The Holdup: (Charlie Cobb #3: Crime & Action Thriller Series)

by Rob Aspinall

  "Passing through, huh?"

  "Yep," I say.

  "Then a friendly chat it is," she says, waving a hand towards her cruiser. "Unless you want me to come back with that warrant."

  "I can do friendly," I say, opening the door wider. I step outside the room and lock up behind me.

  The sheriff opens the near rear door of the cruiser. I duck to climb in.

  "Mind how you go," she says, pushing my head under the lip of the roof. "Wouldn't want another bump on the head."

  4

  The local station is a short drive out of the town limits. It's a small, square building that sits on a patch of land in the middle of nowhere. The interview room is even smaller and squarer. There's a table screwed into the floor, two chairs, a door, CCTV camera and nothing else.

  I notice the air con is turned off. And no offer of water, either. Not very friendly, if you ask me.

  The sheriff doesn't sit down, either. She paces around the room, making slow circles around me.

  "Are you gonna tell me what this is about?" I ask.

  "Come on, Mr Ronsen," Dooley says. "You know far more about it than me."

  I sigh and recline in my chair.

  Dooley leans over the table and stares me in the eyes.

  She narrows her eyelids.

  "Alright," she says, straightening up. She leaves the room and returns soon after with a thin grey cardboard file. She slaps it on the table in front of me. Opens it up. Spreads out a series of large glossy colour prints. There's an armoured truck hooked to the back of a recovery vehicle. It has the name Western & Main Bank on the side. The rear door is wide open, battered and bruised. The front end mashed like it hit a wall.

  "Okay, here's the deal," the sheriff says. "We're looking at an armed assault on an armoured truck, two security guards in A&E and five million in cash missing from the back. Guards say there were four men in black wearing blue, green, red and gold Luchadore masks. All carrying M16s.”

  She pulls out a photo from the bottom of the spread. The Chrysler I woke up in. A smouldering wreck with two dead bodies inside. "I asked around before I knocked on your door, Mr Ronsen. Seems you've been in town a couple of weeks already. So much for passing through."

  I laugh. "And that makes me your prime suspect, does it?"

  Dooley shrugs. "You can understand why."

  She watches me for a reaction.

  I don't give her shit.

  "What's a Brit from over the pond doing in a place like Rattlesnake?" she continues.

  "I'm on my holidays."

  "This ain't a holiday place."

  "I dunno," I say. "Sun, sand, scenery. What makes you so sure I'm one of your guys?"

  "Because I know the type—and you're definitely the type . . . Where'd you get that lump on your head?"

  "I'm a lanky bastard. Happens all the time."

  "Funny, the ceilings in that motel look pretty high to me," Dooley says.

  As she talks, I scan the photos. There's a number on the side of the truck: 4012.

  What's the betting the time of the robbery matches the other numbers on my wrist?

  Truck number: 4012.

  Time: 09:20.

  Shit.

  I withdraw my hands from the table and stuff 'em in my pockets. I'm thinking this could be one of the few chances I get to find out what the hell is going on. So I decide to poke around a little.

  "Looks like some heavy work," I say. "Scary characters."

  Dooley nods. "Armed. Organised. In and out in seconds. Stopped 'em on the highway after a blind bend. No CCTV or nearby police units. Nothin' within five miles. Never mind the hole they made in the road."

  "Smart guys."

  "Yup," Dooley says, perching herself on the end of the desk. "But then they go and crash the damn getaway car."

  I laugh. "Really?"

  "What happened out there, Mr Ronsen?" Dooley says, watching me for my reaction again.

  I shrug. "What I don't get is, there were two bodies in the car, right?"

  "That's right," she says.

  "You said it was a four-man crew."

  "Yeah, that covers the barbecued meat in the car, you and another mystery man." Dooley says. "My best guess is he skipped town."

  "You find any cash in the car?" I ask.

  "What do you reckon?" she says.

  "Any prints on the van? From the car?"

  Dooley doesn't answer.

  "Sounds like a dead end to me.” I stand up out of my chair. "I assume I'm free to leave."

