Cut and Run wm-3

by Jeff Abbott

  ‘How quickly could Gomez get prints done?’ she asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That photo of Frank Polo that’s on my back seat,’ Claudia said. ‘Let’s put it under the powder, see what shows.’

  45

  At ten on Monday night, the front door of Frank and Eve’s house stood open, a rectangle of glowing light in the darkness. Whit stepped inside.

  Frank’s phone call to him had been quiet and calm: Bucks is here and wants to talk. We have a plan. Make no mention you have the film, he doesn’t need to know. Come alone. And so Whit had walked past the doctors and nurses and families facing down death at the ICU, left a sleeping Gooch behind and driven to Frank’s house in Charlie’s borrowed Lexus.

  ‘Come on in,’ a voice called from the den. Unhurried, relaxed.

  Whit walked into the den and Bucks sat at the edge of the couch. Pistol in hand, but pointed down at the floor. His suit was rumpled, his tie gone, the black eye Whit gave him in full bruising bloom.

  ‘You want your mom back?’ he asked.

  ‘Where is she, you bastard?’ Whit said. But calm.

  ‘Frank knows,’ Bucks said.

  ‘So where’s Frank?’

  ‘I’m here, Whit.’ Frank stood in the doorway.

  ‘Truce,’ Bucks said. ‘Because we’re all buddies now. We’re all on the same side. Got a proposal for you.’

  Whit waited.

  ‘You could have brought the police,’ Bucks said. ‘You didn’t. I could kill you. I won’t. We got to trust each other. At least for the next few hours.’ He smiled. ‘I admire your steadfast focus.’

  ‘Give me a minute to come up with a compliment about you,’ Whit said. ‘Maybe an hour.’

  ‘Peace treaty, okay? I know you don’t have the money.’

  ‘So why help us now?’ Whit glanced over at Frank. ‘Need good deeds for extra credit?’

  ‘Jose’s the bad guy,’ Bucks said. ‘We get your mom, we get the money, and then we’re all fine.’

  ‘And we all go our separate ways.’

  ‘Yes, Whit. And never open our mouths. You want mommy with you, right, not dead or rotting in jail or worrying about getting whacked. I want a nice little house on a beach that doesn’t extradite.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Whit said.

  ‘A warehouse off Mississippi Street, not far from the Port. Used to be used by a South American importer who brought up fake pre-Colombian art, Guatemalan weaving, hippie crap,’ Frank said.

  ‘You know this how?’

  ‘Frank got a paid tip.’

  ‘It cost me a thousand in cash, Whit,’ Frank said quietly. ‘A regular dealer who is a good customer at the Topaz and liked Paul told me. Jose’s started to put word on the street he wants to deal the coke. The information is valid.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to this informant,’ Whit said.

  ‘He doesn’t want to talk to you, though. You can appreciate that, can’t you, Whit?’ Frank said.

  ‘Be cool, Whit. That warehouse, if they don’t have Eve there, we force them to tell us where she’s at.’

  ‘So our solution is simple,’ Whit said. ‘We call the police, have them raid the warehouse, arrest everybody.’

  ‘That will get Eve killed. Or in prison for the rest of her life. You don’t get your mom either way. Remember, Jose knows about your mom and… Montana, Whit,’ Frank said. ‘You don’t want Jose caught but cutting a deal with prosecutors, that hurts your mom.’

  Bucks asked, ‘What about Montana?’

  Whit said, ‘Never mind.’ He watched Frank.

  ‘No police,’ Bucks said. ‘Jose and I got our own issues to settle. He killed Paul, right?’

  ‘Whit, it’s simple. We attack the warehouse. Rescue Eve, force Jose to turn over the money. Jose has the money, Whit. You were right, it’s the only explanation. He’s got it all. He killed Doyle and your friend Harry. We get Eve and then we all part ways.’ Frank crossed his arms.

  ‘And the two of you are millionaires,’ Whit said.

  ‘You too, if you want,’ Bucks said.

  ‘But your mother is safe, Whit. She can be with you,’ Frank said. ‘The police don’t have anything hard on her. And if they do, we can hide her for a long while with that money. You won’t lose her again.’

  ‘I don’t want any of that cash,’ Whit said. ‘None of it.’

  ‘I like you more and more,’ Bucks said.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Whit said. Getting into bed with the devil.

  ‘You and me,’ Bucks said. ‘We go there, kick ass, save your mom.’

