the Second Horseman (2006)

by Kyle Mills

  They came around the corner in a perfect line, the unmarked white Peterbilt pulling a similarly unmarked white trailer, flanked by two nondescript Ford Tauruses.

  They eased into the station and all three drivers got out. Brandon watched from behind a snack cake display as the guards looked around the station and, not registering a threat, went for the pumps. The truck didn't need refueling and the driver headed for the bathrooms. When he reappeared, he lit a cigarette and stood just outside the door.

  The poodle began to bark right on cue, and its new owners cooed convincingly as they shepherded it toward the pumps. Still no recognition of threat from the guards. More like vague amusement.

  Brandon started across the small store, opening the door, and stepping outside. At the sound of the little bell screwed to the frame, the quiet gas station erupted.

  Pistols appeared from the pastel waistbands of the formerly innocuous gay couple's pants and the two body-armor-clad men hiding alongside the building burst out holding submachine guns.

  "Anybody who moves is dead!" one of the men said. Brandon wasn't sure who, but the delivery was perfect. He almost threw his own hands up.

  The team fanned out in a maneuver that could only be described as elegant, with one pistol-wielding and one machine-gun-wielding man covering each guard from an angle that wouldn't allow a stray bullet to hit anything that could blow them all up. Neither of the chase-car drivers -- both formidable-looking men -- had any chance to react at all. Surprise and fear crossed their faces for a moment, replaced quickly by anger and resolve as they slowly raised their hands.

  The truck driver nearly sucked in his cigarette, freezing for a good three count before turning to run and finding himself staring down the barrel of Brandon's unloaded pistol.

  "Relax, man. Keep smoking," Brandon said, locking the door without taking his eyes off the driver. Based on their information, he wasn't going to present any real problems. He wasn't a former cop or anything and not even much of a tough guy as truck drivers went. Plus, he'd been married for twenty-four years and had two girls in college. That kind of a lifestyle had a way of making a man sensible.

  "Are you guys fucking crazy?" someone shouted over little Pierre's barking. "Do you have any idea how much security there is on this truck? There is no way you can get away with this. But you might still be able to run . . ."

  Brandon grabbed the driver by the shoulder and pushed him in the direction of his two companions, who were now lined up against the pumps.

  "Gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please," Brandon said, leaving the driver under the watchful eye of one of his armored colleagues and jumping up on the hood of a Taurus. "Obviously, we want what's in this truck. Now, I understand that some of you have police backgrounds and are good at what you do, but we've spent years planning and training for this and we're professionals, too. There's no reason for anyone to get hurt. Plan A doesn't include any violence at all. But most of our backup plans end up with all of you dead. In fact, I think it's fair to say that none of the men aiming guns at you can even remember how many people they've killed in their lifetimes."

  His speech was having the desired effect. He definitely had everyone's attention, and the two guards seemed to be losing whatever confidence their work history might have provided them. On the negative side, the driver looked terrified. Brandon was going more for hopelessly intimidated. Intimidated people did exactly what they were told. Terrified people did stupid, pointless stuff.

  "Look," Brandon continued. "This truck is not full of medication for your mom. Or an anthrax virus terrorists could get their hands on. It's just money. And not even your money. If it disappears, the whole thing's just gonna end up as a pissing contest between the government, the casinos, and a bunch of insurance agents. Nothing worth dying for. So if we all stay cool, in twenty-four hours you'll be sitting in a police station telling your story and we'll be sitting on some unextraditable beach sipping drinks out of coconut shells. Does everyone understand?"

  They just stared.

  "That wasn't a rhetorical question. Does everyone understand?"

  Heads started bobbing and then a few mumbled yeses. Lucid, but not very enthusiastic. Brandon glanced at his watch. These stops were carefully monitored by the security company running this operation. They recognized that it was then the shipment was most vulnerable and timed the stops to the second.

  "Okay, then. Let's saddle up."

