I let him lock the lid down while I take a look around the unit. There’s nowhere inside to conceal myself. If I hide behind the door, then I have no choice but to act when it opens, no matter how many men are on the other side, or what they’re armed with. Dearborn sees me making mental calculations, his forehead glistening with sweat.
“You said one of the other units is yours, too?” I ask.
“That one there.” Wrangler points to the unit directly opposite.
“If I wait in there, you’ll have to leave the lock off, and Ford might notice. Not to mention, I won’t be able to see what’s going on until I throw open the door.”
“I could leave it open and tell ’em I’ve got some other things to load myself.”
I shake my head. “They’ll search it.”
Dearborn goes into the corridor. “What about me?”
For a moment I’m not sure what to do. So I follow him into the hall, glancing left and right. The side we came from leads straight to the entrance, a pair of glass doors that open wide to accommodate loading. The other end of the corridor stops in a T, with smaller entrances on either side of the short hallway, and two doors in the back wall. Stepping closer, I see that one is a men’s restroom and the other is for women.
“That’ll work,” I say. “Take the women’s side in case somebody needs to go.”
Dearborn heads to the ladies’, his heels clicking on the glossy concrete floor. I turn to his friend. “I’ll be in there. If anything happens, you just hit the deck.”
“If anything happens?” His voice cracks. “Something is gonna happen-”
“Just stay calm and keep out of the way.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. At the far end of the corridor, through the glass doors, I see something flash by. A white van pulling up.
“Gotta go.”
I run to the T-intersection, pushing through the door to the women’s restroom. It’s a nicer facility than I would have expected at one of these places, a sink and a couple of stalls and the scent of ammonia on the stifling hot air. There’s a plastic wedge on the linoleum floor, the kind the cleaners use to prop open the door. I bend down for it, thinking I might wedge the door open slightly, but first I switch off the lights. In the dark I see a beam of light shining under the door. Kneeling, I find about an inch of clearance between the bottom of the door and the ground.
“Are you okay back there?” I ask.
From inside the farthest stall, Dearborn coughs. “Tell me when it’s safe to come out.”
I push my jacket back, hitching the fabric behind the holster, then ease my Browning free. Dropping the safety, I press the slide far enough back to touch the chambered round through the ejection port. Then I put the safety back on and drop to my knees, pressing my cheek against the floor, trying not to think about the sanitary implications.
Down the length of the corridor I see two shadows. As they approach, I can hear their footsteps faintly, and the farther they get from the backlighting of the entrance, the more I can make out.
“What’s going on out there?” Dearborn whispers.
“Quiet.”
I was crouched like this behind the tree the night they ran me off the road, biding time until they spotted me. Now the advantage is on my side. They’re just a few steps away from the point where my floor-level view will cut them off at the head. That’s when I get my glimpse: Brandon Ford, his face framed by longish black curls, both hands in the pockets of a light windbreaker-worn for concealment in this heat, just like my jacket. The man next to him is one of the paramilitaries from the files, though I can’t put a name to him. His left side is dragged down by the weight of a green canvas shopping bag, presumably containing the money.
Then their faces disappear above the horizon, followed by their chests and waists, until all I can see is two pairs of legs cut off above the knee and the bottom of the drooping bag. Wrangler steps out of the storage unit to meet them.
“I been waiting more than an hour,” he says.
“Keep your shirt on, brother.” Ford’s voice. “I said we were coming. Now, let’s take a look at what you got.”
“Is that for me?”
“All in good time. All in good time.”
The three men move into the unit, leaving me with a view of the empty corridor. I push my ear against the gap, straining to hear, but all I get is the hum of voices. I can’t make out the words. Seconds pass, but they feel like hours. All the precautions I’d imagined them taking-searching the rest of the corridor, checking the restrooms, making sure the locks on the other doors are secure-none of it seems to matter to Ford. This could all be over quick, the money exchanged, Ford and his companion exiting with the guns. Could two men carry them all? If they enlist Wrangler, the three of them could manage.
I can’t do anything from behind this door. Getting my feet under me, I rise to a crouch, drawing the door open about a foot, peering out into the corridor. They’re still inside, still talking, and all I can see are shadows cast across the corridor from the lights inside the unit.
I take a deep breath and pass through the door, pausing to cushion the impact as it pulls shut. On tiptoes I cross diagonally to the edge of the T, pressing myself against the wall, getting as close to the edge as I dare, feeling terribly exposed. There are glass doors at either end of the short hallway. Anyone approaching could look right in and see me.
“They’re all here,” a voice says. I don’t recognize it, so it must be Ford’s companion. “Ten carbines. Just what the doctor ordered.”
“And here’s ten grand, like we said. It’s all in small bills, tens and fives and ones, like you took it in at a register. Nobody’s gonna look twice.”
“You expect me to count all that?”
“Do what you want. But we’ll need a hand first getting them out to the van.”
A long pause follows. I imagine them eyeballing each other while Wrangler makes up his mind whether to count the money first or take Ford’s word. If he didn’t know I was out here, I’m guessing he’d insist on the count. Hopefully he’ll do that anyway, so they don’t get suspicious. I steal a glance around the corner, but the corridor is still empty.
“All right,” he says.
I hear a dull thud, then a metallic ring followed by the sound of a padlock being threaded through a hasp and snapped shut. He must have taken the money and dropped it into the icebox where the guns had been stored, locking it up for safekeeping. I hear the Cordura cases rubbing against each other.
“I can take one more,” says Ford’s companion. “Lay it on me.”
More shuffling, and then footsteps.
“Come on,” Ford says. “You go up front so I can see you.”
Three sets of heels click on the concrete. I glance around, and there they are, backs to me, silhouetted against the sunlight pouring in through the entrance. Time to move. I advance on tiptoes as far as the open storage unit, ducking inside for cover. I use the edge of the doorway to brace my arm, lining up my sights on Ford’s silhouette.
I’m about to call out when I feel the vibration in my pocket. Ignore it. The phone buzzes more insistently, and if I don’t stop it the ringer will sound. I reach into my pocket and mute the sound, raising the glass face high enough to check the screen-force of habit.
The call was from Jeff.
Down the corridor, Ford is halfway to the exit. Far enough now that he might think he can draw down on me, or make a run. The phone buzzes again. A text message this time. My hand is shaking as I look at the screen.
ABORT.
No, no, no, no, no. I put the phone away, drop the safety on the Browning, and edge into the corridor. There’s still time. If I advance quickly to close the distance, I’ll risk exposing myself and they’ll have the light at their backs, making it harder for me to see their hands. But it’s just two against one and I have the advantage of surprise.