by Leigh Barker
“Just do.”
“Okay,” Ethan said. “How much is one worth?”
“Dunno,” Winter said.
“Not the Jeopardy champion you looked like just then,” Gunny said with a shrug.
“Troy ounce was a thousand dollars, last I looked.” Winter shrugged. “Dunno now, probably more.” He pointed at the bar. “That’s a thirty-two troy ounce bar.” He looked past them and frowned. “So thirty-two K per bar.”
Ethan smiled. “Doesn’t sound much.”
“That’s thirty-two thousand dollars, Top.”
Ethan and Gunny exchanged a quick look and Gunny whistled.
“How many bars in there?” Ethan said, leaning over the back of the truck.
Gunny walked around the tail and kicked the planks and bits of rubbish off the boxes, then bent down. “Looks like ten per box.”
Ethan whistled. “Ten times troy thing times four boxes.” He looked at Winter and waited.
“Just shy of one and a half mil,” Winter said.
“That should do it,” Gunny said.
“And change,” Ethan said. “Joanne and the boys can have my share.”
“Yeah, mine too,” Gunny said.
Winter looked over the side of the truck at the gold. “Yeah, why not. All that gold will just lead me into temptation and on the road to damnation.”
“Too late,” Ethan said. “We’re all damned to hell for what we’ve done.”
“Speak for yourself,” Gunny said. “I’ve done nothing but the Lord’s work. And I’m proud. Amen.”
“Dunno about Loco, though,” Winter said. “You know how he is with money.”
“There’s plenty to go around, even for Loco.” Ethan looked into the truck again. “Just lying in this old truck?”
“My guess is whoever was running this place knew we were coming and was getting out with the loot,” Gunny said. “We caught him with his pants down.”
Winter leaned over the truck too and sniffed.
Ethan turned to him and waited.
“Just a thought, Top.”
“And that thought is?”
“Well, there’s the gold.” He pointed. “We just did the math. That’s about a hundred pounds of gold.” He shrugged again and started to wander off. “We still hiking out, Top?”
Ethan stepped back from the old truck and looked it over. “I’ll not put those kids back in harm’s way.” He looked at the gold again. They could hike out with thirty pounds of gold each, but with a sniper on the loose? He stepped up onto the wheel and looked inside the cab. “You think we can get this running, Gunny?”
Gunny gave him a long look, sighed and walked around the flipped heap of rust. “If we can get it back on its wheels.” He shrugged. “Maybe. It was working before, or why load the gold? Yeah, maybe, if we’re lucky.”
“Never been lucky in my whole damned life,” Winter mumbled, as he strolled off for a look around.
“He does know we just won one and a half million dollars in gold?” Gunny shook his head.
“Money doesn’t mean much to Winter, he’s more your spiritual type.”
“Yeah, right. A saint who can shoot the nuts off a gnat at a thousand yards.”
“God moves in mysterious ways.” Ethan stepped down from the truck. “Let’s get it upright; then we’ll see if we have to haul the gold out of here.”
Melissa stood by the window of her apartment and pretended to be cleaning a mark off the glass. If anybody saw her, they’d think it must have been a hell of a mark; she’d been cleaning it for an hour. She wished she’d pressed Christian for a time, rather than just lunchtime Saturday. That could mean anything. What time did he have lunch? She should have got a time, but it had all been a bit of a…whirlwind.
She decided coffee would calm her nerves and went to the kitchen. The moment she reached for the coffee jug the doorbell rang. She dropped the jug, caught it, burned her fingers, dropped it again, and juggled it back onto the counter. She blew on her fingers and hurried to the door. Then stopped and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She smoothed down creases that weren’t there. Tidied her immaculate hair and took a long breath. Not bad. Not great. But as good as it was going to get. She wasn’t working with quality. Too much heading south, and too much pushing out. Was that grey in her hair? She licked her fingers and pulled on a strand of hair. No, well, probably not. And were those bags under her eyes? No, just shadows. The dress she’d chosen. Who wears a little black dress at lunchtime? What was she thinking? And pearls? For God’s sake, was she somebody’s grandmother? Shoes. Sensible shoes! Oh my God! She looked a complete—
The doorbell rang again, a little longer this time. She turned sharply, as if dismissing the image in the mirror, strode to the door and pulled it open.
