113 Minutes

by James Patterson

  More laughter. Except from Stevie. “Very funny…Corporal.”

  I pick up an eyebrow pencil. “How about giving me a big fake smile, at least?”

  My brother flashes a toothy grin, scrunching his face up tight. Hank, Nick, and J.D. are all doing the same while Debbie and Kim apply their makeup.

  I rub my dark-brown pencil up and down Stevie’s laugh lines, his forehead wrinkles, his crow’s feet—accentuating every nook and cranny as naturally as possible. I add a few liver spots for good measure.

  I’m not trying to make my brother look good.

  I’m trying to make him look twenty-five years older.

  We’re gearing up for our hit on Golden Acres. But this time, we won’t be going in wearing president masks. Just the mugs we were born with.

  Completely unarmed, too.

  “Good Lord,” Debbie says with a laugh. “Is this what I have to look forward to?”

  She’s finishing Hank’s makeup. Her husband actually shaved the top of his head, to make it look like he was balding, and topped it off with a pair of fake Coke-bottle glasses. She holds her compact mirror out so Hank can see for himself.

  “Damn…I look just like Pa,” he says, blinking in disbelief.

  Our father died of a heart attack a few years back at the age of sixty-seven. Hank’s not even forty. But in this disguise, the resemblance is spooky.

  “No wonder Ma always loved you the least,” I joke.

  More laughs all around. Then Stevie grabs my hand.

  “Come on, Molly. Focus. Clock’s ticking.”

  He’s right. I finish darkening his skin and highlighting his wrinkles, making sure all the makeup looks natural and even. Next comes the wig. Over Stevie’s military-style buzz cut I set an unruly tangle of thinning gray hair.

  The transformation is complete. And unbelievable.

  “Well?” he asks.

  “Big improvement,” I say. “Never looked this good in your entire life.”

  Stevie checks his watch, then turns to the two women and three other “old men” standing around our kitchen.

  “Debbie, Kim, every brush and pencil you used, burn ’em in the fire pit out back. Nick, you go reinspect the truck. Hank, look over the map and driving routes. Molly, soon as you’re finished, join me and J.D. to review the floor plan.”

  Everyone has a task. Everyone springs into action. Including me.

  I still have one last person’s makeup to do.

  Mine.

  7 minutes, 15 seconds

  We’re in rural northwest Texas. But squint and you’d swear it was Beverly Hills.

  A stream of Beamers, Benzes, and Caddies are pulling up to the main entrance of Golden Acres Ranch. Young parking valets politely open the doors. Out step wealthy ranchers, snooty equestrians, and fat-cat racetrack owners, all dressed to the nines.

  Meanwhile, us five “senior citizens” are squished inside the cabin of a red, rusted-out ’96 F-150. (It was bought on the whole other side of the state in cash, without a title, then fixed up by my brothers in the woodshed behind our farmhouse, just like Stevie had done for our first getaway car, the one that should have belonged to Alex.)

  “Our truck’s older than some of the kids they got working here,” Hank says, steering our vehicle into the valet line.

  “Don’t worry,” I reply, readying some cash to slip to whichever valet parks it. “Our money’s not.”

  As we near the front gate, each of us subtly peels off the latex gloves we’ve been wearing (so we don’t leave any prints inside the vehicle) and stuffs them into our pockets.

  I can feel the valets and other guests giving us side-eye as our truck approaches. To them, we must look like penniless old fogies who clearly don’t belong. We’re an annoyance. An eyesore. But beyond that, we don’t warrant a second thought.

  Which is exactly the point.

  “Good evening, sir,” says the valet as he opens Hank’s door. He’s wearing a Golden Acres polo shirt and can barely suppress a grimace at having to deal with us.

  I slide out after Hank. “Be a dear,” I croak in my best old-lady voice, “and park it somewhere close? My arthritis. I don’t care to stand too long on my feet.”

  Before the valet can roll his eyes, I hand him the money I’m holding. He glances down at it—and perks right up. It’s a crisp fifty-dollar bill.

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  The five of us enter the ranch.

