Rigged (23 page)

“I know,” Charlie said, “and it’s only rated for a 1,900-pound payload. It’s way beyond the safe driving specs, but it’s all The Baker had for transportation.”

“Fucking hicks. I hate this place.”

“It blends in well enough. You ever seen so many expensive pickup trucks? I’m guessing it’s on account of all the drills going up.”

“It’s still bush league.”

“Welcome to the Midwest,” Charlie said, shrugging.

“That’s still no excuse.” Rook couldn’t believe the guy who’d killed at least four guys already was just turning over five million dollars’ worth of junk for the chance to have a face-to-face conversation with Damon. “You rigged the truck, didn’t you?”

Charlie groaned. “You’re like a broken record. I mean, come on, there’re five of you and one of me.”

Rook looked away from the truck. Something didn’t feel right, but his focus had been on all the meth. Wait…did Charlie say five? Rook scanned the guys, all of whom were looking at the meth in the pickup. Including himself, there
were
five. Hadn’t there been six of them before? He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he knew Charlie was setting him up. “What do you mean five?” Rook asked, holding his gun at Charlie’s temple. The gun barrel cocked Charlie’s hat to the side, and Charlie leaned with it to keep it from falling off his head.

“Just what I said. There are five of you and one of me.”

“Where’s the sixth guy?” Rook asked Charlie and repeated to the other guys, who all looked at each other, mystified. Rook was confused, but he was more pissed that he couldn’t remember the guy’s name to call it out.

“How should I know?” Charlie said. “You haven’t believed a word I’ve said so far, even though I’ve only done what I said I’d do.”

Rook pushed the gun harder into Charlie’s temple. “Fine. Humor me and tell me where Number Six is.”

Charlie didn’t flinch, and he really wasn’t scared. Rook didn’t like that, but he couldn’t just assume Charlie was telling the truth; he knew the second he did that, he’d find himself looking down at a claymore mine or something.

“I told you that I didn’t kill those two in the lab, and that’s the truth.” Charlie paused. “Of course…”

“Of course what?” Rook clicked back the hammer on his gun.

“There might be a couple guys from the CIA around. They’ve been following me like a couple of lost puppy dogs. Maybe they killed those two lab tweekers, after I took off with The Baker. That’s all supposition, of course. I mean, them being spooks and all, I can neither confirm nor deny their presence.”

Rook’s eyes darted around. In the full moonlight, there were shadows everywhere. It didn’t help that the other four guys started to twitch nervously and moved around the trucks and back like kids on a damn Easter egg hunt. “Stop moving, goddamn it, and get back here. I gotta think.”

“What’s to think about?” Charlie asked. “You got the drugs and the truck. I’m zip-tied, and there are four of you.”

Four
? Rook’s head whipped around so hard that he heard an audible
pop
, like someone cracking their arthritic knuckles. Charlie was right, of course, and the other no-name was gone too. “What the fuck is going on?”

Through it all, Charlie didn’t move. His eyes didn’t change directions, and his voice didn’t even crack.

Rook only saw one option: He needed to get Charlie in the truck and out of the line of fire. “In the truck,” Rook ordered, pushing Charlie toward the open container.

Charlie looked back. “Seriously? You mean to confine us in an even smaller space, in the dark?”

“Move,” Rook said and shoved his gun under Charlie’s jaw.

Charlie struggled to find a handhold and pull himself up.

“Five seconds, or your dead,” Rook warned.

Charlie rolled into the bed of the semi with a jump, and Rook reached to pull himself in as well. He climbed to his feet, bracing a hand on the pickup bed.

“Hey, man, what about us?” Trey asked. With only the moon for light, Rook couldn’t tell if his face was so stark from fear or the darkness.

Rook reached down to help the guy in, knowing he’d need help to get out of the damn graveyard. Just as Trey put a foot up on the trailer bumper and rocked forward, with his hand in Rook’s, there was a
pop,
and the driver flopped down on his side, his grip going immediately limp. Rook looked down at the ragdoll in the dirt, a pool of blood already soaking the ground. He didn’t even bother to look around and swung his arm to the door, yanking it shut with a
clang
.

All the silver-blue light from the moon was gone, and Rook could hear the last two guys yelling at him through the door, then at each other. Their voices disappeared, and he wondered if they were dead or had just run off.

