by Mich Moore
"Emphasis on 'might.'" He confidently cracked his knuckles. "Trust me. I've got perfect weather on this. Not a cloud in the sky."
"So this 'expert' shows up out of the blue?" Broussard asked. "How did they even get your address?"
"As soon as I found out we'd be in Chicago, I put some feelers out. The black market is alive and thriving. Even here. They've got something called the Underground News." Walters snickered. "It's essentially a Craigslist for mobsters."
"You're an idiot," Powell said. "Because only an idiot would publicly advertise to criminals. "
"In a perfect world, you'd be absolutely correct. But look around. This town has got some serious issues; half of the people here are on anti-psychotics." Walters gestured towards the large picture window that towered above his in-room air conditioner. "The powers-that-be want people to believe that they've got their thumb on everybody, but trust me, that's fiction."
Powell snorted. "You've been on the outside for exactly two weeks and you've got it all figured out."
"I don't know, Van," Broussard began, his expression one of mild skepticism. "This feels like something Fields's crew set up to test us out."
"'Test us out' for what?" Bautista asked. "Hell, Fields don't give a rat's ass about us."
Broussard countered, "Well, he gives a rat's ass about the DATs."
Bautista jabbed the air with one finger. "Yeah, and that's the only thing he gives a rat's ass about. Fields knows that we ain't going nowhere. We're convicted felons, man. And as soon as they stop our paychecks, we'll all be broke convicted felons. The dude has us all by the short hairs."
No one bothered to refute that testimony, for it was absolutely the truth.
After several moments, Broussard asked, "How much do they want?"
"Don't know," Walters replied. "You got any ideas, Eric?"
Powell looked thoughtful. "A high-grade ID kit would normally run you about ten thousand dollars. But these not being normal times, it might run as high as twenty-five thousand."
Bautista whistled.
Broussard's only response was, "Wow."
Walters stepped forward. "Look, we don't know anything yet. The situation is fluid but we've still got control. So let's stay calm until we find out."
"When do we meet?" Broussard asked.
"They're sending a couple of reps over to the hotel. Be down in the lobby pub in two hours. Oh, and wear short-sleeved shirts, no jackets or watches. They want to make sure that we aren't recording them." He grinned to himself, obviously enjoying the cops-and-robbers spice suddenly flavoring his life again.
Broussard's eyes grew large. "We'll be out in the open. Anyone will be able to see us."
"So what?" Walters replied. "If Hillerman or Brady asks, we just pretend that we just met them, which will be the truth."
"You think our bank accounts are monitored?" Powell asked. "I mean, all of us withdrawing the same amount of money at the same time? That's sure to raise a big flag."
Bautista was thinking. "If we just make one withdrawal, it won't be noticed as much."
"One withdrawal?" Broussard asked. "For maybe up to one hundred thousand dollars? Nobody has that kind of money."
Bautista did something that he rarely did. He smiled. "I've got that kind of money,"
"Since when?" Powell asked.
"I don't need a sports car or a closet full of Italian suits. I save my money." He pulled at his own mustache hairs. "I make the withdrawal and you guys reimburse me on the other side. And all I'm asking is fifteen percent interest."
"That's pretty generous," Walters began, "but I have to be honest and say that I don't have any leads on potential buyers lined up for DAT ... yet. It will happen, but it might take a while."
Bautista shrugged. "I ain't going anywhere."
"Even one withdrawal this size is going to raise flags," Powell said. "They're going to ask what you're using it for."
"And I'll tell 'em that I'm making a donation to Pastor Walsh's church. The dude was legit, and I want to see his ministry stay strong."
Everyone had been impressed with the pastor from Texas, and with Bautista widely known for being an occasionally observant Catholic, the lie would have real traction.
Walters clapped his hands together. "All right! I believe the show is about to go on!"
Bautista held up a hand. "I'm going to want signed IOUs from everybody first."
"Let's cross that bridge if we come to it," Walters replied hastily.
"Now. I know you, Van. You'll try and double-deal me!"
Walters swelled with anger. "One: you don't know me, and two, I don't cheat people ... anymore," he added hastily. "I'm not putting my signature on anything until you hand over the money."
"The hell you will!"
