The Devil’s Share (4 page)

“Maybe not. It depends on how things play out.”

“You're right. But you can't work out every possibility in advance, can you? You just plan the best you can, and improvise if things start going south.”

“That's true. But you can always plan better.”

He sat back, laced his fingers behind his head. “I'm guessing you know all about that. But I gotta say, I never expected to find a woman like you in this line of work.”

“Like me?”

“That didn't come out right. I mean, someone like you putting this kind of thing together, running a team.”

She didn't respond, drank wine, waiting to see where he'd take it.

“Oh, hell, forget I said it. I'm feeling the liquor, I guess. That's why you came along anyway, right?”

She put her glass down. “What do you mean?”

“Get a few drinks in me, hope I'll run off at the mouth, tell you something you don't know. It wasn't my charm got us up here, was it?”

“It was your idea.”

“You're all business. I appreciate that.”

“Not always.” Surprised she'd said it, wondering why she had.

“And I'm guessing you're not even staying in this hotel, are you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you wouldn't have brought me here if you were. You keep your distance. That's smart.”

A breeze came in from the hills, the scent of eucalyptus. The torches fluttered.

“Tell me more about your employer,” she said.

“How much do you know?”

“Mostly what's common knowledge. Where's he from originally? I've read different versions.”

“Czechoslovakia. His family fled during the war. They moved around a lot, but I think he grew up mostly in England. Worked at a couple newspapers there, made his way up the ladder. Ended up buying the papers, then a publishing house.”

“Where did his money come from?”

“He earned it, I guess. Eventually he sold off the properties he owned in England, moved to the States, started doing the same thing here.”

“From what I read, mostly what he did was buy companies and put them out of business, after skimming bonuses for himself.”

“He knows when to drop a losing proposition, is all. He's smart that way. If he gets stuck in a place he doesn't like, gets dealt a bad hand, whatever, he figures a way out of it.”

“They used to call that a bust-out,” she said.

“What?”

“A mob thing, back in the day. They'd buy into a legitimate business, one that was struggling, needed some cash. They'd borrow money with the business as collateral, sell off all its assets, then shut it down, leave someone else holding the bill. Or torch it for the insurance money.”

He scratched his elbow. “I wouldn't know anything about that. I admire him, though. He knows what he wants, and he goes out and gets it. He didn't let the world fuck him over. He started out with nothing, and look where he is now.”

“Living alone in a house filled with millions of dollars in art he doesn't even notice anymore?”

“It's his art, and that's what counts. He may not notice it, but trust me, if some of it went missing, he'd do whatever he had to do to get it back. Just on principle.”

“Not my line,” she said. “He's got nothing to worry about.”

The waitress came over. She was in her twenties, blue-eyed and blond, in tight black slacks and a white blouse with a man's tie. Hicks gave her a smile, pointed to their almost-empty glasses. “I think we'll do another, honey. Thank you.” She smiled back, took them to the bar.

“How about you?” Crissa said. “Where are you from originally?”

“Virginia. Town called Bluefield. Got out of there soon as I could, though. Two semesters of community college, then I joined the Corps. Still not sure why. Just my luck, a year later, we were in the middle of two wars. All that shit happened fast.”

“What was your rank?”

“When I left? Staff sergeant. Over there, though, what you got was battlefield commissions. Those first couple years were crazy. We were in Fallujah, and later on, Anbar Province. Saw some wild shit. Lost some good men.”

“But you went back.”

“Weren't a whole lot of opportunities around when I left the Corps. Economy was still fucked, and there wasn't much I knew how to do. Couldn't see getting a job in some factory, knocking up a local girl, living happily ever after and all that.”

“Was there one?”

“A what?”

“A local girl.” Wanting to take back the question now, too late. Not sure why she'd asked it.

He sat back, cocked his head, squinted at her slightly. “If there was, I probably wouldn't have joined the Corps. Is this where we get into the personal stuff? If so, it's going to be your turn next.”

She shook her head. “Sorry. None of my business. Just curious.”

He shrugged. “That's fine. I don't mind.”

The waitress brought their drinks. As she walked away, she let her fingers trail lightly over his shoulder.

When she was out of earshot, Crissa said, “You should come here more often. You could probably drink for free.”

“This town's crazy like that. Women all over the place. I still can't get used to it. It's a long way from Bluefield.”

“I'm sure it is. What else can you tell me about Cota?” Wanting to steer it back to business, regretting the detour she'd let it take.

“Like what?”

“He have family here? I know he was married at one point.”

“Divorced a long time ago. They had one kid, a son. He was killed in a car accident when he was seventeen. I don't think Emile ever got over that. That's what ended the marriage, I'd guess. Most people don't understand. Tragedies like that—ones that come out of the blue and don't make any sense—they don't bring families closer together, they blow them apart.”

“You sound like you're speaking from experience.”

He grinned. “You keep going, don't you? Always digging.”

“Sorry.”

“That's all right. Now what about you? Where are you from?”

“The South.”

“And that's all you're going to tell me, isn't it?”

“Does it matter where I'm from?” She felt a smile coming, lifted her glass to drink.

“I guess not. Anybody back home ever call you Red?”

Her smile faded. She set the glass back down. “Someone used to. A long time ago.”

“Ah.”

A cry rose up from the crowd inside.

“I think it's time to call it a night,” she said. She slid the glass away. “Lots to do tomorrow.”

“You're not going to finish that?”

“I'm good.”

“Sorry,” he said. “None of my business what you do. I need to remember that.”

He looked down at his drink. She saw the disappointment in his face, wondered what it was he'd been hoping for. Better not to alienate him, to keep things easy between them for now.

“So what do I call you?” she asked.

He looked up. “What?”

“What do you prefer? Randy, Randall, what?”

