by K R Hill
“Thank you.” He nodded to the waitress and walked outside.
Now he was in the open, with only thirty-two steps to his sloop, held to the dock with nothing but mooring lines. Saunders aimed the pistol at everyone he passed: a merchant washing the sidewalk with steaming, soapy water, the businessman climbing from a new BMW, and a stocky woman with hairy legs, who shouted at her dog.
He paused at the corner. His legs felt stiff, and he could hardly walk. His chest heaved as though he were sobbing. The charts and pistol jumped about in his shaking hands. As he crossed the street, the field of his vision narrowed to a tunnel of clarity.
All he had to do was get to the ship and cast off, and then he could stand at the helm and watch the marina, watch Long Beach and his old life fade from sight. When he reached the far side of the street, the riggings of a hundred sailboats rattled in the breeze. Mooring lines creaked. Old wooden hulls moaned, calling to the sea. Saunders inhaled a deep breath and smiled.
Wearing jeans and a plaid shirt beneath a yellow rain jacket, he staggered along the dock and nodded at two workers sanding the woodwork of a little yawl. One of them slapped the paper on his sander, and a cloud of dust flew up. His helper answered Saunders’s nod by tapping the brim of his painter’s cap. That was a fatal mistake.
Saunders saw the microphone in his ear and the curly wire that disappeared beneath his collar. He aimed the gun, clicked off the safety and squeezed the handle. Anger raged through him like a strong electrical current, jolting awake old muscles and making him feel vibrant and young. For sixteen years he had outfoxed police and rivals in a cutthroat business, and these painters expected to capture him? “How did you find me?” he demanded.
The painter with the cap laughed and jumped back when he saw the weapon. “Don’t, mister. What are you–?”
The pistol jerked, and the painter staggered back against the ship, held on for an instant, slid along the hull, smearing it with blood as he dropped into the water.
“No one varnishes in winter,” said Saunders. He tossed the charts onto the deck of his sloop and raised the weapon.
The second man ran like a prancing child to the dock’s edge where his partner had fallen and jumped up and down, clapping his hands and making odd noises.
Saunders watched, ready to click off another round. Had the painter been autistic or handicapped? Was that why he wore the earphone? Had he killed an innocent man? He tucked the pistol under his belt and pulled a wooden staircase into place beside his ship. As he climbed on board, an electrical shock jolted him backward, and he fell to the dock, staring into the clear water so close to his face. Before he lost consciousness, he saw a piece of sandpaper drop into the water and float out of reach like a tiny ship.
***
Ringing filled his ears. His fingers tingled and his tongue was numb. When he opened his eyes, he was in a van with a high ceiling. Saunders groaned as first the ships in the marina, and then their masts, disappeared from sight. His mind cleared and he found it easier to move. "My God, they brought you back?” He stared at the man beside him.
Zakai smiled. "Do you think a man’s memories and surroundings can change him into the person he once was?”
"They risked bringing you into the country—for me?”
Chapter 16
When Connor got back to the office, he marched back and forth before the window while answering Bartholomew’s questions about the meeting with Artie.
“I told you I don’t know what he’s hiding. All I know is that Artie’s doing more than flip burgers.”
Bartholomew leaned over and shuffled through the books and files scattered about on the desk. He picked up a blue folder and took out the newspaper photo of Tia Alma, the General and himself, and held it out to Connor. “You should have showed him this. Maybe if he saw it, he could tell us what happened.”
Connor waved a hand through the air. “I told you he knows what happened. He won’t say because he promised dad he wouldn’t tell us.”
“Well, shit. That’s how everything is going. We get nowhere with Artie, and nowhere with the Ghrazenko case. You say you have a plan, but that’s stalled too, going nowhere. It’s all talk and no action. Nothing is happening.”
Connor looked at the ceiling and wiped his face. “Look,” he said, walking toward Bartholomew. “I know the thing with Artie means a lot to you.”
“That General might have been my father.” Bartholomew sat on the desk chair.
