by Rob Aspinall
I struggle to my feet and duck under the battering ram as it swings back and forth. I scoop up my gun and bust through the rear door of the post office.
The guy is on the floor.
"Didn't see that coming, did you?" I say.
He doesn't answer. Can't answer. But he's tough and fast. He draws his weapon as he fights for breath, rolling behind a solid red counter where people write out cheques and envelopes. There's a stationery display on a table in the centre of the floor. I pull it over and take cover as the first of the guy's bullets hit.
The table has wooden legs but a metal top. It sucks up the rounds. I pop out around the side and return fire. The guy ducks and all I do is blast the pen from a chain on the counter.
We trade rounds, taking turns. On the third time, I roll out onto a shoulder on the floor and take aim. He does exactly the same around the counter.
And now we both lie frozen in the same position. Heads and shoulders exposed. Pistols aimed sideways.
I don't move a muscle. All it takes is one flex of a joint. One squeeze of a tendon. One wrong look or movement to trigger a two-way suicide blast.
"I don't wanna kill you any more than you wanna kill me," I say.
"Don't count on it," the man says.
"You need De Luca's money or you don't get paid," I say. "And if you wanted to kill me you would have done it with the first bullet.”
The guy doesn't deny it. "And why wouldn't you kill me?" he says.
"'Cause I need you alive to get to De Luca."
"So what do you suggest?" the guy says.
"We can both die, or we can both profit. How much is De Luca paying you?"
"Two-fifty upfront. The same on delivery."
"What if I could double it? Give you half the remaining haul. Plus the two-fifty you've already got."
"What about De Luca?" the man says. "He won't be pleased."
"Oh, you won't have to worry about him," I say.
The guy thinks about it. "I've got a reputation to maintain.”
"And you'll maintain it," I say.
"How do you figure?"
"I guess you'll have to trust me," I say.
The guy thinks a moment longer. "What do you want me to do?"
"Take a photo of me," I say.
The man pulls a face. "That's it?"
"And a few other things. But small potatoes, considering."
"Screwing the customer is generally bad for business."
"You short on customers?" I ask.
The man shrugs. "Actually, I turn more away than I accept."
"Then you've everything to gain," I say.
The man stares me in the eye, as if testing my character. "Lower your weapon first. Then we'll talk."
"Lower yours," I say.
The guy smiles. Shakes his head.
"Let's make this easy," I say. "On three, we get up. On two, we eject clips, on one, we toss the guns."
The man nods. "Okay. You do the counting."
"Three," we push up off our shoulders and rise to our feet. It's a long three. We move slow, keeping our guns trained on each other. "Two . . ." We eject our clips at the same time. "One . . ." We throw the guns aside.
"Well I'm glad that's over," I say. "I bloody hate stand-offs."
"Really?" the man says. "I quite enjoy them."
I unbutton my shirt, pull it off. I drape it over the upturned table. "What do I call you, anyway?"
“People call me Mr Box."
"Mr Box? Cause you're a bit of a square?"
"After the jellyfish," he says.
"Ah, because you're deadly."
"Usually," Mr Box says.
"Well I'm Charlie," I say, peeling off the clear plastic pouch of blood I taped to my vest. I drop it on the floor. Next, I peel the straps off the Kevlar vest I took from one of De Luca's guys. I let the vest fall to the floor. It has a bullet in the front and two in the back.
"Huh, that explains a lot," Mr Box says. "Is that real blood?"
"Cow's blood," I say. "One hundred percent grass-fed." I pull my shirt back on and button it up. "Right, here's the plan—"
"I get it," Mr Box says, taking the phone from his jacket pocket. "Let's do it outside, the light's better."
We step outside through the rear door, hanging off its hinges. Our soles crunch over shattered glass. Mr Box looks at the battering ram, hanging still on the rope. "Huh," he says, rubbing his abdomen where he took the hit.
We duck under it.
"Down there's good," Mr Box says, "by the window."
I bend down and sit on the floor. I shove up against the wall.