  The pumps were removed from the cars' tanks and the drivers were herded into their respective vehicles, with one swishy killer in each passenger seat. The two men in body armor climbed into the cab of the truck, dragging a black duffle behind them. The driver started to follow, but Brandon grabbed him by the back of the shirt, shaking his head and pointing to a set of headlights coming up the road.

  The decoy truck, which he'd found on eBay, was an almost exact duplicate of the one containing the money: A ten-year-old white Peterbilt with a mattress behind the seats and an old-school bolt-on wind fairing on top.

  It glided to a stop and Catherine jumped out, jogging over to him and giving the driver a quick appraisal. "Everything okay?"

  "Perfect," Brandon said a bit hesitantly.

  "Then why do you sound so worried?"

  "Because it means all our bad luck is going to come at once."

  She managed an eye roll that actually had some humor in it and then jerked forward and kissed him on the cheek. He was surprised enough to actually stumble backward.

  "Good luck," she said, disappearing into the cab of the real truck and slamming the door behind her. Brandon stood there for a moment rubbing his cheek, then started pulling the driver toward the decoy.

  Chapter TWENTY-SIX

  Brandon watched the truck Catherine was driving ease into the left lane and he leaned forward to see better. Instead of staring at the cash-stuffed trailer, though, he watched the dark windows, trying to get a glimpse of what was behind them.

  "Did you see that kiss?"

  The driver tensed, wringing a drop of sweat from his hand that slid down the steering wheel.

  "My relationships with women have been screwed up my whole life, you know? Started with my mother, I think. Then I went into this kind of work and that made it even worse. I mean what kind of woman would put up with me running all over the country at a moment's notice and waiting for the cops to kick in our door? I'll tell you: Not good ones. Not ones like her . . ."

  The driver's eyes were locked straight ahead and his face was frozen and pale enough to be almost corpselike. Brandon pulled the pack of cigarettes from the man's shirt, lit one, and held it out. "Seriously, man. You need to relax. Weren't you listening to what I said earlier? The only way you can get hurt is if you do it to yourself. And why would you, right?"

  The man's nod had a panicked earnestness that made Brandon wonder if he was actually listening or if he was just in the mode of agreeing with everything. He accepted the cigarette, though, and it seemed to help a bit.

  "Okay, Rob ... It is Rob right? Rob Taylor?"

  The particular tilt of this nod suggested that he was now aware Brandon knew where his daughters went to school. Definitely not a step in the right direction.

  "Okay, Rob. Here's the deal. There's been no change. You're just going to drive this truck exactly like you would the real one." He showed the man a list of code words Scanlon had provided. "You're gonna check in on nice regular intervals just like you always do. The last thing you want is to get stuck in crossfire between us and a bunch of SWAT guys, right?"

  No answer.

  "Right?"

  "Right."

  Brandon reached beneath the seat and retrieved a belt made of surplus military webbing and parts from cell phones and walkie-talkies. The buckle had been replaced by a small padlock.

  "Put this on under your shirt."

  "What is it?"

  "Just put it on, please."

  A glance at the gun in Brandon's waistband brought Taylor around and he did a
s he was told, skillfully maneuvering the truck as he slid the belt around his waist. Brandon tightened it and clicked the lock shut, then flipped a switch that caused a red light to come on.

  "We can hear everything you do and say over that thing," Brandon said. "It's essentially a speakerphone with an open line."

  All true. It turned out that one of Scanlon's guys was a wizard with electronics.

  He reached over and pulled up the man's shirttail. "See that wire? The thick black one? It's not actually a wire at all. It's plastic explosive. Not much. Just enough to cut you in half."

  Now that was a lie. It was really a piece of stereo cable he'd picked up at Radio Shack.

  "Oh, my God! Oh, Jesus!"

  "Now listen to me, Rob. Concentrate now.

  If for some reason, you were to shut off the connection between us, then I can reroute the power to the explosive and . . He let his voice trail off, feeling increasingly guilty. He'd not only never hurt anyone in his history of criminal acts, he'd never threatened anybody. But there just hadn't been time to come up with something more elegant.

