Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (270 page)

Settling back into his overstuffed vinyl-covered imitation leather chair—this wasn’t your typical institutional metal and plastic worker bee’s chair, but Nelson had figured when you spent all day sitting on your ass you should at least be comfortable, so he had paid for the thing out of his own salary—he took a deep breath and held it for a moment, dizzily certain he would pop open the briefcase only to discover it was empty. Then he exhaled nervously and popped the brass clasps and lifted the top of the case.

And broke into a satisfied treasonous smile.

Piled neatly inside, rubber bands holding them snugly together, were stacks and stacks of non-sequential bills in small denominations, exactly as promised. The rich green tint of all the tens, twenties and fifties provided a dazzling contrast to the faded red felt of the briefcase’s interior. He didn’t stop to count the money, not right here at his desk inside the Pentagon—Nelson may have been a traitor, but he wasn’t an idiot—but judging by the size and number of stacks, the full ten thousand dollars had been delivered.

The sense of relief Nelson felt at not being stiffed was palpable. He still couldn’t figure out how he had gotten so incredibly lucky, managing to bamboozle that olive-skinned idiot from the park into trading a boatload of untraceable cash for a small amount of trivial information regarding the transportation of a small amount of military hardware and the route the delivery truck was going to take.

Now he would be able to replace a large portion of the money he had gambled away at the track and other venues in the past year or so. He had been withdrawing cash from his retirement nest egg for quite some time while conveniently forgetting to mention that fact to his wife. Nelson had been on a losing streak for months, and every good gambler knew that the time to start betting heavily was when you were losing: nobody loses forever, and every loss meant a win was now that much closer to reality, statistically speaking.

That was Nelson’s theory, and he was still convinced it was a good one, though it had yet to work in his favor. But he was certain Joy would disagree, especially given the results. The couple had had several knock-down-drag-outs over the years on the subject of Nelson’s gambling, and he knew Joy would be more than a little pissed off if she discovered he had siphoned thousands of dollars of retirement money into unsuccessful wagers.

Joy just didn’t understand. He
knew
he was on the verge of hitting it big; he just had to stick to his guns a little longer.

But even a full-fledged optimist like Nelson had started to get nervous when the losses continued to mount and the IRA totals continued to dwindle. Sooner or later the little woman was going to find out. How long could he reasonably expect her to go without checking the balance of the damned thing? Now, through an incredible stroke of dumb luck followed by some shrewd negotiating, Nelson had managed to recoup enough of his losses in one day that even if Joy discovered he had been gambling with their future, she wouldn’t be able to complain too much.

Feeling much better now about his situation and about life in general, and sufficiently relaxed that he had nearly stopped sweating, Nelson stuffed the stacks of twenties and fifties he had been admiring back into the briefcase and then snapped it closed. The exhaustion he had felt just a few minutes earlier had magically been replaced by an almost narcotic-like state of euphoria.

He walked across his office with a spring in his step and unlocked the door, opening it again to the world, or at least to the dreary corridor with the institutional green vinyl floor tiles, then returned to his desk revitalized, ready to finish out the workday.

CHAPTER NINE

Tony pushed open the door to a large but anonymous private garage located on a large but anonymous private lot in suburban Washington. He had purchased the property for a song several years ago because, not to put too fine a point on it, the lot wasn’t in one of D.C.’s most desirable neighborhoods.

In fact, at the time Tony made the cash purchase (another reason the price had been so low), the garage was in the middle of a ten square block area the local authorities had virtually given up on as unsalvageable. Crime was rampant; gangs and drugs and prostitution were everywhere.

Tony didn’t care about any of that. He wasn’t in the business of urban redevelopment, but he
was
in the business of protecting his assets. So after closing on the property, Tony Andretti undertook the process of introducing himself to the local underground entrepreneurs, the ones trading in the guns, the drugs, and the prostitution, and convincing them it was in their best interest to leave him the hell alone.

After a fashion—and a brutal weeding-out process that involved the disappearance or the very public execution of a few of the entrepreneurs—an uneasy truce was reached. The local gangs would be permitted to continue trading in their areas of specialization provided they gave Tony’s property a wide berth while they did so. In exchange for leaving his property undisturbed, Tony would allow the gang members to live.

Once the bloody details had been ironed out, the arrangement was one that worked more or less to everyone’s satisfaction. The exceptions, of course, were the young men who had died during the negotiating process.

Tony walked through a reinforced metal door featuring a blacked-out Plexiglas window. The door was located between the double bays of the ancient two-car garage that served as his organization’s workspace, and he found himself staring into the gaping double barrels of a Mossberg twelve-gauge. Holding the weapon was Brian Waterhouse, a blond twenty-five year old, who sat at the far end of the cement-block structure on a high, hard-backed stool.

When Brian saw who had entered, he lowered his weapon. Giving Tony a sheepish grin, he said, “Sorry about that, boss.”

“No apology necessary. That was perfect. Unless and until you know exactly who is coming through that door, you should always be prepared to blow them straight to hell. As long as you don’t jump the gun.” Tony smiled thinly and crossed the garage. He placed the briefcase on a battered gunmetal-grey desk and lowered his bulk with a satisfied sigh onto a metal folding chair behind it.