Christian’s driver, David, smiled at her and stepped aside, sweeping his arm towards the waiting Merc. “Your chariot awaits, m’lady.”
She giggled and caught herself. What was she, sixteen?
He took her overnight bag without appearing to realise its significance, strode ahead of her to the car, and opened the back door, then closed it slowly once she was seated. She could get used to this.
The car interior was warm and she settled back into the soft leather and cleared a small square of mist off the inside of the window so she could watch the world glide by.
She saw the old man who lived next door leaning into the stiff icy wind and for a moment thought about tapping the window and waving, just to piss him off. He was a miserable SOB who hadn’t spoken to her in the five years she’d lived there. He was old and sick and would be dead soon, freeing up good accommodation for somebody who deserved it. She looked away quickly, surprised at herself for thinking such awful thoughts, but the misery of the years with her sick mother had not faded as much as she’d thought. She looked back and mouthed sorry, but knew she wasn’t and looked around for something to take her mind off the movie of her crappy life running in her head.
“How long will it take?” she asked, leaning forward to speak to the back of David’s seat.
“To DCA, ma’am?”
Ma’am? Did he think she was his schoolteacher? “Yes, to the airport.”
David looked at her through the rear-view mirror. “About fifteen, twenty minutes. Not much traffic today. It’s Saturday.”
She wondered why he felt the need to tell her the day of the week. Probably thought she was a bit senile. At thirty-six. Calm down, Melissa, you’re starting to ramble. She took a slow breath. She was nervous. The thought surprised her, but she realised it shouldn’t have done. How many times had she been whisked away on a private jet for dinner in Barbados? Well, let me count. Exactly never. She looked out of the side window and enjoyed the drive.
They arrived at Ronald Reagan at one thirty, by one forty she was sitting in a white leather armchair on a Gulfstream G280 jet. On her own. Better than first class. In front of her was a couch. A couch! White leather. She tried to act casual, as if being the only passenger on a plane happened everyday.
She jumped when a pretty blonde cabin attendant stepped up beside her and held out a tray.
“Would you like a drink, madam?”
She looked up at the attendant and smiled. She looked about sixteen, blonde hair pulled back and tied in a neat ponytail, and pretty eyes. People—girls—who work for Christian, shouldn’t be that pretty. She smiled at the child. “It’s a little early.”
The girl smiled a smile that would have stopped traffic. “Yes, madam, it is. May I suggest…” She lowered the tray and pointed at one of the drinks. One with an olive in it. “Very dry.”
Oh, what the hell? Melissa took the martini.
The attendant smiled again for good measure, turned and returned to the crew area. Melissa looked back and watched her stride up to her station. If she was any thinner, her clothes would fall off. A good meal wouldn’t go amiss there. And those shoes!
She sat back and sipped her martini. And looked around again s
lowly. There really was no one else on the plane. The other nine seats were all unoccupied. Which meant Christian had sent the plane just for her. She glanced back at the blonde attendant. Why would he do that? He could have any woman, or girl, he wanted. Perhaps he just wants me? She only wished she believed it. Thirty-six, carrying a few pounds. She looked down at the seatbelt across her stomach. Well, maybe a couple. Perhaps he prefers women who can think. Yes, that made sense. She looked again at the child chatting to her male colleague. Flirting. A conversation with her would be like discussing geopolitics with an intern. She settled back into the wide chair. And relaxed.
Loco stepped down from the Humvee next to the wrecked Toyota, looked over at the compound and whistled through his teeth. “Somebody did a number on this place.” He looked at Ethan. “Was it you, Top?”
Ethan pointed at the body with its missing head. “This piece of shit fired a Hellfire at it.”
Loco nodded knowingly. “Yup, that’ll get it done.” He looked around, nodded at Chuck and Winter, then frowned and looked some more. “Where’s Ben?” He chuckled. “You sent him on some shitty mission, right, Top?”
