“You let that dog loose, I’ll shoot it first then you,” he said to overalls, who held the dog’s chain. The dog reared up in its hind legs, barking and snarling at O’Conner.
“Show this motherfucker we is real, Boyd,” the one on the ground demanded.
O’Conner stomped him in the face, never letting his eyes off of Boyd and the dog. “Harness that beast,” he demanded.
The chain attached to the dog’s collar was secured this time, O’Conner making sure overalls padlocked the links in place. He said, “Give me the keys.”
“Give me the money.”
O’Conner shot him in the foot. “The next one is in your heart.” He’d had his fill of backstabbers today. He drove away in the van. Back at the laundromat, he retrieved his goods. He took a nap in the vehicle and not long after dawn, was on the road heading out of Fort Worth.
Chapter 3 – Last Dance
by Jessica Kaye
Maybe Zach Culhane had seen Urban Cowboy a few times too many. He had heard it called a chick flick but John Travolta’s smooth combination of cowboy, dancer, and lover reminded Zach an awful lot of himself, or, at least, who he wanted to be…who he intended to be. He’d been dancing all his life, growing up in Houston where he and all his friends loved music. Didn’t everyone? As they got to middle school and then high school, their ability to keep pace with each other’s moves to hip hop or alternative or even classic rock became an integral part of their entertainment.
After high school, he worked a job here, a job there. He didn’t have what folks called a career. He had been a dishwasher, worked on an oil rig, clerked in an office and at the local Walmart. There weren’t too many jobs he hadn’t tried, he figured.
He got by. He didn’t get rich and he didn’t put much aside for a rainy day but he paid rent and drank all the beer he wanted and still went dancing. A fun and good-looking boy could find ways to pick up a few extra dollars, and he fit the bill.
Along the way, there had been petty larceny, an occasional burglary. He never resorted to violence, never attempted armed robbery or assault, no grand theft auto. No one groomed him, no one readied him for a higher level of crime and its higher level of payday, but this was a wealthy town and sometimes good fortune found its way to him. Good fortune was how he found his steady gig.
He was between jobs at the time, spending days at home in front of the computer, binge watching Netflix, or out at the local Starbucks for the air conditioning and an occasional iced coffee. Nights were spent with friends, at each other’s homes to watch whatever sport was in season or out for beers. He was broke, not destitute, and a man had to stay social, didn’t he?
It was another hot day and he was waiting to order at Starbucks. “Grande iced coffee, room for cream,” the man ahead of him said. Zach smiled and said, “Same thing I order.” The customer glanced at him, turned back to the clerk, and said, “Make it two.” He returned his gaze to Zach and said, “This one’s on me.”
Zach protested an appropriate number of times before thanking the stranger for his generosity. When the order was ready, it made sense that they would share a table. That was how Zach left the ranks of the unemployed.
Zach started working part time, driving his new boss around when the man didn’t want to drive himself and then waiting while the man had his meetings. In time, he learned a few things about business, moving up from lackey to junior apprentice, learning to boost cars for the company chop shop.
He still loved to go dancing. Now that he had a little money, he could go out as often as he pleased. He dressed better, drank better booze. The ladies still loved him and he had no trouble finding someone who would gladly take him home or to a hotel room.
The evening he met Gracella at a honky tonk gave him confidence that he was about to score on par with the best criminal masterminds’ greatest exploits. Spending that first night with her was fun, but becoming co-conspirators was even more orgasmic. They became an item, in as clandestine a fashion as was possible given each other’s penchant for going out dancing and drinking. They weren’t in love but they had a good thing going and they each appreciated it, for some of the same reasons.
It was Gracella who broached the idea first. Zach’s surprise was genuine. He had assumed he would have to plant an idea in order to glean the information they needed. What she told him turned his smile into a grin. The payday he had been anticipating was looking like small potatoes compared to the haul Gracella described.
