Dak shook his head. "No. I'm here to right a wrong Carson did to me. What's in it for you is if you let me have him, I'll let you have whatever he has left in his coffers. My guess is, it's probably at least a million."
Bert's face tightened with doubt, jaw clenching and releasing as he pondered the offer and its legitimacy. "And how would you know about his… coffers?"
"Let's just say I know where Carson got his fortune. Anything beyond that is classified." He paused for a second and then cracked a mischievous grin.
Bert snorted. Then nodded. "Classified," he said, looking at Deno. Bert wiped his nose with his free hand. "You know, I've never seen a guy with two guns pointed at him act so calm. Usually, people are begging for their lives right about now."
"Do you normally put two guns on someone when they come to do business with you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I don't owe you money, Bert. I'm here to give you money. And the only catch is, you play along and let me have Carson."
The Puerto Rican stroked his beard again with his free hand, the other rested on the desk still clutching the hand cannon. A minute ticked by, though it felt more like an hour in a defensive driving class.
His phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket. Perturbed, Bert reached into his pants and pulled out the phone. He looked at the number and his brow tensed.
"Do me a favor," Dak said. "Don't tell him I'm here."
Bert answered the phone. "What is it… Baker? I hope you aren't going to try to skip out of town on me."
Dak heard a forced laugh and then some inaudible noise. He waited patiently, listening to Bert's end of the exchange. The boss finally ended the discussion with a "Sure, you can come by my place. That sounds like a good plan. I'll text you the address."
When Bert ended the call, he stared at Dak with bewildered eyes.
"Told you," Dak said dryly.
"Okay," Bert replied after a short deliberation. He uncocked the weapon and set it to the side. He motioned to Deno, and the bodybuilder wannabe reluctantly lowered his pistol. "I'm normally the one who deals with gamblers, but I'm willing to take a chance on you. But before I hear your plan, I'm going to need to know your name."
"My name is Dak. That's all you need to know."
"All right, Dak. What are we going to do?"
Eleven
Miami
Carson woke early the next morning to begin preparations.
He pulled most of his firearms from their concealed locations in his home: a few from the gun safe in the study, one from a desk, and another two from behind a secret RFID activated panel that doubled as a bookshelf. He stuffed the guns into a bag along with eight spare magazines.
He doubted he would need that many rounds, but it was better to have too much than too little.
Carson did a drive-by of Bert's palatial home the night before. He pulled up to the curb a half block away to admire the two-story mansion. He envied all of it: the red-tiled roof, the white stucco wall surrounding the property that matched the home's exterior, and the lush palm trees sprouting up to the height of the rooftops. It was the picture of pure luxury in every sense of the word.
Not that Carson was doing badly. His home was more than enough for him, with over four thousand square feet of space and all the luxury he could ever want. The location, though, wasn't ideal. It was situated in Homestead, nearer to the Everglades. While Homestead was a great place, he longed to be closer to the nightlife he craved; he feasted on. The bars, nightclubs, beaches, and the entire scene around the islands and South Beach beckoned to him.
While Bert's place wasn't in the hub of the party zone, Carson knew that if he were to acquire a home such as Bert's, the party would come to him—and be much more inviting than his current residence.
He didn't risk getting out of the car during his recon mission, instead driving by at normal speed once he'd taken a look from a few hundred feet away.
With a tertiary understanding of the home's layout and no sign of any exterior security forces, he drove to the end of the street, turned around, and sped home.
Now, with the bag full of everything he figured he needed, Carson zipped it up and lugged it into the kitchen where a full pot of coffee waited.
The earthy, nutty smell of the brew called to him as it filled his home. It was already half-past ten in the morning and he was way overdue for a second cup of joe, having already had his first before his routine morning workout.
He set the rucksack down next to the front door, ambled over to the coffeepot, and poured the steaming brown liquid into a to-go mug. With the lid secure, he walked back to the door and hefted the bag over one shoulder.
The drive at this time of day offered little in the way of traffic. In three or four hours, however, the roads would be packed with commuters. Carson planned on being in and out of Bert's in less than thirty minutes, though he believed he could pull off the heist in less than half that time.
In his mind, he went over the exterior of the house. That wouldn't matter much since there had been no guards by the gate or at the front door. He concluded that Bert kept most of his men inside with only a superficial offering of security outside.
The plan was simple. Bert expected Carson to show up to pay his debt. That meant getting in would be easy enough. Once inside, Bert would probably invite him into his study or maybe the living room for a drink to exchange the money. Bert was a bookie, but he wasn't an animal. The man possessed at least a modicum of civility.
Carson would set down the bag, letting Bert and his men assume it was the money. If any of them got close to it, Carson would take that person out first, then kill any other guards in the room.
All of his weapons were equipped with suppressors, but even with the muted effect of the silencers, any other guards in the building would probably hear what was happening.
They would rush to help their boss, and Carson would be ready to cut down. Then he would ransack the place. He'd take Bert for every nickel he had hidden. Carson was certain there would be a horde of cash stuffed in vaults or safes free for the taking.
