The Devil’s Share (9 page)

“How many miles altogether?” he said. “From the warehouse to the spot you picked?”

“About forty
.
But what's more important is the distance from the turnoff where we stash the truck, to the spot where we'll be waiting. That's fifteen miles, so figure twenty minutes to close that distance. We'll know the convoy's coming, and we'll be able to see them long before they reach us, so we'll be ready. We'll have to be, because we'll only get one chance to stop them.”

He nodded, looked at the map, swirled the ice in his glass.

“Questions?” she said, and drank wine. It was her second glass since they'd come back to the room, and she was feeling it now, a faint sense of light-headedness and warmth.

He shook his head. “Not right now. I will, though.”

“You pick your other man yet?”

“I called him. He's on board. And solid. He'll be fine.”

“He serve with you?”

“Yeah. In the Corps, and then again when we were PMCs. I brought him into that. He's a professional.”

“He'll keep his cool when things jump off?”

“Count on it. You're under fire with a man more than once, you learn a lot about his character. You want to vet him?”

She shook her head, began to fold up the map. “Not necessary. I trust you.”

“And Emile will make it worth his while. He won't have any gripes, before or after. Maximum pay, minimal work.”

“Will he make it worth your while, too?”

“He always does.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. “It's your business, but I'm curious. You get a piece of what he's earning from this?”

“Doesn't work like that.”

“Flat fee? That doesn't bother you?” Sounding him out, now that his guard was down.

“His business is his business. I'm strictly a working man, and that's the way I like it.”

“You're a mercenary.”

He drank his scotch. “I guess you could put it that way.”

“There another way to put it?”

“You have a problem with that? Aren't you the same thing?”

“Relax. No offense intended.”

He put his glass on the table, arched his back, raised his arms and stretched without standing. She watched his muscles flex.

“Anything else you want to ask me?” he said. “If so, now's the time.” He picked up the glass again.

“What do you hope to get from working for him? I mean, in the long run?”

“A nest egg. With what he's been paying me, I'm almost where I need to be.”

“To do what?”

“Start my own agency, hire some young bucks who know an MRE from an RPG. Maybe some women, too. They're generally smarter anyway, I've found. Then I'll just sit home all day, watch the money roll in.”

“Would it be that easy?”

“It could be. If you're lucky, and you know what you're doing. And I'm both.”

She smiled at that.

“You disagree?” he said. “What do you think I am?”

She set her glass on the nightstand. “You want me to be honest?”

“Of course.”

“I think you're lonely and horny and dangerous.”

She looked at him, waited for his response. He didn't smile. He held her eyes for a moment. “Well, two out of three maybe,” he said, and drank.

“Sorry. Tell me more about Cota.”

“You know a lot already. What more do you want?”

“What's the deal with that maid? Katya, that her name?”

“She's been with him a long time. Since she was about eighteen, I think.”

“They sleep together?”

“At some point, probably. But now, who knows? His business, not mine. He treats me well, that's all I care about. But yeah, he had his wild years, I'm sure. And good for him.”

“What about you? Ever married, kids?”

He shook his head.

“Never?”

“Never had time.”

“Brothers, sisters?”

“Brother somewhere up in Oregon, haven't seen him in years. No sisters.”

“Parents?”

“Both gone.”

“What did your father do?”

He looked at her, an expression she couldn't read.

“You said I could ask you anything,” she said.

He set the glass back down. “What did my old man do? He drank mostly, got in bar fights. He was in the Corps, too. Vietnam. He was in Da Nang, a bunch of other places. Then, when I was sixteen, he took the government-issue .45 he'd smuggled back…” He made a gun with his right hand, touched the index finger to his temple, and dropped the thumb.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“No reason to be. Now, if you're asking if Emile's some kind of father figure, you can leave off that right now. I had a father. I'm not looking for another one.”

“I wasn't going to say that.”

“He pays me well, and I do what he needs me to do. And occasionally…” He stood. “… I have to do some shit I don't necessarily want to do. But that's just the way it goes.”

He went over to the dresser where the bottles were, looked at her. She nodded, handed him her glass. He poured wine, then dropped ice in his own glass, filled it with scotch. He took the drinks back, handed hers over, sat. The room felt warmer, the wine getting to her. She'd have to be careful.

“I'm still not used to that black hair,” he said. “I bet there's a story goes with that, too.”

“There is. But the color'll wash out soon. It'll be back to what it was.”

“I'd ask you more about yourself, but I have the feeling I wouldn't get very far.”

“There's not much to tell.”

“That's hard to believe.”

“I was wondering,” she said, steering him away. “You said you work for Cota, do what he asks, get paid. Would you work for anybody?”

“That depends.”

“Anybody that paid well enough?”

“Probably.”

“Would you work for Iran? North Korea?”

He grinned. “What makes you think I haven't already?”

“Which one?”

“I'm just kidding. I have my standards. They couldn't afford me anyway.”

He finished his drink, leaned forward to toss the glass into the wastebasket by the nightstand.

“You're an interesting man,” she said.

“Not really.”

She looked at her watch, felt a faint pulse of guilt seeing the tattoo on her wrist. “It's getting late.”

“So it is. Too bad we're on separate flights tomorrow.”

“Better that way.”

He got to his feet, unsteady for a moment, gripped the back of the chair for support. “Leg's asleep.”

“Be careful.”

He nodded, gave her a crooked smile. “See you in the morning.”

“Right.”

She watched him leave, the door shutting behind him.

She put her glass on the nightstand, got up, feeling a rush of blood to her head. The wine bottle on the dresser was almost empty. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been drunk.

She chained the door, hooked the night latch, then undressed. She stood under the shower for a long time, turned to let the needling spray play along her back. Dark water ran around her feet, more dye washing out.

