Authors: Andrew Vachss
"He never goes out?" Rhino asked.
"Once a week. To the airport. He meets an international flight on the south concourse. A different guy comes each time. Humberto meets this guy, talks to him for a hour or so, then the guy just turns around and gets back on another plane."
"The courier, he has to clear customs, right?" Buddha asked.
"Yeah. It's a sterile corridor up to that point. No way to get in or out. But he's not bringing product…at least not much of it. When he clears customs, he has a conversation with Humberto. That's it."
"Don't make sense," Buddha said. "That's a ton of money and time just to beat a wiretap."
"I don't think that's what it is," Cross said. "I think he's bringing in. a chip. Like this one," holding up the chip he got from Muñoz. "The only way to see if it works is to try it…they all look alike. The way I got it figured, Herrera was playing both sides. Trying to get Humberto and Muñoz to waste each other, each of them thinking they were partners with him, see?"
"So?" Rhino put in impatiently.
"So Herrera's probably got chips stashed all over the damn place. Maybe Humberto thinks Muñoz hasn't got the only one. Or even the right one. They go through this negotiation dance, but it's really a stall for time."
"He cuts the chip out of his own arm every week?" Fal asked, skepticism in his voice.
"Maybe not. Maybe he's got a dupe. I don't know. This much is for sure: we got to take him at the airport. The deal is for half a million. That's a hundred grand apiece," he said, glancing around the room.
"You want to dust him at the airport, then chop off his fucking arm right there?" Ace asked caustically.
"No. We got to take him out of there. I think I know how to do it. Something I've been working on. But he won't be there alone. I figure we take him when he comes out. Just as he gets into his car. Buddha can get an ambulance real close. What we need is a hideout…someplace close to the airport…where we can do the rest."
"How you figure a hundred G apiece?" Rhino asked, leaning forward, his bulk imposing on the room.
"Me, you, Ace, Fal, and Buddha," Cross replied. "What's the problem?"
"The way I figure it, Princess is in for a share, too."
"Princess?"
He's the genius who got us into this mess," Buddha said.
"Right," Rhino responded. "So he's the one who brought us the job, too."
"Give him half of your share," Buddha suggested.
Rhino slowly turned, focusing his small eyes on the short pudgy man, not saying a word. Buddha gazed back, unfazed.
"If we each give up a tenth, he gets a half–share. How about that?" Fal suggested in a mild tone of voice.
"Okay by me," Ace agreed.
Cross nodded.
Buddha waited for a slow count of ten, then said "What the fuck…sure."
• • •
C
ross plucked the cellular phone from his jacket pocket in response to a soft, insistent purr.
"Go!" he said.
"He's in. On schedule," Fal's voice, quiet but clear. The voice of a man accustomed to speaking from cover.
"You have his ride tracked?"
"Black Mercedes. Four door. S class. Driver's still with it, parked on the roof. Probably on call."
"Roger that. How many we looking at?"
"One in the car, one with the man."
"See any backup?"
"Negative."
"We're rolling," Cross said, breaking the connection. He turned to Rhino. "They'll probably call the driver as they get close to the exit. He pulls off the roof, swings around, so he's waiting when they step out. You get the bodyguard, I get Humberto. Ace is riding with Buddha–the driver's their job. We ride crash–car on the getaway, meet back at the spot if we get separated."
Rhino nodded. "You really think that contraption's gonna work?" he asked, pointing the index finger with the missing tip at what looked like a particularly awkward pistol–instead of a butt, the pistol's handle was a long, narrow canister.
"It's freon," Cross said. "Like they use in air conditioners. We should get around five hundred feet per second. And it won't make a sound."
"It only works for one shot."
"One's all we need."
"Why don't we just ice this fuck? What do we need him alive for?"
"Because Muñoz wants him dead," Cross said. "And he only paid us for an arm, not a whole body."
T
he phone purred again. Cross snapped it to his ear. "What?"
"Moving," Fal's voice said.
"Who?"
"All of them. Me, too. You got two minutes, tops."
"Later," Cross said, pointing a finger at the windshield. Rhino keyed the motor of the shark car, threw it into gear. Cross was punching a number into the phone.