Seven million dollars in unclean money. How serendipitous that her wealthy rancher husband was also the bagman for an illegal slush fund. Even better, these folks used cash, and cash was king, thought Zach, a saying he had heard numerous times on a TV ad for a paycheck cashing service. Even after dividing the spoils among all the participants, that left a pretty good amount of mad money for him. Maybe more than he’d ever expected to see.
Zach kept his eyes on the prize and his mind on the details, but that didn’t foreclose daydreams about having big money of his own and the dual scenarios of being offered partnership with his boss or starting his own company, an upscale gray market consulting service. Self-employment had great appeal; no one to report to, having complete control over saying yes or no to new clients, vacations whenever he pleased.
That would be after the gig. For this escapade, he contacted a man who went by the nickname “the Financier.” Zach had stolen cars for the Financier’s chop shop a few times when his own boss had loaned him out. It was just like the old movie studio system, Zach thought. He knew then that he was a star. From those occasional crossed paths, he also knew the Financier had the contacts to corral a posse with the skills they needed: safecracker, pilot, strongmen. Zach’s part was to continue to be Gracella’s lover and find out everything he could about the house, the cache, the guards, the works. It was no hardship to be with Gracella. She was easy on the eyes, fun in bed, generous, and a tad unpredictable. That added up to a good time as well as a good payday.
The date was set, everyone had their assignments. Zach didn’t even have to be there. His work was done—all but the spending.
He didn’t have many possessions. A little furniture, some clothes. Not much else. Sentimentality wasn’t his strong suit. He had already given his furniture to St. Vincent de Paul. They’d taken it away in a U-Haul. Who needed that secondhand crap? Traveling light made more sense. He was out the door and away.
That evening after the heist, the plan was for the team to meet at a prearranged location and the money was divvied up. The Financier delivered his cut as promised. He told Zach that some of the gang had tried to cut the others out in a burst of unexpected ugliness but O’Conner took care of that bit of bad business, leaving an even larger share for the rest of them. It couldn’t be a total surprise when thieves tried to steal from their fellow thieves. The Financier reminded Zach to be careful. This was big money and they had to be smart about their next moves.
Zach had already packed up his belongings and was ready to get the heck out of town. He didn’t expect that his involvement in the caper would be traceable either by cops or the victims but he hoped he had found a way to protect himself in case the what-ifs became what-is.
Too bad about the girl. He would have liked the company but he couldn’t imagine Gracella going unnoticed. She was too beautiful and too vibrant to escape attention. He hadn’t been to very many places but he had heard people say that travel was much better when it is shared with a friend. He thought about calling her one last time to extend the invitation but he had worked on the dark side long enough to know better. Make the move, get the grift, and get gone.
Usually, the get gone part just meant laying low for a while, but this was too big a score. Zach had been a Boy Scout in elementary school. The Boy Scout motto was Be Prepared. He had never forgotten that.
There was no time for even a celebratory drink with his cohorts. They all knew to scatter too. He was going to head north in the car he had bought f
rom his boss. Zach had purchased a few vehicles from him from time to time, when one or another caught his eye. Sometimes cars were more useful unchopped. Sometimes his boss had acquired cars legally. Those were the ones Zach opted for, as long as they met his aesthetic sensibility.
Traffic was light on the road north from Fort Worth. Zach had planned to make his way to Canada. Mexico was closer but it was also a place where he could be found more easily. Too many Texans knew too many Mexicans for him to avoid being spotted, no matter how low a profile he was keeping. The same went for flying. There were names on tickets, passengers had to show ID, and the potential of TSA agents who may have known Harrington added up to the logical conclusion that Zach should leave town by automobile.
He had his passport in the car. He would drive to Detroit because it was close to Toronto. He had figured he could be there in two days if he didn’t sleep very much. From there, he would decide whether to cross the border legally, showing his passport, or to finesse his way into Canada. He wondered if the dancing was as much fun there as in Houston.
