Okay by her. She was ready for it. Nick and the crew had spent the last eight weeks prepping for the con, acquiring the resources, building the sets, finding the properties they needed, and rehearsing their parts.
She turned off the ignition and headlights and sat in the car for a moment, listening and observing, making sure there was no one around. The cabin was dark, the drapes drawn. The generator hummed in the otherwise quiet area.
Burnside sat up slowly. His hair was mussed, his face pale. “Where are we?”
“One of our safe houses,” she said. “It’s totally off the grid.”
Kate got out of the car, gun and flashlight in hand, and checked the perimeter of the cabin. Burnside opened his door, leaned out, and vomited up everything he’d eaten at Mastro’s.
Kate returned to Burnside, her feet crunching on the gravel and dry twigs. “It’s all clear.”
“Do you have shoes for me?”
“No, but you don’t need them,” she said. “You’re not going on any walks.” She’d taken his shoes to make sure of that.
“How am I supposed to get to the cabin?”
“Man up, for God’s sake,” she said, turning her back on him.
Burnside closed the door, slid across the backseat to the other door, and got out, walking gingerly in his stocking feet across the dirt as if it was covered with thorns.
Kate unlocked the cabin door, reached inside to flip on the light switch, and beckoned him in. “Make yourself at home.”
The air inside the cabin smelled stale, and there was a fine layer of dust on everything. The small kitchen had chipped Formica countertops, a stove-and-oven combo that was older than Kate, and a refrigerator with a brick under one corner to keep it level. The furnishings consisted of a table and four mismatched chairs, a cracked vinyl couch, a rocking chair, and a couple dusty rugs on the hardwood floor. There were a few framed prints on the wall that Nick had bought at Walmart for five dollars apiece. The bedroom was just about big enough to hold a full-size mattress on a creaky bed frame and a nightstand. The bathroom was barely larger than a Porta-Potty, with slightly better ambience. There were some yellowed, dog-eared paperbacks on a three-shelf bookcase against one wall.
Burnside went to the kitchen sink, opened the faucet, and stuck his face into the stream of water, sucking in a mouthful of water. He gargled with the water, spit it out, and repeated the action, before shutting the faucet off and facing Kate.
“We weren’t expecting guests, so there isn’t much in the way of food,” she said. “But we’ve got enough for the first few days.”
Burnside held up his hand. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself. I’m not sure I’ll be staying in this shack for five more minutes.”
“Go ahead, walk out the door. I already regret saving your life. My entire weekend is shot now.”
“What were you doing at my house in the first place?”
“We picked up some chatter that Derek Griffin had helped the Viboras launder millions of dollars in profits from the drug trade.”
“That’s not true,” Burnside said. “He’s never engaged in any illegal activity.”
“Word was they were furious that he’d run off with it, along with all the cash he stole from his other clients. Since you’re the only one who knows where he is, my boss thought they might come looking for you.”
“Mr. Griffin hasn’t stolen money from anyone.”
“Does this look like a courtroom to you? I know he stole the money, you know he stole it, and so do the Viboras.”
“What did you hope to gain from watching me?”
“To save you from getting killed.”
“I didn’t know the FBI was so concerned about my safety.”
“We don’t like Mexican cartels killing American citizens, even the ones we loathe.”
Burnside took a seat at the table. “You have no reason to dislike me. Everyone is entitled to legal counsel and a strong defense. It’s the bedrock of our legal system.”
“You set criminals free.”
“It’s the fault of law enforcement, not me, when an accused individual is found innocent. If your case is solid, it should be able to withstand even the strongest defense, or the charges shouldn’t be brought in the first place.” He did a fast scan of the room. “Now what?”
“You’re in protective custody until my boss says otherwise.”
“That should be my decision, not his.”
“The Viboras are ruthless and relentless. They aren’t going to stop until they get you. They won’t think twice about walking into your office with automatic weapons, spraying the place with bullets, and dragging you out over the dead bodies of all of your co-workers. Do you really think you can protect yourself, and everyone around you, from these guys?”
He thought about what had happened to Willie and shuddered. He’d never seen anyone killed before and was just thankful it wasn’t someone he’d known better and deeply cared about. Not to mention, when he saw her slide down the wall he realized she was much older than he’d originally thought. He was going to have to be more careful who he picked up online.
“I am not going to stay in hiding for an indefinite period of time,” Burnside said.
“You don’t have to. It’s not you they really want, it’s Griffin. Give him up to us and your troubles are over.”
“And so is my career as a defense attorney, and that’s assuming that I know where he is, which I don’t.”
“What kind of career are you going to have in a coffin? The only thing that’s going to get the Viboras to give up on you is if Griffin comes out of hiding.”
“There has to be another way,” Burnside said.
“If you think of one, let me know. I’ll pass it along.”
“Shouldn’t you be calling this in? Getting us some backup?”
Kate set her iPhone on the table and punched in her audio recorder app. “We have protocol. I need to file a report before I call anybody.”
“I can’t tell you much. They were on us as soon as we came in the door. Willie was shot, and I was zapped, and there was the shootout in the driveway.”
“What do you know about Willie?”