"Slouch a bit lower," Mr Box says, lining up a shot with his phone camera. "And smear some blood around your neck and jawline.
I do as he says, working the cow blood into my stubble.
"That's it," he says. "Now put your head to the right. Almost like it's resting on your shoulder."
"Like this?" I say
"Perfect," he says, angling the shot. "Now close your eyes and act dead."
I close my eyes. Let my body relax. I hear the shutter sound on the camera.
"Another for safety," he says, taking a second snap. "Okay, we're done."
I open my eyes and get to my feet.
Mr Box checks the shot. "Oh, that's a good one."
He shows me the picture.
"You've got talent," I say. "You got De Luca's number?"
Mr Box brings up the number on his phone.
"Tell him it's done, the money's off highway ninety-nine and you wanna meet in one hour."
"They won't make it in an hour," Mr Box says.
"Yeah, but now they'll be in a rush."
"And unprepared," Mr Box says. "I like your style, Charlie." Mr Box dials the number and holds the phone to his ear. "It's done," he says.
50
I ride about five hundred yards out.
I skid to a stop on the quad bike and park it sideways on. I turn off the engine and slide off the bike. My rifle comes off my back and I kneel in the sand. I prop my left elbow on the seat of the bike and bring my eye in behind the telescopic sight. I scan the horizon. Fix on the spot where I dug the holes. Where I left the shovel in the ground as a marker.
I wet a finger and test the wind. I adjust the rifle sight, turning the turret a tiny amount to account for the breeze. It clicks a couple of turns clockwise. I bring my eye away from the sight and look to my far left, noticing a long trail of dust. A grey Chevrolet Impala travelling fast in a straight line. It passes the rock formation. The cactus. And makes a beeline for the meeting point. I get behind the sight and pan left. I track the Impala in my scope. Marco is driving. The man I assume to be De Luca sits in the passenger seat. I track them all the way to the holes. Marco brings the car to a sudden stop a short walk from the holdall full of money. They wait a moment. The car rolls forward and stops again. They climb out of the car as the dust settles.
De Luca reacts to the heat. It's a bloody oven out here. Enough to melt your face off. Yet they're both wearing jackets—De Luca, the full suit. No doubt to conceal their weapons.
They walk forward. They talk. I see confusion on their faces.
Still they talk.
Come on ladies, get on with it.
Finally, De Luca drops to one knee. He's getting old. Takes him a while to get down there. He hesitates before opening the bag. What's he expecting? A severed head with a dick in its mouth?
Charlie, I hear you say, where did that come from? Trust me, it happened once to one of my old boss' lieutenants. It was in Manchester, by the ship canal. Only they didn't stuff the head in a holdall. It was in a white carrier bag.
I can still remember peeling the bloody thing open.
Scarred me for life. I'll never forget it.
And needless to say, I found the guy who did it. If they ever dredge the canal dry, they'll find a pile of his bones chained to a slab of concrete.
But I digress, De Luca plucks up the courage to open the bag. He
finds the money. I see relief on his face. A half smile. But there's still that element of uncertainty. He talks it through with Marco. Right now, they're wondering where the hell Mr Box is. And what the game is.
Marco reaches down and picks up the holdall. I aim to the right of him and let off a shot. I hit the shovel. It rocks back in the dirt.
Marco reacts first. He rises, turns and draws a pistol.
I fix him in my crosshairs and pull the trigger. He takes a hit in the sternum. The bullet punches through. His chest explodes and he falls backwards into the right-hand grave.
De Luca draws a pistol from a shoulder holster. He scans the horizon, looks down at the money. He stoops and picks up the holdall.
I pan to the left, to the rear of the Impala. The engine's still running, a haze kicking out of the exhaust. I pan fast to the right, back to De Luca. He's taking slow, steady steps towards the driver-side door, the bag in hand and his weapon ready, but not knowing where to shoot.
I let him get close to the car, then take out a front headlight. I swing my aim at the driver-side tyre and let off another shot. The tyre deflates. I can hear the pop all the way out here.
