Angel Face (23 page)

‘We're finished, right?' she asks Carter. ‘Now that Bobby pulled the bugs?'

Carter doesn't answer right away. He's too busy weighing the obvious cost of going forward, his life, against a set of benefits that elude him. Angel will be gone within weeks if she gets her hands on the money, gone for good. Carter doesn't intend to become anyone's pool boy. So what will he do, besides dump his end of the loot in an already fat bank account?

‘Nothing to say?'

Carter waits for Angel to merge with the traffic in the center lane. Up ahead, a man sits on the trunk of a stalled Toyota, his chin in his hands, no doubt enjoying the fine spring day.

‘You should have paid closer attention, Angel.'

‘To what?'

‘To Levi Kupperman.'

‘What did he say that can possibly help us?'

‘It's what he didn't say that matters. If you remember, the main problem with lifting the money from the bunker had nothing to do with the men guarding it. They're a problem, all right, but a problem I can overcome.'

Angel's smile is nearly beatific. ‘The safe, of course. You were worried about the money being in a safe you couldn't open.'

‘I had Levi describe the contents of Bobby's office while I held a knife to his throat. Since he couldn't know what I was after, he had no reason to leave anything out.'

‘And he never mentioned a safe, which means the money's probably sitting in a closet.'

‘Probably?'

‘Well, he could have moved it.'

‘And I have to kill three men in order to find out?'

But Carter's teasing. He's decided there's only one benefit to be gained from this particular operation. Call it the thrill of combat. Carter can almost taste the moment, almost smell the blood as it trickles into Montgomery Thorpe's river. All the hours of handgun practice at Carl Maverton's gun range? He'll soon be putting the skills he developed to the ultimate test, a challenge unrelated to Angel Tamanaka, as beautiful as she undoubtedly is, as much as he undoubtedly wants her.

Carter glances at his watch. Two o'clock in the afternoon and plenty of work to be done. ‘Head for the Home Depot, the one in Flushing,' he tells Angel. ‘I'm going in tonight.'

Carter lays out his equipment on the living room rug: the M89, a holstered 9mm Glock, a combat knife in its scabbard, a hooked pry bar, a two-pound hammer and a wood chisel, a ski mask, thirty feet of rope with a grappling hook attached to one end, a Grade II bulletproof vest, a small bolt cutter, a propane torch and a pair of two-way radios.

‘Do you know how to use these?' Carter hands one of the radios to Angel.

‘They look like someone dragged them up from the Stone Age. You sure they're not petrified?'

‘Walkie-talkies have been around for a long time, but they have certain virtues. First, they communicate directly with other radios. They don't need the phone system or a satellite. Second, they're set to a specific frequency that helps to maintain privacy. But we're not going to use them to talk to each other. Press that button on the side, the large one.'

Angel complies, producing an audible click in the second radio. ‘That's it?'

‘You're going to drop me behind the warehouse at three o'clock in the morning, then find a parking space within sight of the front entrances. When I need you to pick me up, I'll key the radio three times. If Bobby or any of his people show up before I come out, you do the same thing, one click for each person. If the cops show up, click four times fast. But don't speak, Angel. Don't give me away.'

Angel clicks the radio several times, then drops it beside her on the couch. ‘Something has to happen before you go, between us.'

‘Fine with me.'

‘I'm not talking about sex.' Like Carter, Angel's been guarding her privacy for a long time. She has acquaintances, but not friends, partners, but not lovers. Yet Carter's somehow defeated her security system, as he intends to defeat Bobby Ditto's.

‘What if I forget about the Caribbean?' she asks. ‘What if I was willing to stay here?'

‘Are you asking me to go steady?'

Angel's right foot lashes out, catching him midway between knee and ankle. ‘One day you're going to have to come out of that closet. You can't hide in there all your life.'

Carter rubs his shin. ‘Isn't that your plan? To hide inside a rich man's wealth for the rest of your life?'

‘Actually, I was counting on him dying young and me becoming a fabulously rich widow, after which I'd marry the man of my dreams. But my failings aren't the point. I'm asking about you.'

