The Professionals

by Owen Laukkanen

  Christ. The girl was staring at him with such hope in her eyes that he found it hard to look at her. Never again, he thought. Never again with this hostage shit. “I don’t want you,” he said. “I don’t want your money, either.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. D’Antonio refused to meet her gaze. She turned back to the computer screen. “She wrote back,” she said. “A couple hours ago.”

  “Read it.”

  She opened the message and read it aloud. Tiffany had heard the phone message. They were in Pennsylvania. They were coming back to get Haley.

  The girl looked up at him, waiting for his answer. The kids were in Pennsylvania, he thought. We’re safe in Florida, but those kids are at the top of the Most Wanted list. I don’t want them caught before I get my chance with them.

  D’Antonio turned back to the girl. “Write her back,” he said. “Tell them forget coming to Florida. Go to Cincinnati instead.”

  “Cincinnati?”

  “Yeah,” he said, standing. “We’re going to take a little road trip.”

  sixty-three

  Cincinnati,” said Pender. “What the hell is in Cincinnati?”

  Tiffany looked up from her computer and shrugged. “I guess it’s better than Florida. You guys are wanted as hell down there.”

  “You’re wanted, too,” said Sawyer. “Remember?”

  They’d turned on the TV as soon as they booked a room, hungry for cheap intel and wondering how the cops were going to spin the kidnapping. Tiffany went pale when her face came on screen, but she kept her composure, and after a couple White Castle hamburgers and a cherry Pepsi she seemed to be enjoying her newfound notoriety. “This is kind of cool,” she told Pender. “I’m a legit outlaw now. Like Thelma and Louise.”

  Now she sat on Mouse’s bed with his computer on her lap, reading out Haley’s kidnapper’s instructions.

  “Cincinnati’s better for us, anyway,” said Pender. “Now that they moved Marie. We get Haley back, and then we swing up to Detroit to get Marie. What time are we supposed to show?”

  “Day after tomorrow,” said Tiffany. “That’s plenty of time.”

  Day after tomorrow, thought Pender, staring at Mouse. We drive tomorrow. We deal with this Whittaker situation the day after—though how they were going to handle it, he had no idea—and then we get Mouse to a hospital that evening. That’s assuming he can make it that far.

  Pender stood and walked over to Mouse’s bed. His friend looked almost childlike, as though he’d shrunk in the wash. What the hell have we done, Pender thought, listening to his friend’s ragged breathing. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. “Mouse,” he said, touching his friend’s shoulder. “You there, buddy?”

  Mouse opened his eyes halfway. He smiled slowly. “Pender.”

  “Listen,” said Pender. “We have to drive to Cincinnati tomorrow. Means you won’t see a doctor until the next evening at the earliest. You think you can hold out?”

  Mouse nodded. “Of course. Do what you have to do.”

  “I’m serious, Mouse. No hero shit. We can drop you at an emergency room tonight if you need it.”

  “Emergency room,” Mouse said. “They’ll arrest me for sure.”

  Pender glanced around the room. Sawyer and Tiffany were watching, silent. “Better arrested than dead, right?”

  “Bullshit.” Mouse struggled to sit up, his face flush and frustrated. “Get me some drugs, and I’m fine for a couple more days.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “I promise.” He turned toward Tiffany. “Pass me that computer, babe?”

  Tiffany handed Mouse his laptop, and Pender watched as his friend perched the computer on his sunken chest. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re getting out of this,” said Mouse. “Soon as we spring Marie, we’re getting the hell out of this country.”

  “Fine,” said Pender. “But what are you doing?”

  Mouse was hammering keys, only half listening. “Getting in touch with my guy,” he said. “We’ll have two days in Cincy. That’s enough time to cook up passports and Social Security numbers. I’ll have my guy ship them tomorrow.”

  “Good idea,” said Pender. Mouse is invaluable, he thought. If we lose him, we’re royally screwed.

  Mouse made eyes at Tiffany. “Now, then, beautiful,” he said. “What would you like your new name to be?”

