The Holdup

by Rob Aspinall

  "This changes everything," I say. "You suddenly conjure up a lump sum payment after one of their trucks get hit? Money they know you never had before? Come on, Bill."

  "But we're rinsing it first."

  "An ordinary bank isn't gonna look twice. They're gonna take the money. They'd have no option. But not a mob bank.”

  "But they've open to the public. They’ve gotta take it," Collins says.

  "They might take it, sure," I say. "But sometime soon you'll be paid a little visit. And so will everyone else in the town who helped you rinse the cash."

  "They won't have proof the money wasn't legit. Hell, we could scrap the fake invoices. We throw a fundraiser instead."

  "All these guys do is rinse money," I say. "You think they're not gonna get wise?"

  I wave away his suggestion and stare out of the passenger window, trying to think.

  "You said the mob," Collins says. "Are they local?"

  "To the state," I say. "You heard of a guy called De Luca?"

  "Shit, you know I have.” Collins scratches his head. He seems to hit on something. "That's it. I remember the name from the papers a while back. State prosecutors had a solid case. All kinds of charges brought by the FBI. Drugs, vice, arms deals, fraud, but the star witness turned up dead and his defence team got him off . . . What happened to the guys from last night?"

  "Let's just say there's one more hole in the desert."

  Collins looks me square in the eye. "Who are you, Charlie?"

  I sigh and look at the highway. "That's a hell of a good question."

  Collins shakes his head. "Well I guess that's it. We'll have to pack up and leave."

  "Not necessarily," I say.

  "You mean, there's a way round it?" Collins looks at me. Hope in his eyes.

  I look at Collins. "There's a way around anything."

  25

  Jeremy Welch waited on the roof of the twenty-floor headquarters of Mainline Oil. He checked his gold Rolex. De Luca was late. Always late. Welch looked out through a pair of designer sunglasses. Phoenix was cooking. But up at the top of the building, where his light-grey Armani suit ruffled in the breeze, it was cool.

  And quiet, too.

  One of the usual spots for his meets with De Luca. And here the man was, stepping out of the door onto the roof—Marco, his right-hand man, in tow. As they strode across the rooftop, Welch removed his sunglasses. "This had better be worth it," he said. "I had to cancel my physio for this."

  "You'll get another appointment," De Luca said, stopping in front of Welch close to the corner of the roof.

  "What the hell happened to you?" Welch said, eyeing Marco's beaten face.

  "We have a problem," De Luca said. "Charlie Ronsen."

  "The British guy? I thought you took care of—" Welch looked again at Marco's face. "Don't tell me he's alive."

  "He's experienced,” Marco said.

  "So are you," Welch said. "And last time I checked, there were five of you and one of him."

  "Were," Marco said. "He was waiting. Almost like he expected us."

  "Fuck!" Welch said, turning away from the two men. He stared across the city skyline. His phone rang in his jacket pocket. "What is it?" he said.

  "It's Barry Mitchell, Mr Welch. The exploration team is held up on the outskirts of the town."

  "Did you serve Collins with the notice?"

  "Yes, Mr Welch. But it didn't take. The town sheriff was there. And Collins still isn't caving."

  "We need to get moving on this," Welch said. "This land deal is holding up the entire project. We're burning through hundreds of thousands a day."

  "Sorry, Mr Welch. Looks like we'll have to wait the full week."

  Welch shook his head, as if Mitchell could see him. "Turn the screw. Move the team to the edge of the ranch. That's not illegal, is it?"

  "No, Mr Welch. If it's a public highway."

  "Make it happen," Welch said. "I want those teams ready to go before the ink's dry on that contract. In the meantime, who knows, Collins might get the fucking message and move."

  Welch cut off the call. He slipped his phone inside his jacket and turned to face De Luca and Marco.

  "More good news?" De Luca asked.

  "Ah, just trying to grease the wheels. Get the camp set up early. Didn't work, stubborn hick bastard . . . So about the Brit? What was his name?"

  "Ronsen," Marco said.