  We slip in among the other guests and dodder across the huge lawn toward the giant beige stable where the main event will be taking place. We’re almost inside.…

  “Madam, gentlemen, stop right there.”

  We’re intercepted by a compact man wearing a black ten-gallon hat and chewing an unlit cigarillo. Who does not look very friendly. Even without the two meatheads by his side—or the Colt Desert Eagle strapped to his hip—I’d know exactly who he was. (Me and Stevie had done buckets of research on this place, after all.)

  It’s Billy Reeves, Golden Acres’ cocky, cantankerous head of security.

  “Y’all don’t mind if we take a few…precautions? This is a weapons-free facility.”

  Yeah, right. I know that’s a bald lie. Just an excuse to frisk us, hoping to find a reason to kick us out.

  But before any of us can even answer, Billy flicks his chin, and his goons start searching us for hidden weapons—patting us down and waving metal-detecting wands over each of us for good measure.

  But none of us is packing. So they aren’t going to find anything.

  “Is there a problem, young man?” Hank asks, making his voice soft and scratchy.

  “I’m afraid y’all might be in the wrong place. This ain’t bingo night.” Billy and his boys snicker. The five of us don’t react. “It’s a private auction. With a required reserve of seventy-five thousand dollars, in bonds or currency.”

  “My, my!” I exclaim now, acting surprised. “I’m afraid my mind must be going.”

  I unsnap the leather briefcase I’ve been carrying.

  “I could’ve sworn it was seventy-six.”

  It’s bursting at the seams with stacks of cash.

  Billy’s eyes bug out of his head. He grunts and stammers, pissed at being shown up, especially by an old woman. He and his men march away without another word.

  All of us exchange relieved glances.

  “Young people today,” Hank says, shaking his head, the heavy (fake) wrinkles around the corners of his mouth creasing into a tiny smirk. “No respect for their elders.”

  The rest of us chuckle, happy for this brief moment of comic relief. We need it.

  Then we finally enter the stable.

  As we make our way through, I catch Stevie glancing around at all the other well-heeled auction-goers. For the first time I can ever remember, he looks a little nervous.

  I quickly realize why.

  Even to the naked eye, it seems like practically every person here has a suspicious concealed bulge under their jacket or vest—except for us.

  So much for a “weapons-free facility.”

  “Looks like we really are the only folks not carrying,” he whispers to me. “You still think we can pull this off?”

  I squeeze his muscular arm reassuringly.

  You bet I do.

  3 minutes, 40 seconds

  Stevie, Hank, J.D., Nick, and I wander around the massive open-air stable.

  We try to look like we’re blending in with the crowd, browsing the few dozen exotic horses in their pens before the main auction kicks off.

  Of course, we’re actually getting a firsthand lay of the place. Reviewing the exits. Rechecking our escape route.

  And looking for the one final component we still need.

  We’ll use the first one that any of us finds, but officially this part is my job. And I don’t want to let the others down. I stroll casually through the stable but keep my eyes open wide. I peer into every stall. I look around every corner. But still nothing.

  As I continu
e my search, I hear a horse stomping and braying in a nearby pen. I know I don’t really have the time, but something about the sound just calls to me.

  Part of me still has a sixth sense for animals in distress, an instinct I picked up as a teenager when I used to ride. A friend of my father’s, named Angus, owned a few horses on a farm a couple of miles away. He’d let me exercise them, as long as I cleaned and fed them and swept the stable.

  I had dreams of being a show jumper myself someday, maybe even owning a horse ranch of my own, so it was more than a fair deal. I loved those animals more than anything. I came to think of them as my own.

  Then one day, poor old Angus had a stroke. His son drove up from Dallas, stuck him in a home, sold the farm and the steeds along with it, and that was that.

  It was one of the saddest days of my entire childhood. I remember thinking, even at that young age, it was crazy and scary how sudden a life can change—mine and Angus’s both. Not to mention the horses’. And how quick a person’s lifelong home can disappear.

  I have to remind myself: preventing that from happening to ours is why we’re doing all this in the first place.