"Go!" is all he said when it was answered at the other end.
Humberto stood on the wide curb, his broad–chested bodyguard at his side, tapping his foot impatiently. The bodyguard spotted the Mercedes rolling toward them, stepped forward, reaching for the handle to the back door. Cross moved out of the shadows cast by a thick concrete pillar, the freon gun up. Humberto grabbed at his right hip just before he fell. The bodyguard whirled just in time to meet a .22 hollowpoint with the bridge of his nose. Rhino pocketed the silenced pistol and charged forward as the ambulance pulled to the curb. The Mercedes driver was trying to stare through the darkened side window, when the back of his head mushroomed into tomato paste. The rear doors of the ambulance popped open. Rhino tossed Humberto inside as easily as if he were a sack of grain, then immediately turned to the bodyguard and did the same thing with his dead body. The ambulance doors closed and it took off for the exit, lights flashing. Rhino ran to the shark car and dived into the open back door, his movements acrobatic despite his bulk. Cross mashed the pedal and the shark car chased the ambulance.
By the time the airport police arrived, they found one dead man at the wheel of the Mercedes. And a good many highly contradictory accounts from spectators.
T
he ambulance pulled to a stop in the shadows of a bridge abutment, just a few yards off the Freeway. The shark car cruised in a few seconds later, Cross skidding the anonymous vehicle so that it lay parallel to the ambulance. Cross stood watch as Rhino tossed Humberto's limp body over his shoulder and transferred it to the shark car's trunk. Buddha took the wheel of the shark car, Cross the shotgun seat. Ace and Rhino took the back, weapons out, each man covering a different rear window. As the shark car pulled away, Buddha said: "I dusted it down good, boss. But you never know what they're gonna find when they vacuum it out."
Cross pulled a small radio transmitter from his jacket, checked the blinking red LED, and threw a toggle switch. A heavy thumping
whoosh
sounded and the sky behind them was brightened with a red–and–yellow fireball.
"What they're gonna find is some dead meat," Cross said. "Well done."
A
s the shark car entered a quiet community of tract houses, the phone in Cross's jacket sounded. He picked it up, but didn't say a word.
"I'm out," came Fal's voice.
Cross broke the connection, gave the thumbs–up signal to Rhino.
Buddha pulled into a driveway of packed dirt, nosing the car forward until it was inside a garage that had been standing open. He popped the trunk, and Rhino tossed Humberto's still–limp form over one shoulder.
In another five minutes, Humberto was strapped to a straight chair in the basement of the house. The men waited another half–hour, each watchful and alert against the possibility they had been followed.
Finally, Cross stood up from his post. He slipped a stocking mask over his face, signaled Rhino to do the same. "All clear," he said quietly. "Let's get to it."
T
his should do it," Rhino said, squeezing the plunger of a hypodermic. He compressed Humberto's arm with one huge hand, tapped a likely looking vein, and drove the needle home with unerring precision.
Cross waited as the adrenaline took hold, watched as Humberto gradually regained consciousness. Cross signaled Rhino to stay where he was–looming over Humberto's back, but not visible.
"Wha…What is this?" Humberto mumbled, his eyes struggling for focus.
"It's a job, pal," Cross said. "You do what you're told, that's all it stays. You don't…," he let his voice trail off.
"You're not…" Humberto said, his vision gradually clearing.
"What we are is professionals," Cross said. "Just like you. We got paid to do a job."
"What job?"
"Muñoz paid us. For your arm."
Humberto went deathly white under his swarthy skin. "I don't know what–"
"Yeah, you do," Cross interrupted. "You got something Muñoz wants. A microchip. Someplace in your arm. Muñoz, he paid us to bring him that arm."
"Wait! Wait a minute! Look, I can–"
"Don't say anything. Listen to our offer. Then you say Yes, or you say No. That's all. You got it?"
Humberto nodded, his hooded eyes steady on Cross.
"We're
gonna
get that microchip. We know it's somewhere under that tattoo. We can take it gentle," Cross said, "or we can take it hard. Your choice."
"I have no choice," Humberto said, his voice calming as strength flowed back into him.