  "We got any background on him?" Welch asked.

  "Nothing comes up," Marco said.

  "And what happened to your dead men?" Welch asked. "That's got to mean feds or state police."

  "I sent a private dick into town this morning," said Marco. "No bodies or bullets apart from one empty casing."

  "What, this Ronsen guy cleaned up your mess?" Welch said.

  "Guess he can't afford the publicity, either," Marco said.

  "But he missed that casing," De Luca said. "Now the sheriff has hold of it."

  "Can it hurt us?" Welch asked.

  "It won't make it to ballistics," Marco said. "I've already arranged it."

  Welch paced around on the spot, wind ruffling his thick silver hair. "Can't you send more guys after him?" Welch asked De Luca. "Now you know who you're dealing with?"

  "We already sent in our best," De Luca said.

  "There'd be no guarantee of a result," said Marco. "And if I were him, I would have left town by now."

  "No, you're right," said Welch rubbing a hand over his jaw. "So close to the deal being done, we can't risk any more noise."

  "Well I'm not leaving it," De Luca said. "I want my fucking money."

  "Our man tracked down Blake," Marco said.

  "The fourth man in the crew?" Welch asked.

  "Yeah." Marco said. "We've tracked him as far as L.A."

  "These guys are loose ends," Welch said, gazing across the skyline, hands on hips, crimson tie blowing in the wind. "Let's tie them up. I don't want anything coming back on me."

  "We were thinking a contractor,” said Marco.

  "You know one?" Welch asked.

  "We know plenty," De Luca said.

  "Any of them good?" Welch asked.

  Marco leaned towards De Luca. "Mr Box?"

  De Luca nodded.

  "Mr Box?" Welch asked. "What kind of name is that?"

  "It's after the jellyfish," Marco said. "He comes into contact with you, you're as good as dead."

  De Luca stared at Marco in confusion. "What the fuck do you know about box jellyfish?"

  "Got the Discovery Channel on cable," Marco said.

  "Huh, well see if this Mr Box is available," Welch said.

  "He's always available," De Luca said. "For the right price."

  "It's gonna cost you," said Marco.

  "Do we look short of money?" Welch said.

  "No," De Luca said, taking a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He tapped out a cigarette and popped it between his lips. He took a gold-plated lighter from a trouser pocket and cupped the flame as he lit the end. De Luca blew out a plume of smoke. "No, you do not."

  26

  To the complete stranger, Mr Box was an unassuming man. He was of average height and medium build with a face most would struggle to remember. His hair was short, neat and dark. His skin neither pale nor tanned. And his demeanour efficient and quiet. Only a one-inch crescent scar above his right eye marked him out. Yet over the years, even that required a closer look. And Mr Box rarely afforded anyone the opportunity.

  Mr Box wore his usual combination of dark, close-fitting suit, white shirt and black tie. He stood and watched a large row of yellow baggage lockers, operated by credit card. More specifically, he watched the man with blonde hair in front of them. The man was six-feet-two inches tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a red and black check shirt

  Mr Box detected an injury from the way he moved. Perhaps a flesh-wound to the left shoulder.

  Mr Box took out his phone and tapped through to an image of the man, taken with a long lens camera on
the street. He compared the image to the man. There was no doubt about it—it was Curtis Blake.

  He'd tracked Blake across the concourse. He was pulling two travel cases. Both hard-backed and black. He'd brought both to a stop in front of the lockers and inserted a credit card into the terminal to the far right. He'd removed his credit card and a locker had popped open at chest height, midway along the bank. Now, he lifted the case and slotted it in the locker. He checked the door was secure, looking over both shoulders. Yes, it was harder for him to look over the left--his movement restricted.

  Blake walked off, wheeling his other case behind him. Mr Box moved too. First to the bank of lockers. He made a mental note of the one Blake had locked his case inside: twenty-two. He then turned on his heels and strode across the station floor until he followed within thirty feet of his man.

  Blake found his way to platform four, where a long, double-decker Amtrak train waited.