“Spooky,” Charlie said, his voice echoing eerily in the enclosed trailer.

“Don’t even think of trying anything,” Rook said. “I’ll put every bullet I have into you and make sure you’re dead before me.”

“I gotta tell ya,” Charlie said, his voice sounding different, darker this time, “I know I talk a lot. I think it’s because I’m back on American soil, not having to speak or listen to Arabic 24/7, but even I’m getting sick of listening to your threats.”

“You think you can scare me, you little punk? You think your bombs and your little vendetta campaign mean anything to me? Do you even know who I am and what I can do?” Rook said, his own voice disorienting him as he felt along the side of the truck and made his way deeper into the trailer.

Charlie offered only silence.

Rook waited. “Do you know what I’m gonna do to you when I find you?”

“No.” The voice came as a whisper from behind him. “Show me.”

Rook felt the zip-ties under his chin as Charlie started to choke him. Rook dropped his gun and reached up, desperate to get his hands between the tie and the cut he could feel burning and grinding into the flesh of his neck. Even in the darkness, he could feel his vision start to fade. Rook threw an elbow back that connected with Charlie’s ribs, and he heard a grunt. The pressure let off just enough that he could spin around and duck out, falling to the ground with a cough. He felt tears on his cheek and gagged as he rummaged around blindly for his gun.

“Looking for this?” Charlie asked.

Rook looked up to see the flick of a lighter. Charlie had the gun and pointed it down at his forehead. Somehow, he’d gotten free of the zip-ties.

“Don’t worry. I told you I hate guns.” Charlie ejected the clip and pulled the slide back one-handed, like a pro. The chambered bullet rattled to a stop on the ground, and Charlie flicked off his lighter again. “Trust me, it’ll be better if you don’t see what’s about to happen next.”

The sound of the door latch being pulled open echoed through the trailer, but Charlie just sat perched on top of one hundred kilos of meth. The door swung open, and the moonlight flooded in. Rook’s body lay lifeless on the ground next to the passenger door, a pool of blood shining like crude in the glow of the moon. Two men with assault rifles, the same ones from the lab, stood at the door in a relaxed posture.

“Are you having fun?” the first man asked Charlie. He was about forty, with thin black hair and a five o’clock shadow. He wore a tactical vest and had a long, jagged scar that trailed below the sleeve of his shirt.

“It’s better than the desert, Mike,” Charlie said.

“You can say that again,” the second man said. He was younger, with ear-length brown hair and a weathered face that showed pockmarks on his right cheeks. He also wore a tactical vest, but he had no sleeves underneath.

“You still can’t seem to find a shirt with sleeves, Parker?” Charlie asked.

“Why conceal these weapons?” Parker said and flexed both biceps.

“Thanks for making this trip twice. I didn’t think we were gonna make it in under an hour back and forth from town before they killed Dee Dee.”

“What difference does it make? You knew she was two-timing anyway?” Parker asked.

“Yeah, but it got me to lead them out here, didn’t it? Besides, she was a nice enough girl. She just got caught up with bad people.”

“Once you go black…” Mike said. Charlie just shook his head.

“Are we done yet?” Parker asked and walked away from the trailer as Charlie hopped down. The last two guys lay ten feet from the door, with a single shot each in the bridge of the nose.

“Showoffs,” Charlie said. “And no, we’re not done. I still a have one more thing to do.”

“Why don’t we just go in there and take ‘em out?” Mike said. “Wouldn’t be that hard to make it look like a drug deal gone wrong.”

“This stuff getting to you or something?” Charlie asked Mike. “Ever do an op on American soil?”

Mike shrugged and pulled the clip from his rifle, then replaced it with a fresh magazine. “We aren’t exactly talking about Rhodes Scholars here. Not one of these guys bothered to ask you how you got back into town after leaving the truck here?” Mike shook his head. “An asshole’s an asshole the world around.”

Parker let out a short laugh. “Why couldn’t
these
assholes run junk out of Miami or New Orleans instead of Bum-fuck, North Dakota?”

“No argument here,” Charlie said.

“So anyway…what’s the play?” Mike said, kicking at the dirt. “Mexican standoff gone wrong?”

“We’ll call that Plan B,” Charlie said.