De Luca stops dead in his tracks. He holds out his weapon and drops it. He puts down the holdall and up go the hands, halfway to the heavens.
That's my cue. I stand up and start walking, making a straight line towards him.
Why not take the bike, Charlie?
Well, the quad bike kicks up a trail. And it's hard to fire a rifle while riding a bike. He'd see me coming, pick up that gun and catch me with an automatic round.
No, sometimes in life, you've just gotta walk.
So I walk, rifle in hands. From this distance I don't need the sight. His only chance is to beat me to the punch. To pick up that gun and hope I fluster and miss.
At first, he's looking left and right for the source of the gunfire, shouting at the wind. Then he fixes on me. Sees me coming.
"Mr Box?" he shouts.
I keep walking.
"What the fuck is this?" he yells. "You'll get your fucking money. We had a deal."
Still I keep walking. Getting closer now.
I see the look on De Luca's face.
Recognition.
"You," he says. "You're . . . You’re fuckin’ dead."
De Luca shuffles backwards. He looks like he's seen a ghost. I give him nothing. Not a word. Not an expression.
"Who the fuck are you?" he yells, his voice carrying on the wind.
I stop short of him. Fifty feet short. I stand and wait.
De Luca changes tone. Holds out his hands. "Look, it was nothing personal." He motions to the bag. "You can keep the money . . . Take it, you won't get any trouble from me."
I stand in silence, eyes locked on the guy.
"What are you, a fucking mute?" he says.
The wind picks up speed and blusters strong. It settles down. He's getting impatient, shifting his weight on the spot. He glances at his gun. It lies in the dirt in front of him. He turns his attention back to me. "You want more money, is that it?"
I let him have the conversation alone.
De Luca laughs to himself. A nervous laugh. "That's it, isn't it?" he says. "Fine. Let me make a call. I'll get you double what's in the bag, We got a deal?"
I don't answer.
"I'll take that as a yes," he says, reaching slow towards his right trouser pocket. He keeps his eyes on me. "I'm taking out my cell. No tricks."
De Luca's hand moves slow. When it gets to the pocket, it switches around the back of his waist. He whips out a backup pistol and takes aim. I lift the rifle to gut-height and pull the trigger.
De Luca shoots, but into the air.
I blast a hole in his heart.
He staggers backwards and disappears into the hole. I wait a few seconds.
It all goes quiet, the sound of the gunshots fading away.
I walk towards the left-hand grave. I approach slow and pause at the foot of the hole. I lean over the edge.
De Luca is still breathing. Blood spilling out of his mouth. He raises his pistol. His eyes roll. He lets out a sigh and his eyelids close. His arm falls limp by his side. The gun lies in his stiff dead fingers.
I put the rifle on safety and dig the butt in the sand so it stands upright. I pick up De Luca's discarded pistol and toss it in the hole with him. I grab the shovel and go to work.
Like I said before, it's much quicker to fill a grave than to dig one. I push the mound of sand back in the hole. It paints De Luca a dusty yellow-white before burying him and his guns completely. I move onto Marco. It's not long before I've got both graves filled in. I pat 'em down with the shovel. I pick up some loose rocks from around the area and toss them over the burial site so it looks more natural.
Next, I pick up the shovel and walk to the Impala. I open the boot and throw the shovel in.
Finally, I walk back out to where the remaining money is, minus Mr Box's cut. I zip up the holdall and pull the rifle out of the ground. I return to the Impala, put the rifle and bag on the passenger seat and drive out to where I left the quad bike.
I climb out of the car, strap the rifle over my back and carry the holdall to the bike.
Mounting the quad, I rest the bag on my lap. I fire up the bike and ride it out of the desert. On the way back to the highway, I check my watch. Still got time. And I see Collins waiting by the side of the road in his pickup. He has a flatbed trailer hooked up with a metal ramp ready and waiting.
