The Freeport Robbery

by Michael P. King

  Nicole rolled Mosley over and lifted her head into her lap while Ron got a water bottle from the car. He handed it to her. She wet Mosley’s lips, and then sprinkled water on her face. Mosley opened her eyes. “You came back.” Nicole held the bottle to her lips and let her drink. She took a few swallows, and then she pushed the bottle away. “You’re wasting your time. I won’t go back to the city.”

  Ron crouched down beside her and gripped her hand. “We aren’t going back.”

  She looked at him hard. “Where’s Denison?”

  “You’ve been out here on the road for a couple of hours. Denison is back in the city. Did you know Philips’s guys were going to kill Rickover?”

  She tried to sit up. Nicole helped her. “Not until it was too late. He was a friend of mine, you know? That’s why I wanted the money, so I could get out from under Philips’s thumb. That’s why I can’t go back to the city. I’m dead there.”

  Ron turned to Nicole. “Take a look at her shoulder.”

  Nicole gingerly lifted the outer bandage. The bleeding has stopped. “It looks okay.”

  “Can you walk?” Ron asked Mosley.

  “I think so.”

  He turned to Nicole. “Let’s put her in the car.”

  They helped her to her feet and walked her to the Camry. She lay down in the backseat. “You okay?” Nicole asked.

  “Yeah,” Mosley said.

  “We’ll take you as far as the hospital in Camp Carson,” Ron said.

  They continued down the highway, the light disappearing over the mountains, the valley falling into the deep shadow that comes before true night. Ron turned on the headlights. The world was empty except for them driving through the dark and the sky slowly filling with stars. Mosley sat up in the backseat. “Why are you helping me? I shot her.”

  “Yes, you did. And if you’d killed her, I’d be hunting you right now. But we’re not psychos,” Ron said. “Besides, you being dead doesn’t help us. If you’re dead, we’ve got even more Feds on this case. Since you’re alive, you’re going to make sure we aren’t tied to the theft of the casket. A deal’s a deal.”

  “Easy for you to say. What am I going to do about Philips? I don’t have any money.”

  “NewTrust has the two hundred thousand, so at least they’re not after you. As for Philips, you’re the FBI. You’ll think of something.”

  It was well after dark by the time they saw the lights of Camp Carson. A tribal police cruiser sat on the shoulder of the road at the border of the Nohamay Nation, but it didn’t stop them from crossing into the city. The streets were deserted. They rolled through the commercial zone, passing the twenty-four-hour big box stores with their nearly empty parking lots, and stopping at the empty intersections to wait for the traffic lights to change.

  Nicole looked up from the map on her phone. “Next right should be the hospital.”

  They drove in the emergency department entrance. Ron pulled right up to the double doors. “Can you make it?”

  “I can make it that far,” Mosley said. She opened the car door and put one foot out onto the pavement before she turned back to Ron. “Have you got the casket?”

  “It’s going back to the museum,” Ron said. “It’s going to mysteriously turn up in the next few days.”

  “Then I’ll keep my word.” She stumbled out of the car, righted herself, and shuffled toward the emergency department doors.

  11

  Promises Kept

  Ron pulled up in front of the Peter Damascus Sculpture Museum on a Harley Davidson motorcycle and parked in the do-not-park zone with the hazard lights flashing. He was wearing a black-visored helmet, heavy leather gloves, and a black leather jacket with the logo “Quicksilver Messengers” on the back. He unstrapped a rectangular wooden box from the back of his bike, hurried up the steps to the Spanish-style mansion and walked into the glass-walled addition where the entrance and ticket counter were located. He didn’t bother to take off his helmet or his gloves. He looked up at the security camera as he approached the ticket counter. Two twenty-something women were chatting behind the counter. He set the box on the counter without speaking.

  “Do you need a signature?” one of them asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  He jogged back down the steps, climbed onto his motorcycle, and roared off down the hill.

  Two days later, Ron and Nicole were standing at the kitchen counter of a beach house on the coast well north of San Francisco. The waves were rolling up the beach, washing against the rocks, and leaving seaweed on the gravelly sand. Dirty breakfast dishes sat on the picnic table on the wooden deck. They were on their way back outside with refilled coffee cups, but they had stopped to watch a news story on the TV in the kitchen. The TV showed a rotating view of the Cellini casket, while the voice-over told how an anonymous messenger had returned it to the Peter Damascus Sculpture Museum. The museum’s curator and the board of directors were ecstatic at its return. The FBI was still investigating the theft, but there were no new leads.

  Ron sipped his coffee. “So far, so good.” He turned off the TV. “Now everything is back to normal.”

  “Have you gone over the plans Zeb dropped us?” Nicole asked.

  “Yeah. There’s a bank up here that’s really just a marijuana money-laundering operation. We’ve got the plans, the alarm codes, the armored car pick-up dates—everything you could need if you wanted to take some of that money.”

  “But they’re independents, right? It’s not some cartel enterprise?”

  Ron smiled. “Actually, it belongs to our old friend, Mr. Philips.”

