One Rule - No Rules

by Lawrence Ambrose

  "I've been training since I was ten. Maybe a hundred hours in the Army, plus other training afterward."

  "That could explain it." He massaged and made loosening motions with one shoulder. "How's your weapons training?"

  "Fine. Though I only achieved a sharpshooter badge."

  "Same here, so I can live with that."

  They returned to the couch, and reinstalled their weapons. Randall ran through the photos of Malcolm Andrews' ten henchmen.

  "Three of them, including Andrews, are ex-Army," he said. "The rest are career criminals. That's from a light background search."

  "Where does Malcolm Andrews live?"

  "He has a house outside of town. He lives there with his long-time partner, Peggy. No kids. Two Dobermans."

  "And Sam Ellis?"

  "He also has a place just outside of town – though on the other side. He's single - no live-ins or dogs."

  "What are your thoughts?" Thalma asked.

  "You're not getting anything from these people except through force. I don't see a point to a meeting, unless it has a strategic purpose. Seeing another person in play will just raise their defenses and make it harder to get to them."

  "I agree. What I'm thinking is that we set up a meeting, and I go alone. They'd probably see me as a joke instead of a threat. While I'm talking to them, you could search Sam Ellis's house for money or valuables. How are you with breaking and entering?"

  "I can get by." His lack of enthusiasm was palpable. "But I probably don't need to point out that this kind of operation is well beyond the agreed-upon parameters of our work relationship."

  "I know. And no hard feelings if you want to pass. Of course, I would add 'hazard pay' to your usual compensation. Just tell me what you think is fair."

  "I'll think about that." He smiled. "As long as we're agreed in principle, I'm willing to go ahead. I trust you to be fair."

  "I appreciate that, Randall."

  "I'm not sure I see the need to even bother with a meeting. Chances are Ellis won't be home until late-afternoon, if then. You'd just have to keep watch while I go in. Or vice versa."

  "Call me crazy," said Thalma with a thin laugh, "but I have to give him the chance to do the right thing."

  Randall turned his empty water bottle in his large, calloused hands, his expression reflective as he gazed at her.

  "You have ethics," he said.

  "You sound surprised."

  He lifted his shoulders. "I'm not saying you were asking me to do anything unethical. But somebody who does what you do doesn't, in my admittedly limited experience working with corporations, care about moral niceties."

  "I'm sure they don't. But I do. For whatever that's worth."

  "It's worth a lot to me. For most of my life it was all about God and country, about defending freedom and doing what's right. It wasn't about the money."

  "Maybe not for you," said Thalma. "But everything you were doing was about money and power for someone else."

  Randall waved a hand at her and shook his head. "I'm not going to argue politics with you. Especially since you're going to be giving me that nice, fat bonus."

  THALMA ENTERED IHOP late the next morning for her meeting with Malcolm Andrews and Sam Ellis. She spotted them, and two of Andrews' gang, seated by a large window tucked away in an isolated corner. She'd only invited Ellis, but wasn't surprised that he'd come with his new support cast.

  Thalma was wearing a dress shirt, casual but upscale jacket, and slacks, going for the young yuppie businessman look. Judging from the smirks and pointed glances exchanged by the four men, she'd succeeded.

  "Gentlemen," she said. "I'm Mark Matheson, representing Land Trust Investments."

  She shook hands all around. Malcolm Andrews held on for an extra few moments, muscles cording in his thick forearms as he applied pressure. Thalma summoned a pained expression and jerked her hand free. Seeing Andrews' satisfied grin made her long to have returned that pressure until his bones cracked.

  Thalma sat down and appraised her guests with a put-on jittery smile. Andrews was tall and big boned. He wore his receding grey-streaked brown hair long and his handlebar mustache longer. Sam Ellis, on his right, was dough-faced and pudgy of body, but his blue eyes were small and mean. The man next to him was stubbly bald with a thick beard that emphasized his dead eyes. The last man was the youngest, sporting a neatly trimmed goatee and full wavy hair, his hands twirling a toothpick as he grinned at Thalma.