  He stopped.

  Mr Box stopped, too.

  Blake took out a train ticket from a jeans pocket and studied it. He looked along the train, then back to the ticket. His attention turned to a station guard waiting to blow his whistle. Blake grabbed the long handle on his case and wheeled it over to the guard.

  Mr Box walked fast and agile towards them. So smooth, he almost appeared to be floating.

  The guard studied the ticket, "Seat twenty-nine A, carriage C," Mr Box heard him say. "That's two carriages down, first door you come to."

  As Blake thanked the guard, Mr Box strode off ahead towards carriage C.

  27

  As the train to Tijuana filled up with passengers, Curtis Blake felt a wave of relief. The money was locked away where no one would find it. And a new identity waited for him south of the border in Mexico. Not to mention a small stake in a trafficking business operating between Mexico and South Texas. They would offer protection. And were prepared to wait just long enough for their money. In return, Blake would turn his cut into millions more. All he had to do was wait until the dust had settled and return for the cash.

  The credit card could rack up all kinds of charges for the locker, so far as he was concerned. He didn't intend to pay it. And he didn't intend to be Curtis Blake for much longer, either.

  Right now, though, the money was hot. He could handle being arrested and questioned on the way to Mexico. He was no stranger to a prison cell. And besides, as Blake figured, the police had very little evidence to go on. No CCTV. Not even real bullets he was carrying in his rifle at the time. And he wasn't the one who blew a hole in the highway. But the one thing he couldn't afford was to get caught with a case full of stolen cash. The money was his future—a whole new step up in the game. So it would remain under lock and key until the right time.

  Blake bundled into the busy carriage. The space between seats was narrow, his fellow passengers shoving luggage in overhead lockers.

  Blake pushed his way through, with a suitcase full of new clothes, a clean-shaven face and a short, conservative haircut. Finally, he came to row twenty-nine on his right.

  Seat twenty-nine A was on the inside of a man engrossed in a newspaper. He sat reading in twenty-nine B, an unreserved seat.

  "Hey, buddy," Blake said. "Sorry, I've gotta—"

  "Oh yes, of course," the man said. He dressed smart and spoke soft. His accent from everywhere and nowhere. He folded his paper over and sprang to his feet. He shuffled out of the row and stepped out of the way.

  Blake hoisted his suitcase over his head and slid it in the overhead rack. He shoved it hard to make sure it was secure and nodded at the other passenger. "Thanks, buddy."

  The man flashed a polite smile as Blake slid into his seat.

  The man took his seat and returned to his paper. Blake glanced over and noticed he was reading the obituaries. He looked out of the window, half expecting to see uniformed police running along the platform towards the train. He checked the aisle. Checked his watch. Not long now. Once the train left the station he'd feel a whole lot better.

  "Ken," he heard the man next to him say.

  "Huh?" Blake looked to his right.

  The man held out a hand, as if he should shake it. "Ken Schwarz."

  Blake thought for a moment. Came up with a name. "John," he said, shaking the man's hand.

  The man had an even grip. Not limp. Not strong. He had one of those faces. Plain. Unremarkable. Aside from a flesh-coloured scar above an eye.

  The man stared without blinking as they shook hands. And held on a few seconds more than was comfortable. Blake pulled his hand away and the man let go.

  The man had a strange air about him. Nothing you could put your finger on, but unsettling nonetheless.

  Blake hoped the man wouldn't talk. Better still, that he'd get off at the first stop.

  But he did want to talk. "Nice day for a train ride," the man said.

  "Guess so," Blake said.

  "Not long now," the man said, checking his watch. It was a cheap Casio digital with a black plastic strap.

  "Not long until what?" Blake asked.

  "Until the train departs."

  "Oh right, sure," Blake said, looking out of the window.

  There was a pause. An awkward silence. Blake felt it in his body. A tension. The pressure of the situation, perhaps. Many a fugitive ended up turning themselves into police, unable to bear the stress of constant vigilance.

