Читать книгу PROTECTED - Marcus Calvert - Страница 11

This was a score to brag about (not that any of us ever could).

It was simple and virtually gun-free. Instead of the usual high-speed getaway driving, all I had to do was arrange transportation for a kidnapping. Tonight, I was behind the wheel of a stolen plumbing van, speeding off with the Damea Gency in the back. The twenty-three year-old pop star/actress/hostage was finer than Angelina Jolie in her pre-baby prime.

I could practically smell her money.

“Slow it down!” Curtis yelled through the partition.

I glanced down at the speedometer and realized that I was doing eighty on a two-lane California road. He was right (like always). This was speed-trap heaven. The last thing we needed was to get pulled over by some bored deputy. I got my head back into the crime, slowed down, and eyed the driver’s side mirror one more time. Nobody was near us. A few miles later, we passed a welcome sign to the great state of Nevada. A full moon lit up the flat, arid landscape like some kind of high-powered stellar flashlight.

Another hour later, we arrived at the safe house; an old, single-story ranch home with peeling white paint and a huge front lawn. A hundred feet behind the house was an ancient wooden barn that no one had ever bothered to paint. Rusty farm equipment and overgrown grass took up the rest of the place, which had definitely seen better days. As I drove up to the barn, I had to admit that it was the last place anyone would look for us.

Curtis picked the spot out last month. Lara and Eddie set up surveillance. The property belonged to Joe and Vera Wrenlip. The long-married retirees lived alone, kept assorted fish, and didn’t get out much during the week. On weekends, they shopped, went to the movies, and spent time at a local Methodist church. During the week, Vera painted landscapes. Joe spent most of his waking hours watching cable and drinking cheap beer.

Based on the phone taps, we figured that they weren’t very chatty. None of their family was nearby. The closest neighbor was over a mile away. Their only regular visitor was the mailman. If they were the victims of a Sunday evening home invasion, the Wrenlips might not be missed for days – maybe weeks. So, while Curtis and I were kidnapping the “2010 Sexiest Woman Alive,” Eddie and Lara paid the Wrenlips a visit with a 12-gauge shotgun.

Hopefully, they didn’t give Eddie any lip.

Second-generation illegal alien, Eddie was a Chi-town gangbanger with too much body art and too little temper. As a “gangsta,” he learned the in’s and out’s of breaking-and-entering (like how to case a home or plant our audio bugs), which made him useful. I also had to admit that Eddie didn’t flinch in the face of trouble. The man didn’t know when to be afraid. So he’d throw fists or lead at the drop of a hat. With this much money at stake, Curtis figured that we might need him.

Still, he was a hotheaded asshole. The dude liked pointing loaded guns at people when they upset him. But that’s why Curtis sent Lara along with him. Curtis’ fiancée was a self-taught money launderer with a Computer Science degree from MIT. Blessed with decent looks and an honest face, she was almost as good with people as Curtis. With her at the scene, Eddie would probably behave. Even he’s not stupid enough to mess things up with an itchy trigger finger … I hope.

I parked the van in the old wooden barn, right next to the two getaway cars: for when this was over. While the red Toyota Celica and the white Saturn sedan both looked like rusted, beat-up clunkers, they weren’t where it counted. I tweaked them both to the point where they’d outrun any cop car on the road.

Killing the engine, I got out of the car and went over the plan. When we were done here, we would torch the van, the barn, and their house. Curtis figured that the flames would get rid of any useful evidence. Then we’d leave Damea and the Wrenlips safely bound and gagged outside. Then we’d call 9-1-1 (on their behalf) when we were safely away.

I pulled a black ski mask out of my pocket and put it on. Even with the van’s half-assed A/C, I was sweating like shit under my blue plumber coveralls and black driving gloves. But I couldn’t take ‘em off. Underneath were the street clothes I’d wear when we left. If things went south, we could ditch the coveralls and look like normal folks inside of thirty seconds. The masks and coveralls kept the Wrenlips from getting a good look at our faces or our street clothes.

That way, we wouldn’t have to kill them.

The back of the van opened and out stepped Curtis. Built like a mid-sized quarterback, Curtis wore his coveralls over a fancy black suit. In his mid-40’s, our fearless leader could charm a lesbian straight. The brains behind this caper, my fellow ex-con could’ve hustled a legitimate fortune when he left the joint. But, like me, he just didn’t believe in an honest living.