“Hey, I told you at the library that we were going to find out what happened, and we’re going to. But right now, I know what you need. Just follow me.” Connor grabbed his keys and his jacket and opened the door.
“Where we going?”
“Maybe if I show you the plan, let you see it and touch it, you’ll know that the whole fricking thing is about to take off like a sky rocket.”
Bartholomew pulled on his blazer. “Like a sky rocket, really? That pretty lame. What, am I a teenager?”
“Just shut up and follow me.”
They drove north on the 405 to Avalon Boulevard, and got off the freeway. In the distance people walked through the tube that covered the exterior staircase of the furniture amusement park named Ikea. After a few turns they reached their destination.
“That’s the stadium.”
Bartholomew leaned forward and picked up a pair of binoculars. “For Ghrazenko’s concert?”
Connor nodded.
“Dang, he’s going big time.”
Connor drove past the stadium entrance, cruised along the street, and followed a chain-link fence that separated the sidewalk from the parking lot. “There’ll be delivery vans and a lot of people moving in and out. The cash leaves two hours after the gates close. It’s transported in an armored truck. The truck has three possible routes. I know the one they’ll be taking when we hit them.”
Bartholomew lowered the binoculars. “So, all those nights when you said you had stuff to do, you were planning this take down?”
“I’ve been on Ghrazenko’s tail for six months. I visit his clubs, see his women, document his movements, and know the layout of his offices.”
“You better do your research with an operation this size.”
“I have every cash delivery documented and timed. When we move, it’ll be a military operation.”
Bartholomew set the binoculars in his lap and drank from a water bottle. “How do you get the guards to come out without blowing up the truck?”
“I got that covered.” At the end of the block Connor turned into a residential neighborhood. Tall pine trees lined the street; their branches connected high above, forming a tunnel. After a few turns they were back at the on-ramp.
“So tell me, the suspense is killing me. How do you get the guards out of the truck?”
“Give me a minute.” Connor flipped on his turn signal and merged onto the freeway, checking his mirror and leaning forward to get a better view of the lane beside him as he crossed from one lane to another. “We’re going to fill the truck with water. The guards will beg to get out.”
“In LA? You’re going to fill a truck with water? You can’t just borrow someone’s garden hose.” Bartholomew laughed.
Connor crossed to the far-right lane. “Right there, see it?” He pointed.
Beside the freeway was a graded construction site. Office trailers sat here and there. In the area near the freeway, wooden towers, rebar sticking out of the top of each, rose fifteen feet into the air. Across the dirt site, parked in a corner, sat a water truck with a large metal tank behind the cab.
“The water truck?” asked Bartholomew, rolling down his window.
Connor nodded and smiled. “It’s perfect. It’ll fill the truck in sixty seconds. We fill the truck halfway and tell the guards to open the back and throw out their weapons or drown.”
Bartholomew bounced against the back of his seat. He wiped his face and looked over. “What about the money? Won’t it get soaked?”
“It’s wrapped in
plastic.”
“And if they don’t open?”
“We walk away. Nobody dies. The plan is they open and we take the cash. That’s phase one.”
“What’s phase two?”
“The armored truck will hurt Ghrazenko, but it won’t put him on his knees. We need to make him vulnerable; if he needs help badly enough, he’ll give up the cartel members who ordered the hit.”
“Okay. How do we make him vulnerable?”
“My man on the inside says two extremely valuable paintings are arriving soon.”
“What? When did that happen?”
“Three days ago. I set it up. I’m posing as the buyer. We’re going to take the paintings and the cash.” He shrugged.
“All this was happening and I didn’t know about it? You’re starting a war.”
“Look, if we rob the truck, he claims the insurance and business is back to normal.”
“Got it,” said Bartholomew. “The paintings and the cash are off the books, no insurance to fall back on.”
“Our double sting will make Teddy look incompetent and weak. His own syndicate will eliminate him without a second thought. He’d do anything to avoid that.”