I pull a wide arc to the left and steer the quad bike up onto the trailer. The metal ramp rattles under the wheels. I bring the bike to a sudden stop an inch short of the cab.
Turning off the engine, I step off the bike with the holdall. I come down the ramp. Collins slides it up into the trailer behind me and locks the tailgate. I open the passenger door and climb in. Collins joins me, behind the wheel, the holdall of money between us.
"What happened back in town?" Collins says.
"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies," I say.
"Well what about out there?" he says, motioning to the desert.
"It's all cleaned up," I say, peeling off the gloves I stole off one of De Luca’s men. “And no prints.”
"Doesn't look clean," he says, looking at the blood and dirt on the gloves.
"This is as clean as I get," I say, checking my watch. "Now drive."
51
By the time we reach the bank, it's already gone three. I sit in the pickup with the remaining money and wait.
Collins isn't long. He returns after twenty minutes. Comes walking around the corner a new man. He walks lighter, head up and shoulders relaxed. An uncontrollable grin on his face. He jumps back in the pickup and closes the driver door. Looks across at me.
"Well, how did it go?" I say.
"I can't believe it," he says. "It's all over."
"Withers bought it?"
"Hook, line and sinker," Collins says. "The guy had no choice. Loretta made the transfer and backdated it to last night like you suggested."
"And what did she tell Withers?"
"Exactly what you told her to say. That the systems mustn't have shown it 'till today. Server error, now fixed. He checked the records, but it's there in black and white. Nothing the son of a bitch can do."
I shake the man's hand. "Congratulations, Bill."
"I don't know how to thank you," he says.
I tap the holdall on the seat between us. "I've got all the thanks I need. Let's go and spread the news."
Collins starts the engine. We pull out of Mitchum. He doesn't say much. I think he's still a little stunned that we did it. That the land is his and the loan is history. On the drive back in, we see a long convoy approaching in the opposite direction. The highway is straight and open around here. And I can see the whole thing from nose to tail—eighteen wheelers, earth movers, pickups and rescue trucks. It's the Mainline Oil crews. They're heading out of Rattlesnake, back where they came from. The project abandoned.
As they stream past, Collins honks on the horn. He salutes them as they pass. I laugh. It hurts where the vest took the bullets. I don't care.
We arrive in town to find Mr Box's hire car put out by a departed fire crew. The sheriff's cruiser is parked a little further down, along with CSI and unmarked police cars. Unfortunately for them, they're working the scene of a crime that isn't there anymore. No witnesses. No bodies, other than Wallace in Al's bar, which'll be put down to a drunken bar fight.
Sure, it wasn't part of the plan, but Al will give a vague description of a stranger the law will never track down. The same stranger who 'stole' Al's Bronco and fled the scene.
Father Shaw will drive Al out to Phoenix to pick up the Bronco, which will be found in an airport car park and wiped clean of prints.
Around the back of the town hall and post office, CSI will find nothing but a riddle: smashed glass, a broken door, a battering ram tied to a rope, cow blood on the ground, empty cartridge shells and a discarded Kevlar vest.
And with this being Rattlesnake, there'll be zero CCTV.
"You want dropping off at the motel?" Collins asks.
"No, keep on cruising," I say, looking at the police tape cordoning off half the street. "Best I stay out of town for the afternoon."
We roll off the main street and head towards the ranch.
Collins looks across at me. "So Charlie, what are you gonna do with the leftover money?"
52
The cops have knocked off for the evening, with their photographs and evidence bags and burnt-out hire car towed away for forensics.
I'm planning on leaving, too, before anyone notices. Suspect in the armoured truck robbery or not, I can't afford to hang around here any longer.
From the motel room window, I spot Herb's truck parked up in the lay-by down the side of Al's bar. I leave the room and cross the street to Al's. Most of the bar area is taped off, Wallace's chalk outline still fresh on the floor. I find Herb at a table, chowing down.
"Okay to catch a lift out of here?" I ask.
"Sure, buddy," he says, supping on his beer. "Be outta here in twenty. Your bag packed?"