by Brian Drake
Dane chuckled. “You played Monopoly in Russia?”
“Yes, but it was a little different.”
“How?”
“You went to the Gulag instead of jail, and the government took everything you built.”
Their jet touched down at Atlantic City International, and they collected their luggage and secured a car before checking in at the Cota Hotel & Resort. Right on the beach. Dane knew the rundown of the place from Gallagher’s laptop files. It was the hotel George DeRocca ran, and it wasn’t the only Atlantic City operation the denizens of Operation Eagle controlled. The contraband Dane suspected they trafficked into and around the country stemmed from a food distribution center on 28th Avenue near the John F. Kennedy Memorial Bridge.
Dane had a plan that would give them an up-close look, but they were on borrowed time. Starting yesterday.
They checked in using their own names. There was no reason not to, and Dane liked the psychological component. He was throwing his presence in DeRocca’s face. He didn’t ask for a large suite but a regular room instead. Nina gave him a look. She was not pleased. In the elevator he said they wouldn’t be there long enough to enjoy the extra space of a suite.
“All these hotels look the same, you know,” Nina said. She placed her bags on the bed in their suite.
Dane opened the window and let in the ocean sounds. The air smelled fresh, without a hint of seaweed or salt. The walls and carpet were different shades of brown, and a large-screen television on the wall faced the beds.
“I need a shower.” Nina opened her suitcase and took out fresh clothes.
“I’m going to have a look around while you do that.”
“Don’t kill anybody without me.” Nina started for the bathroom.
Dane stood at the window and waited for the shower to start before making his exit.
CHECK-IN CLERKS were busy with a long line of guests. Music played from overhead speakers, an up-tempo electronic dance mix that Dane found odd to hear in a place he figured would choose classical music for its atmosphere. Families with little kids, business execs, solo travelers, all moved through the lobby with a mix of excitement, confusion or wariness. As Dane crept through the crowded lobby, his shoes tapping on the tiled floor, he spotted a door marked Private behind the bank of check-in windows.
He turned sharply and went outside. The overcast sky and wind made it a chilly expedition around the perimeter of the building. A vehicle sat in almost every parking stall. New arrivals circled in futility trying to find a spot; he watched them go back out to the street and park off the road.
He walked around to the rear of the building, where a sign that said Staff Only Beyond This Point marked a boundary of sorts, beyond which was another, smaller parking lot with a line of reserved slots up against the rear entrance. A high-end car sat in each spot with a posted sign identifying the spot’s exclusive owner.
George DeRocca’s silver Mercedes, the windows tinted, sat directly in front of the back door. Dane examined the lock. Heavy deadbolt and standard knob. Nothing he couldn’t pick, but the camera in the overhang of the roof said he was not only already under surveillance but faced more fancy security beyond the door.
Dane waved at the camera.
The hotel security crew would report him, of course, maybe even show his face to the boss. He was, in fact, surprised that DeRocca’s car was still there. Or the man could have evacuated by another route. He might be thousands of miles away by now, and Dane was chasing a vapor trail.
Only one way to know for sure.
Dane re-entered by a side door and returned to his room. Nina was still in the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and blow-drying her hair. She shut off the dryer. “What did you find?”
“DeRocca’s car, and I waved to a security camera.”
Dane pulled Gallagher’s captured Dell laptop out of his suitcase and set it up on the table by the window. As the sounds of the ocean filtered through the screen, he opened an email from Lukavina. Blueprints of the hotel. As Dane examined the blueprints, Nina, dressed now, came over and sat on the arm of the chair.
“Where did you get those?”
“Len sent them. They’re a bit outdated.” He pointed out some sections. “They’ve added here and here, but the main buildings are the same. See this notation? I thought DeRocca’s office was on the ground floor, because there’s a door marked private behind the check-in desk.” He tapped the screen. “He’s up at the top of the building instead.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Oh, it’s a good one. I repel into DeRocca’s office while you’re blowing up some trucks.”
Dane pulled out his Buck knife and Zippo lighter from a pocket. He placed them on the table.
“That’s all you’ll need.”
“I have to improvise?”
“We don’t have time to mess around. We strike tonight. You can get the job done with those.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I need a little more conviction than that.”
She stood, cleared her throat and pushed out her chest. “I will blow the target to kingdom come.”
Dane couldn’t keep the smile off his face.
“The chaos I create will make the earth move.”
He frowned. “I thought that was my job.”
She smacked the back of his head. He laughed.
“Your mood is improving,” she said, taking his lighter and knife and sitting on the bed.
Dane pushed back from the table and crossed his legs. “I think I’ve come to terms with everything. Now I just want to tear the world apart.”
“Or somebody’s world.”
Dane nodded.
“What else do I need to know?”
“Look for the trucks with the blue stripes.”
“Why?”
“Gallagher’s notes say those are the ones with the contraband and the gun crews.”
“Gun crews?”
“Nothing you can’t handle.”
She shook her head. “This information is how old?”
“Almost a decade.”