  "You're free to leave the station," Dooley says. "Not to leave town. Unless you wanna be pursued as a fugitive."

  "A fugitive who hasn't been charged?"

  "Oh, I can bring charges, Mr Ronsen. Maybe the case ain't watertight yet, but I can damn well bring charges. And if you run against those charges, then it's not gonna look too good, is it now?"

  Dooley opens the door to the interview room. She escorts me out through the station and opens the main door. I step outside into the blistering heat. She stands inside the door.

  "So, you giving me a lift into town?" I ask.

  "There's a bus stop over the road. There's one every couple of hours."

  I shrug. "It's a nice day. Maybe I'll walk."

  "Most people would have demanded a lawyer," Dooley says.

  "I've got nothing to hide, Sheriff."

  "Apart from a big old bag of money," she says.

  "Like I said, I'm on holiday."

  "Well enjoy it while it lasts," Dooley says. "I'll be looking into you, Mr Ronsen."

  Dooley closes the door behind her. I set off towards town. I'm walking all of five minutes when I hear the rush of tyres and the roar of an engine coming up behind me. A blue van pulls in front of me and skids to a stop a few feet away. A door slides open and two big men in ski masks jump out.

  Before I can run, they grab hold of me. I fight back. Get one in a headlock and pin the other against the van by the throat. But there's a third, leaping out from behind the wheel. He's got a hood and a baton. He hits me in the small of my back. They team up and get the better of me. And before I know it, I'm in the back of the van, hooded, beaten and pinned to the floor.

  5

  They sit me in a chair. A damn uncomfortable one. They cuff my hands behind the chair and remove the hood—a brown sack that smells of old potatoes. They stand in front of me. Three of 'em. Like a country and western band with check shirts, messy long hair and beards.

  I look around. The place is a garage. Empty. Brick walls and a concrete floor. It smells of diesel and dust.

  "Where's the money?" one of my kidnappers asks. He's tall and rangy, with hair the colour of a red squirrel.

  I don't say a word. Catch a punch in the gut for my silence. The guy who delivers it is pig-ugly and fat, with eyes and hair the colour of oil. Despite his size, he hits like a fairy. But I act hurt. Want 'em to think I'm suffering.

  "Where's the fucking money?" the third man says.

  He's a blond kid with arms full of tattoos and a mouth half empty of teeth. Looks halfway to space in the eyes, too.

  "What money?" I say.

  A punch across the jaw from the blonde kid. "You stole from the wrong people, man."

  "I didn't steal anything."

  Pig Ugly has a deep voice. I can tell underneath all this nonsense he's a nice guy. The shy type. He does his best impression of a tough bastard, stepping in close. "Look, tell us where the money is, or—"

  "Or what?" I say.

  "Or . . ."

  The guy looks at the other two.

  "Or some bad shit," the redhead says.

  I can't help laughing. "Bad shit, eh lads? You doing this for pocket money or what?"

  "Shut up and talk," the blonde bloke says.

  "Shut up and talk?" I say. "Make your bastard mind up."

  The guy looks confused.

  "He means talk about what we want you to talk about," the redhead says. "Nothing else."

  The blonde one p
roduces a pistol from the waist of his jeans. Holds it side-on. "Your last chance. Where's the fucking money, man?”

  "Tell us or we shoot you right here and now," the redhead says.

  "No," I say.

  "What do you mean, no?" the redhead says.

  "He's got a gun to your head," Pig Ugly says.

  "Yeah, so?"

  They hesitate. Exchange glances, as if expecting each other to come up with a solution.

  "Look, this really isn't working," I say. "How about you tell me something, I tell you something."

  "Oh yeah, like what?" the blonde lad says.

  "Like who hired you?" I say.

  The blonde one pauses. "Uh . . ." He looks at his mates. "Shit, what was his name—?"

  "Jesus, you clowns know even less than me," I say. "Clearly I'm wasting my time here. Not gonna get anything out of you at this rate."

  "Get out of us?" the redhead says. "We're getting shit out of you."