Parker cast Charlie a thoughtful stare. “You making this personal?”

“Not me,” Charlie said as he adjusted his hat, “but they sure as shit did.”

Chapter 25

Damon seethed as he stalked the room, almost hoping someone would be so stupid as to talk out of turn, just so he could justify caving in their head. He rubbed at the knot forming at the base of his skull and muttered to himself as he prowled back and forth. The Baker was AWOL, a third of his shipment was gone, Rook wasn’t answering his damn phone, and the deal was supposed to happen in two hours. There were no take-backs, no do-overs. It had taken Damon months to set up the buy and get his contacts to go for that much weight, and it was supposed to be the big one—the last big score before he got out of the game. He planned to take the money and run, to find someplace with no extradition and cheap room and board. He’d seen the lifers in lockdown, and he wasn’t going to be one of them. He’d convinced himself that he was smarter and better than that. He was going to live the high life and leave all those suckers behind. All he needed was his goddamn hundred kilos of meth.

Damon paced the room and stared at the faces of the people around him, those worthless Wheelers, that cooz Sherry and her pimp boyfriend, who was good enough with a gun; otherwise, neither of them would be there. It was the first time Damon had seen the guy look semi-sober. A few others straggled around the room, but they knew better than to make eye contact.

Damon’s side ached; he needed a bump. “Who’s holding?” he asked. When no one answered, he repeated himself. “I asked if any of you are holding.”

The pimp, whose name Damon thought might be Billy, pulled a few grams from his pocket and flicked it on the table. Damon eyeballed him, wondering if he had the stones to ask for money, which he didn’t. Damon grabbed the packet and dabbed a bump on the back of his hand, then took it up with a quick snort. He felt the tingle in his teeth and smiled. “Mmm…that’s better,” he said and walked over to his stereo. He hated the silence and needed something to occupy his time. He needed to think. What the hell was he going to do? He didn’t have enough men or guns to start a war. They would send couriers for the smack, so killing them wouldn’t help him get away if they went sour on only getting 200 keys instead of the full 300. He thought he might be able to improvise, to bury some fake bricks in the middle. There was no way they could test all 300 packages. Besides, by the time they figured it out, he’d either be long gone or will be able to blame it on The Baker. May Damon could even make The Baker do a double-batch of cheap shit to cover the loss so he won’t have to worry about waking up to a pillow on his face and a gun pressed against the other side.

But he knew that wouldn’t work. If they did a random test, they could choose any bag, and if he gave them junk, it would go just as bad as if he gave them nothing at all, 200 keys or not. The coke had given him a needed edge, and he felt better hopped up, more alive. Maybe he’d just leave and let the local kicks deal with the fallout. No, they’d find him wherever he went.

Damon’s mind continued to rattle around as be pinballed across the room. He was a dead man without the last 100 keys… unless they thought he was already dead. There were more than a few old trailers back in town that they used for shake-and-bake operations. There were plenty of chemicals sitting around the meeting location, Damon used the place to store supplies, volatile stuff, and accidents happened, like with Dick and Clarence. But that wasn’t an accident. It was some pain-in-the-ass ghost.

Damon was already coming down off the high, and that irritated him. He looked over at the pimp and wondered how many times he’d stepped on his coke. He found no morality in guys who diluted their stuff just to make more money, cutting it with baking soda or talcum powder like punks. Damon took another snort and pondered on how he might be able to make it all look like some accident gone wrong. He looked down at his phone to see the time. There was less than two hours left. Where the hell was Rook?

As if by divine intervention, Damon’s phone rang, the caller ID showed Rook’s number.

“About fucking time,” Damon said into the phone. “Where are you? Did you find our stuff?”

The line was quiet for a moment, but then a voice on the other end asked, “Is this Damon?” It wasn’t Rook, it sounded like a telemarketer.

“Who is this?”

“It’s about time. Sorry this took so long, but Rook doesn’t keep names in his phone, so I just had to start dialing them from the recent call list.”

“Is this some kind of a joke? Who the hell is this?” Damon demanded.

“Sorry. It’s Charlie.”

“Charlie?” Damon took the phone away from his head for a moment and looked around the room at the Wheelers. Their eyes widened, and he knew it was the ghost. “Where’s my stuff?”