He'd let Bert live, though Carson knew the Puerto Rican would probably have to be shot in the shoulder or leg. After all his men were dead, Bert would give up the combinations or codes to any security box or safe he had in the building. Only then would Carson give him the mercy of a bullet through the head.
The plan played out in Carson's mind as he crossed the bridge onto Allison Island and made a left onto the avenue leading to Bert's place.
He pulled the Aston Martin up to the gate and rolled down the window. His high-end luxury car would have fit in anywhere Miami elites preferred to be, and this neighborhood was no different.
He looked out the window at a tiny fisheye camera set in a four-foot-high concrete pillar with a keypad beneath it. For a second, he wondered if he had to dial a number or something, but then the gate raised from the right side.
Carson drove through and parked the car in a guest parking area off to the right of the driveway. The red and gray paving stones continued farther, passing under an archway where a guest house or perhaps a maintenance building was attached to the main house by a covered walkway.
A quick check at his ankle told him the extra firearm concealed under his gray slacks was still intact.
He got out of the car, walked to the back, and pulled the rucksack out of the trunk before turning and heading toward the front door.
Still no security. No guards stepped out of the building to welcome or threaten him. It was odd, but not everyone was as careful or borderline paranoid as him.
He looked back at the gate as it lowered into place and then walked purposefully to the arched entryway of the mansion. He climbed the four steps and paused at the massive oak door. It featured reliefs of angels and demons carved into its surface and a boxed wrought iron cage in the middle near the top where anyone inside could look out to check who dared visit.
Carson reached over and pressed the doorbell button and waited.
An inter
com speaker over the button crackled and then Bert's voice came through, "Thank you for coming, Baker. I appreciate it. The door is open, come on in. I'm in my study. Straight ahead and then make a right through the living room. It's the open door past the grand piano."
That was odd, Carson thought. Then again, Bert was odd, and unaware of any danger that might be lurking just outside his home, specifically in the form of Carson Williams.
Carson nodded and pressed the latch, pushed open the heavy door, and stepped inside.
Twelve
Miami
Standing inside the mansion's foyer, Carson looked around, rapidly taking in the interior's layout. Bert's laziness in not greeting him at the door, or the very least, sending one of his goons to let the guest in, could prove to be a grave error.
Twin staircases on either side of the atrium twisted up to the second level. The oak banister atop a wrought iron railing matched the door. Red Spanish tiles covered the floor and ran toward the back of the house, passing under an archway where the two staircases met. Plants adorned the windows and alcoves.
No pictures lined the walls, which was no surprise. Bert didn't have a wife or children, and posting pictures of himself on vacations would be vain even for a man like him.
Carson checked to make sure his untucked shirt hung over the pistol at his side. The gun was tucked into the inner portion of his pants, but he welcomed any extra concealment he could utilize.
A guard stepped out from a doorway with a grin on his face. Carson immediately recognized the grinning, muscular man.
"What's up, Deno?" Carson said, casually. "Where's the boss?" He tried to act as normal as possible for someone who was supposedly about to give up a fortune on a gambling debt. Act too happy, and Deno might suspect something was up. Act too abrasive, and there could be trouble before Carson wanted. Everything needed to follow a specific set of plans before any violence took place. Most importantly, Carson had to be the one to initiate it. Being on the defensive was fine, but in this situation, he wanted to be the one who shot first.
"Here to pay up?" Deno asked in a gloating tone.
"Yeah," Carson said. "You could say that." He didn't want to overplay his hand, but he wasn't going to give this idiot any satisfaction. He looked like he was a reject from one of those New Jersey Shore reality shows. His T-shirt was too small, probably intentionally to show off his bulging muscles. He struck Carson as the kind of tool who'd hit the gym just before a date so he could look as muscular as possible.
"Big hit you took yesterday, bro. I hope you got more where that came from." He held a toothpick between his fingers and twirled it for a few seconds before slipping it into his mouth. He spied the bag on Carson's shoulder. "The money in there?"
"Yep."
"Hand it over and I'll take it to the boss." Deno took a step toward the visitor.
"No," Carson said. "I'll take it to him myself."
"Whoa," Deno said, putting his hands up innocently. "I was just trying to help, but be my guest. Straight ahead, amigo. Make a right. You'll find the man in his study."
"Yeah, I know. Past the grand piano."
Deno nodded. "I'll be here if you need anything," he said and turned to go back into the kitchen.
Idiot, Carson thought. I will definitely kill him.
He briefly considered shooting him in the back right then and there, but doing so would tip off the entire fortress and send an alarm to every nook and cranny in the compound.
Still, Carson hadn't seen any other guards. With all the resources at Bert's disposal, how could he be so careless?
Carson tossed aside the questions and sauntered through the archway into the great room at the rear of the building. Giant windows reached to the vaulted ceiling, making the entire back wall look like it was made of glass. Through the extravagant windows, a long pool stretched away from the house, surrounded by lounge chairs and sofas, drink tables, and two round tables shaded by dark green umbrellas.
Beyond the pool, waves crashed onto a private strip of the coast where a skiff was moored to a dock. Out beyond that, a white sixty-foot yacht bobbed in the ocean.
