PROTECTED. Marcus Calvert
“She’s better off dead than like this.”
Chira didn’t quite agree. But she kept her expression neutral and her mouth shut.
“It’s us against the world, you fucking shit monkey,” Spencer said with a raised voice and an unstable posture. “‘Til Hell do us part.”
Spencer cocked the hammer turned his gun barrel toward the drug lab.
“So start speaking that release phrase … or end up a third wheel on our little Hell ride.”
THE DIVA
This was a score to brag about (not that any of us ever could).
It was simple and virtually gun-free. Instead of the usual high-speed getaway driving, all I had to do was arrange transportation for a kidnapping. Tonight, I was behind the wheel of a stolen plumbing van, speeding off with the Damea Gency in the back. The twenty-three year-old pop star/actress/hostage was finer than Angelina Jolie in her pre-baby prime.
I could practically smell her money.
“Slow it down!” Curtis yelled through the partition.
I glanced down at the speedometer and realized that I was doing eighty on a two-lane California road. He was right (like always). This was speed-trap heaven. The last thing we needed was to get pulled over by some bored deputy. I got my head back into the crime, slowed down, and eyed the driver’s side mirror one more time. Nobody was near us. A few miles later, we passed a welcome sign to the great state of Nevada. A full moon lit up the flat, arid landscape like some kind of high-powered stellar flashlight.
Another hour later, we arrived at the safe house; an old, single-story ranch home with peeling white paint and a huge front lawn. A hundred feet behind the house was an ancient wooden barn that no one had ever bothered to paint. Rusty farm equipment and overgrown grass took up the rest of the place, which had definitely seen better days. As I drove up to the barn, I had to admit that it was the last place anyone would look for us.
Curtis picked the spot out last month. Lara and Eddie set up surveillance. The property belonged to Joe and Vera Wrenlip. The long-married retirees lived alone, kept assorted fish, and didn’t get out much during the week. On weekends, they shopped, went to the movies, and spent time at a local Methodist church. During the week, Vera painted landscapes. Joe spent most of his waking hours watching cable and drinking cheap beer.
Based on the phone taps, we figured that they weren’t very chatty. None of their family was nearby. The closest neighbor was over a mile away. Their only regular visitor was the mailman. If they were the victims of a Sunday evening home invasion, the Wrenlips might not be missed for days – maybe weeks. So, while Curtis and I were kidnapping the “2010 Sexiest Woman Alive,” Eddie and Lara paid the Wrenlips a visit with a 12-gauge shotgun.
Hopefully, they didn’t give Eddie any lip.
Second-generation illegal alien, Eddie was a Chi-town gangbanger with too much body art and too little temper. As a “gangsta,” he learned the in’s and out’s of breaking-and-entering (like how to case a home or plant our audio bugs), which made him useful. I also had to admit that Eddie didn’t flinch in the face of trouble. The man didn’t know when to be afraid. So he’d throw fists or lead at the drop of a hat. With this much money at stake, Curtis figured that we might need him.
Still, he was a hotheaded asshole. The dude liked pointing loaded guns at people when they upset him. But that’s why Curtis sent Lara along with him. Curtis’ fiancée was a self-taught money launderer with a Computer Science degree from MIT. Blessed with decent looks and an honest face, she was almost as good with people as Curtis. With her at the scene, Eddie would probably behave. Even he’s not stupid enough to mess things up with an itchy trigger finger … I hope.
I parked the van in the old wooden barn, right next to the two getaway cars: for when this was over. While the red Toyota Celica and the white Saturn sedan both looked like rusted, beat-up clunkers, they weren’t where it counted. I tweaked them both to the point where they’d outrun any cop car on the road.
Killing the engine, I got out of the car and went over the plan. When we were done here, we would torch the van, the barn, and their house. Curtis figured that the flames would get rid of any useful evidence. Then we’d leave Damea and the Wrenlips safely bound and gagged outside. Then we’d call 9-1-1 (on their behalf) when we were safely away.
I pulled a black ski mask out of my pocket and put it on. Even with the van’s half-assed A/C, I was sweating like shit under my blue plumber coveralls and black driving gloves. But I couldn’t take ‘em off. Underneath were the street clothes I’d wear when we left. If things went south, we could ditch the coveralls and look like normal folks inside of thirty seconds. The masks and coveralls kept the Wrenlips from getting a good look at our faces or our street clothes.
That way, we wouldn’t have to kill them.
The back of the van opened and out stepped Curtis. Built like a mid-sized quarterback, Curtis wore his coveralls over a fancy black suit. In his mid-40’s, our fearless leader could charm a lesbian straight. The brains behind this caper, my fellow ex-con could’ve hustled a legitimate fortune when he left the joint. But, like me, he just didn’t believe in an honest living.
He carefully picked up Damea Gency with both arms. The unconscious musical prodigy wore a tasteful, revealing black party dress. Her shoes were off and her toenails were unpainted. Her tanned, 5’6” frame was nothing shy of athletic, nice-tittied perfection. A black hood covered her gorgeous face and most of her long black hair. When Curtis dumped her into my arms, I was too shocked to move. He ran a hand through his styled blonde hair and flashed me a knowing smile.
“Not every day you have a diva in your arms, is it?” Curtis asked as he pulled out a gray pair of gardening gloves and put them on
“Got that right,” I whispered.
“Get her inside,” Curtis ordered, all business again.
I waited for Curtis to put on his ski mask. Then we headed for the front door. Eddie opened the door as I reached the porch. At thirty-one, he wore the same brand of blue coveralls that Curtis and I wore, along with the matching ski mask. He opted for a pair of white surgical gloves. A sawed-off 12-gauge pump was casually slung over his muscled left shoulder.
While I preferred playing basketball back in our days at Joliet, Eddie and Curtis liked to hit the free weights. Once we got out, Curtis let himself go a bit – but not Eddie. He wanted to show off his perfect pecs and thick arms until the day he died. Seeing as he was short and ugly, I could understand his need to distract the ladies.
“C’mon!” Eddie impatiently waved us in, his Mexican accent full of tension. “Inside!”
I carefully carried Damea into the living room. The air conditioner was set to full-blast (thank God!). A quick pang of guilt hit me as I noticed the dozen-plus photos of kids and grandkids all along the Wrenlips’ walls. This time tomorrow, they’d be a pile of ashes – along with the rest of the house. Curtis caught up to us as we headed for the dining room.
The table and furniture had been cleared away, leaving only the dirty beige carpeting. In its place, a stool and a portable computer station were set up. Monitor, hard-drive, and other … hacker stuff was stacked on a three-tiered rolling cart. Curtis tapped me on the back and gestured toward a corner. I gently sat Damea down so that she’d be leaning comfortably against the far corner of the room. Eddie set the shotgun down. He pulled some white rope from his pockets and quickly tied her ankles and hands together.
“Any problems with the Wrenlips?” Curtis asked.
“Not a one,” Eddie replied, half-distracted by Damea’s low-cut bustline. “I gave ‘em both a shot and waited a half-hour, like you said. They’re lights-out.”
Lara stepped out of the bathroom, also in coveralls, wearing white surgical gloves and her ski mask. Short and nervous, she stood up on her toes and gave Curtis a quick kiss through her mask. In her late 20’s, she had never done time.