The knocking was faint at first, the shower noise almost drowning it out. She twisted off the faucet, listened. It came again, a light tapping.

She stepped out of the shower, toweled quickly, then slipped on her bathrobe, tied the belt. She went out into the room, feet wet on the carpet.

At the door, she looked through the spyhole. Hicks stood in the light there, one hand propped on the door frame, his body wide and distorted by the glass.

She closed her eyes, took a breath, then undid the chain and the latch, opened the door.

“I forgot my bottle,” he said, and gestured toward the nightstand.

She held the door wider. When she didn't move, he bit his lip, looked at her, said, “Sorry. I made a mistake.”

“No,” she said. “You didn't.”

He came in, and she closed the door behind him.

*   *   *

She lay awake, listened to the far-off sound of trucks on the highway. Hicks snored softly beside her, one arm around a pillow, the other thrown across her waist. The room was dark except for the light from the bathroom. She touched the back of his right shoulder, traced the tattoo there, a grinning skull with tiger fangs.

He didn't stir when she lifted his arm gently and slid out from beneath it. She went naked into the bathroom, shut the door. In the mirror, the fluorescent light gave her skin a yellowish cast.

This was a mistake, she thought. You need to keep your head clear, and your eyes open. This can't happen again.

She drank tap water from her cupped palms, splashed some on her face, hearing Wayne's voice in her head.

Someday you're going to have to make a choice.

 

NINE

She pulled the rental Dodge up to the wooden gates, flashed her headlights twice. Beyond, a long gravel driveway led down to the farmhouse. There was a single light on in a second-floor window. It had taken her a half hour to drive here from Cincinnati.

On the seat beside her, her cell buzzed. When she answered, Bobby Chance said, “That you out there, Red?”

“IRS. We want that two million buried in your backyard.”

He laughed. “I wish. Gate's unlocked. Come on up.”

She got out, pushed open the double gates. They were hinged onto head-high pillars, part of the rough stone wall that ran around the property.

She drove past the gates, got out again and pushed them shut. There was a barrel-bolt lock on this side, a hasp where a padlock would go.

A light went on in the side yard of the house, illuminating a blue pickup truck. She got back in the Dodge, drove slowly, gravel crackling under the tires. Any vehicle going in or out of here would make a lot of noise. On either side of the driveway, the land sloped down to a pair of retention ponds, black water and weeds.

The house was old, shaded by live oaks that nearly hid it from view. As she neared it, she saw that the driveway curved past it and ended in a clearing in front of a faded-red barn. Beyond that, a cultivated field stretched out to a dark treeline. No other lights out there. No neighbors.

She drove toward the pickup, saw a shadow move out from behind one of the trees. A man with a gun.

She braked easily, then powered down her window. Chance stepped into the light, grinning, a pistol at his side, and said, “Long time.”

“Too long,” she said.

*   *   *

“Not so red these days.”

“Dye,” she said. “It's almost gone.”

They were at the kitchen table. He'd put the gun, a snub-nosed .38, atop the refrigerator. The woman he'd introduced as Lynette set steaming mugs of coffee in front of them, turned her back to pour another from the automatic brewer. She was in her early twenties, with long brown hair, wearing a sweatshirt and blue jeans.

Chance's hair was buzz-cut, the shortest she'd ever seen it. He wore a red flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled back to show the tattoos on his arms, elaborate designs he'd spent thousands on in Thailand.

“You look good,” Crissa said.

“You too.”

“How's the arm?”

He rubbed his right shoulder, rolled the joint there. “A little stiff sometimes, especially when it's cold out. Rotator cuff got chewed up, so I can't raise it as high as I used to. Couple pellets still floating around in there, too.”

The last time they'd worked together had been a takeover at a card game in Florida that had gone bad. A man had followed them back north to recover the money. It had all ended on a cold day in Connecticut, and Chance had taken a shotgun blast to the shoulder before she'd killed the man who'd hunted them. She'd dropped Chance outside a hospital emergency room that night, hadn't seen him since.

Lynette turned to them, mug in hand. “I'm not sure I want to hear all this. I'll be out in the living room. Call me if you need me.” She left the room.

Crissa watched her go. “I hope it's not a problem, my being here.”

“No,” he said. “It's just … Never mind.” He got up, took a sugar bowl from the counter, two spoons from a drawer. “Milk?”

“No. I'm good.”

He sat back down. “I told her I'm out of the Game. Told Sladden the same thing.”

“He didn't want to pass my number on to you at first,” she said. “Didn't say why.”

“That's why.”

She nodded at the hallway. “She know about before? What you used to do?”

“Some of it.” He stirred sugar into his coffee. “She's a smart girl. She would have figured it out anyway, how I could afford this place. Not that it's in my name.”

“How's that work?”

“Shell company, an LLC out of Cleveland. On the books, they own the house, all the land.”

“You're growing something out there.”

“Soy,” he said. “I lease out that field. I have a tenant farmer does the planting and harvesting, takes care of the land. I wouldn't know what to do with it myself. All I do is cash his check every month.”

She touched her own shoulder. “Lynette know how that happened?”

“Yeah.”

“Another reason she doesn't like me.”

“You're the first person from that part of my life she's met. I told her I was done, and I meant it. I can't blame her for being angry.”

“The fact I'm a woman probably doesn't help either.”

He blew on his coffee. “What's in the bag?”

She lifted the olive-drab backpack she'd carried in from the car, set it on the table. “Money.”

“For who?”

“You. Ten thousand. That's what I got for the Mustang.”

He grinned. “I'd almost forgotten all about that.”

After Connecticut, she'd taken his car, fled south. She'd sold the Mustang to a dealer in Columbia, South Carolina, no questions asked.