The Last Kind Word (32 page)

“Talk to me,” I said.

“Truck A has arrived.”

“Good.”

“It's way early. Do you want me to—”

“No. Just sit there and do what we talked about.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You're the boss.”

Since when?
my inner voice asked.

After the exchange, Rooney shook her head and spoke in a frightened single-mother voice. “You are never going to get away with this,” she said.

“You are such a pessimist,” I told her. “How do you even make it through the day?”

*   *   *

6:37
P.M.
and Skarda morphed from excited to panicky.

“The second truck,” he said over the cell. “Truck B. It stopped. It was turning into—and then it stopped. It's parked on the side of the highway. What are we going to do?”

“Wait,” I said.

“Wait? You don't understand, the truck—okay, okay. The first truck is coming down the road, it's—okay. I get it. The second truck is waiting for the first truck to get out of the way because the road isn't wide enough for both of them. The first truck—okay, the first truck has left, and the second truck…” Skarda took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “The second truck is on its way. Wow. Is this what you meant by complications?”

I didn't know what to say to the man, so I said nothing.

*   *   *

7:02
P.M.
and Skarda was now downright apoplectic. “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” he kept chanting.

“What?” I said.

“The third truck is early. It's heading up the road. The second truck—Dyson, the second truck hasn't left yet.”

“It's okay.”

“But Dyson?”

I glanced at my watch. If I had calculated correctly—always an iffy proposition—we were seven minutes away from the road. I tapped Rooney on the leg. “Let's go,” I said.

“Go where?” Skarda wanted to know.

“Not you. You stay put. Watch the road.”

Rooney started the Cherokee, slipped it into gear, and accelerated down Highway 1. She had the look of someone driving to the dentist who already knew she needed a root canal.

“Hey,” I said into the cell. “
This
is what I meant by complications.”

*   *   *

7:05
P.M.
“Dyson, where are you?” Skarda asked.

“What now?”

“The second truck just left. It just pulled out onto the highway. You should be passing it any second.”

I couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. Along with the three vault guards, an armored truck crew would be hard enough to deal with. Two crews might have been one too many.

You are lucky,
my inner voice told me.

Now, if it would only hold for a few more hours.

“We're almost there,” I said.

“I see you,” Skarda replied.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Don't follow too close, but…”

“I know. Don't follow too far behind, either.”

*   *   *

7:10
P.M.
and Rooney deftly turned the Cherokee onto the dirt road. I made her halt when we reached the huge tree that Josie and I had spotted when we first found the vault. “Pop the cargo door,” I said, and she did. I jumped out of the car. My muscles ached from the uncomfortable way I had been sitting, yet I tried to ignore the pain. I circled the Cherokee to the back. Jimmy wanted to slide out of the cargo area. I told him to stay put. I rested the AK against the back bumper. Jimmy handed me the bomb. He seemed glad to be rid of it.

Late last night I had cut a hole into the frame of a cell phone, exposing its vibrator. I mounted the cell to a thin wooden board along with two metal screws, four double-A batteries, and half a block of C-4, approximately ten ounces. I ran two thin wires from the cell's vibrator, connecting one to each of the two screws. I connected the top screw to the batteries using a crocodile clip. I used other crocodile clips to connect the batteries and the bottom screw to the blasting cap that I had inserted into the C-4. Actually, I did that last bit after I nailed the bomb to the base of the tree—I mean, I'm not an idiot—and activated the cell phone.

I had built two bombs. When Skarda asked why, I told him it was in case the first didn't work. He suggested that if the bombs were identical and the first didn't explode, the second would be a dud, too. I told him to go away, he was bothering me.

After setting the IED, I locked Jimmy in the cargo area, retrieved my rifle, and squeezed back onto the floor of the Cherokee. I told Rooney to keep driving. I hadn't seen Skarda, but then, I hadn't expected to.

*   *   *

7:13
P.M.
The Cherokee reached the unmanned gate. Rooney leaned out the window and punched the password into the keypad. The arm rose, and she drove under it, following the driveway. I took a chance and lifted my head just high enough to see over the dashboard. The armored truck was nowhere in sight, and I presumed it had driven inside the vault.

According to the blueprint Brand had stolen for me, the vault had only one bandit trap. The truck would enter through the garage door and wait. The outside garage door would close and the interior door would open. The truck would proceed into the center of the vault, where it would be unloaded and then loaded again. We would be facing the truck when we went through the gray metal employee door. The closed-circuit TV monitors and communications equipment would be arrayed against the wall to our right as we entered and manned by one guard. Cafeteria-style tables should be arranged along the near and far walls to our left. There was a platform built for a guard to stand on where he could observe the tables. There were also more cameras inside than outside—apparently Mesabi Security had a greater fear of theft by their employees then they had of an outside attack. The third guard didn't have a designated spot. I was guessing he probably wandered around the huge room or possibly kept a close eye on the armored truck crews.

When I reviewed the blueprints, it seemed to me that three guards were not nearly enough. I wondered if the people who had built the vault thought that its location alone, so far off the beaten path, would be enough to protect it or if they had adopted that theory over a period of time. They must have had a guard stationed in the gatehouse when the place was originally constructed—why else build it? It was entirely possible, of course, that Mesabi was scamming both its clients and insurance company, showing them a well-staffed vault in order to gain business and guarantee coverage and then trimming bodies when they weren't looking. After all, it was a down economy, and a large workforce cut into profits.

I told the woman to park close to the employee entrance. When she shut off the car I said, “The money is insured, Ms. Rooney.”

“I know.”

“This can be a story you'll tell your children and your grandchildren or it can be a story that someone else tells your children and grandchildren. You decide.”

She looked down at me. Her eyes were cold. Her voice was colder. “You're a sonuvabitch.”