“Randy,” he said. “Randy's fine.”

She stood. “Well, Randy. Thanks for the drink.” She got her leather jacket from the back of the chair.

“Maybe we can do this again sometime,” he said.

“Maybe.”

“I won't walk you out. You want to leave first anyway, right, keep that distance? I'll stay here, have another drink.”

“Be careful driving. We'll talk tomorrow.”

At the patio door, she looked back. The waitress had returned, was standing by the table, one hip against it. He was smiling up at her. He looked younger from the distance.

He caught her watching, looked at her, the waitress still talking. She turned and went through the door.

Downstairs in the breezeway, she gave the valet her ticket, watched the traffic go by on Sunset, breathed in the cool night air. Loud music came from a bar across the street. A crescent moon hung over the dark hills to the east.

Tomorrow she'd contact Sladden, tell him she was in. He'd be due a finder's fee, then a percentage of her final take if all went well. There would be maps for her to look at, more photos, more details to consider. Then she would start making calls.

 

FOUR

“Here's how it's going to work,” she said.

They were at the table in the upstairs room, papers and photos spread out in front of them. Hicks had dark circles under his eyes, was drinking water from a plastic bottle.

“Late night?” she said.

“Little dehydrated, is all.”

“You make it to Venice?”

He smiled. “Not quite.”

Cota put on reading glasses, looked at the map she'd set in front of him, said, “Go ahead.”

She tapped the map with the eraser end of a pencil.

“From what you've told me, the truck will leave your warehouse in the late afternoon. Maybe three o'clock before it's ready to roll, correct?”

“By the time it's loaded and inspected, yes.”

“When they leave, they'll head south, then west onto I-15. It's the most direct route. That takes them through some pretty barren patches of desert, especially between here”—she tapped the map—“and here.” She tapped it again. “That's where we'll do it.”

“Where exactly?” Hicks said. “That's a long stretch of road.”

“I'll decide after I've been out there, had a look. Now, the later the truck gets under way, the better for us. I'd like to do this with dusk coming on. That way when we're pulling out of there it'll be night. That also means less chance the truck will be spotted after we drive it away.”

“Good thinking,” Hicks said.

“Somewhere on that stretch of I-15, we'll stop the convoy,” she said. “Some sort of diversion we'll work out later. When I've had a look at the terrain, I'll pick a likely place. We'll be there already, hidden, waiting. I'll have three of my own people with me, and Hicks.” She looked at him. “Might be good to have one of your guys there as well, just in case.”

“What do you see me doing?”

“Personnel control. We need to get them locked down fast. As soon as the convoy stops, we'll go in heavy, get everyone out of those vehicles and secured before they even know what's happening. Some scary weaponry might help, M-16s, whatever. Something they'll respect. I'll leave that to you.”

“Got it,” he said.

“What about the cell phone issue?” Cota said.

“I have some ideas on that,” she said. “We can talk about them later.”

“All right.” Hicks leaned closer to the map. “Go on.”

“One of my people will be a driver,” she said. “He'll take the truck. We don't want to travel too far in a stolen rig, so we'll stash a second one somewhere nearby, transfer the items into it. Will there be enough gear in the truck to do that? Forklifts, handcarts, whatever?”

“There will,” Cota said. “They'd have to off-load it when it got to the port anyway, so any necessary equipment will already be on the truck.”

“It has a hydraulic tailgate lift,” Hicks said. “And there's a heavy-duty forklift inside to move the pallets and crates. Transferring these types of items isn't as difficult as it sounds. I've done it. You hook the pallet, ride the lift down, then reverse the procedure at the other truck. A one-man job, but quicker with two.”

“That equipment enough to handle this
lamassu
?”

“No sweat.”

She looked at Cota. “Can you get us a second truck without too many people knowing about it? It should be as much like the first one as possible. The closer the better.”

“I can do that.”

“This right there,” Hicks slid a photo toward her, “is the one we're using. On the back are all the specs if you need them, fuel capacity, mileage, displacement, weight limit, everything.”

“Good.” It was a medium-sized moving van, but with two tires on each side in the rear. It was painted white, with no lettering, would be inconspicuous on any interstate.

“We gather the five people—and hopefully it is only five—disarm the guards and flexcuff everybody,” she said. “Get them out of our way, and all in one place so they're easily managed. Can you get some netting or tarp, desert camo colors?”

“Probably,” Hicks said. “Why?”

“We're taking the truck with us, but we'll be leaving the two cars. When we're done, we get them off the road, camouflage them as best we can. It might buy us some time.”

She traced the eraser along the map. “Until I get out there, I won't know for sure, but I'm guessing this highway, given where it is, may not be that well traveled, but it won't be deserted either. There'll be traffic on and off, so we need to get this whole thing wrapped up fast. Five minutes, tops.”

“Not much time,” Hicks said.

“We plan it right, that's all we'll need,” she said.

“And what if someone comes along during those five minutes?” Cota said.

“We'll have lookouts to warn us. If someone does stop, we'll just have to improvise.” She looked at Hicks.

“I got it,” he said. “We'll work it out.”

“This thing goes fast, or it doesn't go at all,” she said. “Once we get our team assembled, we need to practice, drill. Another reason we need the second truck. It should have the same tailgate lift, same weight specs, same equipment inside.”

“Shouldn't be a problem,” Hicks said.

“We'll work with that. Get a feel for the equipment, learn our way around it. Once we know what we're doing, five minutes should be a comfortable amount of time.”

“What kind of distance are we talking about here?” Hicks said.

She turned the map around to face him, slid it closer.

“The original route, from outside Vegas to the port at Long Beach, is about three hundred miles. But the truck isn't going to make it to Long Beach. In fact, it won't even make it to the Nevada line.”