The Box

by Jeremy Brown

  He walked past the two Romanians without looking at them and wiggled his eyebrows at Rison as they passed each other in the tunnel, then put the cases in the back of the white truck.

  When he got back to the tarp, he held it open so Kershaw and Rison could get through, each of them carrying two duffel bags on their first trip to the truck.

  Connelly went to the back of the armored car, where Bruder had stacked the bags, and got two for himself. He tried to do a quick count of the remaining bags and thought there might be six or eight left, maybe more.

  He grinned and hefted his two and had to laugh.

  “Holy shit!”

  They were awkward and heavy and sagged, but Connelly didn’t mind.

  When it came to cash, the heavier the better.

  Bruder took the last two bags and carried them past the two bound and hooded men.

  Kershaw hadn’t bothered to gag them—no one would be able to hear them hollering until they stood right outside the tunnel, and at that point whoever was out there would come inside anyway.

  Bruder saw two cell phones on the concrete next to them, both smashed.

  Inside his hood the driver repeated, “You’re dead for this. You’re fucking dead for this.”

  Over and over.

  Bruder ignored him and hauled the duffel bags to the truck and shoved them into the back with the others. He put his rifle into one of the open hard cases next to Kershaw’s, then closed the case.

  He turned to the crew.

  “We got everything?”

  Kershaw and Rison both nodded, and Connelly said, “All packed.”

  Bruder shut the tailgate and cap and got into the front passenger seat.

  Kershaw drove, and Connelly and Rison got into the crew cab seats.

  They drove southeast along Pine, six miles of straight road until it ended in an angled T intersection with a four-lane road—technically a highway—going east-west. This was where the vast majority of the area’s traffic was, and most of it only slowed down for the one traffic light in the middle of town.

  The end of Pine was a quarter mile ahead when they watched a pickup truck pull off the shoulder of the eastbound highway lanes and curl into a tight U-turn so it could take a quick right and come straight at them.

  “Who’s this?” Kershaw said.

  Bruder said, “Doesn’t matter.”

  The pickup came on fast, then seemed to slow when it got close to the DOT truck. The male driver frowned at them through the windshield, then through the driver’s window as they passed each other.

  Kershaw brought a hand up to his face to stifle a fake cough while covering his nose and mouth, as effective as the balaclava without causing suspicion.

  The pickup drifted into their wake, then its engine climbed as it picked up speed toward the tunnel.

  Bruder checked the passenger mirror.

  “He’s moving. He’s looking for the armored car.”

  “I thought they didn’t have lookouts,” Rison said.

  Bruder ignored that.

  He told Kershaw, “Get us out of town.”

  When they got to the intersection with the highway Kershaw turned left and headed due east toward the town.

  No other vehicles took the turn to head toward the tunnel.

  Connelly said, “We got time. We got time.”

  Which was either true or not, but they wouldn’t know until they got out of town.

  The town was mostly a collection of old brick and wooden slat buildings around a traffic light and post-war middle-class housing spreading out into the countryside, where some newer, richer estates had been built among the ancient farmhouses.

  During their scouting runs Bruder noticed the farmhouses all had barns and machines and equipment worth exponentially more than the actual house on the property, and he respected it. The right tools were important.

  Kershaw drove two miles above the speed limit as they came to the first houses on the western edge of town. The land in and around the town—pretty much everywhere they’d gone in Iowa—was just as flat as around the tunnel, and Bruder could see all the way through the intersection to the other side.

  They were coming up on the turn that would take them north to the tertiary hideout, a hunting camp trailer no one had used in years, tucked in the woods off a two-track.

  Kershaw glanced at Bruder, who shook his head. There was no reason to hole up this close to the job—better to keep moving and put as many miles behind them as possible while they still could.

  Then, in the middle of the town, right under the traffic light, a dark red van skidded to a stop and the front doors opened.

  Two men got out and looked around.

  “What have we here?” Kershaw said.

  A blue pickup truck coming from the south slowed and stopped in the intersection, even though he had the green light.

  One of the men approached the driver’s side and looked in, then waved the truck through.

  Kershaw said, “Turn it around?”

  Bruder shook his head again.

  If they pulled a U-turn and went west, it was forty miles of highway with no turnoffs. If someone came after them or called ahead, it would be like trying to escape an alley.

  Going east, they had major north and south options within five miles, and motel rooms waiting in Minnesota.

  Rison had parked clean vehicles at the motel and stocked the rooms with provisions, empty luggage, and cash counting machines to make splitting the cash four ways easier.

  But they had to get through town first, and that wasn’t going to happen.

  “Make the turn,” Bruder said.

  Kershaw worked the brakes and turned north and kept to the posted speed.

  Bruder took his pistol out and heard the two men in the back do the same.

  Kershaw glanced at him again.

  “You think we’re burned?”

  Bruder shook his head again.

  He didn’t know.

  But whatever was happening, it wasn’t good.

  Chapter Two

  Three miles along the northbound road they turned left, sped through another two miles with fields on both sides, then cut north again.

