The Devil’s Share (5 page)

“How so?”

“That's where the second truck comes in. When we're done practicing on it, we'll stow it somewhere not far from where we'll stop the convoy. We can use those camo nets on it as well, so it won't be spotted from the air. Might be good to have something painted on its side, too, moving company, whatever.” She looked at Cota. “Do we have to worry about GPS, on the items or the truck?”

“No. I shouldn't think so.”

She turned to Hicks again. “That makes it easier. When we grab the truck, we drive it to where the other one's waiting, transfer all the pieces, camo the old truck and leave it behind.”

“Smart,” Hicks said. “I hadn't considered that.”

“The second truck will be clean, so there's no reason anyone should stop it along the way. My driver takes it to where the buyer's waiting, parks it and walks away. Then our part's done. The rest is someone else's problem.”

“And you think this will work?” Cota said. “The way you've laid it out? In the time frame we have?”

She met his eyes. “I wouldn't be here if I didn't.”

“No offense intended.”

She folded the map. “I'll start gathering my people.” She looked at Hicks. “You should find your second man, too.”

“I will. No worries.”

“Tomorrow I'm going to go out and have a look at possible sites,” she said. “I'll let you know what I find.”

“You'll have expenses,” Cota said.

“I will. And I'll take that five thousand now.”

“I'll get it,” Hicks said, and left the room. She put the map and photos back in the folder.

Cota took off his glasses. “You work fast.”

“Isn't that why you hired me?”

“It feels like, just a few days ago, this was only a wild idea. And now it seems a possibility.”

“It's not too late to back out.”

He looked at the folder, shook his head. “In for a penny. If I thought there was another solution, I'd gladly take it. But the way you set this out … well, it doesn't seem so wild after all.”

“There's the issue of my down payment. The hundred thousand.”

“Of course, I'll see to it right away.”

“Wait until I get out there, have a look. If for some reason I decide it can't be done, then we'll talk.”

Hicks came back into the room with the same manila envelope she'd seen before. He set it in front of her. “Want to count it?”

“I will. Later.”

He smiled, sat back down.

To Cota, she said, “I'll eventually need more, for expenses. If so, you'll have to wire it to me wherever I am.”

“Of course.”

“And as soon as my people are signed on, they'll need their front-end money.”

“I'll see to that as well.”

“And expenses are separate. They don't come out of the two hundred you'll owe me.”

“I never thought otherwise.”

“You'll want to be careful now,” she said. “So going forward I'll deal only with Hicks. There's no reason for me to come back here.”

“Wise,” Cota said. “Now shall we have a drink, to seal it?”

“Sounds good to me,” Hicks said.

She looked at him, then back at Cota. Again, it was better to go along. She'd wipe down the glass when she was done. They were in it together now, the work ahead of them.

“Sure,” she said. “One drink.”

“Capital,” Cota said. “Randall, would you find Katya, have her bring the rest of that Macallan? There should be enough left for the three of us.”

When he was gone, Cota said, “I feel younger than I have in years.”

“Why's that?”

“I'm not quite sure. An excitement that things have been set in motion? That I'm undertaking a bold move in the face of adversity?”

“I mostly look at it as work,” she said.

“Very practical. Pragmatic. I like that. It gives me confidence that I've made the right decision.”

Katya came into the room carrying the drinks tray, Hicks behind her. She looked at Crissa, then away, set the bottle, ice bowl, and glasses on the table.

“We'll pour,” Cota said. “Thank you, Katya. You can go, but find me later, will you? There might be something I need.”

He watched her leave the room, then opened the bottle, splashed an inch of scotch into each glass, his hand trembling slightly. He set the bottle back down.

“Neat this time, I think,” he said. “To unite us in our mutual undertaking.”

He raised his glass.

“To work,” he said. He looked at her. “And commensurate reward.”

She touched her glass to his, waited for Hicks to lean forward with his own. They clinked glasses, sat back. She drank, felt the liquor go down smooth and warm.

Four weeks, she thought. The time would go fast. But she felt no anxiety now, no uncertainty. She was doing what she knew how to do. She was working.

*   *   *

Hicks sat in the darkened room, sipping scotch, watching the dying fire. Next to him, Cota sat with the cane across his lap. The bottle of Macallan stood empty on the table.

Wood cracked and sparked in the fireplace.

“Your silence is conspicuous, Randall.”

“I'm just relaxing. Thinking.”

“You've got a lot on your mind, I know.” Cota drained his glass, set it beside the bottle. “I don't begrudge you sharing the luxuries of my life. But I do occasionally demand some services in return. Difficult as they may sometimes be.”

Hicks didn't answer, looked at the fire.

“That other situation you've been avoiding,” Cota said. “It will just get worse the longer you wait. You know that as well as I do.”

Hicks drank scotch. “I do.”

“He's a danger to you, he's a danger to us. And now he's a danger to this enterprise. It's distasteful to you, I know. You once considered him a friend.”

“I still do.”

“Then you're na
ï
ve. The things he's done, are they the behavior of a friend? He could put us all in prison for a very long time. And he might do it yet, just out of spite. He's angry, and not thinking clearly. That makes him dangerous.”

“I know. I'll take care of it.”

“When?”

“Soon.” He finished his drink.

“I believe you,” Cota said. “But I would be very disappointed if my faith was unfounded.”

Hicks gripped his glass. “What we're talking about. It's not so easy.”

“I never thought it was. But we all must sometimes do things that feel alien to our nature. It's the human condition. Nevertheless, they must be done.”

“I said I'll take care of it.”

“You feel betrayed by him, I know,” Cota said. “You expected better. Perhaps you blame yourself as well for how things turned out. But bitter disappointment is the tissue that binds all of us together, Randall. The sooner we understand that, the sooner we're at peace with the world.”