  "Have you ordered yet?" Thalma asked. "Breakfast is on me."

  "Of course it is," Andrews drawled.

  The young server showed up, studiously ignoring the men's gazes practically tromping up and down her body. They all ordered double helpings of everything, except the young dude, who mumbled something about being on a diet.

  Thalma took her time slicing a piece of steak and splitting apart her eggs. The idea was to keep these men occupied for as long as possible on the off-chance that Andrews and Ellis might return to their homes, and she saw no reason not to satisfy her heavy protein needs while performing an otherwise unsavory chore.

  "Have you reconsidered your position, Mr. Ellis?" Thalma asked between bites. "It's not too late to avoid foreclosure and additional penalties. After building up your business, I wouldn't think you'd want to lose it all now."

  "Do you have proof that your company loaned Sam money for the property?" asked Andrews.

  "Yes. We have a note notarized by Fidelity and Trust and signed by Mr. Ellis certifying the terms of the loan and the parties involved."

  "Look, kid" – Andrews smiled at Thalma in an avuncular fashion – "I understand you've been sent on a fool's mission, and you got a job to do for the rich fucks who tossed their money into your high-risk derivatives betting pool, but bottom line: if you could foreclose legally on our friend here, you'd already be doing that instead of buying us lunch."

  Thalma continuing carving and consuming her steak without comment. A biker who knows about derivatives?

  "The way I see it," Andrews continued, "the people in your fund are gamblers with plenty of money to spare and not much worry that a particular investment will tank. They take their chances, as the saying goes."

  "Is that how you feel, Mr. Ellis?" Thalma asked the used car lot owner.

  "I see it the same way Malcolm sees it," he replied. "Any company that loans money without a credit check – I know, because I would've failed big-time – either doesn't give a shit or is too fucking dumb to deserve to get paid."

  "Is your car lot successful?"

  "Doing okay, I guess."

  "You received $275,550 for the property plus inventory," said Thalma. "You don't feel any gratitude or moral obligation?"

  Ellis shrugged, his mean eyes glinting over his scornful smile. "I'm not all that torn up about a bunch of fat cats losing some of their parking change. I'm surprised your company even bothered to send you down here for such a piddly amount of money."

  "You think two hundred and seventy-five thousand is 'piddly'?" Thalma didn't have to fabricate the disgust in her voice.

  "I did make payments on it for a year at their highway robbery 7% interest rate," Ellis snorted. "But yeah, that's chump change to your robber barons."

  "Would it matter to you if they weren't robber barons?" Thalma felt some of herself slipping through, and made a note to contain it.

  A tiny spark of hostility flared in the car lot owner's eyes. "No one's going to put money into shit derivatives unless they can afford to lose it, like Malcolm said."

  "You don't believe my company will take legal action against you?"

  "If they do, then we'll see," Ellis stated with a shrug. "In the meantime, I won't be worrying about it."

  Thalma turned her attention on her food. She had her answer. Now it was a question of what Randall might be finding in Ellis's house. He had a military grade metal detector and two different torches that gave him, in his opinion, a fighting chance to locate and breach hidden caches of precious metals an
d cash. His idea was that anything valuable would be placed in a steel container, and would likely be insolated from other steel objects in the house. He planned to focus his search on "high-security" places where large amounts of cash or valuables might be hidden, as opposed to the more casual "under the mattress or in the freezer" hideouts. By happy coincidence, Randall had been involved in currency and precious metal searches in Iraq, which could prove invaluable now. If that didn't pan out, he'd check the "usual suspects," but he doubted Ellis would leave more than a few thousand dollars lying around in that exposed state.

  In his experience, which included other assignments he didn't elaborate on, Randall believed that people like Ellis almost always kept a sizable stash of cash – often by necessity, since a large percentage of their income was off the record – so he was optimistic. That it would approach the two hundred and seventy-five thousand seemed overly optimistic to both of them, but that would be the least messy solution. And if Randall didn't locate any money, she didn't see any options that wouldn't be messy.

  "Thinking deep thoughts, kid?" Andrews was smiling beneath his monstrous mustache, but a tiny flicker of concern shone in his eyes.