  ‘I’ll stay here,’ Frank said.

  ‘No,’ Whit said after a moment. ‘You come with us.’

  ‘I want to, Whit,’ Frank said. ‘But I’m not a young man, I’m not good with guns.’

  ‘You’re coming with us, Frank,’ Whit said. ‘End of discussion.’

  Three a.m. Tuesday morning, and they were on the 610 Loop, and Frank Polo sat in the back of the Jag, fighting down the temptation gnawing at him. Bucks drove, Whit sitting next to him. It would be easy to blast Whit’s head open, nuzzle the warm, bloodied gun barrel against Bucks’ neck, get him to pull over, kill him, take the Jag and head down to Galveston Island. Wait for the bank to open in the early-morning light. Open the big safe-deposit box where he’d hidden the five million. That was a siren song that played constantly in Frank’s ear. But now was the time for self-control. To be cool.

  Because the money without Eve was nice but not what he wanted.

  If Frank thought about Eve too much, he would cry, and he hated that. He hoped it had ended quickly for her if she were dead. Painlessly, a single bullet in the brain. He knew she wouldn’t have screamed or begged, if she could help it. She was stone-solid, stronger and better than him, just as he had told Whit. But he believed she was alive. He wished it hadn’t unfolded this way; it wasn’t supposed to. His plan was to frame Bucks cleanly for killing Richard Doyle, plant a little of the cash in Bucks’ condo, a hundred thousand to make him look guilty, urge Paul to have Bucks whacked and then, within a year or so, part ways with the Bellinis, head to the West Coast, quietly vanish with Eve. But Paul decided to send Eve to the meeting and screwed up everything. Life twisted back on you, but a smart guy could make it work out in the end. It was the kind of self-boosting thought Bucks lived by, but it was true.

  Five million in cash to see him through retirement, an extra bit to finance cutting a new record. Dance beats were back in. Tony Bennett, after all, still wowed the kids. He could be Tony Bennett with a beat. Have sexy backup dancers. Wear a suit that made him look cool and trim. Eve in the front row every night in Vegas, clapping for him. He could see it.

  But saving Eve, maybe that wouldn’t work. All this was going to do was to get Bucks killed and Whit caught and maybe dead. Because that was his deal with Jose. Trade Whit and Bucks for Eve.

  That was okay. Because if Jose won, Bucks and Whit were dead, and if Bucks and Whit won, they’d see Jose had no money. But they wouldn’t, couldn’t blame Frank. Bucks would still have to kill Whit. And Frank would kill Bucks, do it all in front of Eve so she’d think he’d avenged her son’s death. That’d be good.

  Now he was halfway to free. Free, if he didn’t dwell on Richard Doyle begging him not to shoot, saying he was a father; didn’t think about the PI giving him a glare of such defiant bravery Frank almost couldn’t pull the trigger, didn’t remember how he’d wanted to vomit after he’d killed them, then how he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs as he drove away with five million in cash, knowing he and Eve would finally be on their way.

  The plan hadn’t worked out exactly right, but it was going to work out tonight if he didn’t lose his nerve.

  He watched the back of Whit’s head. Even the guy’s head reminded him of Eve, that slight tilt of it when he listened. Eve could never know he was behind her son’s death. He’d comfort her when this was done, take her shopping, get her a puppy, whatever she wanted.

  F
rank started to hum his favorite of his hits, ‘When You Walk Away,’ thinking that Bucks and Whit, each trying to out-macho the other in the face of what was coming, weren’t doing nearly a good enough job watching their backs.

  A few cars streamed past them on the mighty highways, constellations of lights spread across the coastal plains bleared by fog and mist.

  ‘At another point in our lives, Whit,’ Bucks said, ‘we might have been friends.’ Bucks drove easily, fingertips barely on the wheel of the Jag. The night traffic was intermittent along the 610 Loop. Bucks had a tape playing in the console, but it wasn’t music. A low, thin, cajoling voice of a man on the tape: ‘… and when you visualize your goal, you actualize your goal. That’s how you make the life you dream

  …’ – dramatic pause – ‘… the life you lead.’

  Frank sat in the back seat. Mad about coming, scared, Whit thought, but making a real effort not to show it. Whit glanced back at Frank. He hummed, gazing into the night. Gave Whit a wan smile.

  ‘Friends. Yes. Perhaps as babies,’ Whit said.

  ‘How’s Gooch?’ Bucks asked.

  ‘Better.’