“She had big tits,” Burnside said. “That’s about it. I picked her up on Facebook. This was our first date.”
“Did the men say anything?”
“Not a word. They were cold and efficient. The whole thing was over in a few seconds.”
“Can you describe them? Did you see anything that could help identify them?”
Burnside shook his head. “They were wearing ski masks and gloves. I can’t tell you anything about them.”
That was good news, Kate thought. She stopped the recording and called Carl Jessup, filling him in.
“I want to talk with him,” Burnside said.
She handed the phone to him, knowing this was a key moment in the con, the one that would sell it. Burnside knew Carl Jessup, and hearing the man’s voice on the other end of the line would reinforce her authority and the “reality” of the situation he was in. Talking Jessup into doing it hadn’t been easy.
“I’m not going into hiding, Carl,” Burnside said. “I’ve got professional obligations, cases on the docket, and bills to pay.”
Kate couldn’t hear Jessup’s side of the conversation, but she knew he was reiterating what she’d already told Burnside, adding that they’d soon be turning him over to the U.S. Marshals Service, the pros at witness protection. The FBI’s expertise wasn’t in babysitting.
“I expect you to be proactive,” Burnside said. “Round up these Vibora guys, get them off the playing field so I don’t need protection.”
It was an absurd demand. There were thousands of Viboras, and countless gang members under their thumbs. If this was a real situation instead of an elaborate deception, the Viboras would keep sending waves of shooters after Burnside unless Griffin showed up, and then they’d shift their efforts to getting the man who actually had their money.
&
nbsp; Jessup was undoubtedly telling Burnside all of that. She could see the frustration building on Burnside’s face as he listened.
“Going into witness protection until such time as Derek Griffin returns and makes himself a target is not an option for him or for me,” Burnside said. “There has to be some back-channel way to get word to the Viboras that I don’t know where he is and that my client is innocent.”
Jessup’s laughter was so loud that Kate could hear it. She didn’t hear what Jessup said next, but she could feel the anger rolling off Burnside.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Burnside said. “I expect to hear some other options.”
He was in no position to make demands, and on some level he had to know that, but Burnside didn’t want to appear as powerless as he felt, Kate thought.
Burnside handed the phone to her. “He wants to talk to you.”
“I know you don’t have TV reception out there, but the news media have already picked up that gunshots were reported at Burnside’s house and that he’s missing,” Jessup said to Kate. “The LAPD is on it, not that they have anything to go on, but stay on your toes anyway.”
“Will do, sir.” She disconnected the call and turned to Burnside. “Another agent will take over for me in the morning.”
“Just one?”
“I’ll still be here, but he’ll be taking the day watch while I get some sleep. We’re only babysitting you until the U.S. Marshals can take over, which hopefully will be tomorrow night.”
He gestured for the phone. “I need to make some calls.”
“Sorry, that’s not allowed.”
“I have pending cases. I need to talk with my team, let them know I’m okay and how they can reach me.”
She stared at him. “Were you really a federal prosecutor?”
“For five years,” he said. “One of the best.”
“Then what happened? Did you sustain a serious head injury?”
His eyes narrowed. “Because I left the Justice Department to become a defense attorney?”
“Because you should know better than anyone that you can’t contact anybody.”
“It’s my life, my decision.”
“No, now it’s also my life. I will not let you put me, or my loved ones, in danger because of your arrogance and stupidity. If you use my cell phone to contact anyone, then ten minutes later the Viboras could know where we are or who I am. And then maybe the next thing that happens is they come here and kill us. Game over. Or maybe they show up at my sister’s house, shoot one of her kids to prove that they’re serious, and then use her as leverage to get me to give you up. And I will.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“In a nanosecond,” Kate said. “You either play by my rules, or you can walk out that door right now and take your own chances.”
“You threw away my shoes,” he said.
She tossed her car keys onto the kitchen table. “What’s your excuse now?”
He scowled at the keys and then at her. He wasn’t going anywhere. “This sucks. The least you could have done was put me up in a decent hotel.”
“Where the entire staff, probably half of them Mexican illegals with families living in Vibora-controlled territories, would know you were there and where we’d be putting every guest in the building at risk. Why would we do something as stupid as that?”
“We don’t even have a TV in here,” he said.
“Look at the bright side.” She gestured to the bookcase. “Now’s your chance to catch up on Nora Roberts.”
Neal Burnside found fresh sheets in the closet, made the bed, and crawled under the covers while Kate remained in the living room, wide awake and standing guard.
Coyotes were howling and owls were hooting in the darkness outside, and Burnside couldn’t sleep. The sounds made him think about all those cowboy movies he’d seen where the stupid settlers slept in their wagons and by their campfires, unaware that the howls and hoots were actually communications among the savage Indians, who were closing in on their camp to rape, torture, scalp, and kill them all.
