by Mark Pryor
I stopped the car in the blind spot, lowered the front windows, and killed the engine. Tristan opened the laptop and tapped a few keys.
“Connected to the Internet,” he said. “Camera coming up now.”
“Which means the cops didn't take it,” I said, provoking him on purpose.
“Doesn't mean they didn't find it.”
“Hey, if they roll up lights and sirens, we're just a couple of lovers pitching woo.”
“I'm not gay,” he said, “and I'm not pretending to be.”
“Right, God forbid. Much better to go to jail, you're right.”
He shot me a look, then his eyes went back to the screen. “He's here. Early, fuck.”
“Stay cool, little friend.” I leaned over and watched Silva park in the same spot he'd used the previous month. We sat in silence as the landlord moved across the screen, climbing out of his van with his shoulder bag bumping against his hip. He looked tired, his feet shuffling in the dust and his head down. Even better.
He moved out of sight and we waited the agreed sixty seconds, then Tristan closed the laptop, put his hand on my leg, and pulled a knife from his boot.
“Change of plans,” he said.
I stared at the silver blade, wondering if it was the kind of hefty but blunt toy that juvenile punks waved at each other to look tough. But it looked new, shiny, and very sharp, the five-inch blade curving up into the kind of tip that would disappear through clothing and flesh with ease. With pleasure, even. Someone else had visited Cabela's hunting store to prepare for this outing. This would explain why he'd suddenly become so nervous, wrestling with himself as to whether he'd go through with it. Whatever it was, in his mind.
“What's your plan, then?” I asked. “Stab me to death, and keep the money?”
“No. Look, we need to forget stealing the car. It's too complicated, too risky. Way too much can go wrong. Much easier to just threaten him, take the money, and go.”
“Much easier how? Done this before, have you?”
“You know I haven't. But think about it, he's not going to want to fight two guys and a knife.”
“Unless he has a gun, then I'm sure he'll be happy to. Now put that away before you cut yourself, or me, and we leave a nice red trail of evidence.”
“Dude, I'm serious—”
“So am I,” I snapped. “Original plan or we leave right now.” He didn't respond, so I turned the car back on and made a show of checking my mirrors, like my biggest concern was flattening some Mexican's crappy grill.
Tristan swore and leaned forward, sliding the knife back into the ankle sheath I'd not noticed.
Fucking idiot, I thought. I was happy he'd just done as he was told, but much less happy that he was showing signs of being a wild card. I'd explained to him, oh, about a million times, that the only way we pulled this off and stayed out of trouble was to formulate a good plan and stick to it.
“Thank you.” I killed the engine and opened my door, screwdriver and ball-peen hammer in hand. “You just wasted two minutes of our time, so how about we get on with this?”
“Sure.” His voice was flat and I couldn't tell whether he was recalcitrant or pissed. But he followed me out of the car and we strolled, as casually as we were able, around the slight bend to Silva's van. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw it but froze when I saw someone walking to our right, a man acting like he hadn't seen us. His hands were deep in his pockets, and he looked like he fit in, a fat dude ambling his way toward a case of beer somewhere: my other partner in crime, Otto Bland.
I'd not told Tristan about him, about his involvement. For many reasons. Mostly I didn't want him bitching about the cut in his share, or asking fifty questions about Otto that I couldn't answer. They'd crossed paths at the DA's office, but not very often, and I was certain that Tristan knew more about Otto's reputation than about the man himself. As a result, he had no reason in the world to trust Otto, and telling him about the man's inclusion wouldn't have helped his nerves one jot. That was why I'd made it a condition of Otto's involvement that he act like he'd just come across us, ham it up a little. I didn't figure him for much of a George Clooney, but given that we'd be in the middle of a crime, it seemed unlikely that Tristan would pay much attention to his theatrical deficits. Otto had even taken the initiative and gotten himself a security job with the management company running four mobile-home parks, one of them being Crooked Creek. I was impressed.
