Ghostman

by Roger Hobbs

  Thirty seconds.

  The driver took another key off his belt and handed it to the handler, who cracked the lock on the back of the truck and climbed in. Back there was a magnetic-plated strongbox built into the side wall of the vehicle and covered with a further layer of bulletproof ceramic armor. His key fit into one of the two locks, and the vault manager’s key fit into the other. Nobody had ever robbed an Atlantic Armored truck before. Their service was top of the line, courtesy of paranoid bankers and hotel service accounts worth countless times more than a whole fleet of armored trucks. Security was a big deal in this town. The item in question was a twelve-kilo block of vacuum-packed hundred-dollar bills, in the new style with the shiny metal security stripes right down the middle. The block was subdivided into hundred-bill stacks called straps, because of the mustard-colored paper strap banding each pile together for easy counting. Each strap was worth ten thousand U.S. dollars. There were 122 straps in the twelve-kilo block, or $1,220,000, compressed to the size of a large suitcase. The handler slid the money off the magnetic plate. There was a blue Kevlar bag in a drawer opposite. He fitted the stacked cash in the bag, then fitted the bag onto a small carrying trolley hooked into the wall. He put on a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and pushed the trolley off onto the pavement. It was large and awkward, so he had to maneuver it.

  Ten seconds.

  As soon as the handler got out of the truck, the driver drew a Glock 19 from his holster and held it low beside his hip, which was standard procedure for a delivery like this. He looked bored. This was his first delivery of the day and there would be ten more like it, back and forth to various casinos at different times throughout his shift. He adjusted his grip on the gun and kept his finger off the trigger. The handler locked the truck and gave the casino’s key back to the vault manager, who attached it to his belt. The driver scanned the parking garage, then turned back, took two steps toward the casino doors and gestured for the other two to follow with the money.

  Time’s up. Ribbons gave the signal.

  Moreno’s rifle bucked gently in his arms. The shot wasn’t silent but muffled, like a nail gun firing up close. The bullet hit the driver’s head just below the hairline and behind the ear. It went right through his head and exited through the nose. Blood and brain matter painted the sidewalk. Moreno didn’t wait to see the body fall. At this distance, he knew where the bullets would go. He worked the bolt and the cartridge flew out. It took him a fraction of a second to switch targets, as if he’d been doing this his entire life. The vault manager was closest, so he was next. The bullet hit him in the sternum and tore through his heart. The third target was already on the move.

  The money handler threw himself toward the armored truck. He stumbled on the sidewalk, then hit the pavement and grabbed for the Glock in his holster. Moreno led him through the sight. He took a bead and squeezed the trigger. The bullet missed by a foot. The guard scrambled for cover. Moreno gave Ribbons a hand motion. No chance he’d get the shot from this angle.

  Ribbons emerged from his blind spot and raised the Kalashnikov to his shoulder. He pissed bullets, unsuppressed, full-automatic. The gunshots broke the morning silence like a jackhammer in the middle of the night. The glass casino doors shattered as one long, thirty-round burst of ammunition poured from the barrel of his gun. It was the law of large numbers for hitting the third guy. Most of the bullets missed, but one didn’t. A bullet caught the handler in the spine, below the heart. He twisted on the pavement from the hit. Inside the casino, people started screaming.

  Ribbons hopped over the concrete barrier between the parking garage and the street and jogged toward the armored truck. He dropped his clip, whipped out another and charged it. There was no traffic in either direction. Too early for that. He held the rifle out one-handed, in case somebody else was waiting to come out from the casino and snatch the money first. He stooped down, never taking his eyes off the doors, and used his free hand to try to unhitch the bag, which was fastened to the trolley with big easy nylon buckles. Ribbons hadn’t considered, however, how hard it would be to get them undone with one hand, in a latex glove, on a quarter gram of meth, in the July heat. His hand was shaking.

  Moreno watched the street through his sight. Come on, come on, come on.

  Then the alarm went.

