Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3)

by Bertrand, J. Mark

  “Just the rifles,” he says.

  “What about ammunition?”

  He shakes his head. “I have some .223 in one of the safes, but he didn’t ask for nothing but the rifles. Mags and ammo you can pick up anywhere.”

  I let him lock the lid down while I take a look around the unit. There’s nowhere inside to conceal myself. If I hide behind the door, then I have no choice but to act when it opens, no matter how many men are on the other side, or what they’re armed with. Dearborn sees me making mental calculations, his forehead glistening with sweat.

  “You said one of the other units is yours, too?” I ask.

  “That one there.” Wrangler points to the unit directly opposite.

  “If I wait in there, you’ll have to leave the lock off, and Ford might notice. Not to mention, I won’t be able to see what’s going on until I throw open the door.”

  “I could leave it open and tell ’em I’ve got some other things to load myself.”

  I shake my head. “They’ll search it.”

  Dearborn goes into the corridor. “What about me?”

  For a moment I’m not sure what to do. So I follow him into the hall, glancing left and right. The side we came from leads straight to the entrance, a pair of glass doors that open wide to accommodate loading. The other end of the corridor stops in a T, with smaller entrances on either side of the short hallway, and two doors in the back wall. Stepping closer, I see that one is a men’s restroom and the other is for women.

  “That’ll work,” I say. “Take the women’s side in case somebody needs to go.”

  Dearborn heads to the ladies’, his heels clicking on the glossy concrete floor. I turn to his friend. “I’ll be in there. If anything happens, you just hit the deck.”

  “If anything happens?” His voice cracks. “Something is gonna happen—”

  “Just stay calm and keep out of the way.”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy. At the far end of the corridor, through the glass doors, I see something flash by. A white van pulling up.

  “Gotta go.”

  I run to the T-intersection, pushing through the door to the women’s restroom. It’s a nicer facility than I would have expected at one of these places, a sink and a couple of stalls and the scent of ammonia on the stifling hot air. There’s a plastic wedge on the linoleum floor, the kind the cleaners use to prop open the door. I bend down for it, thinking I might wedge the door open slightly, but first I switch off the lights. In the dark I see a beam of light shining under the door. Kneeling, I find about an inch of clearance between the bottom of the door and the ground.

  “Are you okay back there?” I ask.

  From inside the farthest stall, Dearborn coughs. “Tell me when it’s safe to come out.”

  I push my jacket back, hitching the fabric behind the holster, then ease my Browning free. Dropping the safety, I press the slide far enough back to touch the chambered round through the ejection port. Then I put the safety back on and drop to my knees, pressing my cheek against the floor, trying not to think about the sanitary implications.

  Down the length of the corridor I see two shadows. As they approach, I can hear their footsteps faintly, and the farther they get from the backlighting of the entrance, the more I can make out.

  “What’s going on out there?” Dearborn whispers.

  “Quiet.”

  I was crouched like this behind the tree the night they ran me off the road, biding time until they spotted me. Now the advantage is on my side. They’re just a few steps away from the point where my floor-level view will cut them off at the head. That’s when I get my glimpse: Brandon Ford, his face framed by longish black curls, both hands in the pockets of a light windbreaker—worn for concealment in this heat, just like my jacket. The man next to him is one of the paramilitaries from the files, though I can’t put a name to him. His left side is dragged down by the weight of a green canvas shopping bag, presumably containing the money.

  Then their faces disappear above the horizon, followed by their chests and waists, until all I can see is two pairs of legs cut off above the knee and the bottom of the drooping bag. Wrangler steps out of the storage unit to meet them.

  “I been waiting more than an hour,” he says.

  “Keep your shirt on, brother.” Ford’s voice. “I said we were coming. Now, let’s take a look at what you got.”

  “Is that for me?”

  “All in good time. All in good time.”