  "I was just thinking what I'd tell my boss," Thalma said with a glum frown. "He's not going to like me coming back empty-handed. I may not get out from behind my desk for a while."

  That drew a snickering chuckle around the table.

  "Son, if they wanted to strong-arm us into something, they sent the wrong man. Now that other dude, the ex-military guy with the sniper eyes, he has some potential. But they must have their heads awful far up their asses to send you out here. Where you from, again?"

  "Arizona. Phoenix." That was the official address of Land Trust Investments.

  "That's an awful long ways to send someone for a case like this."

  "I don't know. I just go where I'm told." Thalma wondered if Andrews was picking up on something about her. He was obviously no dummy, despite the mustache.

  "Fly in?"

  "Yes."

  "Where are you staying?"

  "The Comfort Inn. Why?"

  "No particular reason. Tell you what. Why don't you give us your boss's phone number, and we'll call him and let him know you did a good job."

  Thalma wasn't sure what Andrews was after, but she wasn't liking his sudden interest in her. That implied he was considering the possibility – perhaps not seriously, but still entertaining it – that she or her company represented a threat.

  "I can't give you his number, since you're not on the note," she said. She turned to Ellis. "But if you wish to talk to him, Mr. Ellis, I'll let him know."

  Ellis's half-frowning glance at Andrews made Thalma believe he was as puzzled by the biker gang leader's questioning as she was.

  "I don't see any point in talking to him," he said. "Unless you think I should, Malcolm."

  "Nope. I was just thinking we could help our friend Mark avoid too hard of a slap on the wrist. After all, he bought us breakfast, didn't he?"

  The others smiled as if he were joking. Thalma raised her hand to their passing waitress and requested coffee (which she never drank). She asked the others if they wanted some, which they did.

  "So this military guy," said Andrews. "He's Special Forces, isn't he? He has that look."

  "All I know is he was supposed to ride shotgun with me," said Thalma.

  "I'm thinking it's not exactly typical of an investment company to hire someone like him."

  Thalma took a tiny sip of her coffee. To her, coffee was about as tasty as acid, and about that useful to her already hyped-up energy levels.

  "I don't understand it myself," she said, not meeting the biker leader's gaze, layering bitterness into her voice. "I don't see why they think they need G.I. Joe to nursemaid me. Maybe they're afraid I'll take your money and run off with it or something."

  Andrews laughed. "You might be right about that. Here." He flipped out his wallet and dropped a hundred and a fifty dollar bill on the table in front of Thalma. "You've been a good sport – buying us breakfast and not trying to bust our balls. Take this and have a night on the town. If you come to my place – the Deadwood Saloon – the drinks are on the house."

  "That's very nice of you." Thalma tamped down her surprise. "But you know I'm not the one paying for this meal. That comes out of the expense account."

  "I know. Still, I appreciate your attitude, and the boss doesn't have to know."

  "Thank you."

  Thalma didn't want the money – didn't want to acknowledge whatever kindness it represented. One of the most unexpected - and disturbing – things she'd learned in her outlaw life was that the worst gangsters were capable of kindness. She frowned, thinking of Zeb. And good people are capable of doing bad things.

  Thalma slid the one hundred and fifty dollars off the table, nodding to Malcolm Andrews. The others resumed eating, two of them digging into their second plate of pancakes. Apparently, biker gang life made you hungry.

  Thirty minutes later, Thalma was crossing the parking lot, heading for her van parked out of view from the restaurant in an adjacent lot. The van, with its military tires, thickened glass, and subtly altered siding might strike them as incompatible with her dweeb accountant image.

  She texted Randall as she drove out of the lot. He immediately called her back.

  "You're free of your breakfast engagement," he said.

  "Just leaving now. Find anything?"

  "Oh, yeah. In a plastic case at the bottom of his sump pump. I wouldn't have found it, but he was thoughtful enough to include an assortment of gold coins in the case – along with a bit over sixty thousand in cash."

  "That's not sounding too bad."

