Shoot the Woman First (4 page)

There was another vehicle parked near the Lexus now, a gray tarp spread across it, only the tires visible.

“There's your van,” he said.

He parked alongside. They got out, and she took the penlight from her jacket pocket, thumbed it on. She lifted an edge of the tarp. Beneath was a white service van. A magnetic sign on the driver's door read
EAST SIDE PLUMBING.

She raised the tarp. Dents and body rust, but the tires were good.

“What do you think?” he said.

“Looks good enough. Let's hope it runs.”

They went into the house. Cordell and Glass were in the living room, Cordell leaning against a wall. Glass was in one of the folding chairs, map spread out on the table, a lantern pulled close. No beer this time. Laid out on the couch were four dark-blue Kevlar vests with Velcro straps. On the floor was a black tactical bag, unzipped far enough to show the glint of dark metal inside.

Glass looked up as they came in.

“You look happy,” she said.

“I am.” He touched a red
X
on the map. “Cordell came through. We've got it.”

She looked at Cordell. He nodded to her.

“Good to hear,” Larry said.

“There's a problem, though,” Glass said. “Change of plans.”

“What?” she said.

“Different time frame.”

“What's that mean?”

“They changed up on the drop-off,” Cordell said. “They do that sometimes, at the last minute. I just found out 'bout an hour ago.”

“It's sooner than we thought,” Glass said.

She looked at him. “How soon?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Not enough time.”

“If you want to walk,” Glass said, “I understand. But I think we can do this.”

She looked at Larry. He shook his head. She turned back to Glass. “No good.”

“It's not what we thought we'd have,” he said. “But it can still work. Hear me out at least. We've got everything we need. We just have to move up the timetable a little.”

“He's right,” Cordell said. “Everything else still the same. I'm hearing five hundred and fifty K this time. Straight up.”

She looked at Larry again. He shrugged.

After a moment, she took the other folding chair, dragged it toward the table.

“You've got five minutes,” she said. “Convince me.”

*   *   *

They were in a suburb north of the city, parked on a residential street, lights and engine off. Almost midnight, and both of them cold. Larry had run the engine for a while for heat, but she worried the exhaust would show in the chill air, draw attention to them, so he'd shut it off. They'd been here almost two hours now.

“Times like this, I wish I still smoked,” he said. “Something to do with my hands at least.”

A half block ahead, a dark red Chevy Silverado 4x4 pickup was parked in the driveway of a two-story house. It was a middle-class neighborhood. Well-kept yards, garages. A world away from the place Cordell had found.

After they'd left the house, they'd driven up to the suburbs, scouted restaurant and movie theater lots until they found what she was looking for, a big pickup with a heavy-duty pushbar. They'd sat on it for an hour, until a crowd had come out of the theater, and a man and woman had driven away in the truck. They'd followed it here, had been watching ever since. A half hour ago, the first-floor lights in the house had gone out, leaving two lit windows above. A square of light fell across the Silverado's roof.

“What if there's an alarm?” he said.

“Have to take my chances with that. Try to override it quick as I can.”

“Don't spend too much time on it. If those downstairs lights go on again, come back quick. We'll find another rig somewhere else.”

“We're running out of time. I don't want to have to start looking again.”

She shifted in her seat, the Glock cold against her back.

“So you're good with all this,” he said. “I'm surprised.”

“Charlie's right. The basic plan's still solid. Another day to prep would be better, but you play the hand you're dealt.”

“What about Wayne's Five P's? ‘Proper Planning…'”

“‘Prevents Poor Performance.' You've got a good memory.”

“Hard to forget that one.”

“He was right. But this time I don't think we have the luxury.”

One of the upstairs lights went out. She reached beneath the seat, took out the chamois bag Glass had given her, loosened the drawstring. Inside was a hinged metal slim jim, a flathead screwdriver, vise grips, and four lengths of wire with alligator clips at each end.