At that moment, Otto was forty yards away and acting oblivious to the world around him. He shuffled through the dust, then stepped off the track and squatted under a tree, facing away from us and toward the mobile homes that Silva was visiting for his monthly scoop.
“He hasn't seen us,” Tristan whispered. “And we're not bailing now.”
I nodded my agreement and was at the driver's door of the van in a few seconds, focusing on the job at hand. I tried the handle and it was locked, as I'd expected. I used the round end of the hammer and gave the lock a hefty whack. The lock popped inward like it was greased, and a quick tug had the car door open. I slid behind the wheel and looked up in time to see Otto rise to his feet, looking around. He'd heard the whack but wasn't sure what it was, and I was low, so he shouldn't be able to see me.
I put the tip of the screwdriver into the ignition slot. Holding it there with my left hand, I used the business side of the hammer to tap and then whack it deep into the steering column. I gave it a twist, but nothing happened.
“What the fuck,” Tristan hissed. “Hurry up.”
“I'm hurrying, it's not working,” I said. I tapped the screwdriver again with the hammer, then turned it. This time it felt like it would go with a little more effort, so I gripped the handle of the screwdriver until the ridges bit into my hand, then turned it with all my strength. The engine sparked and turned over with a short growl, shaking the van into life for a brief second before falling silent. I twisted the screwdriver again, harder, my wrist shaking with the effort, and the engine ground its teeth for three seconds, but it was a protest, not acquiescence, and I yanked the screwdriver out of the ignition slot with a curse.
“Oh, fuck.” Tristan was backing away from the Transit van, and I looked through the windshield to see two people running toward us. On the edge of the track, Otto gaped like a fish as Ambrosio Silva and the sloppy security guard jogged toward us, dust kicking up around them. I considered one more attempt at starting the van and speeding away with the jackass's money right in front of him, but they were closing fast and, even if I got it started, speeding away would necessarily involve running them over. And I was still trying to avoid bloodshed.
I jumped out of the van and looked to see if either had a weapon. The security guard had lost his cap on his run, and I suddenly didn't like the look of him. A buzz cut suggested he was former military, and despite his bulk he moved with the kind of grace and power that indicated more-than-grunt military. He was several steps ahead of Silva and making a beeline for me, a walkie-talkie in one hand, a wooden baton in the other.
He stopped twenty feet from me, puffing but attentive. Behind him, Ambrosio Silva skidded to a halt in the dust and shouted, “What the fuck you doing in my car?”
I held out my hands, all open and innocent, knowing I didn't look the part of a car thief. Didn't look like I belonged in this part of town at all.
“Relax, the car was open, I was just curious about—”
“Hands where I can see them.” The security guard looked even meaner and more capable up close than when charging up the track. And it was him I watched, because whereas Silva was a criminal and barely legal, which meant he was careful around confident, white strangers, the security guard was all attitude. Like he already had us in handcuffs.
“Dude, I said relax. I'm with the DA's office, we're out here on a case.” I had my badge with me, in my wallet as ever, though I was not happy about having to use my ace so soon. My right hand drifted toward my back pocket.
“Don't fuckin’ move,” th
e guard said. I didn't see where his gun came from, had no idea he was carrying. But he was, a nice shiny piece with a silver barrel pointed right at my chest. I would've invited him to get my wallet himself, but my gun was tucked in my belt, and that would take a little explaining. From my perspective, this was all turning shitty. We'd gone from a quick, anonymous, and unarmed car-grab to a standoff involving, it has to be said, at least one Mexican.
And then Otto appeared.
Apparently, he'd ducked into the tree line when Silva and the security guard passed him, making his way up to us quiet and unseen. Impressive for a lump like him. He came out of the bushes, slightly behind Silva and the security guard, his gun leveled and his voice firm.
“Austin Police. Put the gun down, now.”
The security guard stiffened but didn't turn around or lower his gun. “What's your badge number?”
It was a smart question because it told us he knew cops, and it tested whether Otto knew how many digits APD gave their officers. Otto knew. “Six-three-four-nine.”