  It was a loud klaxon with flashers from inside the lobby, meant for fires and earthquakes. Ribbons flinched, then sprayed a burst through the doors to discourage anybody from coming out. The rifle’s kickback forced his arm up and sent bullets through some windows in the casino’s hotel tower and took out the R in the neon Regency sign. His brass shell casings poured out and tinkled on the sidewalk. He shouted. The recoil nearly broke his hand. When he regained control of the Kalashnikov, he kicked the bag to the pavement in frustration. Screw it. He pointed the gun at the last nylon buckle and blew it free.

  The money handler gurgled from where he lay on his back a few feet away. His eyes followed Ribbons. Blood frothed up from his mouth and pooled around his face like a halo. Ribbons picked the bag up by the broken strap and slung it over his shoulder. When he passed the dying guard, he looked down at him, lowered the rifle and put a burst of bullets through his head.

  Police sirens were audible in the distance, drawn to the gunfire. Eight blocks away, by the sound of it. Thirty-second response time starting now. Ribbons ran as quickly as he could back to the parking garage. He was shaking, even despite the handful of barbiturates he’d swallowed. His eyes were as wild as some savage warrior’s. There was still no traffic. The run was easy.

  Moreno gave him the open palm. Run faster, you fat fuck.

  When they were within earshot, Ribbons shouted, “Heat coming in from the north. Open the damn car, let’s go!”

  They were less than twenty feet apart. Now the cameras didn’t matter. Security couldn’t identify them in that sort of headgear. They sprinted back to their getaway car. Ribbons hopped over the concrete barrier and Moreno threw the passenger door open for him. Moreno would drive. The whole job had taken less than half a minute. Twenty-six seconds according to Ribbons’s Rolex. It was as easy as that: walk up, take the money and run. Moreno had an idiotic smile plastered on his face. He thought everything would go perfect. But no heist ever goes perfectly. There is always a problem.

  Like the man sitting in the car on the other side of the parking garage, watching them through the scope of his rifle.

  To Ribbons, what happened next was all a blur. One second he was getting into their car, and the next he heard the gunshot and saw Moreno hit. There was a spray of pink mist. Chunks of brain matter and fractured skull hit Ribbons straight on, like shrapnel from a grenade. Ribbons didn’t have time to think. He raised his Kalashnikov and sprayed lead blindly in the direction of the sound. There were flashes of light from one of the cars behind him, but Ribbons was out of bullets before he could target it. He got out of the Dodge, dropped the clip, took out another and charged it. He hadn’t even shouldered the rifle when a bullet punched a hole through the windshield. Ribbons took a bead on the flashes and returned fire. The next round came right at him. He scrambled around the car toward the driver’s seat, letting out shots in quick bursts. A bullet struck him in the shoulder. It hit a ceramic plate. It was a powerful blow that spun and staggered him, but he barely felt it. He recovered and kept shooting. Another shot hit him in the chest above the belly. The hit felt like a sharp, immediate sting. Ribbons shouted. He was out of bullets.

  He swore and dropped the empty rifle. He pulled a Colt 1911 from the small of his back and fired the gun one-handed, arm outstretched, no target in sight. The stupid mask had slid over one eye. He fired in quick double taps to give himself cover fire. A rifle round hit the pillar behind him and sent up a storm of powdered concrete and plaster. With his free hand he pulled Moreno’s body out of the driver’s seat. There was brain matter blown out all over the dash. Another round hit the trunk of the Dodge. Ribbons could hear it bouncing around against the chassis. T
he car was still running. Ribbons put it into Reverse. He didn’t even bother to close the door, which hung open until Ribbons was halfway through the two-point turn and momentum slammed it into place. He leaned over the seat and fired through the rear window. Then the mirror, a foot from his head, exploded. Drive, you idiot.

