Cash Landing

by James Grippando

  “Can I help you?”

  “I need a room,” said Ruban.

  “I’ll buzz you in. Leave the backpack outside. And fair warning, mister: I have a gun, I’ve used it before, and I don’t miss.”

  Well, then, we have something in common. “Understood.”

  The buzzer sounded and Ruban entered the small reception area. The elderly woman behind the desk watched him carefully as he approached the counter. She didn’t say anything, but the name tag that was pinned to her blouse told him plenty: Hello, My Name is A. Bitch.”

  Ruban laid a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. “That’s for the room,” he said, and he laid two more bills beside it. “This is for your help.”

  She took a drag from her cigarette, her eyes narrowing on the inhale, which brought out a whole new pattern of smoke-hardened wrinkles. “What kind of help?”

  “I’m looking for a room with three men in it.”

  “Last guy to come in here and tell me that was a U.S. congressman.”

  Ruban smiled, gladder for the rapport than the humor. “Can you help me out?”

  “I’d love to take your money, but I don’t keep track.”

  That sounded true. Ruban tried another angle. “I’m guessing most of the rooms here go by the hour, am I right?”

  “Most.”

  He laid another bill on the counter. “How about you tell me which rooms aren’t your usual hourly clientele. And let’s limit it to guests who arrived in the last eight hours.”

  She looked him over carefully, as if trying to discern why he might want that information. But she didn’t ask and, apparently, didn’t care. She checked the registry and jotted down a few room numbers on a Post-it. “You don’t really want the room, do you?”

  “No, ma’am.” He took the Post-it, then pushed the hundred “for the room” toward her. “But you can keep all of it.” Ruban turned and headed for the door, but she didn’t buzz it open right away.

  “I’m good with just about anything here,” she said, “so long as no one gets hurt. You hear me?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  The buzzer sounded, and Ruban stepped outside. He picked up his backpack and started down the walkway to the guest rooms. The burn phone in his pocket vibrated, and he stopped to check it. There was a text message at 1:59 a.m.

  “Walk to the west stairwell. Wait.”

  Ruban glanced down the walkway. The motel had two external stairwells, one at each end. Like the first- and second-story walkways that ran the length of the building, the stairs were outdoors, but the stairwell was partially enclosed by three walls of painted cinder blocks. It would prevent anyone from taking a shot at him from the street or the parking lot, but it was impossible to know what was waiting for him behind those walls. Ruban wasn’t foolish enough to walk into an ambush. He would stage his own ambush at one of the four rooms on the Post-it from “A. Bitch.” But he played along and texted a reply.

  On my way.

  Pinky was getting antsy, pacing from one end of the motel room to the other. Pedro was seated on the double bed nearest the window. Jeffrey was locked in the bathroom, bound and blindfolded, but still alive.

  “Check the cell again,” said Pinky.

  Pedro did so. “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure your text went through?”

  “I sent it almost an hour ago. Told him to park in space number twenty-two at 1:30. He texted right back and said he’d be here.”

  Pinky stopped pacing. “Are you sure you told him the right motel?”

  “Yeah. The Vagabond on Calle Ocho.”

  “Text him again.”

  “I already sent three follow-ups. No reply.”

  Pinky took the phone from him and checked it. The thread of messages confirmed it. “He’s almost forty-five minutes late. He’s not coming.”

  “Let’s give him a few more minutes.”

  Pinky went to the window and pulled back the curtain just enough for a quick view of the parking lot. Each space was numbered on the asphalt, and number twenty-two was right beside a tall ficus hedge. It was empty.

  “Ruban is messing with us,” said Pinky.

  “Maybe these burn phones are fucked up.”

  “Call him on his real cell.”

  “You sure?”

  Pinky started to pace again. The burn phones had been a precaution, but he had no actual knowledge that law enforcement or anyone else was tracking Ruban’s cell.

  “Yeah,” said Pinky. “He’s fucked with me for the last time. Call him.”