  "I got a family. I --"

  "Good," Brandon said. " 'Cause the last thing I want to do is blow you up. People getting cut in half by explosives tend to attract a lot of attention. And people in my profession hate attracting attention. We hate it more than anything."

  He pulled a modified walkie-talkie from his pocket and spoke into it, confirming that his voice was clearly audible over the speakers installed on the belt.

  "Okay, sounds good. You know, they say communication is the cornerstone of a good relationship."

  "They do?"

  "I think so, but like I said, I haven't had a lot of luck with relationships."

  "I wonder why?"

  Brandon grinned. "You know, if you think about it, this could be the best thing that ever happened to you. When it's all done, you can sue your boss for mental duress and probably collect workman's comp for the rest of your life."

  Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

  As much as Daniel tried to fight the feeling -- and he was fighting it hard -- this was fun. Sure, the special ops missions he'd been involved in provided a hell of a rush and were satisfying on some deep patriotic level, but fun? Never. Too much blood and suffering.

  Maybe Brandon wasn't as nuts as everyone thought he was. Which was crazier: getting rich stealing money from the air-conditioned homes of people who didn't need it or making twenty grand a year crawling around some godforsaken desert shooting people who'd never done anything to you? Not such a tough call when you thought about it in those terms.

  The helicopter drifted down as it passed over a low, sunburned ridge, coming close enough for him to see the jagged rocks glowing in the dim morning light. The convoy was about a mile in the distance -- two identical cars and two identical semis -- moving steadily away from the reddening horizon. The rest of the road was completely empty -- a shiny black ribbon going on forever in both directions. There was a stark beauty to it that made him feel good, like they might just pull this thing off. But then, he'd once had the same feeling in Iraq and that day had turned into a disaster.

  A dull beeping started over his headphones and he glanced at the pilot, who was tapping the instrument panel with his knuckle.

  "What?" Daniel said over the thumping rotors.

  "Engine light," the pilot said.

  "Bullshit!"

  The man pointed to the gauge and Daniel leaned over, putting a hand on the grip of his pistol in case this was some kind of half-assed trick.

  The light was actually on. Pulsing red and continuing to sound. So if it was a trick, it was a little more than half-assed. He'd put almost thirty hours in this particular model over the previous week and wasn't aware of any way to fake that warning unless it was a system put in place specifically in anticipation of a hijack. If that was the case, though, Scanlon hadn't known anything about it.

  He glanced into the aging face of the pilot and saw a convincing mix of worry and outright fear -- but he'd had that since Daniel first stuck a gun in his face.

  "What's the problem?"

  "I don't know." Another few taps on the gauge. "But we're going to have to set down."

  "No!" Daniel shouted, as though he could keep them aloft by sheer force of will. He felt a trickle of sweat roll down his back as he looked out over the barren landscape. What now? Brandon had given him this job because he could think on his feet, but at this moment his mind was a blank.

  "You said you could fly this thing," the pilot said, starting to sound a little panicked. "If that's true, then you know if we stay up here, we could lose the engine."

  Daniel started to slide the gun from his waistband, but then stopped. It was easy to fall back on threats, but what good was that going to do now? He leaned forward in his seat and looked out at the convoy continuing blissfully up the road. What would Brandon do?

  "Fix it," Daniel said.

  "Fix it? I can't fix it! It's the fucking engine!"

  "No way. It's a trick," Daniel said, keeping his voice completely calm. "You faked it."

  "Are you kidding? How could I? There's a---.

  "Shut the fuck up!" Daniel shouted and then immediately softened. What was it Brandon had told him? No one wanted to die for other people's heavily insured money.

  "If this is some system you guys set up, you better fucking well turn it off. Because if we go down, I've got to cover my tracks. And that means I leave you in that seat with a big dent in your skull."

  The pilot hesitated for a moment, then started to descend.

  "Vegas control, this is helicopter 008 Echo. I have an engine light on and am landing immediately. Estimated position eighty miles west of Bridgeport."