  ‘Him I like,’ Bucks said. ‘I could’ve used about a dozen of him with Paul. Kiko wouldn’t have messed with us then.’

  ‘But Kiko had you on his side,’ Whit said. ‘What else did he need?’

  ‘That was an extremely temporary arrangement,’ Bucks said.

  ‘You betrayed your best friend,’ Whit said. ‘You won’t have a qualm about shooting me and Frank and Eve if this rescue works out. So understand this. I took precautions. A lot of them before I stepped into the snake pit tonight. And if I get screwed over, so do you.’

  ‘Precautions,’ Frank repeated. A thin little smile came and went on Bucks’ face, like Whit was trying a high-schooler’s bluff in hopes of being cool.

  ‘The only precautions you need to worry about,’ Bucks said, ‘is doing what I tell you.’

  ‘Wrong,’ Whit said. ‘You’re not in charge.’

  ‘I know the warehouse,’ Bucks said. ‘You don’t. You want to walk straight in and get your ass shot off? Listen to me and I’ll tell you the layout.’

  Whit waited.

  ‘These warehouses, the Bellinis used one like it before, a few blocks over. The layouts are all the same. It has two bays for the trucks, has a glass door on the side, there’s a little office space off from the storage area. Probably that’s where they’re keeping Eve. We go in through the office door,’ Bucks said. ‘Frank, too, if he wants to go, if he’s got his dick screwed on now.’

  ‘Your dick’s on now, right, Frank?’ Whit said.

  ‘Ha ha,’ Frank said.

  ‘Walk right in,’ Whit said.

  ‘No,’ Bucks said. ‘Probably have guards watching the lot. We’ll take care of them first.’

  ‘Take care of,’ Whit said.

  ‘Shoot if we have to,’ Bucks said. ‘You want your mommy back, right?’ He didn’t quite make it a sneer. ‘You know, you must create your own moral center, Whit. You can’t get that from your parents.’

  ‘Then what?’ Whit said. ‘Storm the door?’

  ‘No. Go in quiet if we can. Shoot anyone we see we don’t like. Grab Eve, grab Jose, grab the money if it’s there. If it’s not then Jose’s my worry, not yours. He’ll talk.’

  Whit was silent. He wondered how close a coffin would feel. If you were really, truly dead it was a mercy if you couldn’t know the tight quarters of the casket, the bare inch of air between your lips and the coffin silk. Then wondering if he could stand by and watch people get shot. Not innocent people. But still. He couldn’t. Not in cold blood. So he would have to change Bucks’ plan. ‘What if we get caught?’ Whit asked.

  ‘Don’t be dense,’ Bucks said. ‘They kill us.’

  Bucks turned onto the Clinton exit off 610, turned right onto Mississippi. The warehouse was one in a long chain of dreary industrial buildings, the lamps giving off faint light.

  ‘That’s it,’ Bucks said. He drove on by, four blocks, then turned into a small office building. Two cars were parked far back in the shadows, men inside them. Waiting.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Frank said. Whit’s guts turned to slush.

  ‘This wasn’t part of the deal…’ Frank said.

  ‘I took precautions, too, boys,’ Bucks said, and in the moonlight his smile was ugly.

  ‘You don’t need to know names,’ Bucks told Whit and Frank as the men stood in the cold of the night behind the office building. But Whit could guess. One man looked like the guy who’d shot at him on the chase on the 610 Loop, owlish eyes watching Whit with the careful regard of an accountant. Frank had said he was called the Wart. Two other men, one heavy, the other lanky and wearing dreadlocks. Associates of the dead MacKay, Whit guessed, looking for a little payback. No one said hello.

  ‘Too many,’ Frank said to Bucks. ‘Too much. Not what we discussed.’

  Whit thought: too much for what, we need all the strength we can get. ‘Jesus, Frank, quit worrying about how much money’s left at the end.’

  ‘Frank, hush and let the men work,’ Bucks said. ‘Guys. Here’s the drill.’ He explained they wanted Eve alive, they wanted the money, mostly they wanted Jose Peron, who was responsible for MacKay’s death and who had stolen five million from its rightful owners. ‘We’ve got a goal, men. A goal we can reach.’ His voice deepened and Whit realized he sounded like the low murmuring on the tape in his car, talking in the same empty cadence of blank reassurance. He described how they would approach the lot, fast and silent. If Jose and Eve weren’t inside, they’d take what was of value and leave. ‘Keep an eye open for any DVDs. Jose stored info on them I need. I’ll pay a bonus for any you find.’