"Muñoz, he has one of my men, understand? He wants to trade him for that chip," Cross said. "But if we take your whole arm like he wants, he gets you dead, too. He didn't pay us for that."
"I could pay you…" Humberto said softly.
"That's right. You could pay us to leave you alive. But then, what would you have? Your bodyguard's gone. So is your driver. With the chip in his hands, Muñoz would vamp on you heavy. Take you longer, but you'd be just as dead."
"What do you suggest?" Humberto asked, more confidence in his voice.
"I suggest you pay us. Pay us to take out Muñoz. The chip, that's what gets us in the door, see? And once we get in there, we total Muñoz, all right? Costs you a flat million. Cash."
"I can get–"
"No," Cross said. "Just forget the games. You're not making any phone calls. Not writing any notes, either. Here's the way I figure it–you got some money stashed. Serious money. And you don't trust nobody with it, okay? I'm betting you got it nice and accessible. No safe deposit boxes, no passwords…nothing like that. You tell us where it is. Tell us right now. One of my crew goes there, picks it up. It's in more than one place, that's okay. My man comes back here. With the cash. And then we do the job for you."
"How do I know you won't just take the money and kill me anyway?"
"If I was gonna do that, what would I need this mask for? This is business, that's all. You didn't fuck with us. It wasn't you who snatched my man. Muñoz has to go–I'm just making sure we get paid, all right?"
"And if I say no?" Humberto asked.
"Then we kill Muñoz anyway. But instead of the chip to get us in the door, we bring him your arm."
A long minute passed. Humberto took a deep breath. "It's right under her butt," he said, flexing his right biceps, sending the tattooed dancer into a bump–and–grind. "Have you got a drink for a man first?"
H
umberto sat in a comfortable easy chair, feet up on an ottoman. He was bare–chested, a bandage around his right biceps. To his right, a water glass half full of dark liquid sat on an end table. A long cigar smoldered in an ashtray. Humberto's handsome face was relaxed, at peace.
"Listen to me, amigo," he said to Cross. "The key to Muñoz is his pride. Muñoz is… muy macho, understands Years ago, he fought a duel. With machetes. It was a matter of honor. He is very, very good with knives…any weapon with an edge. And with his hands, too–very quick, very strong."
"And you tell me this because…?" Cross invited.
"Because I trust you, hombre. And I want to prove it to you."
"You think that does it? Telling me about this guy's ego?"
"No," Humberto said, his dark eyes steady on the stocking mask.
"This
is what does it–I know who you are."
"You sure?"
'Yes. You are the man they call Cross, yes? You hide your face, but you forgot to cover your hands," Humberto said, flicking his glance at the back of Cross's right hand where a bull's–eye tattoo stood out in bold relief. "I hired you once before. To do Herrera. We have never met, face–to–face, but I know your markings."
Cross made a sound of disgust, reached up and pulled off the stocking mask. "Tell me what you know," he said.
"You were the one who attacked Herrera. Years ago. I was not there, but I have heard about it many times. Herrera always claimed that you took product…but we always believed you took his stash of jewels instead. I know he converted his product to money–gold, diamonds–always in hard currency."
"What else?"
Humberto's shoulders moved in an eloquent shrug. "There was a fight. Many died. And you escaped. That is all I know. That and the tattoo on your hand. Herrera always said he would pay you back. I heard two more things–he hired you to do something…and he had an accident."
"Why tell me all this?" Cross asked.
"Because I paid for him to have that accident. We never met face–to–face, but it was you I paid. You did your work well. Herrera is gone. Soon, Muñoz will be, too. You cannot run a drug network yourself. You do not have the contacts down south. You and me, I think we're going to be partners."
"Sounds good to me," Cross responded.
I
t's done," Cross said into the mouthpiece of the cellular phone.
"I know, amigo." Muñoz replied. "I watch the news on television."
"Let's finish it," Cross said.
"You know the King Hotels On Wabash, near–"
"I know it."
"My man will be standing in front, on the sidewalk, at midnight. You take him wherever you want. Once you are satisfied that we have not followed you, send the chip."