by Robert Ellis
Matt nodded. “Keep your mouth shut, Sonny. Just open the drum.”
Ryan Moore grabbed a screwdriver off a nearby workbench and began prying open the clips holding the top in place. After several minutes, the rim popped free. Matt could see how uneasy both Daniels and Moore had become, their eyes big and wild and more than anxious.
“Lift off the lid, Sonny. Then you and Moore can step back over to the truck. And Moore, don’t be a loser. Toss the screwdriver onto the workbench.”
The air in the factory seemed to double in weight, the tension electric. Sonny lifted the lid off the drum and rested it on the pallet. Once he and Moore stepped away, Matt moved in for a closer look.
The contents were sealed in what appeared to be an industrial-strength black plastic bag. Matt ripped the tape away, opened the flaps, and gazed inside.
For a moment it almost seemed like the world had stopped turning. He could feel the rush of adrenaline flooding his body—the shock and awe he experienced when standing on a precipice and watching the air force drop a 21,000-pound bomb on the Taliban in Afghanistan. But even more, there was that moment, that split second in time, when he first set eyes on the contents and everything finally became clear. After all that had happened this week, after counting the number of people who had been murdered and were laid out in the morgue, after remembering Sophia Ramirez’s face as she was pulled out of the ground—it came down to this.
The fifty-five-gallon drum didn’t contain hazardous waste. And it didn’t appear as if the Brothers Grimm had any interest in engaging Robert Gambini in a turf war over drugs. Matt didn’t see anything at all like that in the drum. No oxycodone—no bags of white powder—not even a single pill.
He pushed the plastic away to widen his view, then leaned closer.
All he could see was cash.
Crisp, new bundles of $100 bills, sealed in Cryovac bags and identical in every way to the two bags found in Moe Rey’s house. When they had counted the money in Rey’s kitchen, each bag contained one hundred thousand dollars. Matt remembered that Moe Rey had worked here for a few weeks before getting the boot. That the floor manager had said that Rey was never where he was supposed to be. Somehow, Rey had stumbled onto the money and got himself murdered for it.
It finally made sense, but as Matt chewed it over, there was still gray to it, too. Moe Rey was a small-time punk. It seemed clear that Rey would never have been smart enough to have found this place on his own.
Matt filed the idea away for later. As he dug through the bags of cash and saw that they went all the way to the bottom of the drum, he heard Sonny Daniels stirring by the truck.
“Are you trying to count it, Jones?”
Matt looked his way but didn’t say anything.
“It’s two million dollars,” Daniels said. “Two million in each drum. And you can have that one as my gift, if you’ll just walk away and leave us alone.”
Matt remained quiet, eyeballing the drums and appraising their inventory. He could remember the night Ryan Moore told Cabrera that each one of the downsized trucks had a thirty-drum capacity and made fifteen trips to the mine in the desert outside Palmdale. He looked over at the cargo container against the rear wall, his mind burning through the numbers in disbelief. Each trip into the desert added up to sixty million dollars. In the end, the Brothers Grimm were moving a total of $900 million in cash.
A moment passed as Matt glanced back at Daniels and once again thought about the lives that had been lost.
“You did all this for the money?” he said in a voice that cracked and burned. “Money that you already own?”
Daniels seemed to be thrown off by Matt’s response and didn’t say anything.
Matt picked up a bag of cash, measuring its weight his hands. “You guys run a hedge fund. If these bills match what we found in Moe Rey’s house, then this cash came from Bermuda. That’s the whole point, right? That’s what this was always about. You’re moving money into the States tax-free.”
Sonny Daniels lowered his voice. “Over the past ten years we’ve saved six-point-eight billion dollars, Jones. We own a small insurance company in Bermuda. Money moves from the hedge fund to the insurance company, then gets reinvested in our hedge fund. The profits we earn are tax-free. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“There’s a lot wrong with it, Sonny. A fifteen-year-old girl is dead because of this money. An innocent kid.”
“I sure hope you’re not talking about that Mexican girl, Jones.”
“What?”
“You know what I’m saying.”
Matt gave him a long look, repeating to himself that he had a gun in his hand, took an oath as a police officer, and needed to remain cool.
“You’re gonna go to prison, Sonny. You and your freak pal over here. Your lawyers might get you guys out on bail before the trial, but both of you are gonna be locked up for a long time. You know better than anyone here that the minute you brought this cash back into the country, you committed multiple financial crimes that led to one murder after another. The question is, why? Why, when you already have so much? What’s it worth to you? I’m guessing that you moved nine hundred million in that container over there. How much is it worth tax-free?”
“An additional twenty percent, more or less.”
“So that’s what? Another hundred and eighty million?”
Sonny nodded like he was proud. “Give or take,” he said. “By the way, you’re not as dumb as Colon said you were.”
“Colon’s dead. She was murdered tonight.”
“So I heard. My offer’s still on the table, Jones. Take everything in that drum as a personal gift from me and my partner. All you have to do is—”
Matt felt the muzzle of a gun touch the back of his neck and froze. He didn’t need to turn around to know who was holding the pistol. He could see the man’s reflection in the shattered glass on the concrete floor.
