so. After that, it’ll just be me and then only for a while.”

  “Well, tell them thanks for doing this much. You, too.” I may have sounded disappointed about eventually losing my escort, but I was also relieved. I needed to make a couple important stops along the way to the Steel City, and discretion was going to be more important than protection.

  “When I see Rollie, I’ll peel off. After that, you can call. But remember, I won’t exactly be right around the corner.”

  Bishop wanted to stay at arm’s length or more so as not to be involved in what we were doing and that was fine. Our biggest danger was right now. Rollie and company knew where I was heading, so they could afford to hang well back, especially knowing I was in such good hands.

  Once I’d shed my escort, I’d first be taking the truck to a non-company location that happened to be somewhat along the way. VP had uncovered an unnerving document that showed the work order assigning me to take the truck Pittsburgh. We couldn’t be sure if Grist and Mauser had access to the same information, but given their specific interest in the truck, we had to assume they did.

  Because of that, we were planning a more circuitous route to get to that first stop. If Grist and Mauser wanted to wait for the truck in Pittsburgh, they could have the thing once it got there, for all I cared. On the other hand, they had a tendency to express their disappointment in painful ways, so hopefully they’d just stay on the run.

  * * *

  Delivergistics Truck: Along I-76

  The police cars had dropped back and I was reminded of the way WWII Allied bombers would lose fighter coverage during a long-range mission. Once the small aircraft hit their fuel limits they had to return to base. In this case, my buddies ran out of jurisdiction, not gas. As a state trooper, Bishop had technical jurisdiction all over Pennsylvania, but as a practical matter, the farther he got from the property room at the State Police barracks, the harder it became to explain what he was doing out here in the first place.

  A short while after Bishop left my bumper, I saw Rollie drift by in the passing lane. Tom sat in the back seat and they’d been joined by VP in the front. Funny, once the guys learned she was a she, she’d come out of her shell and shown real enthusiasm to play a more active role. Now that we weren’t needing to monitor security cameras and the like, I was happy to have her along. God knew he needed all the help we could get.

  VP yanked down on an imaginary cord to give me the universal truck honk sign, which I obliged and Rollie faded back behind the rig again.

  It felt good to know they were back there. I turned north onto a road that led nowhere near Pittsburgh and hoped the guys were being extra vigilant. They knew the way and I still scanned the mirrors more often than a kid trying to pass his commercial driver’s license test. It all looked normal.

  I don’t know what I was expecting. A Humvee flying a Jolly Roger? Something out of The Road Warrior?

  Nothing so sinister revealed itself as the traffic thinned then picked up when I approached Johnstown. Rollie would appear intermittently. Just before the turn into town where we were planning to stop at a Sheetz convenience store, he passed the truck with a flashy roar of his crate-motored hot rod. This meant he hadn’t seen anything to worry about.

  The store and most of the surrounding area wasn’t set up for big rigs to park so I pulled off on the side of the road and lit my flashers. Tom got out of the car and dashed across the parking lot to the truck.

  “Coast still looks clear?” I asked.

  “As far as I can tell,” he answered.

  “Rollie knows to stay out of sight when we get to the truck shop, right?” I could have called him but preferred to stay off the air as much as possible.

  “I explained how Gallagher is expecting you and I and a big truck, nothing more. The last thing we need to do is scare away the final link.”

  “We’re close,” I said, and we were. But at the same time, the air felt like it was getting thicker, as though just to slow us down.

  “That we are, mate.” Tom climbed into the cab to join me for the last leg of the trip.

  * * *

  The sun was beginning to set and I figured we’d arrive just before full dark. The roads dwindled from four to two lanes, but Gallagher’s Truck Service wasn’t totally in the boonies. Good thing, as these rigs were no fun on dirt roads and, if anything went wrong, I wouldn’t be able to turn it around.

  By the time we saw the lit sign it was dark and everything else around us was closed. We could see a solitary figure silhouetted by the light.

  “Do you know what our guy looks like?” I asked.

  “No, but he has our pictures,” Tom said. Maybe that was supposed to comfort me, but it didn’t.

  As I turned into the wide gravel driveway entrance, the truck’s headlights washed over a heavyset guy with bushy red hair curling out from under a baseball cap. He carried a pump shotgun held across his waist.

  “You Yanks do customer service different here,” Tom said.

  We must have the right place. “At least it isn’t aimed at us. What’s his first name again?”

  “Stu.”

  I cut the ignition and rolled down the window and showed my hands.

  Stu squinted into the headlights and stepped out of the beams.

  “We’re closed.”

  Tom whispered to me and I repeated after him. “We’ve come a long way and have just a little further to go,” I said.

  Stu cocked his head and it reminded me of a dog listening for familiar words. “And?”

  Tom continued.

  “Ryan sent us and apologizes that he couldn’t be here himself,” I added.

  Stu appeared to relax, though he still held the shotgun and he shifted it to his left hand while he dug out a photo from the front pocket of his oil-stained coveralls. “I didn’t catch your name or your partner’s.”

  “I’m Kyle and Tom is with me. Ryan said it was okay as long as I was here,” I said as Stu digested that.

  “Step out, both of you, and let me get a closer look.”

  We climbed down from the rig, moving slowly. This wasn’t quite the welcome I expected.

  He peered at me and then at the photo in his hand. He held the picture in the headlights for a better look. “You look heavier than this shot, but I guess it’s you.” He turned his attention to Tom. “Where’s the rest of you?”

  At first, I thought he meant Rollie, but he wasn’t supposed to know anything about him. Then the guy’s face cracked into a broad grin that revealed he
still had most of his teeth.

  “I suppose I sound taller on the phone?” Tom said.

  “Six, seven feet, easy,” Stu said and looked at me. “Last thing. You have something for me?”

  I nodded and pointed to the gun. “If I may?”

  Stu glanced down at the shotgun as if he’d just noticed it in his hand. He draped it over one shoulder so the barrel was pointed behind him. “Please do.”

  I pulled out the envelope and handed it over. We’d counted it earlier and I figured the ten grand would warm relations.

  Stu flipped through the stack of bills. “That’s the way we like it.” He pocketed the money and headed toward the corrugated steel building. “Lemmie get the door and kindly ease her on in so we can get to work.”

  Tom joined me inside the cabin again. I started the rig.

  “Tom, what sort of work are we doing?” I asked. “You never told me how the package was built into the truck.”

  “Ever swap out a diesel tank?”

  Chapter 29

  Johnstown, PA

  “You stuck it in the tank? Isn’t that a little obvious? We’re lucky the cops didn’t find it when the dogs went over the truck.” My nerves were getting the better of me.

  “They’re not drugs, and I didn’t toss them by the handful to rattle about like so many pebbles. Give me some credit,” Tom said as I eased the truck through the huge rollup door.

  “All right.” I tried to calm my tone. “So, what did they do?”

  “My people did a first-rate welding job on the bottom of the tank. There’s a gentle slope caused by the aluminum flap and the stones themselves are spread thin. Drugs are bulky by comparison and compartments can be detected by pros. I doubt a detective with a camera scope would notice this curve.”

  “Clever.”

  “Indeed, but what was created carefully deserves to be extracted with equal caution,” Tom said. “Unless you want to take any damaged stones out of your share?”

  I brought the rig to a halt and killed the engine. “Think Stu here has the delicate touch we need?”

  “Let’s hope so. Ryan picked him.”

  We climbed down from the cab. Diesel fumes lingered in the air and the engine made ticking noises while it began to cool.