The Hard Way

by TJ Vargo

  THE HARD WAY

  By TJ Vargo

  Copyright 2013 TJ Vargo

  Discover other titles by TJ Vargo at http://www.tjvargo.com

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please support the author and do not participate in the piracy of copyrighted materials.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  PART TWO

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Other Books By TJ Vargo

  Author’s Note

  PART ONE

  Dreams of freedom. Money lost. Rumors of gold. The price of one good woman.

  Chapter One

  Curtis Monroe sprinted toward the chain link fence, but he knew he couldn’t hold the pace. His thigh muscles cramped from lack of oxygen and streaks of light danced in his peripheral vision. He pulled back a touch, his heart thudding. His lungs burned. Each step bore the weight of wet concrete. But he grinned through the pain. Once he cleared the fence, he’d be home free. He tightened his grip on the black metal cash box under his left arm, hearing Sonny’s footsteps behind him, matching him stride for stride. He looked back at Sonny.

  “We’re almost there,” he yelled. “Just up this hill. Don’t slow down.”

  He locked his gaze on the fence’s silhouette stamped against the clear night sky. His backward glance at Sonny showed that the two security guards chasing them were twenty, maybe twenty-five yards back. And the off-duty cop with the beer belly was totally out of the picture, watching the chase with binoculars from his post outside the stadium’s ticket booth. Problem was, in that bare second of a backward glance, Curtis saw the empty dog leashes hanging from the cop’s hand. Everything hinged on when the cop had released his rottweilers. That and how fast those black and tan monsters could run. Fear of being dragged down by the dogs squeezed a band of panic around his heart. He and Sonny had to clear that fence. Fast.

  Adrenaline dumped into his system. The night sky peeled open, turning bright as his pupils dilated. He pushed into high gear. Everything fell away, muting into background noise. The sound of his footsteps cutting through the grass. The burning in his thighs and lungs. The sound of the security guards yelling for him to stop. He tossed the cash box over the fence, scrambled up it, and vaulted the barbed wire.

  He dropped on the other side of the fence, bending at the knees as he hit the sidewalk. Grabbing a fistful of chain link, he watched Sonny run toward him. The two security guards hadn’t made up much distance. They were still at least twenty yards back. It looked like Sonny would make it. Then Curtis stiffened, tightening his grip on the fence. The two rottweilers came out of nowhere, running by the security guards with fantastic speed. They bore down on Sonny, closing the distance in great, muscled strides. The bigger of the two bolted out in front, his legs stretching in a last dash to sink his fangs into Sonny. Shaking the fence, Curtis yelled.

  “C’mon! Run!”

  Sonny threw his cash box over the fence. It broke open on the street behind Curtis, scattering change over the asphalt. The fence rattled as Sonny slammed into it. Mouth open, Sonny gasped.

  “I…can’t…climb...”

  Curtis pushed his face against the fence.

  “Move! The dogs are on your ass!”

  Sonny scrambled up the fence, but Curtis could see it was too late. The lead dog was three strides away, ready to launch into Sonny. Curtis shook the fence and screamed at the dog.

  The huge rottweiler turned his head in full stride and threw himself at Curtis. Slobber flung into Curtis’s eye as it hit the fence and began twisting and pulling at a mouthful of chain link.

  Curtis backed up, blinking to clear his vision. A blurry image of Sonny perched on top of the barbed wire came into focus. The sound of ripping denim filled the air as Sonny leaped. Curtis watched Sonny hit the ground headfirst.

  Sonny lay limp, face down in the grass, the leg of his jeans ripped from knee to ankle. He wasn’t moving. Curtis held his breath. His mind circled tighter and tighter. This was bad. He couldn’t leave Sonny. But he couldn’t stand here and let the guards catch him either. Panic welled up in him.

  Sonny moaned.

  Curtis exhaled. Thank God.

  The fence shook with a jackpot rattle as the second rottweiler and both security guards slammed into it. Curtis helped Sonny up and turned toward the fence. Both the guards were sweating and panting, on the edge of keeling over, but they obviously spent a lot of time in the weight room. One was goateed, bald and a couple inches shy of six feet. The other was well over six feet and probably had to turn sideways to fit through doors. Curtis thought the shorter bald guy took the prize for crazed maniac. His neck was a pillar of muscle and his vein-wrapped arms stretched the sleeves of his blue Armco Security golf shirt.

  Eyes bulging, the bald guy shook the fence.

  “You guys are dead!”

  Curtis grabbed Sonny by the shoulder to pull him away from the fence. Sonny pointed at the guard.

  “Yeah? Come on over here and we’ll see who’s dead, you mother—”

  Curtis backhanded Sonny and put his index finger against his lips, shaking his head.

  Sonny shoved Curtis and stalked into the street.

