“Owsley gonna be there?”
“Don’t matter. Nothing gonna go down.”
Russell started to fit the gun into his pocket.
“Gimme that back.” Bax extended his palm.
“I thought—”
“Gotta load it.” Bax took a magazine from the tin, slapped it in, and racked the slide. “You think Ima let you wave around a loaded gun in here?”
Bax had set up Berberian’s most recent burner to text QUEENS GO when he pushed just one button, but he had to wear a jacket loose enough to keep the flip phone both open and hidden. He felt like a damn fool in one of Russell’s pimped-out hip-hop jackets.
When Owsley gave him a critical glare, Bax jerked his head at his brother. “It’s his OG jacket.” Rolled his eyes. “Told me he’d feel better if I wore it.”
“That coat, all his shiny banger shoes — he must be joking.”
“I don’t even know where he gets those shoes. But I’m his only family.”
Owsley nodded, then shook his head.
“I hear you.” Bax extended his fist for a bump and was gratified when Owsley did the same.
“I got the boys from Tyler,” the Audi guy said through the radio. “Two blue box trucks and a white Escalade.”
“Tyler is in the house,” Bax replied. “Any sign of San Leon?”
“I think they missed the turn and gotta come back around.” The Jaguar guy, his only other labor outside, was on the northeast approach. “Two Ryder trucks just went by on the — yeah, here they are. Two yellow moving vans and a... ah, shit, they got like a minivan.” Laughter on the open channel. “A black Chrysler.”
“Good. Don’t make fun of their minivan, right? Get them backed up to the docks. Tyler at four and five, San Leon at fourteen and fifteen.”
In the dispatch office, Bax couldn’t hear anything outside, but he felt the bumps as the trucks hit the loading docks. “Tyler good?” Bax said into his radio.
“One truck at four,” Audi said, “and one truck at five.”
“San Leon good?”
“Fourteen and fifteen,” Jaguar said.
Bax pushed the buttons that opened those doors. The Bandidos’ and Cossacks’ rented trucks were lower and smaller than the big rigs the docks had been built for, and sunlight mixed with the overhead fluorescents. A breeze swirled crispy leaves through the Cossacks’ bay.
Bax told Audi and Jaguar to let the dealmakers through the staff doors on each side. “Then you guys head back to the shop. Clock in Russell when you get there, and then make sure that container we emptied out is completely shredded.”
Moments later the Bandidos’ and Cossacks’ leaders entered their respective loading bays. Audi and Jaguar pointed their buyers at Bax perched in the dispatch office. They could see him, but neither could see over or through the concrete wall on top of the state line.
Bax hit the speaker switch for the loading bays. “I’m Bax. We talked last night. Up here are my associates, Owsley and Russell.”
Cossacks and Bandidos began drifting out of the box trucks. They carried shotguns and rifles. A couple waved wicked-looking machine pistols. Half established a perimeter, half trained their weapons on the dispatch office.
“This look like the deal we talked about?” Bax said through the speaker.
The Cossack flashed two thumbs up. The Bandido said, “You hear me?”
Bax thought about his response, how he could respond without betraying that he was talking to two people instead of just one. “I can hear you when you talk.”
The Cossack said, “This looks like what you said,” and the Bandido said, “Looks like what we agreed to.”
“Like I told you when we talked, you can grab any crate to check the contents are what you expect.” Which would work as long as neither gang moved more than three stacks of crates and found the scrap filler.
Two men on each side slung long guns over their shoulders and approached the stacked crates. The Cossacks grabbed the closest crate on top. The Bandidos moved one stack of crates, then another.
“When you’ve confirmed the contents,” Bax said, “then you’ll show me your side of the deal.”
He waited to see if the Bandidos would dig deep enough to get to a filler crate. He grasped the hidden flip phone, positioning his finger on the Send button.
The Cossacks opened their crate before the Bandidos chose a crate from the third stack.
Bax waited until both crates were open. While the guys pulled out sleek, ray-gun-looking rifles, horsed around with them, put them back.
“I showed you mine,” Bax said. “You show me yours.”
The Cossack whistled. The Bandido spun his finger in the air. Cossacks hauling rainbow-striped rectangular nylon duffels emerged from their truck. Bandidos dragging black roll-aboard suitcases strolled in from theirs. Both opened their luggage to show bundled stacks of cash.
Bax pushed Send in the same motion as he raised binoculars to look at the Cossacks—
“What the fuck you looking at over there?” a Bandido shouted.
That’s when the windows shattered, when Bax yelled “Get down,” when his ears popped and his eyes dazzled from flash-bang grenades, when he heard men yelling over gunfire, “U.S. Marshals — drop your weapons,” when men started shrieking, when Owsley started for his shoulder holsters, when Russell painted a red dot on Owsley’s midsection, when Bax bellowed, “Russell, what did you do?” when bullets clanked and plinked on the sheet metal, when a spurt of blood stained Owsley’s shirt and Owsley fell to one side and drew his other pistol.
“Russell,” Bax shouted what he’d rehearsed, springing at his brother, pushing him through the door to outside, drawing his pistol, “you traitorous piece of shit!”
Bax fired three, four, five shots over Russell’s head and kicked the door shut behind him.
Russell was half over the railing when Parker grabbed his belt and hauled him back onto the landing.
Bax grabbed his brother’s head, shook it. “Russell, listen to me.” Got his brother’s eyes. “This is Parker. She’s going to get you out of here.” They flinched as bullets pierced the transom behind them. “You’re getting a new life somewhere else.”
Russell’s eyes got big, then rolled a bit as he pissed himself.
“Are you kidding me?” Parker muttered.
“Go,” Bax said. “I’ll tell you this now because I got to go in for Owsley and I won’t see you again. Ever.” He planted a kiss on Russell’s forehead. “I’m sorry, brother,” he whispered. “For everything.”
Bax crouched low outside the door. “Owsley,” he shouted. “You hear me? Ima open the door.”
No response.
Bax cracked the door. The crescendo of explosions and gunfire shocked him, knocked him back. The smell of gunpowder and smoke covered the smell of Russell’s piss. The plinks on the sheet metal had stopped as Bandidos and Cossacks concentrated their fire on the feds. He peeked in, saw Owsley on his side, leaking blood, one pistol trained on Bax.
Bax ducked. “Owsley — can you move?” Owsley didn’t fire. “I got the car. I can get us out of here.”
Owsley rasped, “That idiot brother of yours shot me.”
Bax didn’t tell Owsley that he’d loaded only a single round in the Ruger he’d given to Russell, figuring close range and a laser pointer would get Russell in the general vicinity of Owsley’s bulk without being fatal.
“He set up Mr. Kline,” Bax told Owsley. “That must be what his whole thing with the other gang was about.” Bax crawled through the door. Owsley’s gun arm had dropped. “He set us up and I killed him for it, but now I gotta get you out of here.”
“I don’t—” Owsley yelped. “I can’t make the stairs.”
“I’ll carry you.”
Owsley spit up some blood when he laughed. “You’re as big an idiot as your brother if you think you can carry me.” Then he passed out.