  "There's more. A garbage-sized bag filled with plastic bags holding a white powder. The powder could be coke or heroin. Nothing's labeled."

  "Can you take it all?"

  "Not a problem. Meet at the designated place?"

  "Yes. I'm headed there now."

  Thalma pursed her lips. The powder was probably cocaine or meth, but not necessarily. Whatever the drugs were, the coins and cash were enough for Thalma to close the books on Ellis and company. Now it was just a matter of collecting the goods, paying Randall his much-deserved bonus, and making a bee line home.

  Thalma's cell beeped.

  "We have a situation." Concern surfaced through Randall's cool voice. "I believe I'm being followed by at least three of Andrews' goons – two on motorcycles, an unknown number in a car. They were approaching a half-mile away as I pulled out of Ellis' driveway, but I wasn't sure until now who they are. I recognize two of the bikers. They're gaining fast, apparently with aggressive intent."

  "Where are you now?"

  "Proceeding north on county road 27A three miles from Ellis' house."

  "Okay. I'm on my way, about three minutes behind you. If you can, keep your speed down and stay on the road so I can catch up with you."

  "Roger that."

  Thalma revved up the AMG 550 horsepower V8, its twin turbos spooling in. She forced herself to focus on the task ahead rather than the knot of apprehension in her gut. If it were just the money, she'd drive away, but leaving Randall hanging was not an option. The ex-Special Forces soldier could probably handle his pursuers on his own, but that could get violent and noisy fast, which tended to draw the attention of local law enforcement. If she blindsided them, they had a chance to end this quickly, with little or no fireworks.

  She cajoled the big van up to near its top speed of 130 MPH, whizzing by Ellis' house on her left. Now if she could just reach Randall and his caravan without running into any cops – and then take out his pursuers without a messy firefight.

  It seemed to take forever – long enough to play several strategic scenarios in her head – before the two cars and motorcycles rolled into view. From a half-mile away, they looked like insects performing some strange mating dance on the road – weaving, bobbing, straightening up and ducking down. Randall's blue Camaro veered off
onto a dirt road, raising a rooster tail of dust as it raced out of sight between grassy mounds. Good, she thought. The dirt cloud would not only mess with their pursuit – it would distract and partly blind them, masking her approach from behind. Dealing with them away from a main road was also a huge plus. She assumed Randall had spotted her in the rearview mirror.

  The dust cloud had dissipated when Thalma whipped her van onto the dirt road. Ahead, the motorcycles had taken to the grassy fields and hills on the side of the road, and were running roughly parallel with Randall's car. Their outstretched arms, aimed at the Camaro, no doubt held handguns. Someone was leaning out of the passenger side of the pursuing car with what appeared to be a rifle. Thalma suppressed a powerful sense of regret. It was one thing to risk her own life, but getting someone else killed was not acceptable.

  She stomped the gas pedal to the floor, and watched the motley crew swell in her windshield as though it were a zoom lens. Still shrouded in dust, the occupants of the pursuing car seemed unaware of her approach, and the urgent finger-jabbing from the cyclists came too late as she popped the rear left side of the compact car with a triple .50 burst, sending it into a spin off the road and a nasty-looking flip in the adjacent ditch. One down, she thought.

  She heard a sharp tapping sound on the van wall, and noted that the motorcyclists had her in their bumpy sights. Their handguns posed no threat, but the bullet marks could draw unwanted attention. Thalma activated her left machine gun turret. The control screen, which resembled a GPS panel mounted on her dash, revealed a panoramic view of the fields and hills on her left, including the bikers. She toggled the crosshairs on the bottom of the front tire of the lead biker with a dummy speed control, and set the fire rate to single. She depressed the button on the end of the toggle arm, and glimpsed a puff of dirt and grass just short of the tire. She adjusted the aim upward and fired again.

  The lead bike jerked sideways, flipping the driver end over end on the grass. The other biker ditched his bike and scrambled out of range behind a large rock. Thalma slowed, setting the crosshairs on the second bike's gas tank and shifted the machine gun back to three-burst. She pressed the trigger button, shredding the tank.