  I head over to the pen. Through the bars I see a stunning brown stallion with a flowing black mane and snow-white hind legs. He’s a real beauty.

  “Easy, boy,” I whisper. “You’re not the only one feeling butterflies tonight.”

  I stare into the horse’s big wet eyes, willing it to relax. Trying to make a real connection. I hold out my hand as an offering. Slowly he saunters over, sniffs, and nuzzles my palm.

  “Now who do you think you’re fooling, young lady?”

  My whole body tenses. Damn it, I’m caught, my disguise didn’t work! Abort!

  “You’re no horse buyer. You’re a regular horse whisperer.”

  I spin, and see an elderly man—a real one—smiling at me with a set of pearl-white veneers. From his tailored three-piece suit, shiny snakeskin boots, and even shinier gold Rolex watch, I can tell right away he’s got money. But his demeanor is friendly. Gentlemanly. Almost bashful.

  “And such a lovely one, too,” he adds, with the tip of his felt cowboy hat.

  I realize this old-timer isn’t trying to blow my cover. Far from it.

  He’s trying to hit on me.

  “You’re very kind, sir,” I say, forcing an innocent smile.

  “My name’s Wyland. Cole Wyland.” He gestures at the stallion. “Always been partial to Belgian warmbloods too. Gorgeous creatures, ain’t they?”

  I’m confused.

  Because he’s dead wrong. That’s not the breed of this horse at all. Is he joking? Or just flat-out clueless? Or maybe…he can’t be a plainclothes Golden Acres security guard testing me, can he?

  “Actually, Mr. Wyland—”

  “Cole, please.”

  “This horse here is a Holsteiner, Cole. See the H branded on his back leg? But mixing up the two breeds, that’s a common mistake.”

  Cole says nothing for a moment. Should I start to worry? Did I offend him? Does he sense something’s amiss?

  But then he smiles even wider.

  “Turns out you’ve got beauty and brains!”

  All right, I think, relieved. Enough. I need to wrap this chitchat up quick.

  “It’s been a pleasure, sir. Cole. But if you’ll excuse me…”

  And I hurry off before he has a chance to stop me. I have places to be. I have a wheelbarrow to find.

  I have a heist to pull off.

  1 minute

  “One minute to opening gavel!” a voice declares over the P.A. “One minute!”

  The stable’s main atrium is brimming with anticipation. The crowd is finding their seats. The horses are getting their final primps. The auctioneer is warming up his vocal cords.

  Stevie, Nick, and I hover in the wings, ready to spring into action. Meanwhile, Hank and J.D. scurry up a hidden back staircase, into the hayloft. Like most haylofts in modern stables, this one isn’t functional. It’s mostly for decoration.

  Or in our case, storage.

  As the audience settles in, I scan all of their faces, trying to read each one of them like I did inside the bank. Wondering who might give us trouble. Praying that none of them—like that foolish kid security guard—decides he wants to be a hero.

  But with five times the number of folks—and so many clearly carrying weapons—I know the odds aren’t in our favor.

  The auctioneer approaches the stage, smiling and shaking hands with some of the ranch’s owners and bigwigs. He turns on his microphone, tapping it a few times to test the sound.

  What the hell is taking Hank and J.D. so long? I wonder, starting to fret. Did somebody screw up? Is it not there?

  Stevie, Nick, and I trade nervous glances. All worrying about the same thing.

  But then, my brother and my might-as-well-be-my-brother reappear—carrying a leather bag the size of a violin case. They rejoin us. They unzip it.

  Inside is a cache of high-tech assault rifles fit for a team of Navy SEALs.

  I’ve been around guns my whole life—but I’ve never seen any like this. Compact and boxy, fully collapsible, and made of lightweight green titanium alloy.

  We all put our latex gloves back on as Hank hands the weapons around. J.D. passes out the ammunition: clear-plastic magazines, small-caliber, but hollow point and deadly. We ready our rifles and flip on their red-laser sights. They were designed to increase shooting accuracy.

