Yet here he was, making threats, or at least the insinuation of a threat merely by asking about being insulted.
Carson knew he could kill the man if he wanted, along with all the guys on his payroll, but that would bring with it an entire slew of problems, not to mention he wouldn't be able to get any of his money back.
For now, Carson decided the only thing to do was play along, kiss the ring, and make things good with Bert. In the back of his mind, though, Carson began formulating a plan.
Bert had to keep his money somewhere, and most of it couldn't be in a bank. He likely had multiple cash operations going, filtering and scrubbing his dirty, untaxed money until it was cleaner than a general's shoes.
"I'll be there," Carson said.
"I knew you were good for it. I'll see you tomorrow."
The call ended abruptly with Carson still hanging onto the device.
He'd just lost a significant portion of his remaining money. And only one thought kept knocking at the back door of Carson's mind. I can get it back. One way or another.
Nine
Miami
Dak listened to the conversation through the wall from his seat in the back of the bar. One of the few devices he'd picked up from his stash in Tennessee was an audio amplification device that could pick up details of sound from sixty yards away. There was more powerful tech out there, but this one was portable and could fit under the folds of a jacket or the pockets of cargo shorts, as was the case when he walked into the bar. The half-domed unit was a smaller version of what could be seen any Sunday on the sidelines of football games.
Walking into the bar twenty minutes before, Dak seated himself at an empty table in the back.
There were only five other patrons in the bar at the time, which wasn't a surprise since it was the middle of a workday. As such, the bartender handled all the serving and pouring duties for the entire establishment. Dak imagined two or three servers would show up in the next hour or two before the end of the business day began dumping weary, thirsty customers through the doors.
Dak had arrived in time to hear Bert talking to at least one of his goons in the back office. The gray door into the room was marked with a placard that read "Manager." The table Dak chose shared the wall with the office, which made it the perfect place for listening to any conversations held within.
Dak lowered the radio earpiece to his pocket and took a sip of the golden lager he'd been nursing. He enjoyed the beer and would have already downed it and at least one more in the time he'd been there if he weren't working, but he had to keep his wits.
Dak watched the young bartender with the handlebar mustache making his rounds to check on other patrons, the brown apron hanging from his neck flapping in the breeze. The bar looked like a million others Dak had seen in his life. Dark wood panels covered the façade of the main counter. Bottles of every liquor variety festooned the shelves behind it. To the left of the mirrored shelves, ten taps jutted out from the wall to provide patrons with draft beer varying from IPAs to a locally made coffee stout, and a few ales and lagers in between.
Unlike most bars with that design and layout, this one allowed a decent amount of sunlight through the windows. Even with the mesh blinds pulled down to keep the interior temperatures lower, it was probably the most well-lit saloon Dak had ever visited.
The young bartender approached after checking on the other drinkers and stopped at Dak's table.
His wavy, black hair matched the mustache against a backdrop of bronze skin. Dak figured he probably went straight to the beach across the street after every shift.
"Can I get you anything or are you good?" the young man asked.
"No, I'm good," Dak said. "Although," he added, "I do have a question."
"Sure."
Dak cocked his head to the side and took a swig of beer, a larger gulp than the previous. He swallowed and set the glass down.
"I'm looking for someone."
"Okay." The bartender looked confused. "Can you elaborate?"
"I'm looking for a Puerto Rican guy named Bert. I hear he runs this place. Is there any chance I could talk to him?"
The bartender shifted uneasily. "I'm sorry, what's this about? Bert is usually pretty busy."
Dak's eyes panned the room and then landed on the brown orbs belonging to the younger man. "Yeah, I'm sure he's overwhelmed with running the business." He gave the sarcastic remark a second to register with the barkeep.
Before the guy could protest, Dak went on. "I'm looking for a job. Was hoping I could speak to the manager. That's all."
The bartender shifted nervously. The name tag clinging to his apron jiggled.
Dak noticed the name for the second time.
"I don't think we're hiring, sir."
"Josh. That's your name?"
"Yes, sir."
"Would you mind just asking for me? If Bert says no, I'll be on my way." Dak produced a hundred-dollar bill and slid it across the table. "Just walk over there," he pointed at the management office door, "give it a knock, and ask if he can see someone about a job. If he says no, you keep this money. If he says yes, you keep this money. Either way, you win a hundred bucks for taking five steps to that door and asking your boss a simple question."
Dak's eyes scanned the room again and then met Josh's once more. "I doubt any of these scamps are going to tip that well."
Josh licked his lips and then chewed on the bottom one, contemplating the offer. His eyes filled with the things he could do with an extra hundred.
"Okay," he said and reached out for the money.
Dak pulled it back temporarily. "You're not going to run off with this, are you?"
"What?" Josh asked, sincerely curious.
"I'm kidding," Dak said. He slid the money across the table and leaned back, hefting the beer glass to his mouth again.
Josh nodded and scooped the money into his hand and stuffed it into his pocket. He glanced around the room as if he'd just broken some law, then ambled over to the manager's office.
He hesitated at the doorway and looked over to Dak, who urged him on with a raise of the glass. "Go on," Dak mouthed.
