stops for fuel in Quartzite and at McDonald’s for a clean john. Beige rental car, Taurus, Arizona license…”
Kirby was already writing on the pad he kept beside the bed. “Electronic key?”
“Yes, but use a crowbar anyway. Rough up the courier. Have one of your boys drop some gutter Spanish.”
“Sí. ¿Cómo no?”
Eerie mechanical sounds came over the line. Kirby assumed it was laughter.
Hoped.
He wasn’t a pussy, but sometimes the Voice creeped him out.
“Be ready to do it again a few days later,” the Voice continued. “They’ll have to send in more gems for the show. I’ll tell you when. The second lot should be the best.”
“Usual split on that one?”
“Fifty-fifty.”
The connection went dead.
“Fucking-A,” Kirby said, grinning and counting money in his head. Even if he gave half of his half to one of his men, it was still a good score.
He turned off the phone, stretched his wiry body, scratched his crotch, farted, and walked naked to the bathroom. While he emptied his bladder, he went through his various gem-cutting connections in his mind. Mexico had a few cutters, but like a lot of black-market workmen, they tended to skim the cream off incoming shipments and resell on the side. If the Voice didn’t want anything bigger than four carats out there, Mexico wasn’t a good bet. Maybe Burma. Tricky though. His connection there had pissed off some drug warlords and was still in the hospital.
“Hell,” he muttered, shaking off the last drop. “Gotta be Pakistan or Afghanistan. Wonder if Abdul is still alive.”
A few phone calls, a little patience, and the news came back that Abdul was alive and well in Karachi.
Kirby looked at his watch. Too late to do anything about Purcell. That left the courier. Only question was, Who to call? Murphy was in New York following some merchandise. Rodrigo was in Texas, buthe had a new baby and was taking some time off. Sumner was making noises like he wanted out of the game, which made Kirby nervous about assigning him anything physical; if he was caught, he’d roll over in a New York minute.
Time to check through the files of unhappy ex-agents and soldiers again. Someone is bound to be interested in a little adrenaline and cash.
Unfortunately, he needed someone now. Someone reliable. Or mostly reliable, which was how John “Tex” White was becoming.
What makes him think he can do drugs and not turn into a mutt? Stupid bastard.
Shaking his head, Kirby punched in a number. It was picked up on the forth ring.
“Yah,” said a man’s voice, yawning.
“ ’Morning, Tex. You ready to rock and roll?”
Chapter 19
Scottsdale
Noon Wednesday
Sam’s stomach growled as he climbed up the steps to the strike force’s big motor coach. He was carrying a plastic bag from a nearby minimart and thinking wistfully of the taqueria three miles away. Then he pulled a soda and two packages of peanut butter and cheese crackers from the bag, wadded the plastic into a ball, and fired it toward the first trash basket he came to.
It missed, but so had a lot of other trash.
With a nod of greeting to the men and women whose attention was buried in the array of electronics that were crammed into the coach, Sam popped open the soft drink and went toward the SAC’s office. The door was open, so he walked in.
“ ’Morning. Oh, wait, it’s lunchtime.” Sam saluted Doug Smith with a package of crackers. “Good afternoon.”
“Close the door.”
As Sam did, he braced himself for whatever came next. He wasn’t sure how he’d pissed off his immediate superior, but he was sure he had. If he’d had any doubts, the fact that Doug didn’t ask him to sit down was another bad sign. With a sigh, Sam stuffed thecrackers into the pocket of his casual jacket and waited for his boss to drill him a new asshole.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“What in hell were you thinking?” Doug snarled.
Since Sam didn’t know why he was being reamed, he didn’t
Kirby was already writing on the pad he kept beside the bed. “Electronic key?”
“Yes, but use a crowbar anyway. Rough up the courier. Have one of your boys drop some gutter Spanish.”
“Sí. ¿Cómo no?”
Eerie mechanical sounds came over the line. Kirby assumed it was laughter.
Hoped.
He wasn’t a pussy, but sometimes the Voice creeped him out.
“Be ready to do it again a few days later,” the Voice continued. “They’ll have to send in more gems for the show. I’ll tell you when. The second lot should be the best.”
“Usual split on that one?”
“Fifty-fifty.”
The connection went dead.
“Fucking-A,” Kirby said, grinning and counting money in his head. Even if he gave half of his half to one of his men, it was still a good score.
He turned off the phone, stretched his wiry body, scratched his crotch, farted, and walked naked to the bathroom. While he emptied his bladder, he went through his various gem-cutting connections in his mind. Mexico had a few cutters, but like a lot of black-market workmen, they tended to skim the cream off incoming shipments and resell on the side. If the Voice didn’t want anything bigger than four carats out there, Mexico wasn’t a good bet. Maybe Burma. Tricky though. His connection there had pissed off some drug warlords and was still in the hospital.
“Hell,” he muttered, shaking off the last drop. “Gotta be Pakistan or Afghanistan. Wonder if Abdul is still alive.”
A few phone calls, a little patience, and the news came back that Abdul was alive and well in Karachi.
Kirby looked at his watch. Too late to do anything about Purcell. That left the courier. Only question was, Who to call? Murphy was in New York following some merchandise. Rodrigo was in Texas, buthe had a new baby and was taking some time off. Sumner was making noises like he wanted out of the game, which made Kirby nervous about assigning him anything physical; if he was caught, he’d roll over in a New York minute.
Time to check through the files of unhappy ex-agents and soldiers again. Someone is bound to be interested in a little adrenaline and cash.
Unfortunately, he needed someone now. Someone reliable. Or mostly reliable, which was how John “Tex” White was becoming.
What makes him think he can do drugs and not turn into a mutt? Stupid bastard.
Shaking his head, Kirby punched in a number. It was picked up on the forth ring.
“Yah,” said a man’s voice, yawning.
“ ’Morning, Tex. You ready to rock and roll?”
Chapter 19
Scottsdale
Noon Wednesday
Sam’s stomach growled as he climbed up the steps to the strike force’s big motor coach. He was carrying a plastic bag from a nearby minimart and thinking wistfully of the taqueria three miles away. Then he pulled a soda and two packages of peanut butter and cheese crackers from the bag, wadded the plastic into a ball, and fired it toward the first trash basket he came to.
It missed, but so had a lot of other trash.
With a nod of greeting to the men and women whose attention was buried in the array of electronics that were crammed into the coach, Sam popped open the soft drink and went toward the SAC’s office. The door was open, so he walked in.
“ ’Morning. Oh, wait, it’s lunchtime.” Sam saluted Doug Smith with a package of crackers. “Good afternoon.”
“Close the door.”
As Sam did, he braced himself for whatever came next. He wasn’t sure how he’d pissed off his immediate superior, but he was sure he had. If he’d had any doubts, the fact that Doug didn’t ask him to sit down was another bad sign. With a sigh, Sam stuffed thecrackers into the pocket of his casual jacket and waited for his boss to drill him a new asshole.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“What in hell were you thinking?” Doug snarled.
Since Sam didn’t know why he was being reamed, he didn’t
Similar Books