  A red haze filled Curtis’s head. The sound of the screaming security guards and barking dogs collapsed into static as he picked up his cash box. He brushed a clot of mud off the box. There wasn’t time now, but he’d get in Sonny’s face later and remind him for the hundredth time that talking was how they got a piece of you—how they put together the profile that put you in prison. He slapped the cash box and shoved it under his arm. And there was gonna be a long conversation with that idiot Fitz. If Fi
tz had done his job, they would’ve been gone long before the security guards got a sniff of them stealing the cash boxes from the cashier’s office.

  He straightened and looked down the street. Fives, tens and twenties blew against the curb, some skittering past Sonny’s cash box lying sideways in the road with a busted lid. On his knees next to the broken box, Sonny worked to jam the lid shut. Curtis picked up loose bills, stuffing them into his pockets. He scraped at a wet fifty dollar bill stuck to the concrete. A series of rattles from the fence caught his attention.

  The bald security guard was on the fence, climbing toward the barbed wire with his partner pushing from below. Curtis scraped his fingernail under the fifty and cursed as the corner off the bill ripped off. He shoved the torn bill in his pocket and ran to Sonny.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Damn thing’s broke,” Sonny said, gripping the cash box. He stood and raised his eyebrows. “Oh, sorry. Am I allowed to talk now?”

  Curtis snorted. “Get your ass in gear before they get over the fence,” he said, then turned and sprinted across the street into the quiet neighborhood of split levels and colonials.

  Four blocks deep into the neighborhood, Curtis cut into the side yard of a big, southern-style white house with pillars bracing the front porch. He slowed to a walk, stopping in the shadows to lean against the chimney. Sonny huffed next to him.

  “Gorman’s one street over, that way,” Curtis said, pointing through the back yard.

  Sonny bent over, hands on knees. “Fitz better be there,” he said. “Don’t know if I can run no more.”

  Curtis jabbed him in the chest. “You’re running. We’re both running until we’re clear of this. Got it?”

  Sonny nodded.

  Curtis spit, then pushed away from the chimney. He ran through the backyard and pushed through a hedge into a parking lot with Sonny right behind him. A Ford Bronco idled in the lot, parked next to an eight-foot, wooden Gorman Park sign. Curtis ran toward the Bronco.

  He opened the Bronco’s front passenger door. The hinges screeched.

  Fitz stared at him from the driver’s seat. “About time,” he said.

  Curtis slid into the front passenger seat. The back door’s hinges screeched even louder as Sonny got in. Curtis turned to Fitz. “Didn’t I tell you to put WD 40 on these doors?”

  Fitz shrugged. “What do you care? They’re my doors.”

  “The cops in Bromfield probably heard us opening your rusty ass door,” said Curtis. “But maybe that don’t bother you, kinda like me and Sonny having security guards and dogs on our ass don’t bother you, huh?”

  Fitz smiled and turned to Sonny. “Was he whining like this all the way here?”

  Curtis turned his attention to the cash box in his lap. He opened the lid and started counting, blocking out the sound of Fitz’s laughter.

  Ignoring the sound of gravel crunching as the Bronco rolled out of the parking lot.

  Shutting out everything but the numbers adding up in his head.

  Chapter Two

  Fitz eased the Bronco next to the curb. Curtis got out and shut his door, leaving Sonny and Fitz’s cash and his dirty white tee-shirt on the front seat. The whirring sound of the passenger window hummed behind him.

  “Cheer up, Monroe,” yelled Fitz. “It all worked out. Don’t be such a baby.”

  Curtis waved without looking back. His footsteps echoed as he entered the dim concrete alcove of his apartment building. The two thick wads of cash in his front pockets dug into his groin as he walked up the stairwell, his mind hardening with each step.

  “That was close. Way too close,” he thought.

  He exited the stairwell on the second floor and dug around in his pocket to find his key, shaking his head.

  “Dogs and muscleheads on my ass. Sonny opening his big mouth, talking to that guard. And Fitz. All he had to do was set off some firecrackers under the bleachers to distract the guards, but he forgot to bring ‘em. How do you forget something that simple?”

  He pushed the key into the doorknob and unlocked the door.

  “Screw ‘em. I don’t need this.”

  He stepped into his apartment and switched on the light. Cockroaches scuttled under the kitchen baseboards.

  He walked into the living room toward the television propped on two red milk crates. His gaze lifted above the television, into the shiny black eye of a wall-mounted blue marlin. The photo under the marlin of him, Sonny and Fitz was classic. He glanced at the photo, remembering the day he stood on that fishy-smelling dock in the hot sun.

  Laughing as Sonny surprised him, pouring a beer over his head.

  Shaking the beer out of his hair while Fitz scowled at the marlin hanging by its tail behind them.

  That had been a hell of a day. And the hundred bucks he’d collected from Fitz for catching the fish made it even better. This fish was money from day one.

  He took tonight’s money out of his pocket, tossed it on the floor and then lifted the blue marlin off the wall, laying it next to the money.