  "008 Echo, are you declaring an emergency?" came the response.

  Daniel shook his head.

  "008 Echo. Not at this time, tower. Will advise if I need assistance."

  About a hundred feet above the deck the pilot increased power and slowed their descent, aiming for a relatively flat patch of ground just ahead. He was completely absorbed by what he was doing, with no thought at all to what would happen once they landed -- a sure sign of someone who thought he might not survive long enough to be killed.

  "Dumb fucking luck," Daniel muttered and then reached for the stick. He shoved it forward, dipping the helicopter's nose violently and listening to the pilot shout panicked obscenities as he fought to regain control.

  The impact was a little more dramatic than Daniel had planned for. Just because you knew how to fly a helicopter didn't necessarily mean you knew how to crash one. His harness stopped him from going through the buckling glass in front of him, but he felt at least one rib -- probably two -- break as it came tight. The sound of the blades digging into the ground and the bending of metal penetrated his headphones for a moment and then was gone, disappearing into a silent darkness. Instinctively, his hand went for his gun and he managed to get a weak grip on it but couldn't do much more. He wasn't sure how long he spent in that semiconscious state, but when his vision finally cleared enough to look left, he found an empty seat.

  Two clumsy kicks got the door open, but he was stopped by the harness when he tried to get out. A few seconds of fumbling and he was on the ground, tripping over rocks and pieces of what was left of the helicopter.

  The pilot looked like he'd come through the crash significantly better off. He was running into the dawn, heading for the highway that was probably a little less than a mile away. Worse, he seemed to be holding a pretty good pace.

  Daniel started after him at a slow jog, his head continuing to clear as the pain in his side intensified.

  After the first minute of his pathetic effort at a chase, he was starting to think it was hopeless. He was slowly losing ground, leaving little doubt that the pilot would make the road. At minute two, though, the gap seemed to have stabilized. Minute three shrank it a bit.

  Daniel knew he wasn't moving fast -- his balance was still barely sufficient to
negotiate the uneven terrain, and it was impossible for him to take anything but shallow breaths. What he was, though, was steady. It suddenly occurred to him that for an average person, even one much younger than the pilot, a mile-long run through the desert was a nearly impossible task.

  It took a lot longer than it should have, but Daniel managed to close to within twenty-five yards of the man, who was now looking back over his shoulder every few seconds and nearly falling every time. He was obviously pushing himself too hard and his breathing was clearly audible as he started up a steep bench that climbed about a hundred and fifty yards before flattening out into the roadbed.

  Daniel slowed slightly, matching the man's pace as they started up the grade, concentrating on keeping his stride even and relaxed. His vision was a hundred percent now, and his balance probably seventy percent. Overall strength was lower, probably fifty percent. And there was blood in his mouth. A lot of it.

  By the time the pilot was a third of the way up the hill, he was expending more energy just thrashing around than moving forward. Daniel fought the urge to speed up, gauging that he'd overtake the man about twenty feet from the top of the hill and wanting to be as rested as possible when he did.

  The pilot managed a final burst of speed when he saw he was about to be caught, but it wasn't enough. Daniel fell forward and batted the man's foot with an open hand, tripping him and leaving him on the ground gulping desperately for air. He didn't seem to have the strength to get up, so he tried to keep going by crawling through the loose rocks and dirt. Daniel rose and covered the distance between them at a walk, finally falling on the man and working an arm around his neck to cut off the air he so desperately needed. There were a few moments of increased thrashing and then the pilot passed out.

  Daniel rolled off him and lay against the slope, searching for just the right rock. He finally found a properly jagged one and hit the unconscious man in the forehead a few times hard enough to raise a good bruise and cause a few shallow cuts that looked much worse than they were. Then he fished a syringe from his pocket and jabbed it into the pilot's thigh, depressing the plunger with one hand while he dialed his cell with the other. A moment later Brandon's strangely comforting voice was vibrating his ear.