Dak figured his old friend would make the offer at least one more time.
“I’m good,” Dak said. “Once this is over, I’ll find something.”
Will nodded and reached into his pocket. He fished out a wad of Euros wrapped in a rubber band and dropped it onto the coffee table.
“This should help you get whatever you need.” He held up a hand, sensing Dak’s forthcoming protest. “No, you don’t get to turn this down. I have more than I need, brother. You’re going to need a plane ticket, too. I’ll cover that. And when you get to the states, I know a guy who can get you armed.”
Dak thought about arguing with the man, but he needed the money. The dishwashing gig didn’t pay great, and he was going to need enough to get settled in while he tracked down Carson. “I have guns and other supplies in a shed back home. Bo and his guys don’t know about it. It’ll be safe to go there.” He paused. “Thank you. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
“Don’t mention it. You’d do the same for me.”
That was true. Dak hoped the need never came, but he would relish the chance to return his friend’s kindness if it did.
"You want me to bring you some cigars?" Dak asked off-handedly.
“Maybe,” Will said with a chuckle. “But I can get those too.”
“Of course you can.”
“When you going to leave?”
Dak stared at the image on the screen, fury raging like a furnace inside him. “As soon as I can.”
Seven
Miami
Dak watched the opposite sidewalk from behind a newspaper, sunglasses, and an Atlanta Braves baseball cap pulled down low to cover most of his face. All that remained of the dark, thick beard he'd kept during his time in the Middle East and in Portugal was a thin stubble that peppered his skin. The sun radiated on his arms, legs, and neck, reminding him how hot it got on the southern tip of Florida.
He'd only visited the city of Miami a few times in his life, but the weather never seemed to change. Hot and humid was always on tap, except next to the beach where a lukewarm breeze offered relief to those in bathing suits—or not.
Will had provided him with some money—against all Dak's protests—so he could purchase a one-way plane ticket to Miami, and enough cash to hold him over for as long as he needed.
Dak told his friend he'd pay him back, but Will swore off the promises. Will wasn't hurting for money, but that didn't mean Dak was okay with the charity. Even though he relented, he planned on paying Will back.
A bus rolled by, kicking out a puff of diesel fuel in its wake. The brakes screeched up the block as it came to a stop. The sights, smells, and sounds of Miami assaulted the senses. On one corner, a cluster of four old men in various colors of flower-patterned button-up shirts smoked thick cigars around a domino table. Across the street from that, a mojito bar offered cool drinks to its scantily clad, reveling patrons who sat on the patio under red umbrellas, laughing drunkenly behind sunglasses. A Cuban sandwich shop next-door sent smells of meats, onions, and toasty bread into the mix. While Dak had never been much for eating ham, he had to admit the scents wafting out of the sandwich place possessed a siren's call of sorts.
He only allowed the distraction for a second or two before returning his focus to the bar next to the cigar shop.
The joint was a legitimate business—mostly. Dak had been watching the place for the last week since arriving from Portugal. The bar kept a steady flow of traffic in and out, people looking to quench their thirst with fruity alcoholic beverages or crisp beers while watching baseball or soccer. He was tempted to get a better feel of the establishment's layout, but he'd been holding back until today.
He'd seen Carson go by three times in the six days he'd staked out the bar. Each time, Carson looked like he was in a hurry or stressed out, or both. He wore a look of nonchalance on his face, though Dak recognized it as a facade. Based on Carson's previous schedule, it was a good bet he wouldn't be coming in today.
Carson, Dak thought with loathing. The man had changed his name to Baker Tomason. The name change was no surprise, though the choice was certainly interesting. Dak assumed all his ex-teammates were now operating under false identities. Maybe they'd changed them legally, unlike himself. It didn't matter.
Carson, Baker, Vicky, it was all the same to him. When he finished with them, their names would be irrelevant. Dak meant to erase them from existence.
Carson, like the others, hadn't been stupid. Not completely. But he, like most people, had his vices. Dak recalled Carson talking about sports betting more than once during their time together. Usually, he brought it up when they were in the base, killing time. He'd look at the lines for upcoming games and rattle on about how some odds were wrong, the over/unders too high or too low, and other gambling stuff Dak didn't care about.
Even though he had yet to venture into the bar, Dak had a feeling he knew what went on in there. The place was a cover for a sports book. He just needed to get a few more details.
Fortunately, the perfect target was one of the bar's regulars. And today, the guy was right on time.
The man was probably 300 lbs and five feet, nine inches tall. He wore a purple cotton Polo that barely clung to the man's skin by a thread. Khaki shorts and white sneakers with tall white socks completed the ensemble.
His business done, the man carelessly walked out of the bar counting a wad of bills out in the open. Dak folded his paper and tucked it under his arm, carefully checking the pistol on his hip—a weapon he'd purchased through Will's Miami connection.
Dak crossed the street between slow-moving cars and fell in line behind the man as he waddled down the sidewalk. Dak watched him closely, knowing the pasty, hulking man had no clue he was being followed. The guy stuffed the money into his pocket and made a call on his phone.