Nobody spoke. The silence was deafening.
Loco looked again at the headless corpse, then at the compound with the smoke-scarred crater. Back at Ethan and closed his eyes.
“Shit. I liked that big guy.” He shook his head. “He could talk the legs off a mule with a toothache.” He kicked the corpse. “This sack of shit killed one of the best men I’ve ever met. If he wasn’t dead, I’d rip his throat out.” He looked back at Ethan, who was watching his friend assimilate the worst news a man can get. “Ben’s got kids.”
Ethan nodded. “Yeah, I know. Two boys.”
“Yeah, great kids.” Loco sighed heavily. “Bit mouthy, but hey, teenagers.” He smiled a thin smile. “And they’ve inherited their father’s genes.” He saw Smokey’s white face and strode over to look up at him. “Hey, don’t take it so hard. We’re all gonna go sooner or later, and Ben got to go like a marine.”
Smokey nodded once, turned and walked away.
“What’s gonna happen to Ben’s kids?” Loco said.
Ethan pointed at the truck Winter and Gunny were standing next to, having given up on the tripod of broken beams and the knotted rope they’d been using to try to right the thing when the Humvee came back.
“Gold in that truck will see the boys okay. And his wife.”
Loco gave him a double take. “Gold? How much?” He started walking towards the truck. Stopped and turned. “Yeah, I get it.” He nodded. “Spoils of war and all that stuff.”
“You’re entitled to a sixth of it,” Ethan said.
“Nah, I’ve had gold. Didn’t last long.”
“Gambling will do that to a stash,” Gunny said, striding up onto the road. He looked in the back of the Humvee. “Where are the kids?”
“Having breakfast in a diner on the highway. Figured we’d come and give you guys a lift.” He smiled for a moment, but it faded. “Didn’t want you having to walk all that way, at your age.”
“Load the gold,” Ethan said. “Some eager-beaver sheriff will be screaming in here soon. And you know how I hate answering questions.”
“Roger that,” Gunny said.
Loco tried to lift the corner of one of the boxes of gold, grunted and stood up. “Jesus, that weighs a ton!”
“It’s only twenty pounds, more or less,” Winter said, and tapped it with his foot. “Maybe you should take one bar at a time. Little guy like you should watch out for strains.”
“Sarge,” Loco said, “was a time you’d carry that weight to save your men from overexertin’ themselves to death. Times have changed. Sad days are here.”
“You going to talk the gold into the Humvee, or help us carry it?” Gunny said as he picked up one of the boxes, jumped it in his hands and looked at Loco with a slow shake of his head.
“Color me helping, Gunny.” Loco tilted one of the boxes and tried to lift it, dropped it and pulled out five bars. He examined the top one carefully, caught Ethan’s look and quickly took his burden out onto the road.
Ethan was leaning on the Humvee fender, watching them bring the gold out of the compound. Somebody had to have oversight. “Loco?”
Loco stopped, with the little pile of bars in his hands.
“Can you drive this thing?” Ethan tapped the Humvee.
“Yeah, course I can.”
Ethan waited a moment. “It was just a thought.”
Winter and Gunny passed on their way to the Humvee with a box each.
“What is, Top?” Loco answered.
“What is what?” Ethan said, glancing over at Loco.
“What’s the thought?”
“Oh, just thinking things would be a lot less testing if you’d drive it over to the gold.”
The others stopped, but didn’t look. Somewhere off in the swamp a bird gave a pretty good impression of hysterical laughter.
Loco shrugged and put his five bars in the Humvee. “Too late now, Top, on account Gunny here has a box under each arm.”
Gunny dropped his box into the back of the Humvee and strode off to get the rest.
“This stuff’s heavy,” Smokey said, lifting one of the boxes from the Humvee and hefting it.
“It’s gold. It’s supposed to be heavy,” Loco said, putting the last of the kilobars into the vehicle. “That’s why gold was invented.”
“To be heavy?”
