by Jeremy Brown
The road dead-ended into another going north and south, and when they stopped Connelly got out and set the farmer’s phone in a nest of grass and covered it enough so it wouldn’t stand out, but wouldn’t be impossible to find either.
He got back into the truck and Rison turned south onto the road that would take them three miles before ending in a T intersection just west of the main crossroads in town.
Connelly said, “When you get to the road, turn right if you can.”
“I know,” Rison said.
“That’s the fastest way to Nora’s from here.”
“Okay.”
“Unless we can see a checkpoint off that way, to the west. If that happens, turn left. Then a quick right, the first road you see. That’s gonna be Dolan Street.”
“Yep.”
Rison’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
Connelly was talking around what everyone knew: If things turned bad, it was likely to happen while they tried to get across the main east-west road.
Four lanes, totally exposed, with backed-up traffic and flat lines of sight for miles.
They’d all agreed, if the Romanians had a block set up to the west, they probably wouldn’t have another one until the crossroads in the middle of town.
Rison’s job was to get across the highway as quickly as possible, whether that meant going right or left before diving south again and getting off the four-lane shooting gallery.
No other vehicles were on their road, which Bruder found good and bad.
Good, because they didn’t have to worry about more farmers or Romanian patrols.
Bad, because the only moving vehicle would attract more attention.
Especially if the Romanians had mandated some sort of no-fly zone or curfew, and everyone else in town was hunkered down.
The three miles went by fast, and they all watched the main road pull closer.
The houses and blocks on both sides of their road blocked the east-west corridor except for a narrow window, straight ahead, and nothing moved across the gap.
Then, when they were a quarter-mile away, a big rig pulling a livestock trailer idled left to right.
“Okay,” Connelly said. “He just came from the crossroads, and he’s in no hurry. So they got something set up to the west, right?”
“Makes sense,” Rison said. He braced an elbow on the console and pushed himself up, then dropped back down, getting set for whatever he needed to do.
“So plan on going left.”
“I know, I know.”
Bruder watched the road ahead.
When they got to the residential blocks, he checked driveways and garages out the passenger side and Kershaw did the same on the drivers.
If the Romanians had a blocking team staged out here, watching and ready to close off the road behind the truck, that team would be the ones first to die.
“Another truck,” Rison said.
Bruder glanced through the windshield and saw another rig creeping left to right.
Then a car drove right to left, in the far lanes, going a little faster than the truck but still looking like it was in no hurry, prepared to stop once it got to the crossroads.
“Left then right,” Connelly said. “Left then right. Dolan.”
Rison said, “Shut up, I got it.”
They came to the road and stopped.
Bruder saw the western checkpoint off to the right, maybe a half-mile away.
It looked like a pickup truck and a police car parked nose-to-nose, blocking both lanes. Then the police car backed up to let a vehicle through before closing the lane off again.
Rison said, “Oh, shit.”
Bruder glanced at him, then followed his attention toward the crossroads, four blocks to the east.
The van they’d watched pull into the intersection was still there. They could see at least two men walking around, checking the vehicles as they approached and stopped.
Rison said, “Check the rooftops.”
They all bent down to look up and saw two more men standing on top of the buildings at opposite corners.
“I see long guns,” Kershaw said. “And binoculars.”
“Shit,” Rison repeated.
Connelly said, “They must be turning people away further out of town. There should be a lot more incoming traffic backed up.”
“Just the rigs,” Bruder said. “They’re just letting the rigs through. Any cars or trucks we see, they must be local.”
“We can’t sit here any longer,” Rison said. “They’re gonna spot us.”
Connelly pointed on a diagonal to the left.
“Left then right,” Connelly said. “Scoot across and make that first turn. Dolan, right there.”
“Right, I’ll just scoot across…no big deal. You guys ready?”
“Go,” Bruder said, “but easy. Don’t let the truck off its leash yet. Windows down.”
They got the windows down and Rison blew out a slow breath as he pulled onto the four lanes and turned toward the crossroads.
He recited to himself, “Easy. Easy. Easy.”
Another big rig passed on their left.
It would have been nice to have one right in front of them, a lead blocker, but there wasn’t.
Rison feathered the gas along the block and drifted into the far right lane.
Bruder could hear men shouting, but it sounded like communication and orders given in a semi-loud environment, not alarms.
“Okay,” Rison said. “Okay, here we go.”
He eased the wheel to the right, rolling into the turn to get them onto Dolan and off the runway.
Halfway through the turn one of the shouts got louder, more urgent, then something thumped into the driver’s side of the truck.
The rifle crack followed a split second later.
“Go,” Bruder said, and Rison floored it.
Part Three
Chapter Thirteen
When the explosives knocked the wheels off the armored truck, Razvan was a few miles away at the compound eating sausage and toast.
The place was actually a farm, foreclosed and purchased in cash five years prior, but Razvan refused to call it that and wouldn’t allow anyone else in his crew to utter the word.