Robert Gambini had come in from the cold.
FIFTY-FIVE
As Matt watched Gambini take his pistol away from him and jam it behind his belt, a memory surfaced.
It was something Burton had told him when they were standing in the hallway outside the district attorney’s office.
Pick your moments, Matt. Don’t let them pick you.
At first glance, the timing of the memory seemed odd. But as he thought it over, as he kept his eyes on Gambini, he understood why Burton’s words had resurfaced.
Robert Gambini couldn’t stop looking at the money.
No doubt about it, he’d come here hoping to steal a truck filled with opiated meds, and now, to his great surprise, it was pure, unadulterated cash. He seemed mesmerized by it. His eyes were glazed over like he’d taken something. But Matt knew that the wild glint had nothing to do with drugs. It was all about the cash. The number of $100 bills, and the number of fifty-five-gallon drums—what appeared to be the last load of thirty—awaiting their trip to that reconverted gold mine in the desert.
$60 million—before his eyes.
$60 million—free and clear.
$60 million—and it’s only the beginning.
Gambini smashed Ryan Moore in the face, knocking him onto the concrete floor. As Moore started cowering, Gambini dragged him over to the passenger-side door of the truck.
“Do you know how to be a hostage?”
Moore couldn’t look him in the eye and was shaking in terror—the blood from his head wound still oozing through his hair and dripping down his face.
“What are you talking about?” he murmured.
Gambini smashed him in the face again. “Shut up and sit still, you prick.”
Matt watched Gambini swagger across the floor, waving his pistol at the three guards, then pointing the muzzle at Sonny and finally back at him. It looked like a Glock 22, a .40-caliber semiautomatic that carried fifteen rounds in the mag. The pistol was lighter than a .45 but still packed a punch. From where Matt stood, no one on the floor had any doubt who was in charge right no
w.
Still, Gambini was distracted.
He’d just given the money another look as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune—like just maybe he’d been crowned the King of LA tonight. He stopped and turned and appeared to be thinking about his options the way kings do. Twenty-four drums had already been loaded onto the truck. The remaining six were set on a pallet close by. Matt followed his eyes up the steps of the loading dock to the work shed directly behind them.
A moment passed with Gambini’s wheels still turning. Then he walked back over to Sonny and gave him a hard push into Matt.
“Cuff his wrists, Jones. Then do yours. And hurry up about it.”
Matt slipped a tie around Sonny’s wrists and gave it a yank. Then he wrapped another tie around his own wrists, pulling it tight with his teeth.
Gambini returned to the open drum. After another quick peek at the cash, he began herding everyone up the steps into the shed. Matt could see Moore collapsed on the floor by the truck watching them with his glassy eyes. From the pathetic expression on his face, it seemed as though he had some idea of his fate and had given into the inevitable.
Matt felt himself being pushed through the shed door with the others and turned to catch a glimpse of the lock. It was a simple gate latch, and once Gambini slammed the door shut behind them, he heard the latch arm swing down and click. The shed was nearly dark, the only light coming from the loose-fitting door and a keypad. He took a quick look through the gloom, thinking about that day he and Cabrera toured the building and recalling that this was a temporary structure made of plywood to house the digital X-ray machine.
Matt gave his wrists a futile tug and noticed that the three guards were whispering among themselves and seemed nervous. Sonny had moved to the far corner, brooding in silence. Matt stepped back to the door and peered through the gap in the doorjamb.
He could see Gambini berating Moore as he dragged him over to the forklift. After a hard slap across the face for motivation, Moore finally climbed onto the seat and seemed to know enough about operating the machine to raise the pallet in the air and guide it into place. The drums looked heavy. As the two men began rolling them onto the truck, Matt noticed that Moore couldn’t stop sniveling. When they got to the last drum, his hands were shaking so violently that he lost his grip and just stood there as the barrel dropped off the truck. Gambini eyed the bags of cash strewn across the floor, became enraged, and bashed Moore in the face again. But then the drug kingpin did something Matt found even more disturbing.
After ordering Moore to get down on his hands and knees and pick up the cash, Gambini walked out. He strode past the restrooms and the dumpster, pushed the double doors open, and vanished into the office area.
Why? Why did he leave the floor?
Matt remembered the day he and Burton spent with Robert’s uncle Joseph in the visiting room at Terminal Island. He remembered the crime boss talking about the “mean Gambini” gene. He called his nephew vicious and cruel and said that the gene had been passed down from his father. He went on to say that it was a family trait with a long history. That Robert had been raised in near poverty and, like his father, always hated anyone he thought he couldn’t beat. That he took real pleasure in stabbing them in the back because that’s where the feeling of power came from.
Why did Robert Gambini leave the floor? Even worse, how could he let himself take his eyes off the money? His money?
Something was in the air. Matt could sense it.
“You know there’s a way to get out of these, don’t you?”
Matt turned. The older of the three guards was standing beside him with a band of light from the crack in the door cutting down his right eye and cheek.
“How?” Matt said.
“Well, you’ve gotta be strong. Young and strong. I bet you could do it.”