  They didn’t see any other people—bearded or not—stopping traffic to see who was inside the passing vehicles.

  The two-track was on the left, a mile or so along the second northbound road. It didn’t have a mailbox or a gate, just two bent metal stakes with a rusty chain stretched between them a few yards off the road. Three warped No Trespassing signs were nailed to trees near the track, barely legible from the rust and pocks from .22 bullets.

  The nearest house was a half mile further down on the other side of the road, and its driveway was long enough for them to need Google Map’s satellite view to look at the house. From space, it was rustic with some overgrown junk in the yard and an above-ground pool full of leaves and sticks.

  So possibly abandoned, and even if there was someone in residence, the road was straight and flat enough for the crew to see them coming with plenty of warning—if anyone saw them using the two-track, they were burned for sure.

  The two wheel ruts went into thick woods full of tall gray trees, their trunks angling for an advantage while the branches tussled with each other. Here and there an oak still had thin, stubborn brown leaves clinging to the twigs. Thirty yards in the two-track made a hard right to avoid a mucky patch, and after that it was hidden from the road.

  The chain had been attached to the stakes with wire so old it had flaked and snapped as soon as Bruder tried to unwind it two weeks earlier during a scouting run. Since then, the chain was kept in place by short pieces of bronze baling wire, the closest thing they could find to the original.

  Kershaw stopped at the chain and Bruder got out, unhooked one end and carried it across.

  The truck rolled forward and took the first curve and stopped. Bruder re-hooked the chain, then used a dead tree branch to fluff the dead grass between the wheel ruts and sweep t
he tire tracks from the dusting of snow.

  He straightened up and examined his work. The tracks were still obvious to him, but he knew exactly what to look for. Any civilians driving by wouldn’t notice them, he figured, but there were some non-civilians on the prowl…and folks in the Midwest were notorious for checking on their neighbor’s property when something didn’t look right, even if the neighbor who owned the land lived in another state and hadn’t been back for years.

  Bruder knew about the out-of-state part because they had checked the local property tax records. The part about not being back in years was an educated guess based on the condition of the place.

  While Bruder was standing there scowling at the ground a gust of wind kicked up and pushed the snow around and did a much better job of concealing their tracks.

  He didn’t know of any ways to make the wind blow faster and harder, so he tossed the branch into the woods and got in the truck.

  “Good as it’s going to get.”

  Kershaw took his foot off the brake and let the truck’s idle speed carry it forward. The tires jounced in and out of small pits and over tree roots and rocks. The track curved left and the trees around it grew denser, tangled with wild grape and thorns and climbing vines, some of them as thick as Bruder’s wrist.

  After a few hundred yards of tilting and bouncing and taking slight curves left and right the truck broke into a small clearing with a single-wide trailer, a wooden outhouse, and a burn barrel so rusty it looked more like a sieve.

  Everything was overgrown, with tufts of tall brown field grass sprouting in random spots and a few brave mini-copses of sumac venturing into the clearing to see what would happen.

  Kershaw drove the truck around the back of the trailer so it wouldn’t be seen from the two-track and killed the engine.

  Everyone got out and met at the back.

  “Divvy time?” Connelly said.

  Bruder shook his head.

  “Not yet.”

  He opened the hard cases and started passing out the long guns, one for each man, then closed the back of the truck again.

  Connelly said, “What, the money stays here?”

  Rison, who hadn’t said much the entire ride, said, “You want to haul it all back in here if those assholes come out of the woodwork?”

  “I guess not,” Connelly said. “I’m just curious about how much the take is.”

  Bruder said, “It’s zero if we can’t get out of here with it. Get the winter gear on and go watch the road. Rison, go inside and see what you can find out.”

  Rison nodded and hustled toward the trailer.

  Connelly reached for the bundle of insulated turkey hunting camouflage in the back of the truck.

  “What are you guys gonna do?”

  Bruder said, “We still have three explosive charges left. We’re gonna make a line in the sand.”

  Rison stepped up into the hunting trailer and closed the flimsy door.

  The place had been gutted long ago of anything resembling comfort and looked like a subway car without any seats or poles. It was cold inside because of the thin walls and broken windows, and it smelled like mouse piss and moldy wood and tomato soup. He took a moment to turn on one of the kerosene heaters to feel a little more civilized and beat back the odors.

  He’d take the fumes, as long as the broken windows could keep up the ventilation.

  Stacks of boxed and canned food and shrink-wrapped trays of bottled water were against one wall, along with rolled-up sleeping bags and duffel bags full of clothes and other gear.

  He went to a small card table with folding legs surrounded by four collapsible camp chairs and turned on the police scanner and the small color TV, both of them powered by an array of batteries Kershaw had rigged up; a generator would make too much noise.

  The TV had an antennae, which Rison hadn’t seen in probably twenty years, and he was out of practice moving the wands around to get a clear picture. Then he found something local showing a game show and turned the volume down but kept an eye on the screen for any breaking news.