  "Don't fuck with us, man," the blonde lad says. "We're professionals."

  "Professional wankers by the looks of you. Let me guess, they used you because you were local."

  Blank looks all-round.

  "They paying you in merch?" I ask. "Weed? Coke? Meth?”

  No, none of those.

  "Wiping off a debt then?” I say.

  They share a look. Yeah, that's it.

  "Well alright then," I say, dislocating the thumb on my right hand. It's an old torture injury courtesy of a Manchester mob boss. Hurt like a bastard at the time, but it's got me out of one or two scrapes, I can tell you.

  I slip my hand out of the cuff.

  As the blonde lad leans in close with the gun, I swing a right fist and knock him out cold from my chair. I rise to my feet, grab the chair and break it over the redhead's skull.

  He's down and out. Pig Ugly fumbles with his pistol, trying to get the safety off. I stand and wait.

  Christ, it's painful to watch.

  "Here, give me that," I say, snatching it off him. "Are you left or right footed?" I ask him.

  "Huh? Uh, right, I guess."

  I remove the safety and shoot him in the left thigh.

  The guy drops to the floor, screaming.

  "Don't worry, it's a clean shot," I say. "No bones or arteries. You'll be fine."

  As the blonde lad stirs, I plant a boot in his face. I walk over to an open pipe on the wall and slide the weapon inside. I search the three men for keys. Come up empty. So I leave 'em there and slide open a heavy steel door. I wander out into a scrap yard, full of rust-bucket shells of cars and mountains of old tyres.

  The beat-up old van they abducted me in sits cooking in the sun. It's a furnace inside and smells of heavy weed. I find the key in the ignition, stir the old rumbling engine and drive it out of the yard.

  6

  I park the van in a lay-by off the highway, half a mile out of Rattlesnake.

  I walk the rest of the way, cursing the fact those clowns didn't know anything. I try to raid my memory banks. But the vaults have been cleaned out. The last few days, the last couple of weeks, empty.

  So I take a trip further back in time, hoping I can build up to it.

  After the mess in London, I took a flight to New York. I checked that out for a while. Did the tourism thing and picked the cheapest flight out of there. That landed me in Missouri. But I was eating through the money I stole from Grezda's London operation. And it wasn't long before I was moving on, looking for work.

  I liked the idea of living in California. Under the palm trees and sunny skies. So I decided to head west, snaking my way across the States and stopping off wherever the wind took me.

  I've been to all kinds of places since then. Done all kinds of jobs. Never for more than a few weeks. Always cash in hand. But always on the straight and narrow.

  I was making a good fist of it. I could call my daughter Cassie, tell her I was keeping my nose clean. It felt good. Like I had a soul.

  But now this. The car. The rifles. The money and the robbery.

  Shit, it's driving me nuts not remembering.

  I see the Rattlesnake sign ahead. A white eighteen wheeler comes the other way. The driver honks at me and gives me the thumbs up.

  I wave back out of courtesy.

  Suddenly, a memory comes.

  I remember the day I arrived.

  Hitching a ride in that very same truck.

  The driver was a guy called Herb. Big and stocky with a shaved head and a white goatee. He wore a red and black lumberjack shirt and a red baseball cap with the Arizona Cardinals logo on the front.

  He'd given me a ride into town and stopped off at Al's, his usual haunt, for his usual burger and beer.

  Herb's next stop was to make his delivery further down the road and swing the truck around towards Phoenix. So I decided to stay in Rattlesnake a few days, see if I could pick up another ride and keep heading west.

  I remember I liked the sound of the place, too.

  I dunno, I guess it sounded like my kind of place.

  And it was on the main highway, where motel rooms went cheap.

  I remember stepping off the truck and leaving Herb to his burger and beer. I'd walked along the street and seen two black SUVs with tinted windows rolling by. One of the windows was half-down. A silver-haired man with a lantern jaw in the back, alongside a big guy with dark hair greying at the sideburns.

  As the SUVs headed further into town, there seemed to be some kind of protest happening. Three people either side, slowing them down, banging on windows. They carried homemade placards that said Get the Frack Out of Our Town!