“We’re going to need some heavy-duty fire power.”
“I know a guy.”
“I’m not talking rusty old hand guns. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to need first-rate equipment.
“My guy can pick up everything we need. I already placed the order.”
“What if Ghrazenko senior sends reinforcements?”
“There’s not time. This whole thing is going to happen quickly. We get the goods and offer Teddy a deal. If he gives up the cartel names, his father will never know about the loss.”
Bartholomew nodded. “That might work.”
“So, why the sad face? What’s eating you?”
“It’s dad.”
“Yeah, I hear him too.”
He turned off the freeway and headed south along Ocean Boulevard. It was one of those rare overcast days in Southern California. As Connor pulled up to make a right, allowing the pedestrians to pass, he laughed.
“What’s funny?”
Connor pointed at the people crossing the street. “The temperature drops five degrees and everyone grabs a jacket. It’s that thin California blood.”
He drove through the neighborhood a couple of times before a car exited the dirt lot and left a vacant parking spot. Connor parked and locked the car. He walked along the sidewalk; he was a few houses from his building when he saw two big Russians in a black Mercedes.
“We have a welcoming party. Let’s go the back way,” said Bartholomew.
They headed back the way they’d come, turned the corner, and walked down the promenade toward the back door of the loft. When they got within twenty feet of the back door, they saw two plainclothes cops sitting on a park bench.
“Give my regards to Lieutenant Deutz,” said Connor, flipping the cops a quick salute.
“We’re here to make sure you’re safe,” called one of the officers, pulling down the paper around a sandwich.
Once they got back up to the office, Connor went to the whiteboard. The marker squeaked as he wrote, but the guitar ringtone of his cell phone made him set the marker down and answer the call. He spoke and waved to get Bartholomew’s attention.
“That was the guy.” Connor shoved his phone into a pocket. “He set up the buy with a guy named Saunders. I meet him tonight in a warehouse.” He rushed to the desk, sat, and slid forward to the edge of his chair. He rolled open a map and sat a glass on one edge to hold it.
“Is that the warehouse area?” asked Bartholomew.
“Yeah. Let’s get there a couple of hours early to check it out and make sure they haven’t set up a surprise.”
***
Connor parked the Mustang two blocks from the warehouse. He locked the car and walked along the street.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Bartholomew tapped the trunk lid.
“We’re two hours early. Leave your weapon in the trunk. We’re just gunna look the place over. Then we’ll come back and grab the hardware for the buy. Come on, we’ll only be gone for a few minutes.”
“This is a bad area at night.”
“You pussy.” Connor smiled, pulled on a black cap and hurried along, crouching low. When he reached the old train tracks, he sprinted fifty yards and dropped to the warped, oil-stained planks of a loading dock.
When Bartholomew trotted over, Connor jumped up and ran around the corner of the graffiti-covered warehouse. Halfway along the wall he reached a rusted ladder and climbed several steps before it broke and he crashed to the ground. “Oh, fuck,” he said, sitting up and brushing himself off.
“You landed on your ass. Stop whining. Why are you going to the roof? Let’s just hide somewhere and wait.”
“Shut up.” Connor stood up and kicked the piece of the ladder that had broken off. He rubbed his hands together and looked up at the remaining section of ladder.
“You want me to help you up?” Bartholomew laughed and locked his hands together and offered them as a step.
Connor jumped and grabbed the bottom rung, swung a few times, and pushed off the tin siding of the warehouse with a foot and pulled himself up. When he reached the roof, he said, “That wasn’t so tough. Even you could do it.”
Connor lay panting, searching the darkness for movement as wisps of fog floated past. When he heard Bartholomew climbing, he stood up and walked to the front of the warehouse. There he lay down, peering over the edge at the weed-covered parking lot. Ten minutes passed before a pair of black Mercedes vans turned into the lot and parked beside the warehouse.
Two men jumped from each vehicle and stood guard. The laser sights on their military rifles cast red dots on the pavement. One of the guards spoke into a microphone, and several men climbed from the vans and hurried to the warehouse, flanked by the guards.