  In the dark, behind Bucks, Frank nudged Whit.

  Bucks turned to Whit. ‘You want to go first? She’s your mama.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Whit said.

  ‘Don’t worry, Whit,’ said Bucks. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

  They moved down a maze of alleys that reeked of dog piss and uncollected trash. Too many of the offices and warehouses had been empty for too long, dragged down in the latest economic stumble. A cloying mist hung in the night. Whit had the gun Gooch had given him, another gun tucked in the small of his back, and a small knife strapped above his ankle, all from Charlie’s weapons collection. But the heavyset Jamaican walking by him toted an assault rifle, and he felt unprepared.

  ‘This is it,’ Bucks said. The six men hung back in the alleyway, surveying the parking lot of the warehouse. A high fence, topped with barbed wire, separated the lot from the adjoining side road. An office light gleamed through the glass door. Three cars were parked nearby; Whit recognized one. A little red Honda. Tasha Strong’s car that she’d driven over to Frank and Eve’s. He started to speak, thought, and stayed quiet.

  They waited ten minutes. No movement or sound in the lot.

  ‘No guard,’ Whit said.

  ‘We go over the fence, then through the side truck bay, the service door. Quietly. I got skeleton keys. Surprise them. Surprise is critical,’ Bucks said.

  They waited another two minutes; no sign of movement.

  ‘Trevor, Wart, go,’ Bucks whispered and the thin Jamaican and the Wart hurried forward. Trevor lifted the Wart up high; Wart started cutting the stretch of barbed wire at the top of the fencing. Trevor balanced Wart on his palms, and the ribbon of wire curled away as Wart moved down the fence.

  Then Trevor boosted Wart over the fence. He eased himself down on the other side, carefully, then dropped to the asphalt. Whit, Bucks, and Heavy Jamaican began to scale the fence, Trevor helping them. Frank hung back.

  ‘Frank, shake your ass up here,’ Bucks said.

  Frank started to climb, tentatively.

  Whit was over the fence, trying to be silent in making his jump down, when the shadow bulleted out from the other side of the lot, beelining toward Wart, who was crouched over, waiting for the rest of them.

  Whit sai
d, ‘Oh, no,’ loudly, as he dropped to the pavement next to Bucks and the bullet, a sleek Doberman the color of night, launched itself at Wart. The dog took him down in the shoulders, hammered him to the concrete. A horrible tearing noise rose from their struggle; a spray of blood shot across the asphalt. Teeth sunk into flesh and ripped with ingrained precision.

  Wart screamed once as the dog yanked him around by the neck, as fangs found new hold. Bucks and Trevor fired. The dog yelped, twisted, then Bucks put a bullet right in the dog’s skull. Wart lay there, groaning, cupping his hands under his chin, the blood welling.

  Whit turned and the second dog was arrowing right for him, eyes locked to his throat, snout down, ten paces away and Whit fired, the silencer Bucks had attached to his gun making a soft-bark sound, firing once, twice, catching the dog in its leap, the bullets tearing dogflesh from ribs and it fell, thudding into him, knocking him to the ground. But dying. Whit climbed out from under the dog; it made a last, feeble attempt to snap, to fend off the dark, then shivered into stillness.

  ‘They know we’re here now,’ Bucks said. ‘Rush it, full frontal.’ He and the Jamaicans charged the office door, Whit kneeling by Wart. He was fading, gone as Whit touched his wrist, the carotid and jugular torn, his throat nothing but wound, the neck broken. His eyes were still open in shock at the sudden, end-it-all turn.

  Whit glanced back over at the fence.

  Frank was gone, fled into the dark of the alley.

  Whit turned and headed for the building; a couple of sharp pops from Bucks’ gun shattered the door glass, loud in the quiet of the industrial park. Bucks reached inside, flipped the locks.

  They were in, Heavy taking the lead and Whit coming in last.

  The entry office was dimly lit, an empty desk, a mountain of old newspapers scattered around the room. The smell of gasoline – rich, unexpected – filled the air. Two gas canisters stood on the side of the desk. Whit stopped. The canisters were full but capped. Waiting to be used or moved.

  Bucks gestured down the hall, and Heavy Jamaican bolted down it, laying a spray of suppressing fire, tearing chunks out of the wall and ceiling. At the end of the hall a metal warehouse door stood shut.