Burnside had an irrational urge to open the bedroom door, run into the living room, and warn Kate that the Indians were about to attack. Okay, he knew that was crazy. He knew there were no Indians out there. But what if the Viboras were out there hooting and howling, getting ready to attack? That wasn’t so crazy, right? Burnside gave his head a shake. Of course it was crazy. Why would the Viboras use coyote calls? Besides, nobody but Carl Jessup knew where he was. That was a calming thought. Except whoever Jessup assigned to relieve O’Hare also knew. And whoever that agent might have told, like a wife or girlfriend, and probably while their maid or gardener or pool man was within earshot, who are probably Mexican, and probably illegal, and who probably have a relative, friend, or neighbor with ties to the Viboras. No, no, no, he told himself. FBI agents are trained to be discreet. They wouldn’t talk in front of their gardener about a witness they were protecting. Reality check. Who notices the help? When was the last time he’d paid any attention to what he was saying on the phone while Emilia cleaned the house, Enrique cleaned the pool, and mow-blow-and-go Julio did his lawn?
What if there was a Hispanic custodian outside of Jessup’s office when he made the call? Or if there was a señorita watering the plants at the U.S. Marshals office when Jessup’s call came through?
He knew that the last U.S. Census had revealed that 48 percent of the population of Los Angeles County were Latinos, the majority of them from Mexico, and those were just the people the census takers were able to count. That figure didn’t include the roughly 2.6 million illegal immigrants that the Department of Homeland Security estimated were in California, most of them also from Mexico, so the actual percentage of Latinos in Los Angeles County could be much, much, much higher. And of those 2.6 million illegal aliens, how many had been smuggled from Mexico into California by someone with connections to the Viboras? And how many were from the vast areas of Mexico under Vibora control? And how many of them, or their relatives back home, were doing business with the Viboras? Whatever that number was, it had to be astronomical. So Burnside came to the horrifying irrational conclusion that more than half the people in Los Angeles could be on the lookout for him.
My God, listen to yourself, he thought. That’s ridiculous. Half the population of Los Angeles isn’t after you. But he wasn’t listening to himself. He was listening to the Vibora assassins outside talking to one another in coyote and owl about attacking the cabin. Burnside gave a sigh of resignation and rolled out of bed. He needed to at least broach the subject of coyote communication with O’Hare. Get the whole insane idea out of his head and into hers so he could get some sleep.
He crossed the small room, cautioning himself not to go off babbling like some drooling moron, but to calmly suggest that she look into the possibility. Not that he actually believed there were Viboras out there, but to simply suggest she keep her ears attuned to the coyote nuances.
He opened his door, and at the same instant a hooded Vibora gunman kicked open the cabin’s front door and was immediately shot twice in the chest by O’Hare, who had leapt up from the couch and fired in one smooth motion.
“What?” Burnside said, not able to process what was happening, or determine if it was even real, since he knew it was insane to think the Viboras were there, and yet there was one riddled with bullets on the floor in front of him.
He saw a series of flashes in the darkness outside the open door, simultaneously heard a string of muffled pops, and O’Hare staggered forward, eyes wide in shock and fear. She fell face-first onto the couch, her gun slipping from her lifeless fingers onto the floor, and he saw four bullet holes in her back, oozing blood.
Burnside dove to the floor to retrieve O’Hare’s gun. He grabbed the gun and was rolling onto his side to shoot the first Vibora son of a bitch that came through the door when he felt the silencer against his forehead. He looked up into the cold eyes that peered through the slits of the black ski mask worn by
the Vibora killer standing over him, and his heart did a painful contraction.
“I don’t know where Derek Griffin is,” Burnside said, struggling to breathe, dropping the gun. “He doesn’t have your money.”
A second gunman yanked Burnside to his feet, pulled the lawyer’s arms behind his back, bound his wrists together with duct tape, tore a strip off the roll and slapped it over his mouth, and put a black hood over his head. Burnside was pulled outside and forced to walk in his bare feet on the sharp stones and twigs until he came to an abrupt and painful stop when his shins hit what he suspected was the rear bumper of a car. The trunk was opened and he was shoved inside, unable to see or to use his hands to cushion his fall. His ankles were bound with the duct tape and the trunk slammed shut. A moment later the car sped away over the unpaved road, bumping and jostling Burnside so hard against the trunk lid and the floor that it felt like a beating. And as this nightmare was unfolding, there was just one thought he couldn’t get out of his head:
I can’t believe I was right.
Nick, Chet, and Tom drove away from the safe house in a plain-wrap Camry with Willie at the wheel and Burnside in the trunk. Kate had chosen a Camry as their ride because it was the bestselling, most commonly seen car on the road, a staple of rental fleets, and therefore the hardest vehicle to single out and identify, not that there’d been any witnesses to the abduction.
Five minutes earlier, it was Chet who had been the first one through the cabin door, once again getting to play the dead Vibora, and it was Nick who’d held the gun on Burnside. Tom came in last to bind Burnside and put the hood over his head.
After the Camry disappeared down the road, Kate shucked her wet shirt and carefully peeled off the blood pack, which was basically a sheet of interlocking plastic bags that had been filled with red-dyed corn syrup and stuck to her back with heavy-duty bandage tape. On the surface of each blood bag were thin charges with tiny wires attached to them that led to a battery-operated receiver hidden in her pocket. Nick used a remote control to set off the charges, which burst her blood packs and tore holes in her shirt at the same time he fired the blanks from his silenced gun.
The Heist Page 13