The big puzzle was how to get that much cash across the border. He needed an accomplice to help and the Financier had made an introduction. He could leave the cash behind in the States in the hands of a recommended aide, who would take a cut in exchange for depositing it in an offshore bank. There wasn’t time to do anything else with that much money. He would meet up with his contact in Michigan.
He drove, stopping a few hours later in a barely populated rest area along the highway. He stepped out of the car to use the bathroom. As he walked back to the car, humming to himself, a knock on the back of his head took him down. He looked up, head throbbing and eyes swimming, into the eyes of his boss, who stood alongside a large man Zach didn’t recognize.
“Wha…” was all he managed to say before losing consciousness.
The boss motioned to the other man standing nearby. “Let’s get him to the ranch,” he said. The other man slung Zach over his shoulders and took him to a spotless American four-door sedan with tinted windows. He got into the backseat with Zach, cuffed him behind his back, and then tenderly drew the seatbelt over him.
“That’s kind of you,” said the boss. “It’s the last nice thing anyone will do for him. He’s part of Harrington’s herd now.” He looked sympathetically at Zach. “It’s too bad,” he said. “I like the kid.”
They got the cash out of Zach’s car, placing it in their own sedan. They left Zach’s car unlocked and with the keys in the ignition, all but guaranteeing it would be stolen shortly. The boss didn’t bother to remove the location tracker he had placed on the underbody of the car. It could be fun now and again to see where the car’s travels took it.
The boss placed a call. “We have him. I’ll call you when we get close.”
They drove directly to the Crystal Q and carried the groaning lad into the hacienda. Harrington had gotten the second call announcing their impending arrival and he welcomed them, motioning the team to carry Zach to the wine cellar. He had the lad placed on a stool in a corner far from the wine, so as to minimize the risk to valuable bottles of notable vintages. Zach teetered precariously from one side to the other, barely conscious.
“Hmmph,” Harrington grunted. “I can see why my wife liked him. He’s a nice-looking boy. Maybe a little cleaner than most of her entertainment. Maybe a little younger too.” He stared at Zach for another long moment. Then he turned to the other two men. “Where’s the cash?”
Neither missed a beat. Zach’s boss said, “It wasn’t in the car, sir. We searched it. He must have left it with someone he trusted before leaving town.” The strongman nodded, backing up the story.
Harrington gave each man another hard look. “You can’t expect me to believe that.”
The two didn’t change expression. “The money wasn’t there.”
Harrington left this issue for another day. He would handle one thing at a time. Let them do his dirty work tonight and let someone else do it to them tomorrow. He nodded at the branding irons stacked in the corner and then gave his orders.
“Fun’s over. I’ve got a party to get dressed for. I’ll be back later, but leave him here when you’ve done your work. You can go back to my chop shop as soon as you’re finished here.”
“Yes, boss,” said Zach’s boss, and his henchman reached for the irons, already hot, as Clovis Harrington left the cellar without a backward glance.
Chapter 4 - The Wife
by Zoë Sharp
Twenty-four Hours Earlier
Gracella arched away from the blade slicing down toward her back. The bite of it jerked at her wrists, then her arms flopped free. She tossed the remains of a severed zip tie and yanked the gag from her mouth. It came away in a ball of spit that she wiped inelegantly with the back of her hand.
“You okay, ma’am?”
A sheriff’s deputy crouched in front of her. Although her robe was gaping open his eyes were on her face, a fact which was unusual enough for Gracella to register. The badge on his uniform breast pocket read Martinez, and she realized she knew about him. Married, with twin daughters in first grade, she recalled. Off duty, his tastes ran to the boys in the local biker gangs, and slim-hipped bull riders when the circuit was in town.
She pulled the edges of the robe closer, even so. “Yes…gracias, José.”
He smiled, quickly releasing the two other women Gracella had been tied to. Susan Treacher first, then Cassie Warner, as if he recognized the hierarchy.