I'm on the wrong side of the gambling business, Carson realized.
He turned and noted the grand piano to his right. The glossy black finish glistened in the light of a Swarovski chandelier hanging in the center of the room.
Bert certainly enjoyed opulence. Well, he did.
The Puerto Rican had no idea he was about to die. If he did have a clue, Carson was certain he would have taken drastic measures. His mind momentarily drifted to the final scene of the film Scarface and the assault on the drug lord's mansion.
Carson shook off the daydream and made his way past the piano to a doorway leading into a darkened room. The only light came from the windows along the far wall and a wall to his left.
When he reached the threshold, he rapped on the door four times. "Bert? You in here?"
"In here, Baker," the Puerto Rican said. "Come in."
Carson stepped into the study and found himself in a world Ernest Hemingway would have loved. The smell of cigar smoke hung in the air, drifting up from a thick cigar pinched between Bert's fingers. The man sat in a deep leather club chair to the right. An empty one waited next to him. A gas fireplace behind the seats flickered with yellow flames, certainly more for ambiance than the necessity for heat.
More windows filled the back wall, and dozens of bookshelves filled with tomes surrounded the fireplace. A white leather couch sat in front of the windows to the left with matching side chairs and a coffee table with an oak top and legs wrapped in wicker reeds.
"I didn't know you were such an avid reader," Carson commented coolly as he stepped deeper into the room.
"I enjoy a bit of good fiction now and then," Bert confessed. "Though most of these are collectibles, rare first editions."
His eyes wandered to the bag on Carson's shoulder. "That's a lot of cash to carry around. Weren’t you worried about someone trying to steal it?"
Carson offered a snort. "Not at all." He heard his deep voice echo throughout the room.
"I know I would."
"You aren't me."
Bert took a puff of the cigar and blew smoke out of his lips. Tight rings swelled and floated into the air, then dispersed after hovering for a few seconds.
"True." He looked at the cigar box. "Would you like a smoke?"
"I don't smoke," Carson said. "Thank you." He lowered the bag to his hand. "Where would you like me to put this?"
Bert twitched slightly. Over there on that couch is fine," he said, pointing to the leather sofa along the far wall.
"Suit yourself."
Carson turned to head over to the couch, his mind already setting the plan in motion. He'd altered it in the few minutes since arriving. Without any guards except for Deno in sight, Carson would shoot Bert first and let the muted gunshot and the man's screams for help call for anyone else in the mansion. They would rush through the open door without realizing they were running headlong into a trap. They'd be cut down before they realized what happened. One by one, Bert's men would die on the floor of his study and then, Bert would die too, but only after he gave up the information Carson wanted about where he kept his treasures. Although, right off the top of his head, Carson realized those first editions might fetch a handsome price. His brain darted to the mysterious German who'd bought the artifacts and treasure horde.
"Over here?" Carson asked, pointing to the white couch.
Bert rolled his eyes. "Is there another white sofa there? Yes, that one." He sounded irritated and went back to puffing on his cigar.
Carson was going to enjoy this. He hadn't killed anyone in a while. Honestly, he hadn't missed it, but now he was starting to.
He walked silently over to the couch and set down the bag. He started to unzip it, but Bert's voice stopped him.
"That's good," he said. The voice was much closer than it should have been.
Carson twisted his head and loo
ked over his shoulder. Bert was standing halfway across the room, holding a .44 Magnum.
"What are you doing, Bert?" Carson asked with a tenuous laugh.
Bert's eyes filled with nervous tension. "Step away from the bag and put your hands up, slowly."
Carson put on his best confused-face as he gradually raised his left hand.
"Both of them," Deno said from the doorway, also brandishing a weapon. His was a gaudy, gold plated number. If Carson had to guess, he'd say it was a Desert Eagle, though it was unlike any he'd seen before. These two preferred show guns."
Carson sighed and raised his right hand into the air.
"Step away from the bag," Bert repeated.
"Fine," Carson agreed. "But I don't know what you think you're doing. I brought the money like you asked."
"Yeah, I doubt it. Move over there, toward the side door."
Carson frowned and risked a glance at the proffered door. It led to a garden, surrounded by a hedgerow that towered at least seven feet high. A birdbath outside one of the windows played host to a collection of red and yellow songbirds. Flowers of several colors lined a small yard that ran behind a concrete pool deck.
"What's your plan here, Bert?" Carson said, the serpent inside him finally revealing its true colors. "You going to kill me? If you think that, you're making a big mistake."
"No," Bert said. "I'm not going to kill you."
Two more guards stepped into the room and surrounded Carson on both sides. One removed the sidearm from his right hip. The other searched his legs and found the .38 on his ankle.
How did they know?
One of the guards unzipped the bag and found the stash of extra weapons and magazines.
He looked over at the bookie and nodded.
Bert shook his head. "You were going to kill me. Such a shame. You were a good customer. You know, I don't want to be the guy who killed the golden goose."
"You said you're not going to kill me," Carson pressed.
The two guards pointed their weapons at him, taking a cautious step back.
The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set Page 12