Josh licked his lips again and then raised a fist. He rapped on the door three times and took a step back.
Ten seconds passed before the doorknob twisted. The hinges creaked as someone inside pulled it open.
"What?" a gruff voice asked. This one had a New York City accent, though Dak couldn't place which borough.
"Sorry to bother you," Josh said. "There's a guy here who said he's looking for a job. Wanted to talk to Bert."
"What are you talking about?" the man said.
"He's over there if you'd like to see him." Josh pointed to Dak and a second later, a man in his thirties with a dark tan leaned out. He was wearing a black tank top that revealed several tattoos stretched across his muscular arms and up the sides of his neck.
"We're not hiring," the guy said. "You can check one of the other bars."
Dak nodded and looked down at the beer in his hand. "I'm sorry," he offered. "I thought Josh told you I was asking for Bert. You're obviously not him."
The man stepped out of the doorway and into the bar. He wore white shorts with his blacktop, along with black sneakers. It was a strange look for an enforcer, though Dak wasn't surprised—things were different in Miami. This guy was clearly a transplant, though how he came to work for Bert probably had an interesting backstory.
"What was that?" the guard said.
Dak took another sip of the beer and set the glass on the table. "I said, I wanted to talk to Bert about a job. You're not him. Bert's a Bordicuan," Dak said, using the native term for Puerto Rican he knew the bar's owner would recognize. He even said the word with an authentic accent from the town of Rincon, a place he'd visited several times before.
"For someone looking for a job, you got a lot of nerve, punk," the grunt said. He took a threatening step toward Dak with the obvious intention of attempting to cause physical harm, or at the very least, toss
him out of the establishment.
Dak didn't move. His heartbeat remained steady.
"That's fine," he said. "I didn't realize you made the managerial decisions here. I guess I'll just be on my way."
"That's probably a good idea," Tank Top replied. "And I'll be happy to show you out."
The man reached down to grab Dak by the arm. Within a split second, Dak snatched the man's wrist and jerked the muscular arm down while picking up a fork and driving it straight at a vulnerable throat. He stopped at the precise moment the prongs touched flesh.
The guard's eyes erupted with fury, but he couldn't move, he didn't dare.
Dak felt the man's strength. The guy looked the type who spent hours every day at the gym, lifting the heaviest weights possible. Keeping him from backing away took every ounce of strength Dak could muster, but the fork at the man's neck certainly helped.
"I just wanted to ask Bert about a job," Dak said. "There's no reason anyone should get hurt."
"Let him go," a new voice spoke from the doorway. It was the same accented voice from before.
Dak turned his head and looked at the man standing between him and the retreating bartender. His long, black hair was pulled back into a ponytail that lapped over the top of his back. Streaks of gray in it and his matching beard betrayed an age probably in his mid to late fifties. Bert wore a light blue button-up shirt and faded beige linen pants with brown leather flip-flops.
"You're looking for a job?" Bert asked. "You don't look like the kind of guy who wants to wash dishes."
Dak chuckled. "You'd be surprised." He let go of the guard and the man stumbled back. Rage burned in his eyes.
"Deno," Bert said. "Get a couple of drinks for us. I'm curious to hear what kind of work this man is looking for."
Deno's right eye twitched. A vein pulsed on his tanned forehead and two more raised under the skin of his neck. "Yes, sir."
The guard turned reluctantly and walked over to the bar.
Bert smiled at Dak. It was a humble gesture, but also one a boa constrictor might give a mouse just before wrapping its body around the unsuspecting prey.
He motioned to the open door. "By all means, please come in. We shouldn't disturb my customers."
Dak nodded, downed the rest of his beer, and stood. "Much obliged."
Ten
Miami
Dak followed Bert into his office. The mere fact the bookie turned his back to Dak either showed a lack of awareness or the absence of fear.
Deno followed them in with two tumblers, each with a couple of fingers of whiskey sloshing around.
"Please, have a seat." Bert motioned to a vinyl chair with metal arms. There was a second one just like it a few feet away. They were the kind of chairs you'd see in a used car dealership or the waiting room of a doctor's office.
The office looked as Dak expected; a gray leather couch against the back wall, facing a television hanging from the opposite corner. An open door led into a small, private bathroom. To the right, a metal relic from the 1980s served as a desk.
Bert slumped down into a deep red, high back leather chair. It was the only furniture in the room that possessed the slightest hint of taste.
Deno set the drinks down on the desk, one in front of his boss and the other on the edge closest to Dak. He didn't say anything, but the twisted scowl on his face expressed his displeasure at having to serve the stranger. He backed away and slinked into the other chair like a pouting child.
"So," Bert said, throwing his hands up in the air, "what kind of work are you looking for? I assume you're not inquiring about a dishwashing position."
"Not exactly," Dak said. "I've already done that gig."
Bert let out a short chortle. "You don't strike me as the dishwasher type."
"A guy has to do whatever he can to get by."
The boss sized him up, eyeing him for several seconds before speaking again. "Indeed. So, what is it you want? I don't need bartenders or servers either if that's what you were thinking. But something tells me it isn't. You looking to gamble?"
"Not quite."