  The three men move into the unit, leaving me with a view of the empty corridor. I push my ear against the gap, straining to hear, but all I get is the hum of voices. I can’t make out the words. Seconds pass, but they feel like hours. All the precautions I’d imagined them taking—searching the rest of the corridor, checking the restrooms, making sure the locks on the other doors are secure—none of it seems to matter to Ford. This could all be over quick, the money exchanged, Ford and his companion exiting with the guns. Could two men carry them all? If they enlist Wrangler, the three of them could manage.

  I can’t do anything from behind this door. Getting my feet under me, I rise to a crouch, drawing the door open about a foot, peering out into the corridor. They’re still inside, still talking, and all I can see are shadows cast across the corridor from the lights inside the unit.

  I take a deep breath and pass through the door, pausing to cushion the impact as it pulls shut. On tiptoes I cross diagonally to the edge of the T, pressing myself against the wall, getting as close to the edge as I dare, feeling terribly exposed. There are glass doors at either end of the short hallway. Anyone approaching could look right in and see me.

  “They’re all here,” a voice says. I don’t recognize it, so it must be Ford’s companion. “Ten carbines. Just what the doctor ordered.”

  “And here’s ten grand, like we said. It’s all in small bills, tens and fives and ones, like you took it in at a register. Nobody’s gonna look twice.”

  “You expect me to count all that?”

  “Do what you want. But we’ll need a hand first getting them out to the van.”

  A long pause follows. I imagine them eyeballing each other while Wrangler makes up his mind whether to count the money first or take Ford’s word. If he didn’t know I was out here, I’m guessing he’d insist on the count. Hopefully he’ll do that anyway, so they don’t get suspicious. I steal a glance around the corner, but the corridor is still empty.

  “All right,” he says.

  I hear a dull thud, then a metallic ring followed by the sound of a padlock being threaded through a hasp and snapped shut. He must have taken the money and dropped it into the icebox where the guns had been stored, locking it up for safekeeping. I hear the Cordura cases rubbing against each other.

  “I can take one more,” says Ford’s companion. “Lay it on me.”

  More shuffling, and then footsteps.

  “Come on,” Ford says. “You go up front so I can see you.”

  Three sets of heels click on the concrete. I glance around, and there they are, backs to me, silhouetted against the sunlight pouring in through the entrance. Time to move. I advance on tiptoes as far as the open storage unit, ducking inside for cover. I use the edge of the doorway to brace my arm, lining up my sights on Ford’s silhouette.

  I’m about to call out when I feel the vibration in my pocket. Ignore it. The phone buzzes more insistently, and if I don’t stop it the ringer will sound. I reach into my pocket and mute the sound, raising the glass face high enough to check the screen—force of habit.

  The call was from Jeff.

  Down the corridor, Ford is halfway to the exit. Far enough now that he might think he can draw down on me, or make a run. The phone buzzes again. A text message this time. My hand is shaking as I look at the screen.

  ABORT.

  No, no, no, no, no. I put the phone away, drop the safety on the Browning, and edge into the corridor. There’s still time. If I advance quickly to close the distance, I’ll risk exposing
myself and they’ll have the light at their backs, making it harder for me to see their hands. But it’s just two against one and I have the advantage of surprise.

  I step out, gun leveled, licking my dry lips so I can shout a challenge.

  The phone buzzes again, insistent. The word flashes in my head. He wants me to abort. I can’t see what he’s seeing, can’t judge whether his call makes sense or not. Heart pounding, I start to backpedal, tucking myself behind the cover of the open unit. What else can I do?

  One more look. They’re at the entrance, pushing their way out into the light. Wrangler goes first, and he’s scowling through the glass, probably wondering what happened to the cavalry. Ford motions him forward and the three men disappear from view, heading in what I presume is the direction of the white van.

  The ringer chirps audibly and I answer.

  “It’s a scrub,” Jeff says. “There’s at least one in the van and then a separate car. I can’t tell how many men they have total, but they’re switched on and ready for a fight.”