I came
this
close to calling it off. Screw Bullert, screw 'em all. But Jill, her lovely face, her warm smile—promises were made, some I spoke out loud, others that I had kept to myself …

“Everyone ready?” I didn't wait for a reply. “Okay.”

*   *   *

7:15
P.M
. Rooney left the Jeep Cherokee. She moved to the metal employee door and punched a code into the keypad next to it. She waited a moment, her hand gripping the door handle. There was a click loud enough to be heard inside the Cherokee. I opened my door just as Rooney opened hers. She hesitated just long enough for me to cover the distance between the SUV and her. I grabbed the edge of the door, flung it open, and pushed Rooney inside, pushed her harder than I probably should have. She stumbled and fell to her knees. I stood over her sighting down the barrel of the AK-47, sweeping it from one guard to the next.

“This is a stickup,” I shouted. “Don't anyone move.”

The words sounded so damn silly to me that I nearly laughed. No one else seemed to feel that way, though, especially the armored truck crew directly in front of me, standing next to their vehicle, drinking coffee from cardboard cups. They stared as if someone had kicked in the bathroom door, their expressions a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

Daniel, Roy, and Jimmy quickly filed in behind me. They were also wearing masks, gloves, and Kevlar and carrying the AKs Brand supplied, although Roy had his own. Roy went right and Jimmy went left. Roy leveled his rifle at the guard manning the TV monitors while Jimmy pointed his at the guard standing on top of the platform overlooking the cafeteria tables. There were several piles of cash on top of the tables, some of them neat and others not so much. A bank employee stood next to each.

“Raise your hands,” Roy shouted. Jimmy yelled the same thing. The bank employees did what they were told. The vault guards already had their hands up, and I could only hope that no one noticed it but me. One of the armored truck crew let his hand fall dangerously close to his sidearm.

“I have a machine gun and a bulletproof vest,” I shouted at him. “What do you have?”

His hands went up.

Daniel stepped behind me. “A little help,” I told him. He went first to the armored truck crew and then the vault guards, disarming each one by one while Jimmy and I kept them covered. When he finished and stepped back, I reached down, took Rooney by the arm, and helped her to her feet. “Sorry,” I muttered. She didn't reply. “Everyone over there.” I gave Rooney a shove toward the far wall. Daniel, Jimmy, and I herded the rest of the building's occupants behind her. Jimmy took his position on the platform above the tables and watched them intently, the butt of his rifle pressed against his shoulder.

I was surprised by how quiet everyone was. There was none of the screaming you often hear in TV robberies, none of the threats and warnings, although one woman was weeping uncontrollably while another offered comfort, and I knew it was a sound that would stay with me for some time to come.

I turned my attention to the guard sitting in front of the monitors. Roy had disarmed him and was now giving him a good look at the AK as if he had done this sort of thing before.

“You know he must have hit a silent alarm,” Roy said.

“I know. Where's our friend?”

Roy gestured toward the monitors. Looking from one to another I was able to follow Skarda's progress as he drove an ATV along the outside of the fence, circling the vault until he reached the area near the abandoned road Roy and I had found earlier. He hopped off the vehicle and started cutting a hole in the fence large enough to drive through.

I went to my watch. 7:19
P.M.
I pulled the phone out of my pocket and dialed the number of the cell I had fastened to the tree. The cell was set to vibrate. The vibrator sent a low-amp charge through the wires that was boosted by the double-A batteries. It provided enough energy to trigger the blasting cap that set off the C-4. I heard the explosion through the walls of the vault, and in my mind's eye I could picture the huge tree falling across the dirt road, effectively blocking all motorized traffic.

A moment later I forced the guard to join the others at the cafeteria tables. I asked Roy to remain where he was.

“I don't expect trouble,” I said. “Keep an eye on the monitors just the same. Let me know once our friend cuts through.”

Daniel was standing between the captives and me. His head swiveled from one to the other, although he seemed most interested in what I was doing. I gestured for him to join me. We moved around the armored truck. The back door was open. Inside were two thick canvas bags big enough to hold a hockey player's equipment. Daniel hopped inside the truck and tried to lift a bag by the handle. He managed it, but it required both hands and a grunt.

“Damn thing must weigh eighty pounds,” he said.

“I certainly hope so.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“A bill weighs about one gram. There are four hundred and fifty-four grams in a pound. Obviously, the heavier the bags, the more cash they contain.”

“Let's hope they're not all ones and fives.”

“Or nickels and quarters from the casino's slot machines. Leave the bags for now. Come with me.”

If Daniel disliked the way I ordered him about, he didn't show it. Instead, he followed me from the truck to the cafeteria tables. A bag identical to the two in the armored truck sat open near the platform. I turned to our prisoners. They were standing in a line against the wall. We hadn't put them in a line; it just worked out that way.

“Which one of you is Jer?” I asked. A middle-aged man reluctantly stepped forward. “Are you Jer?” He nodded. I pointed at the woman standing next to him. “Ms. Rooney.” She stepped forward. “Both of you come here.”

The couple moved across the vault. They were not happy to be singled out. I handed the bag to Jer.

“Fill it up,” I told him.

“You're never going to get away with this,” Jer said.

“So I've been told.”

Jer and Rooney moved to the head of the first row of cafeteria tables, set the bag on top, and started filling it with the piles of cash, pulling the bag along the tables as they went. Jimmy kept turning his head to watch, and I had to warn him—twice—to remember where we were and what we were doing. After finishing with the first row of tables, Jer and Rooney carried the bag to the second row—it took both of them.

Roy called to me from the monitors. “The fence is down.”

Jer and Rooney finished packing the bag with cash. I told them to seal it and carry the bag to the employee door—I didn't want to bother with the bandit trap. It took a lot of effort; Rooney's end sagged more than Jer's.