"Yeah, I thought that wasn't the case either. But you know about my operation." It wasn't a question.
"I do."
Bert nodded, "I don't suppose you'll tell me how you know about it. So, if you're not going to place a bet and you're not here to do regular work, am I to assume you're looking for a job as part of my security?"
"You're getting closer. But I'm not here for a job." Dak put the confession out on the table and waited to see how the man would respond. He could easily take it as a threat, but no fear streaked through Bert's eyes, no confusion cluttered his lips.
"There it is," he said. "But if you were a cop, you'd already be taking me outside or maybe trying to make a deal with me."
"Definitely not a cop," Dak offered. "I'm here to help you."
The Puerto Rican laughed again, this time a huge bellow. He looked over at Deno as he continued to laugh and the New Yorker joined in with an uncomfortable chuckle.
"Help me?" Bert said amid the laughter. "What are you going to help me with?"
"I'm going to keep someone from robbing and killing you."
The display slowly died as Bert stared at the visitor. The room descended into silence and the boss wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, drying tears that dribbled down his cheeks.
"Who is going to try to kill me? I'm not sure if you noticed, but that's what I have Deno for. Not to mention a crew of guys who watch my back."
Dak merely nodded at the information. "I'm sure you do. None of them, Deno included, are going to be able to save you when this guy comes for you. He's former Special Forces. He's killed more men than you can imagine, in ways you can't and don't want to fathom." He turned to Deno. "No offense. You seem more than capable."
Deno responded with an offer for Dak to go do something lewd.
"Thank you for that," Dak said. He returned his gaze to the boss behind the desk. "You just got off the phone with him a few minutes ago. I imagine he placed a large wager with you, one that you normally wouldn't take. But you couldn't help yourself, could you, Bert?"
For the first time since meeting him, Bert's face cracked slightly. The tough, fearless exterior melted, and curiosity and fear dripped into his eyes.
"How do you know that? How the—"
"I know because I know your client, Bert. I served with him in Iraq."
The concern deepened on Bert's face and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "You served with Baker? In Special Forces?"
"Delta Force, actually," Dak corrected. "Yes. And his name isn't Baker Tomason. It's Carson Williams. You just told him he needed to come in tomorrow to settle that big debt he just piled up on you."
Deno shifted backward and stood up out of his chair. He drew a pistol from his hip and pointed it at Dak, aiming for the visitor's temple.
"He's a cop," Deno accused.
"If I'm a cop," Dak said, keeping his eyes locked on Bert, "then I wouldn't be telling you this. I would be here for you, not Carson. Let me assure you, Bert, I am here for one person. And it's not either of you."
Bert rubbed his beard, contemplating whether to have the intruder executed or to let him live.
"Why should I believe you?" he asked. "How do you have that kind of information if you're not a cop?"
"We can sit here all day as I try to explain to you that I'm not a cop. Just know this, Carson will come to see you tomorrow. I doubt he's going to come to pay his debt. How much does he owe you right now?"
"A few million," Bert said after a slight hesitation. Something about this visitor's line of questioning piqued the Puerto Rican's interest.
"Sounds about right," Dak said. "He's addicted to the rush. I've seen it before when we were on missions. His adrenaline would get going and he couldn't stop himself sometimes. He needs the excitement, the risk. He feeds off it."
"What's your point?"
Dak tilted his head to the side and shrugged. "
He's probably going to try to rob you."
Bert replied with an uneasy laugh. "Rob me? How would he do that?"
"A couple of million bucks is a lot of money, Bert. If I was a betting man, I'd wager Carson is going to call you back in a few minutes and ask if he can bring the money directly to your home instead of this place. He'll say something along the lines of feeling unsafe about bringing such a large sum downtown or to a bar. Your house, he'll say, will be a safer place to do the exchange."
"He doesn't know where I live."
"That you're aware," Dak corrected. "Carson probably knows the name of your cat."
Bert scowled at the insinuation.
"I know you have a cat, Bert. I can see the traces of fur on your shirt."
The man looked down abruptly and brushed the fabric with his hands. Then he looked over at Deno and motioned for him to lower the weapon.
Dak continued. "Carson probably still has plenty of money, Bert. But he hates losing. Especially large sums. He's probably starting to get a little nervous. Most gamblers would just keep betting until their well ran dry. Not Carson. Now that he senses things are spiraling out of control, he's going to make a play. Tell me, do you keep a safe at your home, perhaps where you stash a bunch of cash, maybe some precious metals?"
Bert shifted in his chair, a dead giveaway of the truth. "Okay, you know what?" He drew his pistol and pointed it at Dak's head. The gun was impractical, a .44 Magnum that could have blown a hole through the wall behind Dak after the bullet obliterated his skull. Not a great weapon for concealment or for moving around.
Dak never flinched.
"That's the fifth-largest weapon I've had pointed at me this year," he said coolly. "Just wait, Bert. Carson will call you soon and when he does, he will ask if he can bring the money to your place. If he doesn't say that, then you can shoot me right here. I won't put up a fight. But if he does make that request, you will need my help."
"Oh, yeah? And what's in it for you? You some kind of guardian angel wandering the streets of Miami?"
The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set Page 11