‘Listen, Angel, what I do . . . ? Let's just say my occupation doesn't lend itself to a long-term outlook. Or to intimate friendships. As for you tossing away your life's ambition? If I was you, I'd think twice. Sooner or later, probably sooner, I'm going to be killed or caught. I know I've made these points before, but they haven't changed.' Carter's smile is wicked. ‘Unless, of course, I settle down, become a member in good standing of the moral middle class. Maybe I could open a small business, stop working out, gain thirty pounds, learn to fall asleep on the couch after dinner.'

‘What are you saying?'

‘No risk, no gain.'

Angel grimaces. Not only has she failed to make her point, she's not certain that she even knows what it is. Carter's concentration is so intense, as he packs his gear, that she finds herself envious. He's an athlete before a championship event, or maybe an addict contemplating his drug of choice, knowing that he'll be stoned by morning. Stoned or dead.

Finally satisfied, Carter retreats to the dining room table where he lays out the items he purchased at Wal-Mart, the wooden matches, the sandpaper, the X-Acto knife, the glue and the ping-pong balls. Alongside, he places two shotgun shells, a sheet of newspaper and a pair of kitchen shears.

‘Let me show you a trick.' Carter motions Angel to stand next to him. ‘I learned this in the military, part of my super-secret advanced training. But then I came home to find thirteen-year-old nerds posting how-to-make-a-flash-bomb videos online.'

Carter fits a blade into the X-Acto knife and cuts one of the ping-pong balls in half, leaving only a tiny strip to act as hinge. He bends the two halves back, creating a pair of small cups, like the halves of an eggshell lying on end. Into each cup, he glues strips of coarse sandpaper in the shape of a cross. The matches come next. Carter cuts off the heads, roughly divides them in two, then lays them on the sandpaper strips.

‘There are three men in the basement, untrained and undisciplined. I'd bet my life savings against a quarter that they have no concerted plan of action if the basement door is breached. How much experience and practice they have with handgun combat is also suspect. Remember, they've been in that basement for several days and nothing's happened. Are they psychologically prepared for combat? I don't think so, Angel. But I don't mind giving myself another edge anyway.'

Carter breaks down the shotgun shells, extracts the gunpowder and wraps it loosely in newspaper. He lays the packet on top of the matches in one of the cups, then closes the ping-pong ball.

‘I want you to glue the edges together,' he tells Angel. ‘Nice and even now. Let the glue drip slowly.' Carter rolls the ball against the tip of the glue tube, describing a neat circle. He blows on the glue, a long slow breath, again turning the ball. Finally, while the glue is still tacky, he covers the seam with a strip of tape and lays what now looks like an ordinary ping-pong ball on the table.

‘If you throw this against a hard surface, the sandpaper will ignite the matches and the matches will ignite the gunpowder. There won't be an explosion because the gunpowder isn't packed down. What there will be is a flash of light intense enough to blind someone for about five seconds.' Carter smiles, remembering Gentleman Jerry Miculek. Gentleman Jerry could take out an entire platoon in five seconds. ‘That should be enough time.'

TWENTY-SEVEN

W
hereas before Angel felt both thrilled and frightened, now she's just frightened. They're in Red Hook, she and Carter, cruising past a long-abandoned factory, its peeling stucco façade reminding her of an elderly aunt whose incurable skin disease kept her indoors for the last several years of her life. Above the van, a bone-white moon edges from the shadow of a raggedy cloud to stare, accusingly, through the van's windshield.

Carter's behind her, in the rear of the van, strapping the Glock to his thigh, donning the vest, checking and rechecking his gear. His expression remains neutral, almost casual, throughout. Angel feels like she's seeing him for the first time, what he is, what she can never be. She's thinking this is a good lesson, though it's a bit late in the game to be learning that you're not cut out for robbery and murder. But, of course, Carter would never use the word murder to describe his plans for the gangsters in Bobby Ditto's basement. No, he'd probably say something like ‘Combat related deaths, by definition, are not murders.'

‘You having buyer's remorse, Angel?' Carter's tone reveals a hint of amusement that Angel instantly resents.

‘Is it that obvious?'

‘You do seem a bit nervous.'

Angel shakes her head. They're passing through a narrow park that extends along either side of the road. Baseball fields, a makeshift soccer field with sagging nets at either end, an expanse of greening grass that runs the length of a block and appears silver in the moonlight. A cigarette lighter flares on the edge of the park closest to the Red Hook Houses, illuminating a dozen men gathered together in spite of the hour. It's now three o'clock in the morning.