  I remember thinking it was pretty funny. And wondering what the frack was going on.

  But that's as far as the memory takes me. I snap back into the present and continue into town. A young ginger guy in a priest outfit sees me from across the street. He slams on the brakes and hurries over the road.

  He's no taller than five-seven and looks too young to wear a white collar, with freckles and a side-parting. But he's got a calm way about him. Older than his years.

  "Charlie," he says, concern in his eyes. "Are you okay? You look hurt."

  "Um, I'm fine."

  "I heard what happened," he says, checking over both shoulders and lowering his voice. "So what happens now?"

  It hits me the priest might be undercover. A cop wearing a different kind of uniform. A ploy to get me to talk.

  "Do I know you?" I say.

  "I would hope so," the priest says, confused. "But you're looking at me like you don't."

  I rub a hand up the back of my neck. "You know how long I've been in town?"

  "Ever since the big meeting, so far as I know."

  "What meeting?"

  "You know, the fracking proposal," he says. "In the church."

  Another memory comes at me out of the fog. I remember wandering over to the church, a short walk off the main drag. A white wooden box with a steeple and a bell near the top. A winding lane through well-kept lawns leading up to it. Sprinklers keeping the grass from dying out in the heat.

  I also remember pushing one of the doors open expecting to find it empty. It was a Tuesday afternoon and not a Sunday morning, but the place was full.

  The silver-haired guy from the SUV stood up front. The priest sat towards the rear of the stage. I took my place against a back wall, figuring I'd wait until it ended. Then I could grab a Bible off the priest.

  It's not that I suddenly believed in the big guy in the sky. But I thought there had to be some good tips in the book on how to be a better person. Guidelines I could follow, like in a textbook.

  Besides, I figured they gave them out free. And I didn't know the names of any other self-help books, so I thought the Bible was a good place to start.

  As I stood waiting for the meeting to end, I watched various people get up and speak.

  In fact, it seemed more like a presentation than a meeting. The guy from the SUV wore a dark-blue suit and a shirt even whiter than his t
eeth. He wore a red tie that matched the colour of the logo on a pull-up projector screen on the stage.

  It said Mainline Oil and showed artists’ impressions of a 3D town. A pimped-up version of Rattlesnake--hotel, offices, bars, restaurants, even a golf course.

  "Today, I'd like to talk to you about the future," the man said. "Your prosperous, certain future," he said. "Zero unemployment. Hundreds of new business opportunities." The guy was smooth and commanded the room. You could tell he'd had an education. "With this proposed new project, we'll not only be investing in affordable energy for the state and the country . . . we'll be investing in education, transport, healthcare and leisure facilities. Here in the centre, and in the surrounding areas, too. We want Rattlesnake to be America's next big boomtown. And it will be, with your help and support."

  As the guy talked, I looked around the church. I saw the other guy from the SUV standing to the far right at the back. He wore dark sunglasses and a black jacket. Didn't seem part of the corporate uniform to me. And sunglasses worn indoors? Something was off about the guy.

  "Of course, the town is central to all our plans for the area," the man from Mainline Oil continued. "But as you can imagine, we require this last piece of land to launch the scheme. Neighbouring towns and landowners have already sold. All we need is this final piece of the jigsaw. Along with your blessing, of course."

  A black woman in a yellow dress and sandals rose from the front right pew. She stepped forward and held out a hand. The man giving the presentation handed her the microphone and reluctantly, the floor. The woman was in her mid forties from what I could tell. Only small, but she had a big set of lungs.

  And no, I don't mean like that, you dirty buggers.

  No, she had a powerful voice. A presence about her.

  "Mr CEO here wants our blessing, huh?" she said to the audience. Then he must want our blessing to drive a hundred bulldozers into town. To drill into our land, pollute our air, poison our water and destroy the local wildlife."

  The guy from Mainline Oil tried to interject.

  "Maybe he wants our blessing to spill oil all over the place," the woman said before he could get a word in. "Break up the bedrock of our town and cause a huge earthquake."