Ben does the same.
OGR shines a big flashlight onto the van.
“You come alone?” he asks.
“Like you said.”
“Open the back.”
Ben opens the sliding door. As he does, the guy with OGR reaches to his waist.
200
Chon sees it and switches his aim from Crowe to Brian, sci-figreen in the nightscope.
Fifty yards away in the trees, prone position, rifle on a bipod.
If Brian goes for the gun, it’s over:
Two shots into him, swing back, two shots into Crowe.
Chon puts pressure on the trigger.
201
“It’s okay,” OGR says.
Brian’s hand relaxes.
(Chon’s doesn’t.)
“Take your clothes off.”
“What?”
“I want to make sure we’re not podcasting on the DEA network,” OGR says. “You and your little buddy, Agent Cain.”
“Fuck him.”
“Take them off.”
“You take yours off.”
“I’m not the one who wants the deal.”
“Bullshit-you’re here.”
“Off.”
Ben takes his shoes off, then his shirt and his jeans. Holds his hands up, like, you satisfied?
“All of it.”
“Come on. ”
“You could have a wire taped to your dick or under your balls,” OGR says. “I’ve seen it done.”
“I could have it up my ass,” Ben says. “You want to check that, too?”
“I might, you keep talking.”
Ben steps out of his shorts.
202
Chon doesn’t like it.
On several counts.
First, it’s humiliating, and he hates to see Ben humiliated.
Second, they might want to shoot him like that, really send a message, like the Mexican cartels do.
His finger tightens.
So does his head
Saying
Do it now
Do them both
Get it over with
Sooner rather than
Later.
Remembering what an officer in the Stan once told him I’ve never regretted killing a terrorist-I’ve only regretted not killing him sooner.
You let the villager go one day, next day he comes back with a bomb.
Do it now
Do them both.
203
“Check the van,” OGR tells Brian. “Mikes, wires, what the fuck.”
Brian gets into the van.
“Can I get dressed?” Ben asks.
“Please. Not that you’re not a good-looking guy.”
Ben gets dressed.
Hears Brian digging around in the van with all the subtlety of an orangutan on crank. Then Brian comes out of the van, says, “It looks clean.”
“It looks clean?” OGR asks. “I don’t care what it looks like, I care what it is.”
“It’s clean,” Brian says.
“Better be,” OGR says.
“Can we do this now?” Ben says. “Did you bring the money?”
“First things first,” OGR says.
He pulls a knife from his waistband.
204
Lado bends over, slices the dead man’s stomach open, pulls out his intestines, and carefully forms them into the letter “S.”
The last letter in the word
“T-R-A-I-D-O-R-E-S”
Traitors.
205
Crowe doesn’t know how close he is to dying as he slices one of the bales.
Chon eases off the trigger.
Heart rate drops.
206
Crowe takes out a QP package, cuts it open, and smells the dope.
Turns to Ben, smiles, says, “Jesus Christ.”
“To coin a phrase.”
Crowe shines his flashlight on the dope-sees red hairs and crystals. Runs some through his fingers, nice and dry, no excess moisture weight. “Very nice.”
Ben shrugs-what did you expect? “You want to smoke up, go for it.”
“No need,” Crowe says. “You want to be a grower for us, maybe we can talk.”
“Pass.”
Crowe tosses the bale to the ground, then another one, and grabs the next bale. He slices into it and pulls out another handful of dope. Smells it and nods approvingly.
“Just wanted to make sure the rest wasn’t ditch weed.”
“Your trust in me is touching.”
“Ain’t nothing about this business that has anything to do with trust,” Crowe says. He turns to Brian. “Load it up.”
“Whoa,” Ben says. “My money?”
“I almost forgot.”
“Good thing I’m here, then.”
“Get the money,” Crowe tells Brian.
Brian goes to the car, comes back with a briefcase, and hands it to Crowe.
207
Chon shrugs his shoulders to make sure they’re relaxed, and recalibrates his aim.
If this is a rip, this is when it goes down.
The briefcase is empty or
Crowe pulls a gun from it or
They pop Ben while he’s counting except
They won’t because they’ll both be dead before they can point their guns at him.
208
OGR hands Ben the case.
“Count it if you want.”
“Yeah, I will.”
Turning his back on them
(Oh, Ben, Chon thinks.) he sets the case down on a bale of dope and counts the wrapped stacks of bills. It’s all there, $42K. He closes the case back up and nods at the dope. “Go for it.”
Brian starts to load the packages into the trunk of their car.
“How about the equipment, you want that?” Ben asks.
“Hold a yard sale,” OGR says.
Brian finishes loading the dope.
“I guess this is goodbye,” Ben says.
“It better be,” OGR says. “We hear anything more about you-you sell as much as a nickel bag to a college kid-you end up with your head on a steering wheel. You got that?”
“Got it.”
“Good.”
OGR takes a second to fix him with one more bad-guy glare and then gets into the car.
Ben watches them drive away, thinking
209
Fuck you.
210
Dennis watches the little GPS light blink red on the monitor.
“When do you want to take them?” the other agent asks.
This is when Dennis has a flash of inspiration. He looks at the map with the little red dot, pushes a couple of buttons, points to the screen, and says, “Let’s wait until they’re by that high school.”
Genius.
Vicious.
211
Duane and Brian are cruising past Laguna High when the world explodes. Flashing lights, sirens, cop cars coming from all compass points.
Duane thinks about trying to run for it but sees it’s futile so he says, “Quick, throw the gun out.”
“What?”
“Throw the fucking gun out the window!” Duane yells.
The presence of a gun on a drug charge doubles the sentence, and he also doesn’t want to give the cops an excuse to vaporize them.
Brian throws the gun out and Duane pulls over.
The cops do the whole dramatic get-out-of-the-car-and-walk-backward-toward-the-sound-of-my-voice thing and then the put-your-hands-behind-your-back thing and Duane gets to stand there handcuffed while
Dennis opens the trunk and does the whole well-what-have-we-here thing and then walks over to Duane and does the whole you-have-the-right-to-remain-silent-anything-you-say-can-and-will thing while another cop works on Brian with the whole we-saw-you-throw — something-out-the-window-if-it’s-a-gun-do-the-right-thing-and-tell-us — so-some-schoolkid-doesn’t-find-it-and-get-hurt thing.
Then Dennis gets cute with it. He says, “SB 420 allows you eight ounces of dried, processed cannabis. I’m guessing you’re about a hundred and nineteen pounds over the limit here, chief.”