  “What’s happening now?” I ask.

  “They’re loading the van. The curly-haired guy is over at the car, saying something to the driver. He’s going around to the other side.”

  “What about the good guy—cowboy-looking—?”

  “Going back inside.”

  I peer around the corner. Wrangler comes through the glass doors, takes a few steps, then starts running in my direction.

  “They’re rolling out.”

  I take off running, too, heading to the entrance. We pass each other in the corridor and I tell him to collect Dearborn and get out of here.

  “Are we square?” he calls. “What about the money?”

  “I’ll be in touch!”

  When I reach the glass doors, I pause for a look before pushing through. The white van brakes at the edge of the parking lot, waiting for traffic to clear, then accelerates onto the street, the back end sagging. It disappears behind a stand of pines overlooking the road.

  I walk outside, squinting at the glare. I rub my hand against the holster for reference, then slide the Browning in. Jeff cruises up with one hand draped over the wheel.

  “Get in,” he says.

  I slump into the passenger seat and pull the door shut. He punches the gas, pinning my shoulder blades against the upholstery.

  “Don’t lose that van.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says.

  We turn onto the street in time to see the lights change at the next intersection, freeing the van to proceed on its way. I rattle off a host of instructions: don’t get too close, don’t change lanes if you can help it, don’t do anything to attract the van’s attention. In reply, all Jeff does is nod. He keeps nodding until I’m done talking, then nods some more, like he wants to make it clear he knows what he’s doing.

  “They’re heading back to the tollway, looks like.”

  “Just keep them in sight,” I say.

  I cradle my phone in the palm of my hand, looking down at the screen. Thinking. I can have them pulled over, no problem. I can call dispatch and have patrol intercept them. I can also get a tactical team in motion if I call Lt. Bascombe and fill him in. He won’t be happy about it, but what’s more important? Keeping people happy or picking up Brandon Ford? With him in custody, the John Doe investigation blows wide open. I can hand him over and let Bascombe and Cavallo take things from there. Or I can dial Bea’s number and let the FBI take it from here.

  It’s not up to me to see this through. Not personally.

  “Are you gonna blow the trumpet?” Jeff asks. “Summon up the cavalry?”

  “I’m just working out what to say.”

  The van swings U-turns under the tollway and takes a northbound entrance, heading back toward I-59. As Jeff speeds up the ramp, he strains over the wheel, trying to see farther up.

  “March,” he says.

  “What?”

  “I don’t see the car anymore.”

  “Just follow the van.”

  “Yeah, but Ford got into the car and now I don’t see it. I thought they were ahead of the van, but they’re not. It’s a silver four-door, a big Toyota, with tinted windows and dealer plates. Do you see it? I think we lost them.”

  I crane my neck around, scanning the traffic behind us. I press myself against the window trying to see ahead of the van. No silver four-doors.

  “What do we do?” he asks.

  “Just follow the van.”

  Maybe Ford went ahead. Maybe he’s planning to meet up with the van farther down the road. If we keep the van in sight, we have to catch up with him sooner or later. There’s no other option.

  “They’re getting onto 59,” he says. “Going south away from town.”

  “Keep following.” I lean over and check the fuel gauge. We have three quarters of a tank. “They’ll lead us to Ford, maybe take us to wherever they’re all staying. Just don’t let the van get away from us.”

  The white van curves off the tollway, circling onto the Southwest Freeway, and thirty seconds later we do the same thing. Once the turn is made, Jeff finds a southbound truck to settle behind, letting a comfortable distance build between us and the van.

  “I’m sorry about back there,” he says. “Maybe I just lost my nerve, but I could see it all going wrong right in front of me. They would’ve fought, and it would’ve gotten messy.”

  “It’s fine. I’m sure you made the right call.”