“They could have changed,” she said.
“Then check before you use the Zippo.”
“How about we change parts?”
“No. I have some words for DeRocca. As you can imagine.”
Dane closed the laptop.
11
Take It Like a Man
A LONE guard with a silenced submachine gun wandered the roof, the bright lights of Atlantic City on one side and the black void of the ocean on the other. The breeze carried a salty wetness now; he tasted the salt on his lips. He went to the edge and looked down. DeRocca’s balcony waited below. A pool of light from the office spilled onto the bare patio.
There had been a lot of private meetings and quiet phone calls over the past few days. The guard and his compatriots knew something bad was happening, but DeRocca hadn’t filled them in. All they knew was that they had to be extra sharp until further notice. The trooper would have preferred somebody on the roof with him, but he had a radio on his belt to reach the crew in an emergency.
The guard walked the perimeter once again. DeRocca’s troops covered the roof in two-hour shifts. It was one of the dullest duties one could pull, and the guard still had ninety minutes to go. All he wanted was to get back inside where it was warm and well lit.
The guard stopped at the edge above DeRocca’s balcony and shifted the sling attached to his weapon.
The roof door opened with a squeak.
The guard turned, bringing up the stubby submachine gun. He never heard the shot that killed him.
DANE WORE a rappelling harness under his jacket, a coil of rope around his chest. There was a silencer attached to the Detonics ScoreMaster in his right hand. He advanced carefully up the stairwell, the roof door looming above. At the landing he tested the knob. It turned easily, but the hinges let off a whine that might have been heard in Cleveland. The door was heavy steel, and he stayed low, us
ing it as a partial shield, as he moved onto the roof. Nothing on his right.
He looked around the door. The trooper at the edge of the roof raised his weapon. Dane fired once. The .45 sounded like a heavy book being dropped on a desk. The slug struck the guard in the center of his chest, and the man fell forward in a heap. Dane ran over and shot him again in the head. He dropped into a squat, pivoting 360 degrees. No other guards. The dead man had a radio on his belt. The numbers started falling in Dane’s head. As soon as the guard missed his check-in, the alert would go out. The tough part was, Dane had no idea how long he had before that happened.
He holstered the .45, took off his coat, and uncoiled the rope and anchored it to an air conditioner. The rest he fed through the rappelling hook on his harness.
The harness, called a Swiss seat, looked like a Speedo made of rope. The rope ran between his legs and around his backside and caused an embarrassing bulge in front. There was no way to look cool wearing one. Luckily it disengaged easily.
Dane dropped over the side and let gravity carry him into space. His pulse quickened as he dangled like a spider on the end of a web. He fed the rope through gloved hands, descending slowly toward the balcony. He swayed with the wind, his stomach lurching every time.
Maybe Nina had a better job after all, but he needed to face DeRocca.
GEORGE DEROCCA adjusted his bifocals and read the latest email from the distribution site.
The patio window was open a crack to let in fresh air, but he kept snapping nervous eyes at the glass despite the security on the roof and elsewhere in the building. Royce had been very clear what was happening, and who was causing it, and DeRocca was the last line of defense between Royce, Lassen and everything they had worked to accomplish. He wanted to leave the country with Royce, but that wasn’t possible. They still had equipment to ship south, and DeRocca needed to make sure it arrived complete and intact, otherwise Steve Dane was the least of their problems.
Back to the email. The information in the text updated the truck departure schedule for the evening. They were ahead by an hour. Not too bad. As soon as the guns and equipment were on the road, DeRocca had his own private escape plan all ready to execute.
DeRocca was sixty-five years old but looked older. He’d wanted only to serve his country from his days in the Navy to when he’d joined the CIA. His friendship with Royce, and the promise of more money than they could ever earn honestly, had taken him down this admittedly dangerous path. Now the past was coming back to haunt them. Taking out Richard Dane had been one thing; they never should have left his kid alive. But Royce had thought he knew better. So much for the brains of the outfit.
A rush of wind rustled papers on his desk. He slapped the pages down. Movement in the shadows. He turned his head. A man framed in the patio doorway covered him with a pistol. A shot would hit him in the chest dead center.
“Don’t move, George.”
“DANE?”
“The younger.” Dane approached the desk. “Hands flat.”
DeRocca complied, both hands on the desk, fingers splayed. DeRocca peeked over the frame of his bifocals at the unwavering snout of the stainless Detonics .45. Dane did not relax his aim.
DeRocca said, “I should have known you’d get through.”
“You can blame Gallagher. Attack of conscience. Plus, I have his files. All of them.”
“You still don’t have the whole story.”
“You want to make a deal? Escape the gallows and live out your years in Florida? Look at me, George. Do you think that’s going to happen? You know what happened to Gallagher.”
DeRocca swallowed hard.
“Listen, I voted against what happened to your father—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’ll tell you everything. Turn me over to the Feds. I’ll talk to Congress. We’ll blow Eagle wide open.”
“We have the files. That means we don’t need you.”