Matt nodded as he took another quick look through the gap in the door. Robert Gambini was just entering the floor. As the double doors swung shut, he saw clouds of smoke following him in from the office area. Gambini was going to torch the place. Matt could see him opening a can of something and pouring the liquid all over a stack of pallets, then lighting a rag and tossing it on the wood.
Matt turned back to the guard, holding his bound wrists up. “Show me.”
The guard spun the cable tie around until the head was centered between Matt’s arms.
“The head of the tie is the weak spot,” he said. “It has to be on top and right between your wrists. And the cable tie’s gotta be pulled tight.”
Matt gave the door a hurried check. The factory was burning. And though the bags of cash had been picked up, the last drum hadn’t been loaded yet and was still set on the floor.
Matt turned back to the guard and watched the man pull his cable tie tighter.
“Now what?” he said.
“You’re gonna raise your hands into the air—high as you can get them.”
Matt raised his hands over his head, the plastic band cutting into his skin like a carving knife.
“That’s it,” the guard said. “Now you’re gonna drop your hands down as hard and fast as you can. The idea is to drive your forearms into your hips and, on impact, snap your wrists apart. You need to make it hurt, Jones.”
Matt took a couple of deep breaths, his eyes still locked on the guard. And then he did it—but nothing happened.
A daunting moment passed. He could smell smoke in the air. He could see it funneling into the shed through the gap in the door.
“You need to do it again,” the guard said.
“He’s burning the place down.”
“You need to do it again. Harder. Faster.”
Matt noticed that everyone in the shed was watching and looked frightened. The smoke had become thick enough that one of the younger guards had started coughing. Matt grit his teeth as he raised his hands in the air, then groaned as he thrust his arms down and slammed them against his hips. For a split second, all he noticed was the pain. But then he saw the broken cable tie on the floor. When he glanced at his wrists, he gave them a turn and realized that he was free.
He rushed to the door and peeked through the gap. Moore was on the forklift, inching toward the last drum with the factory engulfed in flames. Matt turned back to Sonny and the three guards.
“We can deal with the cable ties later,” he said quickly. “We need to get out of here first. All of us.”
Matt took three steps back, then drove his shoulder into the door. The lock was a cheap gate latch, but it didn’t give.
“I’m gonna need help,” he said.
The oldest of the guards stepped forward again. Matt looked him over. He might have been in his forties, but he had some weight to him.
“What’s your name?” Matt said.
“Gene,” he said. “Gene Harvey.”
“We’re gonna go on three, Gene. You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
Matt counted from one to three and both men charged forward, driving their shoulders into the plywood door. The gate latch snapped, and the door blew open.
Gambini looked up, pulled out his gun, and fired two quick shots into the work shed. When everyone retreated, Moore raised the last drum in the air and scurried off the forklift. Once the drum was loaded onto the truck, Gambini slammed the rear doors shut.
Matt looked at the four men crouching behind the plywood wall. “I’ll keep him distracted,” he said. “You guys need to make a run for it.”
He crept to the door, peering through the heavy smoke. Gambini was shouting at Moore over the sound of the fire, telling the man to get into the passenger seat of the truck. When Gambini finally turned away and headed for the driver’s side door, Matt sprinted forward and jumped off the loading dock. He reached the back of the truck and then around the side. Gambini was just about to open the door. Matt rushed toward him, grabbing his shoulders and yanking him down to the ground. He could see Gambini’s knees buckle and twist, and heard him groan. As the man rolled over, Mat
t reached for the gun Gambini had stuffed behind his belt—his own .45—but watched it being batted away. The pistol skidded across the floor.
And that’s when the world started spinning again. Gambini must have been waiting for him with his fist closed around his own pistol. When Matt turned toward the truck, Gambini hammered him in the face with the handle.
It was a knockout punch. A hard, vicious blow, and everything went black. Matt could feel panic quaking through his body. Through the smoke he could see Gambini opening the door and climbing in behind the wheel. Behind the truck, Sonny Daniels and the three guards were running through the blaze toward the open bay doors. He looked up and saw the entire ceiling burning overhead.
He rolled over onto his belly, still dazed. He started coughing but somehow managed to get to his feet. Searching for his gun, he spotted it through the haze and snatched it off the floor. Then he heard the truck’s parking brake release and turned just in time to see Gambini wave goodbye with a wicked smirk on his face.
Matt raised the .45 and pulled the trigger, but the truck started moving. He didn’t know what to do. He could feel the panic still washing through him in waves. Gambini was going to get away.
He fired another round into the front cab, but the truck kept rolling through the blaze and across the warehouse floor.
Matt grit his teeth and rushed forward, diving onto the front fender and grabbing the upper lip of the hood. His stomach was in his throat, his feet dangling in the smoky air. The floor moving beneath his legs suddenly turned into gravel and then asphalt as they reached the narrow road. The outdoor air was cold, the wind hardening as the truck began to pick up speed. Matt swung his legs around until he could feel the front bumper underneath his feet. And then he looked up and gazed through the windshield into the cab.
His eyes moved from Moore in the passenger seat to Gambini behind the wheel. They seemed so close. He could see Gambini’s sneer becoming deeper and better defined. When Matt looked down, he saw the man lifting his gun off the seat and raising it in the air.