  But I don’t feel sure. My fist closes around the rim of my phone, mashing down hard. I had Ford in my grasp and I let him walk away. There in the storage facility corridor I had the power to end it all. Perhaps Jeff is right that I couldn’t have gotten away with it, would never have gotten Ford in cuffs and taken him into custody. He was in my sights, though. I could have stopped him one way or another. Even if it all went wrong, even if things did get messy, I would have stopped him. And now I can’t, and maybe I’ll never have the power again.

  This phone is rigid in my grip. As my knuckles whiten, my palm starts to throb. There is no one to call. Not yet. Maybe never. I was wrong before; I do have to see this through. That’s what my gut tells me, my heart, my pain. This is my responsibility. Mine. And it has been since the last breath of Jerry Lorenz.

  CHAPTER 25

  The white van pulls into a truck stop on the edge of Victoria, a couple of hours outside Houston, where the driver pumps gas. The passenger trots straight inside like he’s overdue for a bathroom break. I motion Jeff toward the opposite pump island.

  “Let’s switch seats,” I say.

  I top off the tank, using my credit card so there’s no need to go inside. Jeff circles around the back of the car, stepping over the hose to pass behind me.

  “Looks like there’s just the two of them. Want me to run inside and take a look?”

  “No need,” I say. “Just sit down and don’t call attention to yourself.”

  He slides into the passenger seat and shuts the door.

  “We need some way to slow them down,” I say. “If I could distract the guy at the pump, you think you could get over there and stick a knife in the tire? They’d have to change it, which would give me time to make a phone call and get some real surveillance up.”

  “You’re asking me to slash his tire while he’s pumping the gas?”

  I let out a sigh. “There’s gotta be some way to slow them down. We could have somebody waiting for them on the other end if I had an idea where the other end might be, but—”

  “I hear you,” he says. “But if you’re making that call, it had better be a good one. You only get one shot, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He turns in his seat. “The moment you make the call, all this is out of your hands. The moment you make the call, they take over—whoever they are. It ends the way they want it to, not your way.”

  Between the pumps I watch the driver out of the corner of my eye. As he finishes pumping and screws the cap into place, the passenger ret
urns with a couple of water bottles and a road atlas tucked under his arm. They spend thirty seconds or so consulting the map, then climb back into the van. Apparently the route is new to them.

  When I get back in the car, the driver’s seat is warm and too far forward. I scoot it back, realigning the mirrors, giving the van time to get under way. They pull back onto the feeder and continue south, driving just under the speed limit, taking 91 at the split and heading straight onto Highway 77, next stop Corpus Christi. Once the switchover is complete, the van speeds up to about five miles over the limit. They’re driving fast enough to keep up with traffic without running the risk of being pulled over.

  Jeff has a point. If I call Cavallo or even Bascombe, it’ll get kicked up to Wanda’s desk and I’ll be cooling my heels indefinitely. Besides, we’re already outside HPD’s grip, which would mean bringing other agencies into the picture. There’s always Bea with her Federal reach. But that underling of hers who put the flea in my ear might have known what he was talking about. I’ve taken a lot on trust from her. When I’ve had the power to check on what she’s told me, it hasn’t always added up.

  My speedometer holds steady and the whine of the engine subsides as the gears shift. Apart from the thump of the tires on rough highway, we drive in silence. The sun sits far enough to the left that no matter how I reposition the visor, I can’t block it out. I rest my elbow on the door, using my hand as a screen. This isn’t silence, not when I really listen. There’s also the wind hurtling around us, an invisible envelope of white noise. And the percussive pop of fresh insects against the windshield, already scabbed from the drive out, leaving behind viscous smears.

  I hold the wand down, sluicing the windshield with washer fluid, then let the wipers swish back and forth.

  “If I’d had more time back there,” Jeff says, “I would have scraped some of that stuff off.”

  “What’s a road trip without a few dead mosquitoes?”

  He smiles. “So how far are we gonna follow them?”

  Neither of us has asked the question out loud to this point, though it’s been on the air since we left the city. There are many stops between here and the border—why assume they’re heading straight to Mexico?