“How about an airplane? Maybe they flew the money out—”
“Not a chance. We’ve checked with the airport and I’ve got a man out there now. Nothing’s taken off for the past hour and a half.”
“The bus station, then. Or the train—” The general was getting frantic.
“We’ve covered all that. Everything is under control. The only thing to do now is wait.” The sheriff belched, not bothering to take his mouth away from the telephone, and rubbed a hand over his stomach. “It’s like I said, General. They’ll lie low for a while... then try to skip the dough out a little at a time. Trickle it out. I know both of those security guards personally, General, and I know just how they’ll react. They won’t be able to sit tight for long. They’ll get restless and make their move in a day or two. And when they do... you’ll get your pay, General.”
“I’m not worried about my pay.” The words sounded as if they came through clinched teeth. “The Army has been robbed of a great deal of money. I want it returned. Now... what makes you think the security guards were responsible?”
“You mean, how do I know it was an inside job?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, now, General.” Wibber couldn’t surpress a chuckle. “It had to be an inside job... unless somebody figured out a way to steal a three ton armored car right off a crowded highway. And that ain’t possible.”
18
Route 77 is a good truck road, straight and flat, with only an occasional hill. Womack kept the rig rolling at sixty-five — five miles faster than called for in the plan — in order to make up time. A lot still depended on timing. Still, he fought down the urge to drive even faster. He couldn’t risk being stopped by a cop. Not now. Not with the load he was carrying.
He flicked a half-smoked cigarette through the window, reached in his pocket for some gum, while he fitted together in his mind the remaining segments of the plan. He raised no questions, made no guesses, made no attempt to evaluate their chances. He simply ran his finger down a mental checklist, his mind curiously numb.
Lila would be waiting with the Thunderbird in El Centro. According to the plan, she would meet them at a junction on the other side of town, then follow them along Highway 80 into the mountains. There was a road near Laguna that led to an abandoned logging camp. It was wide enough and straight enough to handle the big logging rigs. That’s where they planned to get rid of the armored car and divide the money.
Afterwards, they would go their separate ways — Lila and Sammy Travis to Los Angeles in the Thunderbird, Womack and White back to El Centro in the rig. And Wibber? Womack wondered about Wibber. Supposedly, when things cooled off, he would join Travis in LA to get his share...
That was Wibber’s problem.
Womack wasn’t sure that he heard the siren. Glancing into the rear-view mirror, he spotted the patrol car about a quarter of a mile back, red light flashing. He came as near to panicking then as he ever had. Every nerve told him to push the gas pedal to the floor. His hands tightened on the wheel. He knew that if he ran now it would be the end.
Gritting his teeth, he braked the rig gradually, pulled as far to the right as he could. The car was right behind him. It’s siren wailed. He pushed a button under the dash that activated a red warning light in the van.
Womack could see the faces of the troopers as the car rushed past. They were looking straight ahead. One of them had a rifle wedged stock-down between his legs. They were obviously hurrying to set up a roadblock somewhere ahead...
Womack reached for the button under the dash, flicked it twice, then resumed his normal speed. He concentrated on his driving. He didn’t want things to go wrong because of him. The plan was too good. Too perfect. There wasn’t a flaw in it. He looked at his watch again. Things were going off like clockwork.
Sweating, his face lined with concentration, Julio Silvera leaned close to the inside of the armored car, his ear a filter, sifting the faraway roar of the engine for a sound that might tell him something.
It was pitch dark in the hot cubicle, like the inside of an empty boiler, but he had managed to study the faces of the two men as they taped newspaper over the windows. He wouldn’t have to worry about recognizing them again. Their features were filed away in his brain. The problem now was staying alive...
With a frustrated sign, Julio groped his way back to the folding seat, and gave himself over to trying to work out a plan. His uniform was saturated with sweat. He couldn’t think clearly. The heat was beginning to fog his brain.
The interior of the van was lighted by two naked bulbs suspended from the ceiling at each end. They gave off only enough light for the two men to work by.
Bernie White crouched near the box of medical supplies. His face was twisted in pain. There was a bandage on his arm. Rolling up his sleeve, he jammed the hollow needle of a morphine surette into his arm at a point just above the bandage, then squeezed the morphine into his blood. In a few minutes the pain was completely gone and he was able to continue with what he had been doing.
He spent the next few minutes attaching a fifteen-foot length of garden hose to the exhaust of the armored car. He was thankful for the morphine in his system. It made this part of the job a little easier. Still, his fingers quivered in spite of his efforts to keep them still. He tried thinking about the money. Three quarters of a million dollars. He grinned. He was actually taking part in one of the biggest heists in criminal history. Hell... the Bulge was nothing compared to this.
And a lot of guys had to get killed at the Bulge, he rationalized. Besides, this part of the plan was Travis’ idea. He had to hand it to Travis. Travis was ruthless — without feeling, even — but he left nothing to chance.
At last White got the hose attached and passed the other end up to Travis who was stretched in a prone position on top of the armored car. There was only a foot and a half of space between the roof of the armored car and the top of the van — but Travis had been able to climb on top with amazing agility.
With aluminum foil and masking tape, Travis had sealed off the three air vents on top of the car. Poking a hole in one of the pieces of foil, he inserted the end of the hose, then he climbed back down.
“Okay, partner,” Travis said. “Turn ’er over.”
White looked very pale. He said, “You do it. My arm is killing me.”
“Sure. Sure.” Travis grinned acidly. “Remember. Just like the Bulge.”
Travis climbed into the front seat of the armored car, put his foot on the clutch pedal, shifted the transmission into neutral. Then he started the engine...
Julio felt rather than heard the engine start. He was trying desperately to think but the heat was making his head grow dizzy. Sweat trickled down his face. He opened his eyes wide but there was absolutely no light in the truck. A sudden fear rose in him. He had the feeling that it would always remain this dark for him. Frantically, he got to his feet and began groping around the truck.
Travis let the engine run for fifteen minutes, checking the hose connections frequently, careful to insure that none of the deadly carbon monoxide leaked into the van. The sound of the engine was low and steady. Once Travis thought he heard a faint moaning and catlike scratchings from the inside of the armored car. He pressed his ear against the warm metal. But there was no other sound.
At the end of the fifteen minutes, Travis climbed back into the cab of the armored car. Peeling the masking tape away from the connecting window, he flashed his light into the back. It illuminated what appeared to be a dozen canvas money sacks. Sprawled awkwardly on his face, as if he had been shot crawling under barbed wire, was the young Mexican kid. He didn’t even twitch.