  “Are you insane? We just escaped from him. You can’t leave well enough alone, can you?”

  “He’s using an old-timey, third-rate vault. And the armored car isn’t even supposed to carry cash. He deserves to be robbed.”

  “Go look in the mirror and tell me if you don’t see an idiot.”

  “When I’ve got a scab, I’ve got to pick it.” He took her hands in his. “Think about how much fun this is going to be. All that easy money and the blind rage Philips is going to feel when he’s been robbed, and he doesn’t know who did it. It’s the kind of good feeling that makes me want to give some money to charity.”

  She pulled her hands out of his. “Don’t try to sweet-talk me. I’m not an adrenaline junky. You want me on this, the plan better be foolproof—no almosts or maybes. Completely, absolutely foolproof. Every contingency covered.”

  “Of course, baby. Of course. You know me. Belt and suspenders.”

  “We’ll see.”

  12

  Banker’s hours

  A month later, Ron and Nicole, each wearing dark coveralls over their street clothes and carrying a large black duffel bag, came out of the service door into the alley next to the First Marine Bank. It was 2:00 a.m. They were right on schedule. The dark in the alley was as thick as dirty oil. Ron used a small flashlight to light their way. Nicole had broken the street lamp in the alley before they went into the bank. An old Dodge minivan was parked with the passenger’s side against the far wall of the alley. Ron lifted the back, heaved in his duffel, and then took Nicole’s and heaved it in. She hopped into the back. Ron walked around and climbed into the driver’s seat while Nicole climbed over the seats to the front passenger’s seat.

  Ron pulled up to the end of the alley. The street was deserted. He took a right, got in the left turn lane on Beaverdale Street, and stopped at the red light. A police cruiser pulled up beside them. The green arrow for the left turn came on. They turned onto Tulip Avenue. Nicole looked over her shoulder. The police cruiser went straight through the intersection. They took the next right and pulled into a parking deck behind the Spring Valley Mall. On the third level, they parked the minivan next to a blue Prius, moved the duffels into the Prius and drove away. Just as they were leaving the parking deck, they heard police cruiser sirens, first one, then another, and then another.

  “That’s all
three police cars,” Nicole said.

  Ron drove through an industrial area, past the razor-wire-topped chain-link fences of a scrap-metal recycler and an auto salvage yard, and into a nearby residential neighborhood of doublewide mobile homes and small, one-story houses. Two forty-five a.m.

  “Easy as pie,” Ron said.

  “We’re not gone yet.”

  Soon they were flying down the coastal highway back to their rented beach house. It was a moonless night. There were no other headlights in sight. They pulled up into their gravel driveway and parked beside a black Ford Explorer that was facing out. Ron transferred the duffels to the Explorer. Then they peeled off their coveralls and gloves and put them in a garbage bag. “Touch anything in the Prius?” Ron asked.

  “Never took my gloves off.”

  “Keep your eye out for a picnic area with a trash can.”

  They got into the Explorer and headed down the coast toward San Francisco. The surf crashed against the rocky beach. The clouds drifted, revealing some patches of stars. Nicole’s phone rang. It was three-thirty in the morning. She glanced at Ron.

  “Who is it?”

  “Don’t know. Should I answer it?”

  “Better. If it’s suspicious, we want to toss the phone.”

  She put the phone up to her ear. “Yeah?”

  “Nicole?” Denison asked.

  “James. How did you get my number?”

  “I’ve got my ways.”

  Nicole sat back in her seat and put her feet on the dash. “Is it morning where you’re at?”

  “Just finished breakfast.”

  “How have you been?”

  “I’m doing okay, I guess. They say it gets easier, whoever they are.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they say.”

  “I saw on the news that you returned the casket.”

  “That’s what we said we’d do.” She turned to look out her window into the night, but all she saw was her reflection in the glass. “I’m kind of busy right now. Is there something you need?”

  “No, I just wanted to talk.”

  “It’s good to hear your voice, James. Call me another time when I have time to chat.” The line was quiet. “James,” Nicole asked, “are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. I was just wondering—this might sound a little weird—but I was just wondering if you’d like to meet me in Cricket Bay?”

  “Cricket Bay?”

  “It’s in Florida. I own a little place there.”

  Nicole put her hand on Ron’s arm, shook her head, and smiled. “That depends. When did you have in mind?”

  “Sometime in the next week or two, I was hoping.”

  She added a purr into her voice. “And what did you have in mind?”

  “Hey, come on, you know me. It’s not like that. I was just hoping we could continue our conversation—get to know each other better.”

  “James, you need to find someone to put you off this plan.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You know who I am, and you know what I do.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “You’ll take your chances?”

  “I will.”

  “Can I reach you at this number?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  Ron glanced over at her. “So, spill.”

  “He wants me to meet him at his Florida house.”

  Ron chuckled. “I knew you were that good. No one can do the girl next door better than you. You are a deal-closer.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Are you kidding me? You got to meet him.”

  “He knows who we are.”

  “He thinks he does.”

  “You’re not suggesting we play him?”

  “No. He’s a civilian. But he might make a useful friend.”