He carefully picked up Damea Gency with both arms. The unconscious musical prodigy wore a tasteful, revealing black party dress. Her shoes were off and her toenails were unpainted. Her tanned, 5’6” frame was nothing shy of athletic, nice-tittied perfection. A black hood covered her gorgeous face and most of her long black hair. When Curtis dumped her into my arms, I was too shocked to move. He ran a hand through his styled blonde hair and flashed me a knowing smile.

“Not every day you have a diva in your arms, is it?” Curtis asked as he pulled out a gray pair of gardening gloves and put them on

“Got that right,” I whispered.

“Get her inside,” Curtis ordered, all business again.

I waited for Curtis to put on his ski mask. Then we headed for the front door. Eddie opened the door as I reached the porch. At thirty-one, he wore the same brand of blue coveralls that Curtis and I wore, along with the matching ski mask. He opted for a pair of white surgical gloves. A sawed-off 12-gauge pump was casually slung over his muscled left shoulder.

While I preferred playing basketball back in our days at Joliet, Eddie and Curtis liked to hit the free weights. Once we got out, Curtis let himself go a bit – but not Eddie. He wanted to show off his perfect pecs and thick arms until the day he died. Seeing as he was short and ugly, I could understand his need to distract the ladies.

“C’mon!” Eddie impatiently waved us in, his Mexican accent full of tension. “Inside!”

I carefully carried Damea into the living room. The air conditioner was set to full-blast (thank God!). A quick pang of guilt hit me as I noticed the dozen-plus photos of kids and grandkids all along the Wrenlips’ walls. This time tomorrow, they’d be a pile of ashes – along with the rest of the house. Curtis caught up to us as we headed for the dining room.

The table and furniture had been cleared away, leaving only the dirty beige carpeting. In its place, a stool and a portable computer station were set up. Monitor, hard-drive, and other … hacker stuff was stacked on a three-tiered rolling cart. Curtis tapped me on the back and gestured toward a corner. I gently sat Damea down so that she’d be leaning comfortably against the far corner of the room. Eddie set the shotgun down. He pulled some white rope from his pockets and quickly tied her ankles and hands together.

“Any problems with the Wrenlips?” Curtis asked.

“Not a one,” Eddie replied, half-distracted by Damea’s low-cut bustline. “I gave ‘em both a shot and waited a half-hour, like you said. They’re lights-out.”

Lara stepped out of the bathroom, also in coveralls, wearing white surgical gloves and her ski mask. Short and nervous, she stood up on her toes and gave Curtis a quick kiss through her mask. In her late 20’s, she had never done time. But since this was her first “hands-on” felony, she was a bit nervous.

“Do we really have to wear all of this crap?” Lara asked.

“Yeah,” Curtis eyed Damea with some concern. “That gal’s got a serious resistance to roofies. There’s no telling when she’ll wake up.”

“How many did you slip her?”

“I put one in her wine glass at the party, which should’ve been enough to drop someone twice her size. When that didn’t work, I talked her into a moonlit walk and gave her a shot when she wasn’t looking.”

“Real smooth,” Lara commented with a hint of jealousy. “Can’t wait to hear how you did that.”

Curtis gave her a reassuring grin.

“What if she’s a closet junkie?” Eddie asked. “She might O.D. on us.”

“She would’ve done it by now,” Curtis countered. “And I brought a kit along, just for that. If push comes to shove – “

Damea slowly began to stir.

“She shouldn’t have woken up for another five hours,” Curtis frowned as he glanced at his watch.

“Show time,” Lara nodded to Eddie, who handed her the 12-gauge.

Eddie knelt by Damea as he reached under her hood and pulled a white cloth gag off her mouth. The diva woke up with a dazed moan. Clumsily, she tried to stand, only to realize that her hands and feet were bound. Then she tried to pull her hood off. Eddie grinned and gently pulled her hands away from it.

“Wha- What’s going on?” Damea asked.

“Ms. Gency,” Eddie quietly said, “I’m afraid you’ve been kidnapped.”

Our hostage’s response was to laugh. Even quarter-stoned, her voice was beautiful.

“Oh c’mon, guys!” Damea giggled. “April Fool’s was last week!”

With his right hand, Eddie pulled out a small pocketknife and flicked out its serrated blade. Then he yanked off her hood. Mesmerizing green eyes blinked under the harsh dining room lighting. Amusement turned to fear as she noticed Eddie’s razor-sharp blade hovering inches from her left eye. He held the blade there with the stillness of a surgeon and gave Damea his patented “don’t-make-me-carve-you-up” glare. She cringed.

“Sorry to borrow you, Ms. Gency,” he said, full of menace. “But you have something we want.”

