Slick-looking job, too. Like, they weren’t all pummeled. It just seemed like bam, bam, and he was out of there. Not that they said anything. I told them, ought to get the law out here and press charges, but they wouldn’t hear it. Had that sort of look where if you got police out there they’d just end up defending more claims than they could actually lay. Which I suppose might be pretty accurate because the drugs guys that came this morning said them two are good with their chemistry. If you follow.”
She said, “What age would the blond man be?”
“Well. I wouldn’t put my livelihood on it, but I figured he’d be nigh on the same as my boy Casper. Call it thirty-five.”
“He use a credit card or anything? How’d they pay for the coffee?”
“Not sure, to be honest with you. Got the impression they just left money, but I couldn’t swear by it.”
“You see what sort of car he was driving?”
“Didn’t see a car. Like I said, I just saw them come in the door and then walk out of it again. Them other two had a Cherokee that I saw when I came outside, but the boy I don’t know. Not the sort of place to have a camera either, so unless he stopped for gas I don’t know how you’d find him.”
TWELVE
Rojas
They got his details through an online database Leon subscribed to. Just enter the license plate and it returned all kinds of personal information. Address, phone number, DUI history, nationwide felony arrest record. Not only was the government spying on people, but for an affordable monthly installment, people could spy on each other.
The guy’s name was James Marshall Grade and he did in fact live in Santa Fe, in a place on West Alameda. They drove out there at a little after seven thirty, once Leon and Vance had been down to see the guests.
The sun had set. They were into the gloaming. Light traffic on Alameda as they cruised west, the trees along the river a twisted pale bonework in the headlights. Rojas and Bolt up ahead in the Chrysler 300C, Vance and Dante tailing in the Audi Quattro.
The cars had been a real slick move: Leon had found a guy online with direct access to New Mexico MVD. For a small fee you could nominate a plate number and associated details for inclusion in the state database. The practical benefit being you could boost any car you liked, swap out the tags, pay the guy to upload the information to MVD, and voilà, legit transport.
The Marshall guy’s house up ahead on the right. There was a light on upstairs. They glided past. Looking back, a lit window at the rear of the house was visible, too. They continued a few hundred yards up the street and swung to the curb. They’d already scoped the place on Google Earth. The plan: leave the cars a little ways east and west, respectively, walk in, take the guy hostage at gunpoint, and then bring the Quattro into the garage and load him up.
Home for fun and games.
Vance called it Having One in the BAG.
Basement Abu Ghraib.
For coms they had earpieces rigged through digital radio. High-tech encrypted shit Leon had pilfered during the Iraq drawdown. It would help with the ATF cover story, if it came to it.
Vance radioed from the Quattro: “I think we’re good to go. But we need to clear that street on the other side. He could have set it up so he’s waiting out there with a long gun and then nail us when we hit the house.”
Bolt said, “Nobody fucking long guns someone who comes to their house. That’s fucked up. We could be anyone.”
“You still need to do it.”
“Why me?”
“Dante and I are hitting the house, you can clear the street.”
“You guys are meant to be the fucking black-ops, you do it.”
Vance said, “Listen, dipshit. I didn’t spend six years wasting dudes in Sandstown on your behalf just to come back and be told what to do. You fucking owe us your liberty, and you can start repaying by walking along the street and checking it’s clear. I don’t give a shit who does it, all I know is
She said, “What age would the blond man be?”
“Well. I wouldn’t put my livelihood on it, but I figured he’d be nigh on the same as my boy Casper. Call it thirty-five.”
“He use a credit card or anything? How’d they pay for the coffee?”
“Not sure, to be honest with you. Got the impression they just left money, but I couldn’t swear by it.”
“You see what sort of car he was driving?”
“Didn’t see a car. Like I said, I just saw them come in the door and then walk out of it again. Them other two had a Cherokee that I saw when I came outside, but the boy I don’t know. Not the sort of place to have a camera either, so unless he stopped for gas I don’t know how you’d find him.”
TWELVE
Rojas
They got his details through an online database Leon subscribed to. Just enter the license plate and it returned all kinds of personal information. Address, phone number, DUI history, nationwide felony arrest record. Not only was the government spying on people, but for an affordable monthly installment, people could spy on each other.
The guy’s name was James Marshall Grade and he did in fact live in Santa Fe, in a place on West Alameda. They drove out there at a little after seven thirty, once Leon and Vance had been down to see the guests.
The sun had set. They were into the gloaming. Light traffic on Alameda as they cruised west, the trees along the river a twisted pale bonework in the headlights. Rojas and Bolt up ahead in the Chrysler 300C, Vance and Dante tailing in the Audi Quattro.
The cars had been a real slick move: Leon had found a guy online with direct access to New Mexico MVD. For a small fee you could nominate a plate number and associated details for inclusion in the state database. The practical benefit being you could boost any car you liked, swap out the tags, pay the guy to upload the information to MVD, and voilà, legit transport.
The Marshall guy’s house up ahead on the right. There was a light on upstairs. They glided past. Looking back, a lit window at the rear of the house was visible, too. They continued a few hundred yards up the street and swung to the curb. They’d already scoped the place on Google Earth. The plan: leave the cars a little ways east and west, respectively, walk in, take the guy hostage at gunpoint, and then bring the Quattro into the garage and load him up.
Home for fun and games.
Vance called it Having One in the BAG.
Basement Abu Ghraib.
For coms they had earpieces rigged through digital radio. High-tech encrypted shit Leon had pilfered during the Iraq drawdown. It would help with the ATF cover story, if it came to it.
Vance radioed from the Quattro: “I think we’re good to go. But we need to clear that street on the other side. He could have set it up so he’s waiting out there with a long gun and then nail us when we hit the house.”
Bolt said, “Nobody fucking long guns someone who comes to their house. That’s fucked up. We could be anyone.”
“You still need to do it.”
“Why me?”
“Dante and I are hitting the house, you can clear the street.”
“You guys are meant to be the fucking black-ops, you do it.”
Vance said, “Listen, dipshit. I didn’t spend six years wasting dudes in Sandstown on your behalf just to come back and be told what to do. You fucking owe us your liberty, and you can start repaying by walking along the street and checking it’s clear. I don’t give a shit who does it, all I know is
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