Gracella rubbed absently at her wrists, inspecting the damage. Clovis would know immediately if it didn’t look like she’d been a genuine hostage. But the skin was raw where the plastic ties had bitten in deep. It might even be enough to convince him.
She got shakily to her feet, legs barely able to support her, and went to Lottie Amaya. The maid was still on the chair where the robbers had put her after she’d struggled from the couch. She was clutching her injured leg, her face sheened with the sweat of genuine pain, although Gracella wouldn’t put it past her to ham things up a little.
“You were brave to try, Lottie,” she said, lifting the melting bag of ice from the woman’s ankle. It was swollen and already starting to bruise. She clucked. “But foolish. Look what you did to yourself.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Gracella,” Lottie moaned. “It’s just, I-I thought maybe they were here to kidnap you, and I couldn’t help myself.”
Like hell you couldn’t.
Gracella straightened, steadier now, put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, and managed to murmur, “Thank you, Lottie,” with a straight face. She glanced across to where Martinez and one of the other deputies were releasing Traynor. “We heard gunfire, and explosions. Is anybody else hurt?”
After a moment’s hesitation, it was Martinez who answered, “’Fraid so, ma’am. They were dropping Molotovs from an airplane, from what we can gather. One of the guys is out cold, and a couple of the others are burned pretty bad.”
“Them sons o’ bitches,” Traynor swore, then flushed. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”
Gracella waved a distracted hand in his direction. Her heart rate stepped up. Nobody was supposed to get hurt—except Clovis, of course. A kick in the bank balance, where it would sting the old bastard the hardest.
“Where’s Flora?” Susan Treacher demanded suddenly.
“She was down in the cellar,” Lottie piped up. “They seemed real upset about that.”
Susan headed for the door, only for one of the deputies to put his hand on her arm. “Best leave it to us, ma’am. Whoever these people are, seems they like to leave little surprises behind. Wouldn’t want you finding none.”
Susan paled, nodded, and stepped back.
Two of the deputies went out. A tense silence followed their departure and Gracella realized she didn’t need to smother her apprehension, even if it was for a very different reason to the others.
If the men her lover contracted had failed to bl
ow the safe, or hadn’t gotten away with all the contents, then the whole plan was going to go to shit. And her along with it.
After only a minute or so, the sound of Flora’s loud and indignant wailing floated upward, getting louder as the sheriff’s men led the maid from the cellar. She entered being supported by deputies on either side, sobbing into the apron she held to her face.
Gracella let Cassie Warner take care of Flora with soothing words and pats and sympathy. There were limits to how familiar she wanted to get with the staff. She’d tried it when she first arrived, unused to servants and more than a little intimidated by the opulent ranch house where she found herself alone most days. Her attempts at friendship made all concerned uncomfortable. And once they’d gotten past that, they started trying to take advantage.
Despite the sleek dark hair, the 40DDs and the sultry black eyes, Gracella had never been anybody’s wetback fool.
Martinez touched her arm, his face tight. “Ma’am, there’s something I think you should take a look at down there. Will you come with me, please?”
What does he know?
Alarm flashed through her system, manifesting as sudden gooseflesh that broke out along her bare forearms. As she made to follow him, Susan Treacher hustled in. “I’m Ms. Gracella’s personal assistant. I should—”
“With respect, ma’am,” Martinez cut her off, “this concerns Mrs. Harrington.”
“It’s Mrs. Murieta-Harrington,” Susan corrected sharply, bristling. “And can’t it wait? Surely you can see she’s in shock.”
Gracella offered a weak smile. “It’s okay, Susan,” she murmured. “The deputy is only doing his job.”
Martinez led her down into the cellar, which now contained a cocktail of unfamiliar smells—hot metal, oil, burned plastic, and something like tar—overlaying the usual musty scents of old wine bottles and stale air conditioning. No Range Rider beer ever found its way into this rarefied atmosphere. Which was cool with Gracella, because she’d never liked the taste of the stuff anyway.
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