  Ruban’s cell rang. Not the burn phone, but his regular line. He didn’t recognize the incoming number, but he took the call anyway.

  “Who is this?”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  He recognized the kidnapper’s voice from the previous calls. “On my way.”

  “You were supposed to be here at one-thirty.”

  “Your text said two.”

  “I said one-thirty.”

  “No, you didn’t. You said—whatever. I’m here now.”

  “The hell you are! The parking space is empty.”

  “What parking space?”

  “Number twenty-two!”

  Ruban gripped the phone more tightly, confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You lying sack of shit! I couldn’t have laid it out any clearer. One-thirty. Space number twenty-two. Vagabond Motel on Calle Ocho.”

  “Dude, I’m at the Sunset on Flagler, like I was told.”

  “I never told you that!”

  “Yes, two o’clock at—”

  “Fuck you, Ruban! I’ve had it. Keep your fifty thousand dollars. Your brother-in-law dies.”

  The call ended before Ruban could respond. Jasmine had clearly told him the Sunset at two when she’d delivered the phone to the restaurant. It was confounding on many levels, right down to the last few words: Keep your fifty thousand. Jasmine had said two million. He was tempted to call back, but his burn phone vibrated with another text message:

  “Stairwell. Where r u?”

  Ruban stared at the screen. He didn’t have the whole picture yet, but he could suddenly see right through Jasmine’s double cross. He texted right back:

  “On my way.”

  Chapter 61

  The FBI communications van was abuzz. Andie and Agent Littleford were in the middle of it.

  The surveillance team had followed Jasmine to the Sunset Motel; Andie’s “old-fashioned” tail on Betancourt had led to the same place. She and Littleford rendezvoused with the van just before two a.m. in the parking lot behind Snuffy’s Tavern, a local dive across the street from the motel. The Stingray had locked onto the signal from the burn phone used by the kidnappers to call Betancourt. The wiretap on Betancourt’s cell had picked up the entire conversation. The kidnapper’s parting words—“your brother-in-law dies”—left Andie few options. She keyed the microphone and radioed the SWAT van, which was parked down the street.

  “We have a direct threat against the hostage. New location: Vagabond Motel, corner of Calle Ocho and Red Road.”

  “Roger that. Room number?”

  “Unknown. We are transmitting wire-card identification now to your Kingfish.” The Kingfish operated like a Stingray, but it was handheld and could literally pinpoint a cell phone to a specific room.

  “Roger. Mobilizing now.”

  Andie keyed off the radio, and Littleford gave the next order.

  “Let’s pick up Betancourt.”

  “I think we should let the ‘exchange’ play out on this end.”

  “There is no exchange.”

  “That’s my point,” said Andie. “Based on that last phone call, it sounds to me like there’s another player involved, some kind of double cross among thieves. It could be Jasmine, or maybe somebody else. If we pick up Betancourt now, we get only Betancourt. I say we watch, see who shows up, and move in against all of them. Clean sweep.”

  Littleford seemed to like the ide
a, but with reservations. “We need to wait for backup.”

  “Tell them to hurry.”

  “And put on your body armor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ruban walked around to the back of the Sunset Motel, found a relatively private space behind the Dumpster, and opened his backpack. It was time to gun up.

  He removed the Uzi-style rifle and unfolded the stock, which extended the weapon to its full thirty-one-inch length. The magazine clipped into place without effort, thirty-two rounds of 9-mil ammo. He doubted that any additional clips would be necessary, but he stuffed the extras into the pockets of his windbreaker anyway.

  Jasmine had definitely tried to scam him. The kidnapper’s reference to “fifty thousand dollars” had confirmed it: he was completely unaware of the two-million-dollar renegotiation. Ruban couldn’t deny Jasmine’s street smarts, but a move like this one had Pinky written all over it. Ruban’s read was simple: Pinky had duped his partner into holding down the fort at the Vagabond with Jeffrey, waiting on the fifty-grand ransom, a sitting duck for the police if something went wrong. Pinky and his co-whore were at the Sunset, double-crossing Pinky’s partner, thinking they could double-cross Ruban.