The security guard looked slowly over his shoulder at Otto, his gun still pointing at me.
“I said drop it,” Otto repeated.
“You're not APD,” the guard said. “You're with these assholes.” He didn't wait for a response, shifting his weight to his left foot and pivoting, the gun swinging away from me and toward Otto. Two loud bangs made me jump, and for a moment, the few seconds it took my ears to stop ringing, I couldn't tell who'd fired. Then the security guard staggered backward, his arms cradling his midriff, his gun dropping into the dust. He stood still for a moment, rocking gently in the evening heat, then fell face down into the dirt.
Otto moved forward, his gun trained on the fallen man, and then a movement by Ambrosio Silva caught my eye. He'd sidled away so we couldn't see his back, and he was reaching into his waistband. I glanced at Otto, but his eyes were on the motionless security guard, so I took care of it myself. I pulled my gun and aimed at Silva, a twenty-foot shot that I nailed. The first bullet hit his shoulder, spinning him to face me, a stunned look in his eyes.
A look that turned to dead when I shot him in the chest.
Tristan was as white as a sheet and almost hyperventilating. “Jesus. Fuck. Shit.”
“Calm down, old chap,” I said through gritted teeth. “They're the ones who are dead, not you.”
Otto looked back and forth between us, and I was pleased to see he'd put his gun away. “What the hell are you two doing here?”
“Long story,” I said. I looked back down the track, wondering if the guys grilling their dinner had heard. I expected to see them appear behind us with cell phones in hand, maybe even weapons, but either they were used to gun shots out here or the steaks and beer had obliterated their hearing. Whatever the reason, I was pleased to see a still-empty track behind us. I looked back at Otto and dosed up my voice with surprise. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Working. Security.” He looked at the bodies. “This is fucking nuts. Are they both dead?” Otto had reverted to his sweating and terrified self. He started toward the security guard, reaching for his phone as he remembered his line. “I'll call it in.”
“No, you won't.”
“What do you mean?”
I gestured with my gun, not exactly pointing it at him but as if reminding him that I held it. “Put that away Otto.”
He lowered the phone and looked around as if he was missing something. He looked back at me. “What the fuck's going on?”
His eyes were pleading with me because the script had just changed, rewritten from a fun and lucrative little heist to a thriller that looked like it might end badly. Clearly, he didn't know how to adapt and was assuming that, as the director, I did.
“Here's what you do,” I told him. “You go back to the other side of the park. Do you have another gun?”
“Another gun?”
“Yes, Otto. Answer the question, do you have another gun?”
“In my car, yes.”
I walked toward him with my left hand out. “Then give me yours.”
He looked down at it as the wheels turned in his head. He realized that when the cops arrived, they might check to see if it'd been fired, and if so they'd take it and test it against the bullet from the guard's body. He handed it to me and looked around. “What's happening?”
“It's dark, no one saw you. Now go get your gun and finish your shift.”
“But why?”
“Just listen to me. Either we all get rich or we all go to jail.” I stepped closer, my voice a hiss of urgency and threat. “Otto, the situation's changed but the rules are the same. Remember who fired first.”
“Wait, but—”
“No, listen,” I snapped. I didn't want to perform for Tristan, so I kept it short. “You do as I say, and when you get off duty you come to my house and find yourself richer.”
Otto glanced at the bodies lying on the ground then back at me, and I knew what he was thinking. He'd not bargained for this, but it was too late to pull out. As a former cop, he knew that if people die during illegal activity, that's felony murder, capital murder. The needle.
I told him my address and made him repeat it three times. He turned and walked away, looking left and right, into the dark.
“Unbelievable,” I said, then turned to Tristan. “Let's get the fuck out of here.”
“You said no guns,” he said. “You said it, loud and clear, no fucking guns.”
“Yeah, well, they started it,” I said.
“And we fucking finished it, all right,” he said. “Now can we go?”
“In a moment, we need to do this right.”
“Do what?” Tristan's voice wobbled and I wondered whether I should slap him. “No, we have to go.”