  The fish was an eight-foot beauty with a deep blue back, silvery white belly and a wicked three-foot spear. He smoothed his hand over its side. The tail was swept out and away, as if it was ready to slap the water. It had fought like a demon when he caught it, tailwalking six times on the way in. The captain said he’d never seen a fish so frantic to escape. Curtis patted the marlin.

  Sorry, Big Blue.

  He flipped the marlin over. Its back side was a sickly white—unmarked by the taxidermist’s airbrush. The dull glint of screw heads spaced every six inches created an oval three and a half feet by two feet in the middle of fish.

  Curtis stood and scanned his apartment. Julia, the girl he’d helped move in next door, said it looked like a ghost lived here. The kitchen—a single row of white cupboards above a rust-stained, porcelain sink—was bare. A yellow couch, a television and a footlocker with a real estate magazine on it completed the décor. All that and one trophy marlin. Julia was right. A ghost did live here.

  He looked at the wall that separated their apartments. It might not be a bad idea to ask her over before he left town. She was a beauty with big brown eyes. Maybe she’d like to make out with a ghost. He cracked his knuckles and laughed. It would have to wait until tonight’s cash was squirreled away.

  He walked toward a sliding glass door, pushed it open and went out on his balcony, snatching a screwdriver off the top of a hibachi. Walking back inside, he pointed the screwdriver at the marlin.

  “All right, let’s see what we got, Big Blue.”

  The screws spaced along the back of the marlin came out easily. He placed them in a small pile on the carpet, then lifted out the backside of the fish. Rubber-banded stacks of cash filled the hollow core. He unloaded and counted the stacks, then walked into the kitchen, opening a few drawers before he found rubberbands and a black magic marker. He dumped the rubberbands and magic marker on the floor next to Big Blue. Banding tonight’s cash in one hundred dollar stacks took another five minutes.

  With all the money counted and banded, he grabbed the black magic marker off the floor, printed “F U Tombs” on tonight’s money and put the cash on the pile. Tunnel vision pulled all his money from three years of heists into shiny focus.

  “Got a little over thirty grand,” he thought. “Ten for an apartment and a boat slip down in Savannah. Twenty for the down payment on a used fishing boat. Then I’ll run charters for tourists looking to bag a trophy. It’ll work. It’s gotta work. Either that or I’ll end up sleeping in a cell at Tombs Correctional for the rest of my life.”

  He let out a shaky sigh, loaded his money back into its hiding place and screwed on the back of the fish.

  The last screw fell on the carpet. He put the screwdriver on the footlocker and slid his hands through the carpet. A knock on the front door froze him. He stared at his hands, the tip and cuticle of each fingernail rimmed in motor oil. Another knock rattled the door.

  Curtis lifted the marlin
and hung it on the wall. He backed away and rubbed his shoulders. Thirty grand was heavy.

  “Monroe, you in there?” The doorknob turned back and forth.

  “That you, Fitz?” said Curtis.

  “Yeah, let me in.”

  “Gimme a second.”

  Curtis looked around, making sure he hadn’t left any cash in the open, then opened the front door.

  “Took you long enough,” said Fitz.

  Curtis stepped aside to let Fitz in. “What do you want?” he said. “You just dropped me off twenty minutes ago.”

  “Me and Sonny are going out,” said Fitz, scanning the apartment as he walked his six-foot-three, two-hundred fifty pound bulk into the kitchen. “Thought we’d drop by and see if you wanted to get drunk.”

  Curtis sighed. Forgetting the firecrackers had almost gotten him and Sonny caught by those security guards, and now here Fitz was, acting like everything was just fine. It should’ve pissed Curtis off, but now that he had his thirty grand, he’d leave Tombs remembering the good times—the years that he, Fitz and Sonny had worked on cars at Angel’s garage by day, pulled heists at night and rolled through the bars like kings. It had been fun, but it was time to move on.

  “I’m beat,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow night.”

  Fitz opened the refrigerator and stuck his curly mop of hair in the door, pushing jars around. “Got any beer?” he said.

  Curtis leaned on the kitchen counter. “Nope.”

  Fitz shut the refrigerator door. “C’mon,” he said. “Mona’s down at The Ice House. One drink with her ain’t gonna kill ya.”

  The front door opened. Curtis heard Sonny’s raspy voice.

  “What are you guy’s doing? Let’s go. My sister’s driving me nuts. She’s calling my cell every other minute.”

  Curtis felt Sonny grab him from behind. “Man, we’re lucky those security guards didn’t catch us,” said Sonny. “That bald guy looked horny for you.”

  “Get off,” said Curtis, pushing Sonny.

  He couldn’t help but grin as Sonny said, “I thought that guy was gonna stroke out.” Sonny pretended to grab a fence and shake it. “You guys are dead!” he yelled.