  Ribbons burned rubber. The Dodge peeled out so quickly it slammed into the row of cars behind it and sent up a shower of sparks. Half blind from the mask and the blood, Ribbons shifted into Drive and barreled down the slope toward the garage entrance. There was no attendant in the booth this early, which was good because Ribbons couldn’t see where he was going. The beat-up Dodge crashed through the ticket machine, swiped the booth and fishtailed onto Pacific Avenue. The car careened through a red light and lost control down the wrong side of the road toward Park Place, where Ribbons ducked behind the steering wheel and floored the accelerator. The rims of his tires sent up sparks along the pavement. He could hear cops circling in the distance, going Code 3 with full sirens. Only blocks away now, close enough to be a problem. When he pulled the mask off, drops of sweat showered the dashboard. He glanced behind him. Nothing in the rear window yet. He weaved down the wide Atlantic City boulevards, still flooring it. Moreno, the wheelman, had planned the escape route down to the second. That plan had all gone to hell in ten seconds flat.

  Ribbons spun the wheel and screeched through a parking lot and down an alleyway.

  In less than ten minutes, the make and model of his car would be out to every cruiser and state trooper for fifty miles. He had to stash the car, the money and himself before the police caught up with him. But first he needed to put distance. It wasn’t until he’d turned onto Martin Luther King Boulevard that he felt the blood soaking through the clothing under his bulletproof vest. He touched the wound in his chest. It had gone through. Though the vest had slowed and deformed the bullet, it had still gone through twenty-seven layers of Kevlar into his flesh. It didn’t hurt, exactly. He had Moreno’s crank and a syringe of heroin to thank for that. But it was bleeding fast. He’d have to wash and wrap it if he wanted to stay alive. Proper treatment would wait until later. It would have to.

  The phone rang again. That special ringtone. The caller had little tolerance for lateness, less for incompetence and none for failure. The man’s reputation relied on that sort of totalizing kind of fear that could cow federal agents and keep murderers and rapists as obedient as schoolchildren. His plans were precise, and he expected them to be followed precisely. Failure was never even discussed. Nobody Ribbons had ever met had failed him before. Nobody still around to talk about it, anyway.

  Ribbons looked over at the phone, where it was lodged under the front seat, then reached over and killed the call with his thumb.

  Ribbons tried to concentrate on the escape route, but all he could think about was his little blue house on the water. Through the drug haze, he could practically smell the old Victorian and feel the chipped paint on his fingertips. His first house. He kept the image of it in his mind, like a security blanket around the pain of the bullet lodged in his chest. He could make it. He had to. He had to.

  Two minutes after six in the goddamn morning.

  Two minutes after six in the goddamn morning, and the police were already out in full force, sweeping the streets for him. Two minutes after six in the goddamn morning, and word of the heist was already out to the highway patrol and the FBI. Four people were dead. More than a million dollars stolen. Over a hundred bullet casings on the pavement. This would be one for the headlines.

  It was two minutes after six in the goddamn morning, and the police had already woken their detectives.

  It took another two hours for someone to wake me.

  1

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  The shrill, high-pitched chirp of an incoming e-mail was like a bell ringing in my head. I woke with a start and immediately put a hand on my gun. I took gasping breaths as my eyes adjusted to the light coming off my security screens. I looked over to the windowsill where I’d set my watch. The sky was still as black as ink.

  I took the gun out from under my pillow and put it on my night-stand. Breathe.

  When I regained my composure I scanned the monitors. There was no one in the hallway or the elevator. Nobody in the stairs or the lobby. The only person awake was the night watchman, who looked too engrossed in a book to notice anything. My building was an old ten-story, and I was on the eighth floor. It was a seasonal sort of place, so there were year-round occupants in only about half the rooms and none of them ever got up early. Everyone was still asleep, or away for the summer.

  My computer chirped again.

  I’ve been an armed robber for close to twenty years. Paranoia comes with the territory, as well as the stack of fake passports and hundred-dollar bills under the bottom drawer of my dresser. I started in this business in my teens. I did a few banks because I thought I’d like the thrill of it. I wasn’t the luckiest and I’m probably not the smartest, but I’ve never been caught, questioned or fingerprinted. I’m very good at what I do. I’ve survived because I’m extremely careful. I live alone, I sleep alone, I eat alone. I trust no one.