“W-What?” Damea gasped as she looked up at each of us. “What do you want?!”

“The password to your offshore account,” Eddie continued. “The one with 40 million Euros in it.”

The notion made her laugh again. Eddie was half-entranced by her beauty and part angry that she wasn’t coughing up an account number.

“So this is a real kidnapping?” Damea asked.

“Yes,” Eddie said with growing impatience.

“I’m not on some hidden-camera show or something?”

“Does this blade feel fake to you?” Eddie asked as he gently pressed the tip of the knife against her throat.

The ropes on her wrists and ankles snapped like string as the diva made her move. Her hands wrapped around Eddie’s thick right wrist and twisted it with ease. He screamed as bones broke and the knife fell out of his ruined hand. Then Damea Gency casually pushed Eddie off her so hard that his feet left the floor! Eddie was still screaming like a child during his short, painful trip to the ceiling. Then his back hit hard enough to leave a crack as he fell, hit the carpet face-first, and stopped moving.

Damea jumped to her feet with an eager smile. Lara started to level the shotgun at the “helpless” starlet. But our hostage was way too fast. Before Lara could pull the trigger, the diva chopped the weapon in half with a stiff, left-handed strike. Lara stepped back in shock as she dropped both halves of the 12-gauge. Curtis blindsided Damea with an overhand left to the temple. I’d seen him do it to a dozen cons over the years and it worked every time.

She should’ve gone down.

Instead, her dainty right heel kick connected with Curtis’ chest. He went flying with enough force to leave a dent in a wall on the other side of the room. Curtis groaned feebly before he passed out.

“Don’t just stand there!” Lara yelled my way. “Do something!”

Damea sneered and quietly dared me to “do something.” Before I ended up in prison for armed robbery, I would’ve gone with my pretty moronic instincts and tried to rush her. But after six years inside, living amongst hardened felons, I learned to simply ask myself one simple question: “What would Curtis do?” I eyed Lara and the pissed-off super-starlet.

Had he not just gotten knocked the fuck out, Curtis would’ve protected Lara and tried to salvage the situation. But he wouldn’t try to use the stick. He’d use the carrot. I kept Damea’s attention as I slowly walked over to Lara’s computer terminal and sat down. Then I looked up at the hacker/money launderer.

“Does this thing have Word?” I asked.

“What?” Both women simultaneously asked.

I shrugged as I grabbed the mouse and clicked through menu options.

“I was just thinking that this whole thing would make one hell of a movie.”

Damea looked through me and ran a thoughtful/seductive right index finger under her chin. The pause allowed me time to remember the movies she’d been in: all action flicks where she staged some pretty good fight scenes. My guess was that she wasn’t pulling camera tricks in her films. She was doing the real thing, but at a fraction of her true abilities. While I wondered how she chopped a shotgun in half, I knew better than to ask. I’ve seen enough nosy people die in the joint to respect the secrets of scary people – like Damea Gency.

“Check on the guys,” I nodded toward Eddie. “He doesn’t look too good.”

“Bah! He’ll live,” Damea grunted dismissively. “Let’s talk details. No one’s given me a good script in months.”

“It’s simple,” I flinched as she walked around me and leaned over my right shoulder. I did my best to ignore her sweet perfume. “Keep us out of jail and pay us decent movie rights. We also never tell anyone that we got our butts kicked by a 110-pound diva in a party dress. Best of all, you get a summertime blockbuster. Something about a rising star who gets kidnapped and then taken to a rural farm in Nevada.”

“We’re in Nevada?” Damea frowned.

I nodded apologetically as Lara checked Eddie over.

For a brief moment, I wondered if the Wrenlips would go along with this crazy plan. They’d have to choose between the satisfaction of pressing charges and making a pair of fat checks from a film studio. Hopefully, the elderly couple was living on a fixed income and would make the smart decision. Damea glanced over the computer’s options, hit a few keys, and up came Word.

“And let me guess,” Damea grinned, “I play myself?”

“No,” I grinned back. “You play Lara over there. You two are about the same height. If you want, you can be the heroine.”

As Damea paused to consider my words, Lara headed over to Curtis, who was still out-cold.

“It could be an interesting horror flick, too,” Lara added. “What if you and your fellow kidnappers snatched a diva who’s … well … not human and very hungry?”

“I’ve never done horror before,” Damea muttered as she gave the cracked dining room ceiling a long, thoughtful glance. “So the hunters become the hunted, eh?”

“Beats the hell out of the truth, doesn’t it?” I nervously grinned, trying really hard not to stare at her perfect rack.