"What the fuck? Those are professionals.” Connor pressed his cheek to the roof. “I got a bad feeling about this.”
Bartholomew crawled over and whispered, “Good thing we left our weapons in the trunk.”
“We’re two hours early. How was I supposed to know they’d be here?”
"What are they doing?"
“Come on, Bart. Something’s wrong. Let's get out of here.” Connor climbed to his feet.
"No, let’s stay and listen. They don’t know we’re here.”
"Listen, hell. We don’t have a bullet between us. I’m not suicidal."
"Please, get Falsen!” someone screamed below. “He took your money.”
"Bart, what are you doing?”
Bartholomew lowered a leg over the side of the warehouse. “Come on. Let’s find out what’s going on. The window is right here. Just hang on to me."
Connor crawled to the edge of the building.
“Okay,” whispered Bartholomew. “Hold on. I’ll try to get a look.” He lowered himself over the side.
“Can you see anything?”
“No. Can you wipe the window?”
“Only if I let go of you, and I’d kind of like to.”
Bartholomew twisted and raised his leg and wiped the dirty glass with a knee. “I got it now. Here,” he said, climbing up. “You take a look.”
“I’m not hanging out there in the open.”
Bartholomew clucked like a chicken.
“Really? Are we back in fourth grade?”
“You’re the one who wanted to check the place. Do you want to see or not, you pussy?”
“And you’re going to hold onto me?”
“You owe me ten grand. Hell, yes.” Bartholomew laughed.
Through the window, Connor saw across the warehouse. Several well-dressed men, whose suits varied only slightly in shades of blue, stood in a half circle beside some old industrial equipment. Above them hung a frame of yellow beams, and a man was bound to one of the girders.
“I’m not watching this.” Connor clim
bed up, but stopped and peered through the window again when he heard voices.
Out across the warehouse, he saw a tall man with gray hair clap his hands and walk from the shadows. "We’re here because this prisoner, Saunders, stole from the Ghrazenkos."
The prisoner jerked at his bindings and shouted, “I did not steal the money. I have served the Ghrazenkos for sixteen years. Mr. Zakai, you have to believe me.”
The gray-haired man stepped forward and sliced the prisoner’s shirt apart with a dagger.
“No, Zakai,” screamed the prisoner.
"My God." Connor’s stomach contracted and he vomited. The contents of his stomach splattered on the pavement below. “Bart, pull me up. Wait.”
Dangling twenty feet above the ground, he fought and managed to place his arms up on the roof, then he froze.
Two guards stepped out of the door beneath him, walked behind the vans, and stood relieving themselves.
Now it was real. The fear, the stress, the animal instinct to survive, all flooded over him and memory took him back to his days in the Rangers, face covered with blackout, weapon against his shoulder as he walked through the jungle. Connor raised his leg and hooked it on the roof, his breaths heaving in and out, heart pounding so hard he thought everyone could hear.
He was almost back to the safety of the roof when his cell phone rang with a Grateful Dead guitar riff that sounded feeble and far away.
Men shouted.
Connor almost flew onto the roof. Bullets exploded through the tar paper a foot from his face. A beam of light shone through each bullet hole like a lethal spear jabbing at him. Bits of wood and dust flew up and covered his face.
"They're on the roof!” someone shouted. “Get on the roof."
Connor turned in a circle, searching for a way down. "They'll be up the stairs in a few seconds. We got to jump.”
“Twenty feet? To asphalt?”
“No, you see how tall those vans are? If I land in the center, the roof will cave in and buffer my fall like a mattress.” Connor leaned forward and peeked over the edge. The second he did, a burst from an automatic weapon tore holes through the roof. Bullets ricocheted.
“I’m not waiting around while you figure out how to get down.” Bartholomew pulled off his belt and ran to what looked like an electrical shed. Bolted to one corner of the structure was a metal pole with a cable attached. He climbed on top of the shed.