The conversation provided Dak with everything he needed to justify an interrogation. The gambler bragged to a friend about how much money he made over the weekend and how he was playing with house money.
When the man reached his car around the next corner, parked on a side street two blocks away, he used his key fob to unlock it and reached out for the door handle.
Dak stepped quickly toward him, and as the guy pulled the door open, Dak stopped it with a steady hand.
The man turned his head, fear and anger erupting in his eyes. He swore and reached for his belt.
"No need for that," Dak said, his own weapon already in hand, concealed from view by the car and the wall next to him. He twisted his body slightly to make sure no one passing would notice, though this part of the city block remained nearly vacant except for a few random pedestrians strolling by on the other side of the street every so often.
The man's anger left his face and transformed to pure fear. "What do you want?" he blathered, the loose fat under his chin jiggling as he spoke. "Money? You can have it. Take it? It's yours. Just don't shoot me. Please. I have a family."
"No, you don't," Dak said cooly. "You live alone in an apartment in South Miami, over a bar where you go every night for drinks and to take shots at any lady you deem desperate enough to consider letting you talk to them. You have no wife, no children. And you gamble. From what I can tell, you're pretty good at it."
Confusion filled the man's eyes. His head darted back and forth, a desperate search for someone who could help him.
"What are you, a cop? I haven't broken any laws."
Dak shrugged at the comment. "No. I'm not a cop. And the lawbreaker would be the bookie at the bar, not some lowlife like you. You're just a customer."
"Look, man, I don't know who you are, but please, just let me go. Here, take the money. I have more where that came from." He instantly regretted the confession.
"I don't want your money," Dak said. "I want information."
The gambler's fear eased slightly, his jaw sagging. "Information? About what?"
"I need to know who runs that establishment. What's the bookie's name?"
Th
e man's eyebrows knit together. Deep lines formed on his forehead. "Bert. His name is Bert."
"What does he look like?"
"He's big," the man babbled. "Big Puerto Rican guy. Taller than me."
"He taking new clients?"
More confusion filled the gambler's face. "What?"
"Is he taking new clients?" Dak asked more pointedly, deliberate with every syllable.
"I… I don't know." The man stammered the words. "I guess so. Probably. You want me to introduce you?"
"No. I can introduce myself. I don't want you involved in this conversation. Do you understand?"
The man nodded. Flesh around his neck jiggled again.
"I'm going to let you leave now. If you call Bert and tell him I'm coming or that I asked about his operation, I will find you. Am I making myself clear?"
Another eager nod.
"Good. Now go home. Place your bets. Don't do anything different. Got it?"
"Got it. Yes, sir. Thank you."
"Get in your car."
"Yes. Of course."
The gambler nervously pulled the door open and slumped into the driver's seat. Dak stepped back and watched the man turn on the ignition and hurriedly drive away. The gambler probably wondered how Dak knew so much about him. Getting information like that with unsuspecting, normal folks was easy. The first time Dak laid eyes on the guy, he knew the man was a regular for the bar and whatever seedy underground operation was going on there.
He tailed him back to his apartment and then put the rest of the pieces together. The family thing was a guess, but probably an accurate one. Based on the lack of protest when Dak asserted as much, he figured he'd hit the nail on the proverbial head.
Things were falling into place. Carson hadn't seen him yet, and if he had, the man didn't make a move on. Maybe he'd seen Dak and simply not recognized him. Probably not. Dak's change of appearance and meager disguise would—at best—cause a second glance from someone who really knew him, but so far it seemed to work.
When the gambler's car was out of sight, Dak spun on his heels and stalked back toward the bar.
He needed to have a little chat with its proprietor, Bert, and he hoped the man was in the mood to talk.
Eight
Miami
Carson sat down on his black leather couch and turned on the television. The 72-inch flat screen TV blinked to life, displaying Samsung in white letters on the black backdrop.
He sighed impatiently and cracked open a can of beer he'd retrieved from the fridge.
"Come on," he urged.
Finally, the television switched to the last channel he'd been viewing—ESPN. He pressed the channel up button on the remote several times until he found the obscure horse racing channel way down on the list. Selecting it, he eased back into his soft couch and took a sip of lager.
It had been a bad week, a bad month, actually. In the months prior, he'd been ahead a significant amount of money, nearly thirty percent of his five million dollar take from the deal Bo set up in Germany.
Four million gone in just under four weeks, though much of that was from his previous winnings.
Not a good weekly win rate by any gambler's standards.
He still had plenty left and Carson knew there were swings like this, ups and downs that plagued a betting man from time to time. He'd get it back, of that he was certain.
After paying cash for his home in Homestead, Florida, and two high-end luxury cars, he still had more than a million or so left in the vault hidden within the confines of his basement.
He couldn't trust banks. Investing was also out of the question. Carson viewed gambling as a kind of investing. The risks were similar, and so were the payouts. The difference between the two was that neither the government nor Dak Harper could track the flow of money—if Harper was still alive.