  Way too clever for your own good.

  Ruban ran one last weapons check. Pistol on his belt. Backup strapped to his ankle. The rifle was semiautomatic with closed-bolt action, which meant that it would discharge only as fast as his finger could squeeze the trigger, which was fast enough. All was in order. He stepped out from behind the Dumpster and started toward the west stairwell.

  The Sunset Motel had four wings, each forming one side of a square that surrounded an open-air courtyard. Ruban stepped carefully across the courtyard. Weeds had sprouted between the stone tiles, some knee-high. The moonlight shone on a broken old fountain in the center of the courtyard. Pitch a Penny for Luck, the weather-faded sign read, but the fountain was dry, and Ruban had nothing smaller than a hundred-dollar bill anyway. He continued past the fountain and kept toward the edge of the courtyard, invisible in the shadows. He stopped a few feet away from the stairwell and pressed his back to the wall.

  With his finger on the trigger, he waited. He listened. The night was eerily silent, but not for long. A noise in the distance changed everything. Sirens. No question about it: police sirens. It was time to move, and not slowly.

  Run!

  Chapter 62

  Pinky drove like a demon down Calle Ocho, tires screeching as he pulled a hard turn at the traffic light.

  He’d left the car and Pedro back at the Vagabond Motel. He was in a four-door pickup with double-cab seating, just like the truck used in the heist, only this time Pinky was behind the wheel. Jeffrey was in the backseat, half sitting and half lying on his side, his hands bound and his mouth taped. He kept quiet until a string of potholes turned the ride into a virtual off-road excursion. Jeffrey’s head slammed against the bench seat in front of him, and he groaned loud enough to be heard through the tape.

  “Zip it, fatty!”

  Jeffrey fell silent. Pinky kept driving.

  Pinky didn’t disagree with anything Pedro had told Ruban on the phone, but that brief call to Ruban’s cell hadn’t come close to expressing the depth of Pinky’s anger. From the day Ruban and Savannah first started dating, he’d disliked Ruban. After she’d married that asshole, hated was a better word. He’d dug into Ruban’s background himself, had even uncovered rumors about a seventeen-year-old girl. He’d held his tongue, however, never saying a word to anyone. Pinky had his own dirty laundry. He didn’t stand a chance in that battle of accusations.

  The truck stopped at a red light. Pinky leaned over the bench seat and grabbed Jeffrey by the collar, forcing eye contact.

  “Listen to me, Jeffrey. We’re going to call your brother-in-law. When I hand you the phone, you’re going to say exactly what I tell you to say. You got that?”

  Jeffrey nodded.

  Before the start of the night, it had been Pinky’s plan to turn Jeffrey loose if Ruban paid the ransom. No more. Ruban and Jeffrey would both get what they deserved. Ruban would tell Pinky where the rest of the money was hidden, and then Ruban would watch Jeffrey die. Ruban would follow him to the grave.

  Pinky spotted an Italian restaurant ahead. It was closed for the night, the windows were dark, and the single row of parking spaces in front was empty. The engine rumbled as Pinky steered down the side alley to the larger lot in the back. Bumpy asphalt gave way to the crunch of gravel. He drove all the way across the lot and parked by the battered chain-link fence, away from the lone security light that shone above the restaurant’s rear entrance. He killed the engine, then leaned over the seat, pressed his pistol to Jeffrey’s forehead, and told him what to say. The burn phone didn’t have Ruban’s cell on speed dial, but Jeffrey’s did. It made more sense to dial from a number that Ruban would recognize, anyway. He was more likely to answer.

  Pinky dialed on Jeffrey’s phone and let it ring.

  Ruban was driving toward the expressway when he heard the ringtone—his cell, not the burn phone. He checked his pocket, but the phone wasn’t there. He wasn’t sure where he’d shoved it in his hurry to get away.

  The backpack?