  The next day they were up early and out the door, packed into the minivan and on the road ahead of rush-hour traffic. They drove west on I-76, Tiffany dozing in back beside Mouse and Sawyer riding shotgun, fiddling with the radio dial as Pender watched more highway disappear behind them. He kept his eyes out for the state police as he drove, not knowing whether the minivan was compromised or if they’d gotten away clean. It’s like driving with a hand grenade, he thought. We blink the wrong way, and it blows up in our faces.

  They stopped for fuel and food in Columbus and then continued south toward Cincinnati, the sun starting to set and the shadows getting longer. Sawyer found an alt-rock station and sat back in his seat, drumming along to the beat on his knees. He sniffed the air and turned to Pender. “Be glad to get out of this van,” he said. “This thing’s got a stench to it. I mean, goddamn, Pender. You had to pick the smelliest car on the lot.”

  Pender smiled. “Security system, bro.”

  “Ah, that’s why we got away back there. Cops were afraid of how bad we smelled.”

  “You got it.”

  “Well, shit.” Sawyer turned back to watch Ohio, low and flat and farmy, pass outside his window. “I’d maybe rather be arrested than have to spend much longer in this heap.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” said Pender. “You really wouldn’t.”

  They put a few more miles beneath the wheels, Sawyer drumming along to the music and Pender watching eighteen-wheelers pass in the opposite direction. Then Pender spoke up again. “What do you think of this whole scheme?”

  “This Beneteau thing.” Sawyer stopped drumming. “Haley and all that.”

  “How’s it going to work out?”

  “The ransom.”

  “We’ve never been on this side of a deal before,” said Pender. “I’m just running on instincts.”

  “If those guys think we’re just going to give ourselves up for that girl, they’re retarded.” Sawyer glanced at Pender. “Right?”

  Pender kept his eyes on the road, pulled out into the passing lane. “We’re not giving anybody up,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re running game on these people.”

  “They’ll bring guns.”

  “We’re walking into a trap,” said Pender. “I know it. We’re not assassins. We don’t even have ammunition. But we need that fifty grand, Sawyer.”

  Sawyer said nothing for a moment. “Can you think of any other way to do this?” he said finally.

  Pender looked over at his friend. “No,” he said. “I really can’t.”

  sixty-four

  First-degree murder. Two counts of kidnapping. Conspiracy to commit murder. Two counts of conspiracy to commit kidnapping. The FBI agent read out the charges with undisguised glee, punctuating the list with a wink at Marie and a parting shot. “Trust me, honey,” Agent Windermere said. “There will be more where that came from, just as soon as we peg you down for the rest of the jobs.”

  Marie barely listened to the woman. Refused to give her the satisfaction of a response. She’d known the charges were coming as the days began to pile up, first in Jacksonville and then, after that excruciating ride, in Detroit. Marie had felt her defiance withering, her resolve nearly vanished, and she sat in her cell now, defeated and miserable, fully aware that Pender wasn’t coming for her and that he wasn’t sending her a lawyer, either. She would have to face her consequences alone.

  Her parents refused to talk to her. She’d tried to call them from the FBI office in Detroit the day after she’d arrived. Her sister picked up on the third or fourth ring, and the sound of her voice had brought Marie momentarily ba
ck to life, but her sister was like stone on the other end of the line. “Mom and Dad don’t want to talk to you,” she said. “Anyway, I don’t think they could bear it.”

  “Marney, please,” Marie said. “I need to hear their voices.”

  “No,” said her sister. “You don’t understand. You almost killed them, Marie. They’re devastated. Dad looks like he’s aged ten years since the FBI showed up. All Mom can talk about is the lies you told. Kidnapping, Marie. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I need to talk to them. Please.”

  “I can’t put them through it, Marie. I’m sorry,” she said, and she paused. Then: “Please don’t call here again.”

  And then she’d hung up. Marie could still hear the dial tone.