  There are maybe thirty people on earth who know I exist, and I am not sure if all of them believe I’m still alive. I am a very private person out of necessity. I don’t have a phone number and I don’t get letters. I don’t have a bank account and I don’t have debts. I pay for everything in cash, if possible, and when I can’t, I use a series of black Visa corporate credit cards, each attached to a different offshore corporation. Sending me an e-mail is the only way to contact me, though it doesn’t guarantee I’ll respond. I change the address whenever I move to a different city. When I start getting messages from people I don’t know, or if the messages stop bearing important information, I microwave the hard drive, pack my things into a duffel and start all over.

  My computer chirped again.

  I ran my fingers over my face and picked up the laptop from the desk next to my bed. There was one new message in my in-box. All of my e-mails get redirected through several anonymous forwarding services before they reach me. The data goes through servers in Iceland, Norway, Sweden and Thailand before it gets chopped up and sent to accounts all over the world. Anybody tracing the IP wouldn’t know which was the real one. This e-mail had arrived at my first offshore address in Reykjavik some two minutes ago, where the server had encrypted it with my private-key 128-bit cipher. From there it had been forwarded to another address registered under a different name. Then another address, then another. Oslo, Stockholm, Bangkok, Caracas, São Paulo. It was daisy-chained down the line ten times with a copy in each in-box. Cape Town, London, New York, L.A., Tokyo. Now it was undetectable, untraceable, private and anonymous. The information had circled the world almost twice before it got to me. It was in all these in-boxes, but my cipher key could unlock only one. I entered my pass code and waited for the message to decrypt. I could hear the hard drive doing a spin-up and the CPU beginning to work. Five in the morning.

  Outside the sky was empty, except for a few lights on in the skyscrapers, which looked like foggy constellations. I’ve never liked July. Where I’m from the whole summer is intolerably hot. The security monitors had browned out for a few seconds the night before, and I had to spend two hours checking them. I opened a window and put my fan next to it. I could smell the shipping yard outside—old cargo, garbage and salt water. Across the train tracks the bay stretched out like a giant oil slick. That early in the morning, only a half dozen or so headlights cut through the darkness. The fishing boats cast rigger beams over the nets, and the early ferries were setting off from the harbor. The fog rolled in from Bainbridge Island and through the city, where the rain stopped and the cargo express cast a shadow from the track going east. I took my watch off the windowsill and put it on. I wear a Patek Philippe. It doesn’t look like much, but it will tell the correct time until long after everyone I’ve ever known is dead and buried, the trains stop runn
ing and the bay erodes into the ocean.

  My encryption program made a noise. Done.

  I clicked on the message.

  The sender’s address had been obscured by all the redirects, but I knew instantly who it was from. Of the possibly thirty people who know how to contact me, only two knew the name in the subject line, and only one I knew for sure was alive.

  Jack Delton.

  My name isn’t really Jack. My name isn’t John, George, Robert, Michael or Steven, either. It isn’t any of the names that appear on my driver’s licenses, and it isn’t on my passports or credit cards. My real name isn’t anywhere, except maybe on a college diploma and a couple of school records in my safety-deposit box. Jack Delton was just an alias, and it was long since retired. I’d used it for a job five years ago and never again since. The words blinked on the screen with a little yellow tag next to them to show that the message was urgent.

  I clicked it.

  The e-mail was short. It read: Please call immediately.

  Then there was a phone number with a local area code.

  I stared at it for a moment. Normally, when I got a message like this, I wouldn’t even consider dialing the number. The area code was the same as mine. I thought about this for a second and came up with two conclusions. Either the sender had been extraordinarily lucky or he knew where I was. Considering the sender, it was probably the latter. There were a few ways he could’ve done it, sure, but none of them would’ve been easy or cheap. Just the possibility that I’d been found should have been enough to send me running. I have a policy never to call numbers I don’t know. Phones are dangerous. It is hard to track an encrypted e-mail through a series of anonymous servers. Tracking someone by their cell phone is easy, however. Even regular police can trace a phone, and regular police don’t deal with guys like me. Guys like me get the full treatment. FBI, Interpol, Secret Service. They have rooms full of officers for that sort of thing.