He’d grown up on a damn farm in Lehliu Gară and nearly starved to death when their land got flooded because some committee decided to build a dam in a place he’d never heard of, across the border in Bulgaria, so what was the point of busting his ass to come to this country and work his way up in Chicago, then find and leverage this little corner of Iowa, just to live on another farm?
So, no.
It was a compound.
He was starting in on his third piece of sausage when the cellphone rang.
He took his time wiping his hands and face before reaching for it.
His family and close friends called him the Groapă, which meant pit, hollow, and sometimes grave. His metabolism had never recovered from the time back home when he’d almost died, and since then he could eat all day and not feel full or gain a pound.
It was like dumping food into a pit, a groapă.
He checked the screen and saw it was Benj calling.
“Yes.”
“Raz, there is a problem.”
Benj said, “I haven’t seen the truck yet.”
Razvan checked his watch.
The truck should have passed Benj’s spot four minutes ago.
“Did you call Pavel?”
“Yes, no answer.”
“Go look for him. Call me back.”
Razvan ended the call.
Benj was on the side of the highway where Pine ran into the four lanes, waiting for the money truck. When it arrived, he and some of the other vehicles staged further along the route would follow it out of town and keep an eye on things until the crew from Chicago took over the babysitting duties in Dubuque.
But apparently the truck hadn’t arrived yet.
Four minutes…
Pav
el and Costel knew to call if there was any trouble or delay, even it was just thumping into a deer and they had to get out to wipe the truck off.
So four minutes was too long.
Razvan wasn’t worried about any of the farmers or other locals when it came to the money.
They knew better than to mess with it, which would mean messing with him and his men.
Not possible.
When he’d first arrived in the town it had taken some work—first the bribes for the right officials, then a few burned barns and houses, a few vanished people, some others left where they could be found—before the locals realized the new reality.
And when they did, the chance of them causing any trouble had dropped to zero.
But the old Italians in Kansas City weren’t too happy about Razvan being in Iowa, and they’d made some quiet threats about going north to do some hunting.
They didn’t know anything about the farming subsidies scam Razvan had going—they thought it was just a group of Romanian thugs picking on some hillbillies—and Razvan knew it was only a matter of time before someone somewhere said the wrong thing, and the Italians would come looking for a cut.
Was that time now?
He shook his head and thumped bony knuckles into his temple, a mild punishment for getting too comfortable.
Five years he’d been pulling this off without a problem, and that success should have made him more wary instead of less.
He should have had Benj follow the truck from the compound rather than sit and watch the intersection for any trouble.
Luca and Claudiu were at the main crossroads—he should have brought them up to Benj’s spot.
But he only had so many men, and the stretch of Pine between the compound’s road and the highway was a ghost town. Any sort of ambush or attack would be visible for at least a mile.
Had Pavel and Costel done something stupid?
No.
Also not possible.
Their families were all from the same village, they were basically brothers.
And Pavel and Costel knew what would happen to their families back home if they stole from Razvan.
He thumped his head again.
The first two years he’d been inside the money truck all the way to Chicago with his men spread in front and behind like a parade, but nothing happened and it was a waste of time and manpower, so now he used the phones and waypoints and sent the rest of the men around town to make sure the locals weren’t too upset about the whole thing.
This sometimes, meant gifts, or extra muscle to help move some bales of this or that, or extra muscle to hold someone’s head underwater until they stopped being upset.
He picked the phone up and started calling them to tell them to get their asses into town.
If this was a false alarm, no problem.
They could just go back to whatever they’d been doing.
But if it wasn’t—if something happened to his money—his killers would go to work.
When Benj called two minutes later Razvan was already in his truck, speeding down the compound road toward the right turn onto Pine, northwest of the railroad tunnel.
Benj yelled, “Pavel and Costel, they’re tied up! The truck is destroyed, the wheels are gone. Well, they’re here, but not on the truck anymore.”
“The money,” Razvan said, bringing Benj around to the only thing that mattered.
“Gone. It’s all gone. I passed a white truck on my way here, the only vehicle on the road. It must have been them.”
“White truck?”
“Yes, full of men.”
Razvan hung up on him and called Luca.
“Raz, what’s going on? Is the truck delayed?”
“It’s been robbed.”
“What!”
“Listen: Have you seen a white truck go through town?”
“A white truck? I don’t…hold on.”
Razvan heard him talking to Claudiu in the background.
“We don’t think so. I mean, maybe, but not one that stood out. Is that who took the money? Are Pavel and Costel okay?”
“I don’t know. Shut the roads down. Check everyone who comes through. If it’s a white truck full of men, show them guns and get them out of the truck.”
“Okay, sure. You’ll tell the police it’s okay?”
“Don’t worry about the police.”
Razvan stopped on the northwest side of the tunnel and slashed his way through the tarp.