“Give me the bolt cutters, we're not leaving without the money.” Tristan threw me a scared look but did as he was told, running to the car like someone was chasing him. He handed me the cutters.
“Please hurry,” he said.
“I will, but just in case, hold this.” I gave him my gun. He hesitated, so I wrapped his hand around it, making sure he had a good grip. “It's just in case. You won't need to use it. I'll be right back.”
I pulled surgical gloves on as I ran the twenty steps to the Transit van, looking around and still seeing no one. Gun shots out here wouldn't be all that unusual, but sooner or later someone would come to investigate, if only out of boredom and curiosity. I leaned inside the van and set the blades of the cutters against the padlock. It took less than a minute to bite through it, open up the cage in the back of the van, and pull the two bags out. They were heavier than I'd anticipated, but that meant they were full, a pretty powerful motivator to carry them. I put a bag on each shoulder and started back to the Honda. The most direct line brought me back to Silva's body and, as I stepped over his legs, one of the bags fell.
I froze as the duffel thumped onto his left leg, and instinctively I looked at his face for some reaction. He lay as still as before. I was in a hurry, I knew I was in a hurry, but I wanted to see him up close. I knelt and pretended to check the man's pulse, even though I knew there would be none. My gloved hand lingered on his throat, where the loose flesh was drawn downward by gravity. I closed my eyes and felt taut sinews under my fingertips, like thick guitar strings, and let my hand drift over the firmness of his windpipe, my fingers tracing its edges like they did the neck of my guitar.
“Dom, what are you doing?” Tristan was coming toward me. “He's dead. Give me one of those bags.”
I waved him away. “I got it. Just make sure no one's coming.” I grabbed the bag and hurried to the back of my Honda. As I dropped them in the trunk, I saw the blood on my fingertips and couldn't resist the temptation. I unzipped one bag, just a little, and wiped the blood on a stack of dollar bills. I smiled to myself, Tristan's share? I heard him muttering, so I rezipped the bag and slammed the trunk shut. I snapped the gloves off, turned them inside out, and stuffed them into my trouser
pocket.
“Let's go,” he said. “And thank God you're an ADA. If the cops pull us over, they'll let us go. You have your badge, right?”
He was remembering what I'd said earlier, which showed that his brain was back in gear. But I didn't agree, not anymore. I looked to my left, across thirty yards of rutted scrubland to the woods.
“I have a better idea,” I said. “And we need that camera.”
Tristan was already in the car, the door open and his hand still clutching my gun like it was a comfort to him. I took it with gentle fingertips, dropped it into my pocket, and moved to the trunk of the car. He leaned out and looked back at me. “No, dude, let's just go.”
“Not without the camera. The cops might find it, and if they do, we're well and truly fucked. And the woods are perfect for stashing the money for a day or so.” Before he could argue, I popped the trunk and put a flashlight in my back pocket. I heaved a duffel bag back onto each shoulder. “Wait here.”
I trotted away from the car, looking back over my shoulder but still seeing no one. I was starting to think that the kinds of people who lived in the tornado magnets out there had learned to steer clear of trouble, not poke their noses into it. Gun shots might mean cops, and cops were never a good thing for people who lived in their cash society on the edge of the grid.
I hit the woods and stopped, working the flashlight into my right hand and flicking it about until I saw the first of the white strips on the trees ahead of me. I started forward as fast as I dared, my eyes darting between the narrow path at my feet and the strips of white tape that guided me out of view and to the camera. A rustle ahead of me stopped me in my tracks. I knew it wasn't a person—it was too low and gentle to be human—but for me, the alternative was little better. Maybe it was the comparison to sociopaths and psychopaths in books and movies, but I'd come to loathe snakes. Cold-blooded, dead-eyed, calculating, and ruthless, hiding in plain sight. Yeah, an easy comparison to make: me, snake in a suit. Maybe that's why I didn't like them, and as I stood on that earthen path I realized that snakes and I had gained another thing in common—we both killed to survive.