  Blake had always thought it crazy, to hand yourself over to the law. But now he could understand why.

  Freedom was all in the mind.

  He checked his watch again. Only two minutes until departure. He willed every second on, tensing up with every tick of his watch.

  Blake felt a gnarl in his stomach. As if it was clenching, like a fist. He felt hot under the collar, too. He undid an extra button on his shirt, coughed, a sudden scratch in his throat. He cleared it out and took a deep breath. As he sucked in the recycled air of the train, he began to feel sick, anxious, claustrophobic. The veins on his muscular forearms pushed out through the skin. It was just so damn hot.

  "I didn't mean what I said," the man said, smiling at Blake.

  "Mean what?" Blake asked, irritated. Just the sound of the man's voice was enough to send him over the edge.

  "I didn't mean until the train departs," the man said. "I lied."

  Blake wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead."You what?"

  "I lied about what I meant. I meant something different."

  "Listen buddy, chat time's over," Blake said. "Got it?"

  "You look sick, are you sick?" the man asked.

  "Either go and bother someone else, or keep your mouth shut," Blake said, "Unless you want me to pull your fucking tongue out and stick it up your ass."

  "Oh I doubt that'll happen," the man said. "A man in your condition?"

  "What fucking condition?" Blake said, coughing hard. He reached inside a jeans pocket and pulled out a tissue. He coughed something thick and slimy up into the paper. When he pulled the paper away, it was stained a deep red--a blood clot in the tissue.

  "The toxin is already taking hold," the man said.

  Blake put a hand to his side. "What are you talking about?" he said.

  The man smiled and revealed the inside of his jacket. Peeping out of a pocket was the tip of a needle.

  The truth dawned on Blake like a fast-rising sun. "When?" he said.

  "When you were stowing your luggage," the man said.

  Suddenly, Blake recalled a slight pinch in his side as he'd shoved his luggage into the overhead locker. He'd assumed it was just another twinge, a result of the car crash.

  "Fuck," Blake said, struggling to get up. To get out. To get the bastard who'd poisoned him.

  The man consulted his watch. "It'll attack your nervous system in a second or two. Try not to make a fuss.”

  Blake tightened up in his seat, his entire body cramping. His hands locked into fists. The pain intense. He would have cried out, had it not been for a complete lack of breath.
>
  "Yes, there we go," the man said, checking his watch. "Don't worry, it'll all be over very soon. You'll relax and your coordination will go."

  Blake turned in his seat. He saw the money, a dream, a life, going up in smoke.

  Who did the man work for? And why him? Was this Ronsen's doing? Another double-cross like the blanks in the rifles?

  But fuck all that. He wanted to kill the guy while there was still time. Blake reached out to grab the man, but his body went as loose as warm jelly. He had nothing to attack with. And there was no point calling for help.

  Blake knew it was over. He sat back in his chair. The carriage blurred. The train all set to depart and the guard about to blow the whistle.

  He'd been so close.

  The man stayed seated beside him, as if waiting for him to die.

  "Who the fuck are you?" Blake said, talking quiet under a rasping breath.

  The man smiled. "I'm the moment you didn't see coming."

  28

  Mr Box preferred the sound of a gun. The feel of a blade as it slipped into a man's flesh. Or a woman's, for that matter. He didn't discriminate between the sexes. Unless the assignment involved a child or minor. Those jobs, he politely refused.

  Yet while some contractors rarely deviated from their preferred delivery method, Mr Box liked to remain flexible. He found many of his peers were interested in pleasing their own methods—the familiar, the comfortable. Mr Box's sole interest was in pleasing results. This, he believed, was why he never failed. And furthermore, why he was able to charge far more than his competitors.

  In the spirit of flexibility, he had opted for a bespoke toxin. He gave his pharmacist a brown bag of money and a list of requirements. The pharmacist handed him a homemade solution. One that didn't come with a name or recipe. Very difficult for a paramedic to identify and almost impossible to treat. If, indeed, they ever got to the subject in time. Which they never did.