Broussard had heard enough. "Be quiet!" He squared his shoulders and fastened his attention upon each man, one by one. "This is the plan. We can make adjustments as we go. But for now, you're either in or out. If you're in, quit your crabbing. If you're out, there's the door."
Powell looked offended. "Who put you in charge?"
Broussard threw him a look of naked anger. And Bautista would not relent. "This is a boneheaded idea anyway, and everybody knows it."
Walters's face colored. "It's better than what you came up with, which was nothing!"
The technician continued. "Van, your problem is you think you're smarter than everybody. But they locked your ass up just as fast as they did mine."
Walters's eyes flashed. "Well, at least I was intelligent enough to not leave a trail of bloody corpses behind me."
Bautista once again allowed his baser emotions to overwhelm him, and he flew at Walters like a wild animal. Fortunately, Powell and Broussard caught him before he reached the scientist.
"Behave!" Broussard bellowed at his friend. He and Powell flung the smaller man onto the room's plump sofa and pinned him facedown to the cushions with their arms and legs.
As Bautista struggled to free himself, Broussard looked back at Walters, his face full of hot colors. "That was wrong," he hissed.
Walters took a confident step forward, hands on hips. "I'm not afraid of you, Neal. I never was."
Broussard released the pressure that he had been placing on the back of Bautista's neck and straightened up. However, Powell knew better than to let Bautista go just yet, and he kept his knee firmly planted into his backside.
Broussard tugged on his shirt's cuffs. "Van, I was speaking to you as a friend."
Walters seemed prepared to fire up a retort, then apparently changed his mind, and merely shrugged his shoulders. "He mouths off too much."
A muffled string of invectives came hurtling from the sofa. "Kiss my ass, prick!"
"Case in point."
Broussard turned wearily to his friend from Lincoln Hills. "Shut up, Mike."
Powell finally let Bautista go. "Van, even if we have our documents, how are we going to get out of here? If Hillerman or Brady don't catch us, it'll be those Rangers."
Broussard agreed. "We're going to need some kind of diversion. Any ideas?"
Powell raised his hand. "A suggestion, really. Let's let this unfold on its own. If we get a chance to leave tomorrow, fine. We split up and meet up at the Dutch embassy in Quebec in one week. If we don't, then we wait for the next opportunity. The timing's got to be right. So let's take it as slow as we can."
The men thought about his words. They made sense. The mood turned positive. Even Walters nodded in assent. "Sounds good." For the first time since the four men had met back in Nevada, Walters appeared to be content not having the big idea.
"But, if it is a go tomorrow, throw away your smart phones and your computers. And don't call anybody until we make contact in Quebec—"
Bautista interrupted him. "What's the point? They implanted us with RFIDs back in Nevada."
Walters slapped his protest down. "Urban legend."
Broussard looked at each of his co-workers in the eyes. "So we're doing this?"
Everyone n
odded.
"Then we've got to maintain the status quo," he said. "I'm calling the dress theme for tonight. Seventies Disco."
"Not bad," Walters said.
Bautista and Powell concurred with "Cool."
"And I'll ask Tara or Derek to do the shopping for us."
After the others had left, Broussard called Tara and asked if she wouldn't mind doing some clothes shopping for them, and he related the quartet's tradition of dressing alike to encourage team building. "I noticed a couple of vintage secondhand boutiques this morning that might carry what we want." Tara was surprisingly thrilled at the offer. "I could really use the break." She whispered into the phone, "I love these little guys, but they're beginning to drive me nuts."
Broussard laughed. "That's what DATs do best. You're going to need some money. Can you come down to my room in about ten minutes?"
Her manner became brusque. "I'll get it from Allan." It took him a moment to realize that the line had gone dead.
"All right," Broussard told the thin air. He resumed his research on the computer until it was time to meet the others down at the pub. As he was changing shirts, Tara called.
"Open your door," she told him.
"What?"
"Open your front door." The line went dead again.
Broussard opened the door to find five paper bags stuffed with clothing and shoes.
He carried the items in and placed them inside his closet. Then he tried to call Tara back to thank her, but the call immediately went to voicemail.
Two hours later found them in the hotel's sole pub, the Henry Every, surreptitiously scouting the crowded room for their two contacts. After several false starts with random customers who appeared unwholesome enough to be underworld criminals, Walters