Carson believed the man died out in the desert somewhere. It was possible his ex-teammate was hanging out in some sheep village in Northern Iraq. Maybe he'd crossed the border into Turkey, as the colonel believed. It didn't matter. Harper was in his past. Carson had a new name and no way of being discovered by anyone from his past life, not even Bo and the other guys.
That was one rule Bo insisted upon. No contact between the five of them had seemed a little paranoid at first, but Carson accepted it, happy to begin his new life out of the military.
The announcer for the race broadcast a rundown of the participants and the odds for the favorites and long shots. Carson watched as the horses were led into the numbered stalls, colorfully clad jockeys riding atop the steeds.
Carson shifted in his seat, anxiously awaiting the start of the race.
A shot rang out, and the horses took off, their legs and hooves churning in a furious blizzard of motion, dirt flying in their wake.
"Come on, Mounty," Carson said. He'd placed a significant wager on a horse called Canadian Mounty to win. The horse wasn't the favorite, but it had strung together several good races and recently won two of them.
The payout was 4 to 1 and a win would get Carson back up to nearly break-even for the month. It helped he had a connection in the horse racing industry, a former trainer at Lake's Bend Farms north of Orlando. His guy claimed that Canadian Mounty was a sure thing for this race, especially given the track conditions, the weather, and the competition.
The favorite didn't run as well on days when thunderstorms were in the area—so the trainer claimed—and as with so many afternoons in South Florida, there just so happened to be several storms to the southwest.
Carson watched with rapt interest, eyes locked on the television as the horses rounded the first turn and entered the backstretch. He'd only recently gotten into betting on horses, usually preferring to bet baseball. But baseball gains were slow and his tastes expensive.
Halfway through the backstretch, Canadian Mounty pulled into the lead, the horse taking long, powerful strides ahead of the pack.
"Come on, Mounty! There you go!" Carson cheered, inching forward to the edge of his couch. "You're not taking my money today, Bert," he muttered under his breath.
The bookie irritated him, but he was a means to an end, the conduit to more cash, and at the very least a way to filter his money through various channels so it came out clean on the other end.
Carson's laundering plan was solid at first, but as the losses mounted, he grew more and more impatient, desperate to get back what had slipped through his fingers.
This race, however, would put things right, and maybe, he hoped, start a roll of good fortune.
The announcer's voice escalated as the horses rounded the final turn and galloped onto the home stretch. Canadian Mounty held the lead by two lengths with the finish line in sight.
"Yes! Go, Mounty! Get it!"
Halfway down the home stretch, another horse emerged from the pack, breaking away from the others and ducking to the outside. The jockey and saddle were draped in red with black polka dots. The brown thoroughbred stormed away from the others, charging toward the front where Canadian Mounty held on to a tenuous advantage.
That gap closed rapidly, and Carson could see it. The finish line loomed so close, just on the edge of the right side of the screen. Carson stood from his seat, still clutching the beer can. He leaned forward, mumbling, as if able to will the horse to victory.
He sensed the lead slipping away. His horse had broken too soon, and now the animal was running out of steam. The favorite closed the space between them to just half a length while the upstart in red and black roared past on the outside, easily taking the second position with fifty yards to go.
The jockeys bobbed in rhythm with their horses. The announcer's voice climbed to an enthralled crescendo. "And now they're neck and neck! It's going to be a photo finish, folks!"
"Go, you stupid horse!" Carson roared.
But it was too late.
The horse in red and black—dubbed Peyton's Rally—poked its head out in front and never looked back. It crossed the finish line half a lengt
h ahead of the favorite, leaving Canadian Mounty in third.
"No!" Carson shouted and threw his beer at the television. Luckily, he missed, and the can smashed into the wall just beside the screen, splashing lager onto the drywall and hardwood floor around the entertainment center.
Fury pulsed through him. He rubbed his shaved head with both hands, digging his fingers deep into his skull.
He strung together a slew of obscenities—how in the world could the horse have blown it.
A phone on the coffee table vibrated twice and then went silent. He didn't have to look to know who it was. Bert was probably texting him to gloat.
Carson clenched his jaw and bent over to look at the message.
"Tough break, bro. See you tomorrow."
Pressing his lips together, Carson nodded. He ran fingers over his smooth, shaved head. He blew air out of his nostrils like the horses on the television after their long sprint. "Tomorrow?" he mumbled, adding a few more choice adjectives to the statement. "What do you mean, tomorrow? You collect at the end of a week. I just paid you yesterday?"
"Yeah, well, funny thing about that is, we have a new policy. My associates and I are concerned about your ability to pay."
"What's that supposed to mean? I always pay. And on time."
"True," the Bordicuan said. "But like I said, new policy."
"This is bull and you know it, Bert. You can't just do that."
"You think you can tell me how to run my business? No one. No one tells me how to run my business. You understand? You're lucky I don't put the juice on what you owe right now. I took your huge bet. I doubt many bookies in Miami would have. Now you're going to insult me?"
Carson had overstepped. He wasn't afraid of Bert and his group of collectors. Even if they tracked him down to his house in Homestead, they were hardly the battle-hardened soldier he was. If Bert was foolish enough to send his goons after Carson, it would not end well for the bookie's operation.
The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set Page 10