Although it was still midafternoon on a sunny spring day, row after row of fluorescent lamps hung suspended from the ceiling, casting the interior in a harsh, almost antiseptic, artificial brilliance.

Weapons of all types littered the makeshift office. There were semiautomatic rifles and pistols, most altered to full auto. There were revolvers, and even some single-shot rifles and shotguns like the big Mossberg that had been aimed at Tony when he had entered. The weaponry took up one entire wall.

A locker filled with hunting and tactical combat knives was angled into one corner, and next to it a row of shelves held an array of grenades and other explosive devices. An impressive assortment of Tasers and nightsticks occupied another row of shelves.

Stored along the wall directly opposite these weapons were racks of electronic equipment: military grade GPS units, walkie-talkies, police scanners, cell phones, and shortwave radios.

The back wall was home to a mountain of tools, including welding equipment and automobile batteries, tires, and spare parts. The garage, in addition to serving as an office and staging area for Tony’s team, was exactly what it appeared to be: a mini supply depot for a deadly paramilitary organization.

Tony surveyed the room with a critical eye. Three of the five men who comprised his organization were present.

Brian asked, “So … how did it go?”

“I haven’t looked inside the briefcase yet,” Tony answered with a smile, “but I’m confident it contains everything I specified during negotiations. When I showed up at the meeting place, our Pentagon contact was so frightened that I was afraid he might actually suffer a stroke right on the spot. Anyway, he probably assumes that if he stiffs me, he will get carved up like a turkey on your Thanksgiving holiday. Now that I think about it, he seemed pretty perceptive, at least on that point.”

The group shared a laugh and the men went back to doing the chores they had been occupied with when Tony arrived: cleaning and organizing weapons or just lounging around on lawn chairs like the garage was some sort of low-rent social club.

Tony stared at the case lying on his desk for a few minutes without making any move to open it. Despite his outward nonchalance, he felt a tug of tension in his gut. He was so close now to having compiled everything he needed to complete his mission that he felt like a child waking up on the morning of his birthday. The anticipation was so strong he could almost taste it, and he wanted to savor that feeling for just a little longer.

Finally, with an impatient sigh, Tony grabbed the briefcase by the handle. He snapped the latches and lifted the top. He examined the contents, then looked up to see everyone in the garage staring at him expectantly.

Tony smiled. “We are in business, gentlemen.”

CHAPTER TEN

Nelson loved summer. When it was muggy and hot and everyone else was driving around with their windows closed tightly and the artificial chill of their air-conditioning keeping them comfortable, Nelson would lower the top on his Chrysler Sebring convertible and enjoy the commute to and from his office. He loved the way the hot breeze ruffled what was left of his thinning hair; he loved to feel the heat and humidity.

Today didn’t feature the broiling heat he loved so much, but the temperature was about as warm as it ever got in the Mid-Atlantic region in May, and Nelson was taking full advantage of the unexpectedly balmy conditions on his drive home.

The adrenaline rush that had followed his noontime meeting gradually leached away over the course of the afternoon, but Nelson was still able to accomplish more work in the four-hour stretch before quitting time today than he had in any one-day period for as long as he could remember. Who would have guessed the way to increase organizational productivity would be to sell a briefcase full of classified material? He imagined himself developing a motivational speech based on that concept and smiled wryly.

Nelson was amazed at how the thought of all that cold, hard cash had enabled him to power through his jitters and beyond his exhaustion. Now, with the top down, the warm air rushing by, and Vivaldi playing much too loudly on his stereo, he felt damned near invincible. A briefcase full of untraceable cash lay on the seat next to him, and against all odds, he was suddenly out of the financial hole hi gambling jones had dropped him into.

While he drove, Nelson wondered if maybe it wouldn’t be prudent to parlay his good fortune into an even bigger score with a quick detour to the track on his way home. There was no question his luck had turned, and as the old saying went, “Strike while the iron’s hot.” Nelson had no idea what that expression meant if you examined it literally, but he figured it was damned good advice anyway.
When you’re on a roll, don’t stop for anything. Keep right on going until your luck starts to change, then stop. Ya gotta know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.
And all the rest of that happy horseshit.

The breeze began to cool noticeably as the sun sank in the mostly cloudless western sky, and Nelson reluctantly concluded it would be in his best interest to continue straight home. He was excited about his newfound windfall and was looking forward to celebrating with Joy.

Of course, she was blissfully ignorant of the financial gymnastics he’d gone through to replace the retirement money she didn’t even know was missing; thus she would have no idea what they were celebrating. But Nelson was certain that when he walked through the door, buoyant and cheerful for a change, she would join him in a little impromptu party anyway.

Behind him on the winding country road that let to Nelson’s home in rural Virginia, a vehicle rapidly closed the distance between itself and Nelson’s Sebring. He watched as it grew in size in the rear view mirror. He swore quietly under his breath.
Christ, that idiot must be going eighty!
On this two-lane road that twisted and turned like a drunken serpent, driving at that breakneck speed was practically suicidal.