“You did great back there, Frank” I say. “Are you alright?”
He smiles half-heartedly and gives a weak nod. He looks like he’s uneasy at receiving a compliment for having just taken a life — probably for the first time. He’s nervously looking around and fidgeting with his hands.
“Ever fired that gun of yours before?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“You’re a great shot,” I say with a smile, trying to help him relax and to lighten the mood a little, help take his mind off the pending onset of shock. Again, he forces a weak smile.
“Frank, it’s never easy taking a life…”
“Says the professional killer?” he scoffs.
“Yeah, says me. I’m speaking from experience. It’s never straightforward squeezing that trigger, and you should be thankful that you feel as bad as you do.”
“Thankful? Why the hell would I be thankful?”
“Because if you didn’t feel bad, or uneasy, or scared… if you felt complete indifference to the fact someone is no longer breathing because of you… you’d be me. And you wouldn’t want that, trust me. Being me sucks.”
He regards me for a moment in silence, then turns and walks through to the front, sitting down in the passenger seat and staring out across the parking lot.
“Halle-fucking-lujah!” Josh shouts.
“Good news?” I ask.
“I was able to use what I saved from my laptop, and we’re good to go, Boss. I literally press this button, and we steal quarter of a billion dollars from Wilson Trent and hide it in plain sight across the country until such time as you wanna keep it all in my bank account!”
I look at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Okay, your bank account…”
“Better…” I say with a smile. I check the time. Despite the unexpected setback, we’re still on track for my plan to work. “Do it,” I say.
Josh smiles, looked down at the Return key on his laptop, and, with a brief moment of ceremony, presses it.
“Boom!” he exclaims. “You now have two hundred and fifty million dollars… Drinks on you?”
I laugh, and we bump fists. This is a huge victory for us, and much needed, given the last couple of hours. But we still have a long way to go.
“C’mon, we need to get moving.”
“Where?” he asks.
I smile. “I’ll fill you in as you drive.”
Josh is driving with me next to him. Frank’s sitting on the sofa in the back in silence. I figure it’s best to leave him to it, let him deal with things in his own way. The poor guy has really been thrown in at the deep end, and the last twenty-four hours have been really tough on him.
Having called ahead for directions, we pull up outside Oscar Brown’s other warehouse complex — his smaller one in Pittsburgh. Well, I say smaller, but the place is still huge. There are two massive buildings directly in front of us, which look like aircraft hangars. There’s another, smaller building over on the left, which Oscar told me to head for.
We get out and make our way across the broken, wet concrete. I check the time on my phone. I hope to God that he’s here — there are no signs of life, and we’re cutting it fine as it is.
“Where are we?” asks Frank as he climbs out behind us.
“Second home of the world’s first illegal arms supermarket,” I reply.
“Sorry I asked…” he mutters to himself.
As we approach, the door in front of us opens and Oscar Brown appears with a big smile on his face. “You found it okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say. “Sorry to drag you halfway across the state on short notice, but time is of the essence. I need a… specialty item.”
He regards me for a moment, sensing the tone and the mood. “Step into my office,” he says, beckoning me with his hand.
I turn to Josh. “You wait here with Frank,” I say. “I won’t be a minute.”
“What you got up your sleeve, Boss?” he asks with a frown.
I smile and follow Oscar into the warehouse.
We’re parked outside the service entrance at the back of Heinz Field. I’ve just finished explaining my plan to Josh and Frank, and they seem impressed, despite some initial concerns.
“You’re crazy,” says Frank, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re actually certifiable, you know that?”
“It’s been pointed out to me once or twice, yeah,” I reply. “So, are you in?”
He gestures with his arms in mild exasperation. “Why the hell not…”
I smile and turn to Josh, raising an eyebrow and silently asking him the same question.
“I just don’t understand… when did your Inner Satan start making insane, yet beautifully intelligent, schemes like this one?”
“What can I say?” I reply. “I got inspired, I guess. Unique circumstances… unique approach.”
“Unique? Good — because it’s really weird not being the brains behind this outfit!”
We laugh and get out of the Winnebago. I instinctively check my guns at my back by tapping both barrels. Josh stretches and cracks his neck and shoulders, as if he’s limbering up for a workout. Inside, Frank lowers the window, having slide into the driver’s seat. Leaning out, he looks at me.
“I’ll pull up over there,” he says, pointing to an empty area of the parking lot. “See you on the other side.”
“Thanks, Frank. I appreciate your help with all this.”
He nods and gives me a tired half-smile before driving off, leaving Josh and me standing side by side.
“You ready?” I ask.
“Ready,” he replies.
We bump fists and walk over to the service entrance, where security and catering companies come and go during game days. The door’s open, and we can see one security guard just inside. Ahead of us, two men wearing red t-shirts enter, flashing the guard the passes they have attached to a lanyard that hangs around their necks.
“I’ll handle him,” I say, striding forward ahead of Josh.
“I bet you will…” I hear him say behind me.
I walk through the door, and the security guard stands up from the stool he was sitting on, holding out his hand to stop us. He’s a tall, dark-skinned man, very broad — just on the overweight side of well-built. He has short black hair and a thin moustache. He’s dressed in jeans and a navy blue jacket.
“Got ya pass?” he asks.
“Y’know, I’ve gone and left it in my car,’ I say, patting my pockets as if searching for it. “But I’m running really late, can you just let me past and I’ll come and get it on my break later.”
The guard’s face is expressionless, almost bored. He’s probably heard it all a thousand times before. “No pass, no entry,” he says.
I sigh. Why doesn’t anyone ever just accept the story I tell them? Why do they always have to give just enough of a shit about whatever they do to make me have to resort to plan B?
Without another word, I leap forward and smash my forehead into the bridge of his nose. He’s about my height, which means I’m able to get the perfect angle as my head arches forward. I connect sweetly, and the guard falls backward like a tree and sprawls out on the floor.
Josh appears behind me, walking past, and stepping over the unconscious body with an exaggerated lunge.
“Smooth…” he says.
“I did try the subtle approach,” I reply, defensively. “He just wasn’t buying it.”
He turns around and starts walking backward as he speaks. He holds his arms out to the sides. “Well, God loves a trier!” he says with a laugh. As he turns back around, he bumps into a caterer coming out of one of the rooms on the left. “Ah, jeez… sorry, man,” he says.