  But we mostly want them for the intimidation factor.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” the honey-voiced auctioneer says into the microphone. The crowd whoops and applauds. “Welcome to Golden Acres!”

  That’s our cue.

  4 minutes, 35 seconds

  “Now please welcome our first animal of the evening. Sebastian, a playful two-year-old Kiger Mustang from—”

  Stevie strafes the atrium ceiling with automatic gunfire as we storm the place.

  “Hands up and keep ’em high!”

  Fear and panic fill the stable. People shriek and gasp and crouch and cry. Some try to flee. But within seconds we’ve all gotten into position, guarding every exit.

  “No one move an inch!” Stevie bellows, stepping onto the stage, assuming the role of master of criminal ceremonies.

  “Anyone even tries to draw, we’ll take you out!”

  The rest of us train our weapons on the anxious crowd…on the auctioneer…on furious Billy Reeves and his bumbling security team—our scopes’ thin red beams slicing through the dusty stable air like a scary laser-light show.

  “Now, this can be short and painless…or the opposite,” Stevie continues. “Every one of y’all here with cash or bearer bonds, start passing them down to the aisles. My colleagues will be coming through to make a little collection. Try anything funny…anything at all…”

  Stevie fires off another flurry of bullets into the rafters.

  More screams of terror echo all around us.

  But the audience begins following his orders. Briefcases, purses, and bank ledgers are all slowly handed down.

  “Let’s go!” Stevie barks. “Pick it up, pick it up!”

  J.D. and I move up and down the aisles, making multiple trips, each time collecting as much as we can carry with one arm—our other hand aiming our rifles. We dump all the wallets and handbags at the feet of Hank and Nick, who start emptying each bag into a giant wooden wheelbarrow that I’d found out back behind the stable.

  On one of my trips, I make eye contact with Cole Wyland, the friendly old man who tried flirting with me back by the horse pens.

  He gives me a filthy look. I just shrug.

  Sorry, Cole, I think. Guess you got unlucky twice today.

  Up and down the aisles we go. I’m getting a little winded. My arm’s getting a little tired.

  I check my watch: we’ve been doing this for almost four full minutes.

  We’re still keeping a sharp eye on the audience—especially Stevie, from his elevated perch on stage�
��but with all the moving around we’ve been doing, it’s possible one of them has secretly pulled out a cell phone to call the law.

  Or maybe they pulled out a gun—to try to take the law into their own hands.

  Stevie seems to have the same thought. “All right, let’s giddyup now!”

  J.D. and I drop whatever remaining bags we’re holding, and us five “old fogies” assemble by the wheelbarrow, which is now practically overflowing with a small mountain of money.

  We take triangular formation around it, just like we practiced—and just like Stevie learned in the Marines when escorting a VIP: Nick pushing, Hank in front, me, J.D., and Stevie walking backward in a crescent shape behind it.

  “Folks, enjoy the rest of your night,” Stevie calls out as we move toward the exit. We’re almost through the doorway.…

  “No chance in hell y’all get away with this!”

  My eyes dart to the source of that raspy, familiar voice.

  A furious Billy Reeves is taking a step in our direction, his hand hovering over his holstered Desert Eagle.

  “Billy, don’t even think about it,” Stevie warns, aiming the red beam of his assault rifle directly in the center of Billy’s glistening forehead. Billy gulps.

  “We’re gonna hunt y’all down! I’m gonna hunt y’all down for this!”

  But we ignore his threats and keep moving. His ragged voice rings out again—“No chance y’all get away with this bullshit!”—as we make it outside into the warm night air.

  We pick up the pace now, almost jogging across the property, leaving a trail of fluttering cash in our wake.

  The bored valets, sitting around, chatting, messing with their smartphones, are beyond shocked to see us—and our guns.

  Hank points his rifle at them, just in case—“Don’t try nothing!” he barks—as we race over to our pickup truck, parked in a prime nearby spot thanks to my generous tip.

  As Stevie, Nick, and J.D. hoist the wheelbarrow up into the cargo bed, I leap in and cover it with the heavy tarp we’d rolled and stashed back there, trapping our new fortune underneath it.