Hicks nodded, looked into the fire. Then he lifted his glass and threw it into the flames.

 

FIVE

After she signed in, she took a table near the far wall, under the big window, facing the security door he would come through. The other visitors were all women—mostly black or Hispanic—with small children in tow. She made the trip to Texas at least four times a year, and it was always the same in here. Quiet conversations, crying babies. Every once in a while, one of the inmates would look over at her, his eyes lingering. She ignored them.

There were two guards at the visiting-room entrance checking IDs, two more milling around the room, a man and a woman. Central air-conditioning hummed from a vent, but it was still hot in here, sunlight coming through the window above her, illuminating dust motes in the air. There were scuff marks on the black-and-white checkerboard floor. Cameras watched from the four corners of the ceiling.

The security door buzzed, a guard pushed it open from inside, and Wayne came through. He blinked in the sunlight for a moment, saw her and smiled.

She didn't get up. Prison rules allowed physical contact twice during a visit, fifteen seconds at the beginning, another fifteen at the end. But Wayne would never hug her, touch her. He'd said it made it too hard to leave her at visit's end, go back to his cell.

“Hey, darling,” he said.

His hair was grayer, his face more gaunt than the last time she'd seen him. His prison blues seemed to hang loose around him. He sat across from her, on a bench bolted to the floor.

“How's it going, handsome?” she said.

He grinned, that lopsided smile that always made something pull inside her. Without thinking, she took his left hand in her right, squeezed. She could see the tattoo on his wrist, the mirror image of her own. He didn't pull away, squeezed back.

“You're looking fine,” he said.

“You, too,” she said. “How's your back?”

“Better. Coming along. I stretch, that helps.” He pointed to her hair. “I'm starting to get used to that. I like it.”

The day before, she'd cut her hair short, dyed it black to match the picture on her Texas driver's license. It gave her name as Shana Patrick, with an Austin address. A copy of the license was on file with the unit's approved visitors list. She had to show the original each time she visited.

“Keeping up appearances,” she said.

“And looking good while you're doing it. Other cons in here get jealous when you visit. Wonder how an old man like me knows a sweet young thing like you.”

“Not so young. And you're not so old.”

“Old enough. Too old for you.”

“You say that every time. You know I don't like to hear it.”

“But it's true. Maybe that's why you don't like it.”

“Hands,” the female guard said.

Crissa let go, sat back. “You lose a little weight?”

“Me? Nah. All the carbs they feed us in here, I'm surprised I'm not as big as a house.”

“You look like you did.”

“I'm fine. You been down to Two Rivers?”

That was the town where her daughter, Maddie, lived. She'd turned thirteen earlier that year, was being raised by Crissa's cousin Leah and her husband, Earl. Crissa sent them money every month from a Costa Rican account. Maddie was less than a year old when Crissa had left her with Leah, the only mother the girl had ever known. At nineteen, Crissa was already on the run, in no position to raise a child. And Beaumont, Maddie's father, was long gone as well. In prison now, Crissa guessed. Or dead.

The last time she'd seen Maddie had been four years ago. Crissa had driven down to meet with Leah, had followed her to a neighborhood playground. She'd sat in her rental car, watched Maddie racing around, laughing, Leah watching over her. It had broken her heart.

“Not this time,” she said. “This is just a side trip. I'm working.”

“Not in Texas, I hope.”

She waited for the guard to move away. “No. West Coast.”

“So soon?”

The last work she'd done had been in Detroit over a year ago. The take-home had been solid, but there'd been too many bodies left behind. And now the money was running low again.

“I have expenses,” she said.

“I'm sure you do. But it makes me worry, knowing you're out there chasing something down.”

“Don't. I'll be fine. I had a good teacher.”

Wayne had brought her into the Game. Eighteen years older, he'd taken her away from a life of petty crime, shown her how to live. He put crews together, did work across the country. She became part of that world, all the time watching him carefully, learning all she could.

She'd been sick with the flu when it had all gone to hell. He and two other men had robbed a jewelry wholesaler in Houston, a give-up by the owner, who planned to split the take with them and collect the insurance. But a clerk who wasn't in on it had pulled a gun, opened fire. Wayne had ended up with a bullet in his shoulder, and a ten-to-fifteen-year sentence for armed robbery and conspiracy.

Another member of that crew, a pro named Larry Black, had worked the Detroit job with her. He'd been one of the bodies left behind there, shot in the back while the two of them ran from a split gone wrong.

Wayne put his elbows on the table, leaned in closer. “You have a crew yet?”

She looked around, saw the female guard was feeding change into one of the vending machines across the room. Her partner was at the sign-in window, talking to the woman clerk behind the bulletproof glass.

“Not yet,” Crissa said. “Putting it together now.”

“You running the show?”

“You surprised?”

“Not at all. Just asking. What's the exposure?”

“If it goes right, not much.”

“What kind of take-home?”

“Good, but a flat fee. Half up front, half afterward.”

He frowned.

“No way around it,” she said. “The items in question, I wouldn't know what to do with anyway. So it's work for hire. I do the job and it's over. I don't have to worry about moving anything afterward. All I have to do is plan the work—”

“And work the plan. Yeah, I remember saying that.”

“More than once.”

“Lot of good it did me.”

“I've thought this through. It can work. And with minimal fallout.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A give-up?”

She nodded. “Mobile. I haven't worked out all the logistics yet.”

“Give-ups can go bad, too. Look at me.”

“I know. But this is a long way from knocking over check-cashing joints. Or smash-and-grabbing jewelry stores.”

He sat back, folded his arms.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “That's not how I meant it.”

He shrugged. “You're out there. I'm in here. What's it matter what I think?”

“Don't be like that.”

“Like what?”