  “I don’t know. His kids could get in the way. They’ll mark me for a gold digger without even meeting me.”

  “Worst case scenario? You spend some vacation time practicing your craft. There’s no downside here.”

  “I just don’t understand what your angle is.”

  “Honey, I don’t always have to have an angle. Give him a call. Unless you don’t want to.”

  “No. He’s fun to be with.”

  “Then call him back. We’ll have this money stashed by tomorrow. I can work up another job while you’re off playing girlfriend.”

  “You’re not going to be jealous, are you?”

  “Honey, I’m happy for you. There’s never anyone between us. Have fun.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell him yes.”

  Ron looked down the highway into the dark beyond the headlights. If everything stayed on course, maybe Denison could be her retirement plan. It would be hard to go on without her. She was without doubt the best he’d ever worked with—the only one he’d ever truly loved—but an opportunity like this was once in a lifetime. He couldn’t let her pass it by.

  “Excellent. That’s what you should do. Tell him yes.”

  A Note from the Author

  So the Travelers have set Mosley on her way, returned the Cellini casket, and poked Philips in the eye. When they’ve got an itch, they’ve just got to scratch.

  Now Nicole is off to Cricket Bay, Florida, to spend time with millionaire James Denison. She’s got to convince Denison’s adult children that she can play nice. But when her past catches up with her, how far will she go to keep Denison’s family out of it?

  And while she’s playing house, the Traveling Man is off on his own. He’s planning to liberate a pile of drug money from a bank safe deposit box, so he’s found a new playmate. How much can he trust her? Does she have enough grifting skill to carry her weight? When push comes to shove, will he leave her or bring her along?

  It’s always in the backs of the Travelers’ minds: Who’s expendable and who isn’t? Who do you leave behind and who do you fight for? Loyalty is a double-edged sword. It may cut for you or it may cut against you, especially if your freedom or life is on the line. The Travelers will be pushed to their limits and past them to sort the keepers from the leavers in this hard-edged cat and mouse game. Will they both come out on the other side?

  The Kidnap Victim is a non-stop, can’t-figure-it-out thriller. I’d love to have you along for the ride.

  Find a sneak peek below, but if you can’t wait, click here: The Kidnap Victim

  A Sample of The Kidnap Victim—The Travelers: Book Five

  1: On Their Own

  The con man who called himself the Traveling Man, currently going by the name John Ferguson, scooted up the mattress and leaned back against the honey-oak headboard of the bed in his studio apartment in Springville. Light leaked into the room through the gaps in the drapes. It was early on a Saturday afternoon, and he could hear children’s voices carrying over from the playground across the parking lot. Once upon a time, this would be the moment to light a cigarette. Instead, he rubbed his gray-streaked beard and glanced down at his new associate, Molly Wright, who smiled up at him before she rolled off the bed and padded across the carpet to the bathroom. She was twenty-five years old, tall and curvy, with long, dark hair that hung down to the middle of her back. She had more confidence than ability, but with his wife, still going by the name Nicole Carter, off playing house with James Denison, he had to make do. If Nicole’s relationship with Denison stayed on track, she’d be retiring soon, and he’d need Molly to take her place. He waited for Molly to climb back into bed and arrange the wrinkled sheet around herself before he spoke. “So, did you fuck Robertson or not?”

  “I didn’t have to.”

  “You didn’t have to? So you teased him, or you promised him, or you led him to believe…What makes you think he’s sold?”

  “You wanted him thinking with his dick. He’s thinking with his dick.”

  John continued in a casual tone of voice. “No, that’s not what I wanted. This is different from the kind of jobs you’ve pulled before. I want him thinkin
g he’s got you. That you’re with him. That maybe, even, you might someday love him. In other words, I want him to believe he can trust you. See the difference? You’ve only been working for him a month. You got to give him a taste. It’s a trust thing. It’s always about trust. And until you win his trust, he’s not going to make you his personal assistant and put you on the safe-deposit-box list. You don’t have six months to convince him. You’ve been flirting him up, haven’t you? Giving him the soft sale? Showing him the goods?”

  “Yes.”

  “He put his hands on you.”

  She nodded.

  “In the right places?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you stopped things how?”

  “I did the giggle-shy thing. Told him I couldn’t do it in a public place.”

  “You’re very convincing. I’ll give you that.” John bit his lip. “But can you close the deal?”

  She nodded.

  “Say it.”

  “I can do it. No problem.”

  “Great. The next time you meet, you’re going to lock the office door and get the job done. Do you understand?”

  “And what are you going to be doing while I’m ‘closing the deal’?”

  “Everything else. It’s never about getting the money; it’s always about getting away.” He squeezed her hand. “You are coming with me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He studied her face carefully. “Now who’s that guy I saw you with in the Caffeination Coffee Shop on Thursday? Don’t try that clueless look; you can’t sell it to me.”

  She looked him in the eye. “He’s an old boyfriend. He’s not going to be any trouble. He’s only going to be around for a few weeks.”

  “What’s he know?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Really?”

  “He just knows I’m working—that he has to stay out of the way.”