“I used to know how to do that back in the day,” he said. “But these new cars, forget about it. I wouldn't know where to start.”

“Same principles.”

“Maybe. But I'm an old horse. I can't work smarter, I can only work harder.”

“Not so old. You got some years left.”

She took the Glock from her belt, bent and slid it under the seat. If she was stopped in the Silverado, she didn't want it on her.

The last window went dark. The only illumination now was a streetlight a half block up.

“How long should we give it?” he said.

She inched a glove back to look at her watch. “Half hour, at least. Let them get to sleep. We'll see if any of those lights go back on.”

She flexed her fingers. It had been a long time since she'd stolen a vehicle. If she screwed it up, got caught, it would all be over, the whole thing ended before it had begun.

She went through the contents of the bag, getting the feel of the tools so she could work smoothly once inside the Silverado, not waste any time.

“Lately I've been thinking about this life,” he said. “Choices I made. Things I gave up. Wondering if it was all worth it.”

“You could always get a job.”

“That ship sailed a long time ago.”

“Then you don't have much choice, do you?”

“I don't know. Lately it seems the work's getting harder and the money's getting smaller. It's like they say, you can make a killing in this business, but you can't make a living.”

When the half hour was up, she said, “See you back at the house,” and opened the door.

She crossed the street, bag under her arm, fighting the urge to walk faster. Up the driveway now, the point of no return. She looked up at the dark second floor, then took out the slim jim, unfolded it.

As she'd expected, the driver's door was locked. The slim jim slid easily between the weather-stripping and the window.

She found the locking rod on the first sweep, pulled up, and the door opened. A red light blinked on the dash. She climbed up into the seat, went to work with the screwdriver, got the plastic panel off the steering column just as the alarm began to bleat. It was clumsy work with the gloves, but she found the right wires, used the alligator clips. The alarm went silent.

There was no keyguard on the ignition, so she didn't need the vise grips. The screwdriver was enough. She forced it into the ignition slot, twisted. Something cracked inside the steering column, and the engine came to life. She looked up at the windows. Still dark.

She backed down the driveway, bumped into the street, straightened out, gave it gas. Larry started his engine, pulled out behind her, keeping his distance. If she got stopped, she'd ditch the truck, make a run for it, and he'd come back later, try to find her. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all they had.

At the next block, she turned on the headlights. The engine was running smoothly. She came to a red light, switched on her blinker, waited. She looked in the rearview, expecting to see flashing lights, police cruisers. All she saw was Larry's rental, coming to a stop behind her.

When the light changed, she let out her breath, made the turn. A block later, when the trembling in her hands had stopped, she turned on the radio. Soft jazz came from the speakers. She followed the signs for Route 75, headed south. They'd stow the truck in the garage tonight, make their final preparations. A few hours to sleep, and then the work. And by this time tomorrow night, all of it over. One way or another.

 

FIVE

She was up at dawn, watery light coming through the gap in the curtains. It had been a thin sleep, and she'd woken a half-dozen times during the night. It felt better to be up and moving, getting ready.

The tension was already in her stomach, and she knew she wouldn't be able to eat. She showered and dressed, then used the coffeemaker in the bathroom to brew a cup, dosed it with three packets of sugar. She carried it to the window, opened the curtains. It was raining again, streaking the glass. They'd have to factor that in.

She packed her things, then checked the Mini Glock, wrapped two thick rubber bands around its grip. They would keep it from slipping in her hand, or sliding down too far in her beltline. Before she left Detroit, she'd disassemble the gun, scatter the parts. It was too risky to travel with it. She'd take a late-night bus to Toledo, then catch an Amtrak train to Buffalo. From there, she'd rent a car, drive the eight hours back to New Jersey.

She was back at the window, looking out at the rain and sipping her second cup of coffee, when the cell phone on the nightstand began to buzz. She looked at it. Larry's number. It sounded twice, then stopped. It was their signal. He was waiting for her in the lot, ready to go.