‘Nothing's happened yet,' Carter adds. ‘We can still call it off.'

‘Is that what you want?'

‘I need you steady, Angel.'

Carter lays the coil of rope and the grappling hook on the bag containing his equipment. He slides both toward the door, then pulls on the tea-dyed gloves he'd worn on the day they met. ‘Look, you're going to sit in back of the van, in the dark, until I call for you to pick me up. That could take a lot of time, since I'm not sure what problems I'll encounter once I get inside. At some point as you sit there in the dark, your imagination will kick into overdrive. Did Carter's luck finally run out? Is he wounded, helpless, even dead? Is he coming back? How long do I wait?'

‘You said an hour.'

‘That's only an estimate.' Carter leans forward to kiss the back of Angel's neck. ‘I need you steady,' he repeats.

‘Are you worried about something?'

‘The inner door, the one to Bobby's office. It's a thick slab of wood protected by a deadbolt, keycard lock. Eventually, I'll get through it, but I can't be sure how long that will take. I have to know you'll be here when I come out. Taxis are hard to find in this neighborhood.'

Angel takes a left. Two blocks ahead, she can see the fence surrounding Benedetti Wholesale Carpeting's truck yard. ‘How do you plan to get through the door?'

‘I'm going to burn it down . . . with a very small flame.'

‘Are you joking?'

Carter's not joking, but there's no time to explain. ‘If you want to take a pass, just keep driving. I won't be upset, not at all. But once the operation begins, once I'm in the field, I need to know you'll be waiting for me.'

Angel makes a right turn on to the cobblestone street running along the back of the warehouse. ‘Tell me where to stop.'

‘Up ahead, just in front of the fire hydrant.'

‘An hour, you said?'

‘If it's going to be more, I'll try to call you on the walkie-talkie.'

‘I'll be there.'

Carter waits until the van comes to a stop against the curb, then slides the rear door open and hops out. He reaches back into the interior to lift the bag and the rope, and closes the door. He offers no memorable goodbye, no parting comment, but merely crosses the sidewalk to the chain-link fence, the first barrier, and goes to work.

Chain-link fencing is delivered in rolls, then wired to vertical fence posts and horizontal rails. Carter begins at one of the posts, using the bolt cutters to slice through the links wired to the post. Made of soft, galvanized metal, the fencing offers minimal resistance, and Carter's able to force it back and slide underneath twenty seconds after leaving the van. He returns the bolt cutter to the bag, ties the loose end of the rope to the bag's handles and tosses the grappling hook over the parapet edging the roof. When the hook pulls tight on the first toss, he shows a bit of emotion, a tiny smile that just touches the corners of his mouth. Meticulous preparation has always been his strong point.

The rapid fire, hand-over-hand climb to the top leaves him breathless, but Carter doesn't pause to recover. He pulls the bag up behind him and steps back into the shadows. Carter fears most what he can't control, like the remote possibility that a police cruiser would turn on to the block while he was halfway up the rope. Hanging there, he'd be entirely helpless, escape impossible. He couldn't even shoot his way out. Now he's invisible from the street. He can take his time.

He walks first to the skylight, the means of his initial entry, only to find it secured with a high-end padlock. The padlock's shackle is made of hardened steel and more than a match for the bolt cutters, which comes as no surprise to Carter. If he didn't have a back-up plan, he wouldn't be here.

Carter walks directly to the south-western corner of the building where the tarnished, sheet-metal chimney of a defunct ventilation system rises a few feet above the tarred roof. The ductwork, along with a cap to protect the system from rain and snow, is joined by sheet-metal screws. Carter finds a slot head screwdriver inside the bag and fits it into the nearest screw. Rusted in, the screw gives off a little screech of protest before it begins to turn. Carter's not particularly worried about making noise. Even assuming the guards below aren't asleep, the basement has no windows and the floor of the warehouse is thick enough to support the weight of loaded trucks. Still, once the cap pulls free, Carter leans into the opening and listens for a moment, his eyes closed, his expression serene despite the intense drumming of his heart.