“Yeah. So that it’s worth lots of money and survivalists can use it instead of dollars. Dollars are only gonna be good for lighting fires after the big…whatever.”
“Makes sense.” Smokey patted a box and caught Gunny and Winter looking at him with pity. “What?”
“Nothing,” Gunny said. “You go ahead and keep dicking about with the gold. The heavy gold. That was invented to be heavy.”
“Right. That’s what Loco said. Saying it yourself doesn’t make you smarter than him, though, Gunny.”
“Not possible,” Gunny said. “Nobody’s smarter than Loco Mendez.”
“Amen to that,” Loco said.
“Hear that?” Ethan said, pointing south.
They listened and heard the sound of distant sirens. Getting louder.
“The sheriff and his merry men. If you don’t stop jawing and start driving, the boys with the badges will shoot you, arrest you, and put you in prison. And confiscate the gold.”
The Humvee headed south at a slow, legal speed. They could see the flashing blue lights approaching. Lots of them. Loco reached behind the passenger seat, pulled out the hunter’s caps and put one on Smokey, who was driving as usual. The others slid down out of sight. Two stupid, grinning hunters on the way back to the city to tell their friends what great outdoorsmen they were. They hoped.
The four blue and whites shot past them with barely a glance from the officers. They were on their way to a major incident. Stay back. Loco waved.
“Loco,” Ethan said from his position flat on the back seat, “did I ever tell you your name fits you perfectly?”
“No, Top. But thanks. Means a lot coming from you.”
The others groaned.
Melissa was almost sorry when the Gulfstream landed in Barbados; being the VIP instead of the VIP’s helper was an experience she could get to like.
Another black Mercedes was waiting for her when she stepped onto the warm tarmac of Grantley Adams International in Bridgetown. She looked around for the line leading into immigration, or the uniformed officer waiting to check her passport and keep her waiting, but there was no line and no uniform. Just a tall white guy in a Hawaiian shirt, looking uncomfortable about something.
“Are you here for me?” she asked.
“I am, madam. Mr. Carter is waiting for you on his yacht, madam.”
British, but what was all this madam stuff about? “You can call me Melissa.”
“Thank you, madam.” The Brit stepped forward and took her overnight case, then opened the rear d
oor and waited a moment before his eyebrow rose questioningly. “It’s very warm out here, madam.” He moved the door back and forth a few inches.
She strode over quickly and slid into the air-conditioned interior. She was about to say he could call her Melissa again, but the door snicked shut softly and he got into the driver’s seat.
She gave up on the weirdly dressed driver and watched Barbados roll past in its beautiful December sunshine. It felt like a dream. A few hours ago she was in the cold of DC, now she was in Barbados, arrived on a private jet and was being driven to dinner, on a yacht. It didn’t happen, not to her. But it is happening, so don’t jinx it, girl.
Almost too soon, the Merc stopped very gently and the Brit got out and opened the door.
She slid over and climbed out. “Nice shirt.”
“If you say so, madam.”
So that’s what he was uncomfortable about. “Christian tell you to wear that?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Not really your style, is it?”
“No, madam, not really.”
He had her overnight case in his hand, but she hadn’t seen him retrieve it from anywhere. Impressive. He turned and led the way along the quay.
“Which one is it?” she asked, looking along the quay at the half-dozen yachts moored up for the winter, and probably the summer.
“Madam?”
She turned, but couldn’t look at the shirt. “Which one is Christian’s?”
He frowned heavily, then pointed. “That one, of course.”
She followed his finger to the huge superyacht dominating the skyline. “Nice color.”
Nice color? For God’s sake, woman, are you an imbecile?
“It’s white, madam. I suppose that’s nice enough.” He stepped past her on the walkway and led the way to the yacht, as if she might get lost and not find the two-hundred-foot ship.
He waited at the bottom of a broad gangway for her to board first. She stopped and smiled at him. “Nice talking with you.”
The eyebrow again.
“Melissa, I’m so happy to see you.” Christian waved her on board.
“You were expecting me,” she said, and walked quickly up the ramp.