She tucked the Glock into the small of her back, pulled on her leather jacket. At the door, she took one last look at the room, wondering if she'd forgotten anything. Her suitcase was packed and ready, standing beside the bed. That and the rumpled sheets were the only signs anyone had been here at all.

*   *   *

They suited up in the living room, the lanterns on. The house was cold, with a dampness she felt in her joints. There was a slow, steady drip from the kitchen ceiling, a puddle on the linoleum floor.

She strapped the Kevlar vest on over her T-shirt, tightened the Velcro, then pulled on the black sweater and dark windbreaker. She'd left her leather in Larry Black's trunk.

She checked her watch: 12:45. The drop-off was scheduled for 2:00, but they didn't know how much time they had before the pickup. They'd have to move fast.

Charlie Glass handed out cell phones and earpieces. “Numbers are already programmed in, One through Four. Just in case we get separated. I'm One.” He pointed at Cordell. “You're Two.” Then at Crissa, and finally Larry. “Three and Four.”

“Got it,” she said.

Cordell was struggling with his vest. It hung crooked on his back, the straps uneven.

“Hold on,” she said, and came up behind him. She pulled the Velcro loose to free the right-hand strap, adjusted it until the vest was tight.

“Thanks,” he said. His face was shiny with sweat.

“You okay?”

“Little nervous, I guess. Ain't no thing.”

“It's normal. It'll pass.”

She'd seen it before, with veterans as well as first-timers. Jumpy at first, then calmer as things got going. Once there was a task at hand, things to do, a timetable, it was better. But now, before it started, there was time to think, and that was never good.

“You set with directions to the transfers?” Glass said to him. “I don't want you out there driving around, ‘Left? Right? Where the fuck am I?'”

“I got it,” Cordell said.

“You'll be fine,” she said. “In a couple hours we'll all be back here. It'll be done.”

The black tactical bag Glass had brought for her was on the couch. She unzipped it, looked inside: two olive-drab M-18 smoke grenades with red tops, a pistol-grip Mossberg shotgun with shoulder strap, two boxes of shells, a street map, a ski mask, and a plastic mouthguard still in its package. She took out the Mossberg, worked the pump to check the action. It cycled smoothly, and the strap would make it easier to handle on the street.

She opened the boxes of shells, spilled them onto the table—double-O buck and three-inch deer slugs. Bracing the Mossberg's butt on her hip, she thumbed shells into the loading port until she felt the pressure of the spring.

“What you wanted?” Glass said. He had his own windbreaker on, was loading a blued revolver.

“It'll work,” she said. She pumped to chamber a shell, then fed a fresh one into the port. The extra rounds went into her jacket pockets. “Still like those wheel guns, huh?”

“They don't jam. And no brass to pick up, if you have to use it.”

She put on the safety, slid the shotgun back in the bag.

“You'll be there first,” he said. “As soon as you're in place, hit me on the cell.”

“Right.” They'd been through it all already. She activated her phone, checked the speed dial, saw the numbers he'd programmed. She put the phone and earpiece in the tac bag.

Cordell was sitting on one of the folding chairs, looking at the floor. He was breathing fast. She looked at Glass. He'd seen it, too.

“He going to make it?” Larry said. He was assembling an AR-15 rifle, fitting the parts into place.

Cordell raised his head. He looked sick. “I'll be all right.”

“You better be,” Glass said. “Time to man up, brother. Everybody waiting on you.”

“Deep breaths,” she said. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow.”

He braced his hands on his knees, drew in air.

“Slow,” she said again.

He nodded. “I'm good.”

“You will be,” she said. “All you have to do is drive. We've got everything else. It'll all be over before you know it.”

“We need to get going,” Larry said.

She zipped the tac bag shut, slung the strap over her left shoulder. “Better give me ten minutes. We don't want a convoy leaving here. If there's a problem…” She nodded at Cordell's back. “Let me know.”

“Won't be any problem,” Glass said.