It was dark in the tunnel, nearly pitch black, but Benj had a flashlight on the ground next to his feet. He was crouched in front of Pavel and Costel, sitting with their backs against the concrete wall.
Razvan snatched the flashlight up and pointed it into the back of the truck.
Empty, like Benj had said.
He looked at the doors and saw the shear marks from the explosives, then stabbed the beam at Pavel and Costel.
They blinked in the light and held their hands up, but Razvan could still see their faces, a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and shame.
They hadn’t done this.
“Meet me on the other side,” Razvan said.
He threw the flashlight at Benj and went back out to his truck, a Ford F-250, and drove it up the slope on the right side of the tunnel. He bumped over the train tracks and went down the other side, keeping the truck straight so it wouldn’t roll, and stopped next to Benj’s Tacoma.
The three men were standing there, waiting.
Pavel and Costel looked dazed and grimy from whatever they’d been through, but that was their problem.
Razvan said, “Pavel, get in with me. Tell me what happened. Costel, ride with Benj and tell him.”
Everyone started moving, and Razvan watched the two men for any glances of anxiety or agreement.
He’d grill Benj about it later, and if the stories didn’t match up, he’d have to revisit his decision about their involvement. Maybe with a blowtorch.
But they didn’t seem concerned about being split up, and Pavel told the story while Razvan pushed the truck to its top speed all the way to the main crossroads, slowing down once, just enough to make the turn from Pine.
White truck.
Four men.
And if Luca and Claudiu were right, these men were still here, somewhere.
Razvan parked in the middle of the crossroads and ignored the cars and trucks backed up in all four directions while he got out and walked to Luca and Claudiu.
Luca was big-boned with dark hair all over his head and face and small black eyes.
Claudiu looked like a slob, but his stooped shoulders and bored expression hid the brute strength and tenacity of a true sadist.
Razvan towered over the two men like a sentinel pine—albeit a narrow one—next to two shrubs. He wanted the people in the vehicles to see him so they would know things were being sorted out and dealt with, and so they wouldn’t open their mouths to complain.
Luca said, “We’ve been talking, and the white truck has not passed through here. Everyone we’ve seen since the money left the compound has been someone we recognize, or a rig.”
Now Razvan scanned the windshields while he listened. Local, familiar faces were on the other side of most of them, and none of those eyes met his.
They knew the drill.
Some of the big rigs had strangers at the wheel, but those men pulled loads of livestock and grain and manure, and they showed the patience of veteran haulers, accustomed to stopping for no apparent reason.
No one touched a horn.
Claudiu glanced at Razvan’s truck with Pavel inside, then Benj’s truck with Costel in the passenger seat.
“No one got hurt, eh?”
“I don’t think they did this,” Razvan said, quelling any ideas Claudiu might have about interrogations.
“But did they put up a fight?”
“Pavel said it happened too fast. The thieves disabled the truck. Pavel and Costel had to decide: Stay in the truck with the money and wait for re
inforcements or get out and try to fight with pistols against automatic rifles.”
Luca said, “Four men with machine guns?”
Razvan nodded.
“That’s what they tell me. While they were deciding what to do, the thieves blew the back doors open. The details are limited after that. But they remember the white truck, and Benj passed it on his way to the tunnel. He saw it turn toward town.”
“It didn’t come through here,” Luca said again.
Razvan turned to look west along the four lanes.
“So they are over there, somewhere. North or south of the highway. Driving around or hiding.”
He told Claudiu, “Get your car, take the north side. Make calls, check with our contacts. Someone has seen them. And these men, they’ve scouted us. So they know the area, but not as well as us. Check the dead spots first, where they think no one will go.”
Claudiu didn’t seem thrilled about it, like this errand was taking him out of the action. He spat on the pavement on the way to his car and didn’t say anything to Pavel when he passed Razvan’s truck.
Razvan waved Benj over and told him, “Put Costel in my truck, then check the south quadrant.”
He gave him the same directives as Claudiu, but Benj accepted the mission with enthusiasm and made sure Pavel and Costel both had bottles of water before he sped off and turned south into the side streets.
Then Razvan called Grigore and Mihail, who were stuck out on the highway east of town in separate vehicles, where they’d been waiting for the money truck to pass. They knew the situation and were slowly working to get past all the backed-up vehicles.
Razvan told Grigore, “Come through the northeastern quadrant, just to be sure. They may have slipped through the neighborhoods.”
“If they are there, we’ll find them,” Grigore said, and hung up.
Razvan was dialing a number in Chicago when Luca said, “Police.”
Razvan put the phone away and watched Sheriff Wern’s truck coming from the south, driving in the middle of the empty south-bound lanes with his flashers on but no siren.
The sheriff, who was reasonably tall but soft and fat around the waist, stopped next to Razvan and stayed in his truck, like he didn’t want to be seen standing next to the Romanian.