  He needed answers, right now.

  Rison was just under six feet tall and built like a cornerback, with wide shoulders and a thick neck and narrow waist. When he wasn’t working with men like Bruder he was a professional poker player based out of Vegas, and jobs like this bankrolled him for months at a time, sometimes a year or more if he hit a good streak.

  He adjusted the heater while he waited for the TV and scanner to give him something.

  When in Vegas he lived in hotels, either comped or as a paying civilian when things weren’t going his way. Being based in Vegas gave him access to all sorts of heist training disguised as tourist attractions, like semi- and full-auto shooting ranges, tactical driving schools, and endless opportunities to observe world-class security systems and teams.

  He enjoyed the driving courses the most. The crew out at the tactical driving school thought he was just a bored gambler with too much money, but over the years Rison had developed driving skills that put him on the same level as anyone on the Secret Service’s presidential detail.

  Standing there in the hunting trailer, he tried not to think of what he’d do when they got out of this.

  A typical day would have him in the gym right about now, or at the spa, in the sauna or getting a massage, then getting his hair and beard taken care of. He dyed them both black to hide the flecks of gray creeping in. He liked the look of it, dark and dangerous and Connelly relished giving him endless shit about it.

  But Rison could take it and play along. Connelly was clever but not cruel about busting chops, and even though Rison assumed Bruder thought he was a fool for caring so much about his appearance he never mentioned it.

  He told himself this stress and third-world existence was temporary, and soon enough he’d be back in Vegas getting his espresso and fresh fruit juice as he left the spa, headed for the pool or the tables based on how things were going.

  He glared at the TV and scanner, willing them to provide clarity.

  This whole job was his idea, and something had gone horribly wrong.

  Connelly threw the turkey hunting parka on over his coveralls and carried the rifle back toward the road.

  The parka had a pattern of white and tan and gray strokes to blend in with a variety of cold-weather backdrops.

  Connelly looked at his surroundings, then checked the parka, and decided Iowa was solidly within the palette.

  He kept to the two-track until the final turn, then stepped off into the woods on the right side and picked his way through the scrub brush and vines, surprised to see some of the stuff still had small green leaves this time of year.

  He spotted a deadfall off to his left a bit and went that way. It had a ragged stump as high as his chest and a mess of branches and bent saplings in the crook between the stump and fallen trunk. He looked back toward the two-track, maybe twenty yards away, and liked it.

  He was at one corner of a rough square, with the intersection of the road and two-track at the opposite corner. The deadfall would shield him from any traffic coming from the south, back toward town, and the camouflage and underbrush would be enough to hide him from anyone coming from the north, if he could hold still.

  Connelly kicked his way into the spot, not caring about noise since the only other living creature he could see was a crow eyeballing him from the branches of a barren tree and sat down in the snow with his back to the stump.

  He waited for the cold and wet ground to seep through his clothes, but it didn’t happen.

  Impressed by the canvas coveralls, he pulled his balaclava up to keep his face warm and hide the steam from his breath. Then he made sure the AR-15 was on safe and tucked it under the parka so it wouldn’t make a hard black profile and ruin his fine little nest.

  Bruder mostly stayed out of the way and listened for trouble while Kershaw checked the remaining explosive charges and got them ready to use as perimeter defenses.

  He was finis
hing with the second one when Bruder had a thought while staring at the duffel bags of money.

  “Hold on,” he said.

  He dragged one of the bags out and dropped it near the open tailgate, then pulled on another.

  Kershaw stepped back, confused.

  “I thought we were leaving them loaded.”

  “That was assuming we’re driving out of here,” Bruder said.

  He made a base layer of bags and stacked them in a tight ring, making a tower as high as his knee. He pointed at the hollow core.

  “Put the third charge there.”

  Kershaw frowned at him.

  Bruder said, “If it comes down to it, the Romanians might care more about getting the money than us. The remote for this charge might be our only way out of here.”

  “You think it’ll get to that point?”

  Bruder shrugged.

  “They responded a lot faster than we expected. There’s no point in having any expectations going forward, just contingencies.”

  Kershaw blew air out of puffed cheeks, like he couldn’t believe what he was about to do, then set the small satchel of explosives in the center of the bags.

  Bruder set the rest of the bags on top to tamp the explosion and make sure it destroyed as much of the cash as possible.

  They both stepped back and looked at the dome of mismatched bags.

  There were twelve of them, each one more than half full of cash.

  “How much you think?” Kershaw said.

  Bruder reached down and unzipped the closest bag. He could see banded stacks of twenties and fifties, with a few stacks of hundreds peeking out.

  He closed the bag and surveyed the pile again, then shook his head.

  “No way to tell until we put it through the counters. Might be the fourteen million we’re expecting. Give or take.”

  Kershaw gave a low whistle, then held the remote out for Bruder to take.

  “I’d never sleep again if I accidentally blew up fourteen million dollars.”

  “Give or take,” Bruder said, and took the remote.