DeRocca sighed. “Then you might as well shoot me.”
Dane slipped his finger back onto the trigger.
The phone rang.
“Answer. We don’t want anybody to think something is wrong.”
DeRocca picked up the phone.
NINA LAY in the shadows, dressed head to toe in black. DeRocca’s distribution center sat across the street, floodlights filling the area with brightness. Through binoculars she examined the east side of the building.
The complex covered an entire square block. The loading area for departing semis was on the east side. Thirty semis sat in a line at the docks. On the southern end of the building, more semis were parked side by side.
The east-side trucks took priority, she figured. They were marked as Dane had described.
Nina put away the binoculars and checked her 9-millimeter. The S&W pistol had a full magazine plus one in the chamber.
She picked a spot near the fence where the floodlights didn’t penetrate because of a big-rig wash station. Nina scaled the fence in three strides and landed on the hard blacktop opposite. The wash station was high and long, room for three rigs total, and she dropped flat to examine the ground ahead.
The floodlights were aimed at the trucks on the east side of the warehouse. That left the blacktop between the building and Nina open and in the dark. There were one or two places she could hide on the other side, but the lights would make long-term hiding very difficult.
She grumbled to herself about the assignment, but Steve thought it was important. Time to get to work.
Nina ran at full speed across the blacktop. She aimed for the corner of the building and a stack of pallets. It would put her mere feet from the first big rig. Her feet and legs felt the impact each time her shoes landed, her lungs beginning to burn. She reached the pallets and dropped flat.
A golf cart rattled around the corner, the two men aboard stopping in front of the rig nearest Nina. She remained facedown and flat.
The rig’s cabin door swung open and she peeked: Two men were inspecting the rig, one on the outside checking underneath with a flashlight, the other in the cabin. This second man opened a compartment in the door and checked the load in a short machine pistol. He returned the weapon to the compartment.
What contraband was so valuable that they needed armed crews?
The two inspectors moved to the next rig down the line, but Nina stayed in place. She needed them to get farther away, but the longer she stayed where she was, the greater the chance of discovery.
By the time the inspectors reached the fifth rig, she had crawled to the first.
She slid under the rig and felt along the top of the side-mounted gas tank. The fuel line started on top of the tank, a thick stainless steel tube, and it was attached to another hose, this one rubber and encased by a steel mesh wrap, clamped at either end. She worked the screws with a Leatherman tool. She pulled the mesh away and placed it on the ground. Using Dane’s Buck knife, she sliced open the rubber hose and jerked aside as gas started to dribble out. The fluid smacked the pavement, and a pool started to grow. Nina rolled out from under the rig and crawled to the next one, feeling for the meshed hose once again. The odor of gas filled the air.
She managed the second and third rigs before the inspectors returned. Their voices grew louder as they neared her position under the third rig. She scooted back under the trailer, the puddle of gas widening. Some had already splashed on her outfit. This was not where she wanted to be.
The inspectors stopped and ceased their conversation.
“Do you smell gas?”
Nina slipped Dane’s Zippo from her back pocket. She carefully opened the flip top to muffle the click.
She edged between two wheels and moved as far back as she could. As the inspectors stepped closer, she snapped the Zippo to life and placed it on the ground. The pool of gas inched closer. Nina cleared the tires and stayed low between the third and fourth rigs, coiled for a sprint back to the fence.
The inspectors started yelling as the puddle of gas ca
ught the Zippo’s flame and the fuel ignited with a flash. The inspectors screamed as the flames rushed out from under the cabin. Nina took off like an Olympic sprinter.
Shouts behind her. Crackle of gunfire. Shots nicked the ground near her. She cut left for the wash station. A glance back. Three armed men coming her way. The fire had spread to the other two rigs.
Nina dove into a wash station bay and clawed for the 9-millimeter. She held the gun in her left hand as she leaned out and returned fire, one of the shooters falling while the other two spread out and dropped flat. Nina left the station for the fence, bursts of fire whistling around her. She vaulted the fence and landed hard, bending at the knees to absorb the jolting impact.
She ran for her car.
The fire from the big rigs spread to the warehouse, flames shooting into the sky.
GEORGE DEROCCA lifted the telephone receiver. Dane’s eyes and the snout of his gun never shifted.
“Yes?”
He listened, his eyes widening as he stared at Dane.
“Do what you have to do.”
He listened.
“It doesn’t matter, Harry.”
DeRocca hung up. “Your people?”
“It’s over, George. Come around the desk.”
DeRocca moved on shaky legs around the desk to the spot on the carpet Dane indicated.
“My men will be on the way up,” DeRocca said. “The guard on the roof will have missed his check-in by now.”
Dane kicked DeRocca behind one knee, and the older man collapsed, Dane straddling his opponent and leaning down to lift DeRocca’s head by pulling his hair.
“Don’t do this!” DeRocca hissed out the words, breathing hard.
Dane pressed the .45 into the back of DeRocca’s head.
“Take it like a man, George.”
The office door opened.
12
The Brains of the Outfit