  She floated through the bail hearing, barely noticing the judge or the prosecution or her own appointed defender, a well-dressed middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Gloria Wallace, Assistant Federal Public Defender, and who argued strenuously and in vain against the assistant U.S. attorney’s request that bail be denied.

  Wallace apologized after the hearing and looked like she really meant it, but Marie, still floating above her own head like she was watching herself on television, just allowed herself to be led from the courtroom and back to her desolate cell.

  I could not sit here for twenty years, she realized. I would die behind these walls. My body would just give up, and I would die. Or I would find a way to kill myself. I couldn’t bear to be alone for the next twenty years of my life—and twenty years, she knew, was just a baseline number. She might never be free again.

  Those guys are long gone, she thought to herself. They’re on a beach in Thailand sipping fruity drinks and spending all the money you helped them make. They’re home free. You’ve got nobody to live for but yourself.

  “Shut up,” she said aloud. Her words echoed in the cell and in her eardrums.

  But that insidious little voice kept talking, kept pouring poison in her ear. And as Marie lay down to try and sleep on her lumpy cot in that dirty cell, she felt herself starting to give in to the voice, to listen to its promise.

  And the next morning, when Assistant Federal Public Defender Wallace showed up at the prison to start preparations for the pretrial hearing, Marie didn’t immediately shut her down when she broached the subject of a plea bargain. That little devil’s advocate in her head had grown powerful overnight, and even though Marie felt sick even thinking about betraying the boys, she let the voice take the mic and speak for her.

  And instead of telling Gloria Wallace, screw off, I’m innocent, Marie floated above her own head again, watched herself lean forward and tell her attorney, “All right, I’m listening. What kind of deal can we get?”

  sixty-five

  The CSX yards,” said Tiffany. “Dusk.”

  Dusk, thought Pender, trying to think like a mobster. So it was meant to be a firefight. If they’d gone for a populated area, we’d know they were going to play it straight. But they went industrial, deserted, and dark, which means they’re not even bothering with pretense. They’re going to kill us then and there.

  He turned to Sawyer. “What do you think?”

  Sawyer shrugged. “I think we’ve got an Uzi and a handgun and not nearly enough ammunition. We’d be stupid to go in there like that.”

  “How many men do they bring?”

  “We’re close enough to Detroit. They could bring a whole army.”

  “Haley said this is the last time we’ll hear from them,” said Tiffany. “If we’re not where they want us, when they want us, they’re going to kill her.”

  “They’re going to kill her, anyway,” said Sawyer. “We can’t let them kill us, too.”

  “If Haley dies, you guys don’t get paid.”

  “We’re not letting your friend die,” said Pender. “Look, we’re always going to be in this spot, whether it’s now or tomorrow or next week. They want to kill us. We’re going to have to beat them.”

  “We can’t just walk in there,” said Sawyer. “We don’t even know what the place looks like.”

  Mouse coughed from his corner of the bed. “Street View,” he said, trying to sit up. “Search the intersection on the Internet and scope the terrain. Almost as good as field work.”

  Tiffany punched the intersection into Mouse’s computer. “He’s right,” she said. “Come look. This place is a wasteland.”

  According to the Internet, the meeting spot was a neighborhood of warehouses, abandoned factories, parking lots, and vacant space. A couple of weed-choked railroad spur lines snaked between the buildings, and in the distance, the CSX classification yards could just barely be seen. “Genius, Mouse,” Pender said. “Now how are we going to play this?”

  “We could call the police,” said Tiffany. “They gave up their location. We call the police, and they storm the neighborhood.”

  “What if they don’t have the girl on site?” said Sawyer. “Police grab the bad guys, and the girl gets shot up in some motel room somewhere because we didn’t pull through.”

  “No police,” said Pender. “Any other ideas?”

  He waited. For a minute, nobody said anything. Then Sawyer sighed. “I have an idea,” said Sawyer. “Listen up.”

  They listened as Sawyer outlined his plan, and then they argued it over, picking it apart for flaws and putting it back together. It wasn’t nearly perfect, thought Pender, but there was no way to be sure the girl would stay safe unless they got in the mix and dirtied their hands.