  He’d left unfinished business at the Sunset Motel, but everything was secondary to staying out of jail. He wasn’t sure whom he might have encountered in the stairwell if those sirens hadn’t wailed in the distance, but he was confident that he would have been the better armed.

  The ringtone continued. Ruban steered with his left hand while fishing through the backpack on the passenger seat. His cell was all the way at the bottom, wedged below the folded stock of the assault rifle. He pulled it free and checked the display. It pulsed with the personalized caller ID generated by his contact list: Cokehead. It was Jeffrey. He answered. The voice on the other end of the line wasn’t the one he’d expected, but it didn’t shock him.

  “Guess who,” said Pinky.

  Ruban scoffed. “I knew you were behind this.”

  “Unfortunately for you, this is one of those situations where knowledge isn’t power.”

  “Kiss my ass, Pinky.”

  “Your brother-in-law is in a black pickup truck parked behind the Blue Grotto Italian restaurant on Red Road. I don’t have time for this shit anymore. Keep your fifty thousand. Just take him.”

  “I don’t want him.”

  “Stop being such an arrogant prick. My business partner is ready to put a bullet in his head. This is your last chance to see Jeffrey alive.”

  “How do I know he isn’t dead already?”

  Ruban could hear the tape ripping from Jeffrey’s mouth, followed by the cry of pain that had become all too familiar. Then Jeffrey recited his lines through broken teeth.

  “Bro, ah-yin thuh pickuh thuck. Cumma gemme!”

  The line went silent; the call was over. Ruban tucked his cell away. He knew it was a setup, but he didn’t care. If Pinky wanted a showdown, Ruban was cool with it. Ruban had the Uzi.

  At the corner, he pulled into a gas station and turned the car around.

  Chapter 63

  Andie kept her distance, careful not to tip off Betancourt to the bucar that was tailing him. Littleford was in the passenger seat.

  “He’s turning around in that gas station,” said Littleford. “Don’t go in there. Drive past the station and then pull a U-ey.”

  Andie would have figured that one out on her own, but Littleford had seemed compelled to give her a lesson in good old-fashioned surveillance since leaving the Sunset Motel.

  Andie had been moments away from moving in to make an arrest. Betancourt had clearly come prepared. His assault rifle had been clearly visible through Andie’s night-vision binoculars. For Andie, that was the end of the line: it was too dangerous to let him roam motel grounds so heavily armed. Something had spooked him, however. He had suddenly collapsed the rifle, stowed it in his backpack, and run to his car. Andie still wanted to make the arrest, but she was overruled: “Let him run
a little longer,” Littleford had told her. “See if he leads us to the kidnappers.”

  Andie drove past the gas station to a fast-food restaurant, where she turned around.

  “He’s picking up speed,” said Littleford.

  “I see him.”

  The radio crackled as Andie swung the car around and resumed their pursuit. It was the surveillance team from the communications van. The wiretap on Betancourt’s cell phone had intercepted an incoming call.

  “Play it,” said Littleford.

  Andie listened as she followed the orange taillights down Red Road. It took less than a minute, ending with Jeffrey’s slurred words: “Cumma gemme.”

  Littleford immediately called for backup at the Blue Grotto restaurant. Andie radioed the SWAT leader at the Vagabond Motel.

  “Hostage is no longer at the Vagabond,” she said into the microphone. “Repeat, hostage is no longer at the Vagabond.”

  “Kingfish is still getting a cell-phone signal from room 207.”

  “Subject two is unaccounted for. He could still be there.”

  “Motel manager has confirmed that the only second-story room occupied on that wing is 207. Subjects specifically requested an isolated room when they checked in. MDPD has evacuated the first floor. Are you green-lighting a breach?”

  Breach was the SWAT term for a tactical team’s forced entry. Not a good idea when a hostage’s whereabouts were unknown, but that was no longer the case.

  Andie glanced over at Littleford, who nodded.

  “Green light,” said Andie.

  Pedro went to the window of room 207 and peeled back the corner of the curtain for another look at the parking lot. Nothing had changed. Same empty spaces. Same parked cars.