  Dusk came quicker than any of them would have liked, and they packed up the minivan with the light already waning and their watches barely reading five. Pender drove from the motel into the city, and they watched the sun like a doomsday clock. Nobody spoke, the only sound Mouse’s labored breathing from the shotgun seat.

  They pulled off the freeway and crossed over the CSX yard toward the meeting spot, but before they reached the intersection Pender pulled a quick right and dashed down a side street. He pulled into a factory lot and put the car in park. He exhaled, slow, and forced his hands to stop shaking. Then he twisted in his seat to face his team. “Everybody ready for this?”

  He searched their faces one by one. Tiffany was drawn and taut, beating a rhythm on the floor of the van with her feet. She met his gaze and looked away. Sawyer’s eyes were low, his mouth set. He stared back at Pender and nodded when their eyes met. Mouse flashed him a weak grin in the passenger seat.

  “Let’s go through this one more time,” said Pender. “Tiffany, you know how to use that Glock?”

  “Point and shoot,” she said. “Just like in Resident Evil.”

  “Perfect. Mouse, you’re cool?”

  “What have I got to lose?”

  “Sawyer?”

  “Long as you don’t shoot me with that Uzi, boss.”

  “I’ll try my best.” Pender looked out the window. The last of the day’s light was disappearing below the factory line. He unbuckled his seat belt and picked up the machine gun. “It’s time,” he said. “Remember, wait for Sawyer’s signal before you drive.”

  “Affirmative,” said Mouse. He grinned at Tiffany, who was climbing into the driver’s seat. Then he turned back to Pender and seemed to summon what remained of his strength. “If shit goes down, you’ve got parcels waiting for you at the Amtrak station. You remember how to get a hold of the money once you’re on foreign soil?”

  “I remember. But you’ll be there with us, buddy,” said Pender, and he stepped out of the van and met Sawyer coming around from his side. “Ready?”

  “I’m ready.” Sawyer held out his hand. Pender clasped it, and they shook. Then Pender watched his friend creep into the shadows by the side of the road and disappear along the railroad tracks. He waited until he was sure Sawyer was gone, and then he, too, crept forward, casting one glance back at the relative safety of the van before walking quickly down the road, hugging the building that lined the curb and cradling the Uzi like a baby, the weapon heavy and menacin
g in his hands.

  sixty-six

  D’Antonio drove the girl to the drop zone in the Explorer while Paolo rode along in the Tahoe with the three fresh goons from Detroit. The girl was fascinated by his gun, kept sneaking looks, as though staring at it would make the thing disappear.

  She made her last pitch on the drive over. “You really don’t have to kill me,” she said. “I’m not going to snitch on you.”

  She said it lightly, almost flirtatious. Her nonchalance was still shocking. “How could I be sure?” he asked her.

  She leaned toward him, smiling. “I know you have a thing for me. How are you going to pull it together long enough to shoot me?”

  “I’ve killed plenty of people before.”

  “Never anyone like me.”

  “Yeah,” he said. He leaned forward and fiddled with the radio dial. Found a rock station and turned up the volume. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  That shut her up. She sank back in her seat and said nothing more. D’Antonio avoided looking at her for the rest of the drive.

  It was true he’d killed people before. More often than not, they didn’t deserve to be dead. He did his job well, and he never lost sleep. But D’Antonio liked to kill fast. He’d show up in the shadows when the mark walked in the door at night, put a bullet in his forehead, and walk right out again. He didn’t spend time with his victims. Didn’t talk to them. He certainly didn’t feed and clothe them while he waited for the right time to pull the trigger.

  This girl. He could have killed her already. He realized he was putting it off. Something inside him didn’t like the idea.

  D’Antonio found the intersection on the Explorer’s navigation system and backed into the shadows in a parking lot a half a block away. He could see the Tahoe parked on the other side of the intersection and imagined Paolo and the goons spread out in the darkness, their ambush immaculate.