Spare Change, page 11
part #1 of My Mira Saga Series
With nothing more than sincere thanks, I had accepted the address he gave me and headed out, intent to scout the place before letting the plan progress any further. Just as had been drilled into me a million times over, no operation was ever undertaken without gathering as much intelligence as possible, and this was as important a mission as any of us had been on in quite some time.
The spot the app was pointing me toward was nothing more than a pair of ruts beaten in the earth, the weight of vehicles from long ago having carved the tracks, the omnipresent sun baking them into permanent existence. Slowing to almost a complete stop, I nudge the car forward, letting the engine idle along.
From the road, the twin lines stretch out ahead, rising slightly before falling out of sight. To either side, nothing is visible, my gaze flicking back and forth as I move on, soon completely hidden from the road behind me.
Going up and over a second rise, the world stretches out wide, falling into a shallow valley more than two hundred yards across. Nothing more than a stretch of desert sand, there is not a single bit of vegetation visible, nothing at all present save the small single-story wooden home in the center of it.
From where I am, I can see the tracks I’m driving on end in an impromptu roundabout just feet from the front door, the circle looking like a closed fist on the end of a misshapen arm. Based on the lack of tracks anywhere else on the grounds, and the complete absence of life anywhere nearby, years seem to have passed since the home was in use.
Thus far, the place looks perfect.
Chapter Twenty-Six
My first instinct is to go into the trunk and grab the Mark 23. Even though it looks like nobody has been here for eons, even though Hiram is the one that tipped me off to this spot, there is no point in being foolish. After seeing what was done to my home, I can’t assume that anywhere is safe right now.
Parking more than ten yards from the door of the home, I turn the car so the body of it is between me and the front. Sliding the driver’s door open, I remain in a crouch and ease down the side, careful to keep my body out of sight. Only once I am within easy reach of the trunk do I use the key fob to pop it open, the springs pushing it perpendicular to the ground with barely a sound.
Remaining on a knee, I snake a hand inside and grasp the handle of the case, wrenching it free.
A moment later, the gun is in hand, the front tip pointed at the building before me.
The place looks like something out of central casting for a scene set in an abandoned Wild West ghost town. A single story tall, it is no more than twenty feet wide. A porch runs across the front, 4x4’s at even intervals propping it up. The roof above it slopes slightly, pitched in the middle, the highest point of the structure maybe twelve feet off the ground.
At one point, the place had been painted dark brown, though years of sun exposure and sandblasting have stripped away much of it, leaving only jagged lines of the dark paint. The shredded remains of screens hang over the windows, swaying with each puff of air. Shingles are strewn haphazardly across the roof.
Up close, the place is smaller than it looked on the drive in. From the rear of the car, I am near the far right side of the structure, easily able to see the length of the front. Around the side, there is a small lean-to structure that resembles what folks back home would have called a corn crib, the thing thrown together with the intention of storing ag products, but little else.
Not a sound to be heard. Not a single footprint visible in the sand.
A bit of the tension eases out of me, the front tip of the weapon dipping just slightly as I sidle up onto the porch. My running shoes fall silent against the wooden planks, each step picked up and placed down carefully, not wanting to make any unnecessary noise, even less wanting to slip on the loose sand strewn along the ground.
It takes me three steps to get across, starting with the first window, the glass too grime-covered to see inside. Moving past it, I consider the opposite window before deciding against it, instead putting my focus on the door. Positioned in the center of the home, I place my back against the wall alongside it. Dropping into a squat, I extend a hand and knock three times, connecting solidly, the sound echoing through the structure.
Holding my breath, gripping the Mark 23 tight, I sit and wait.
No response whatsoever.
Keeping my severed posture, I lower myself to a knee and turn toward the door. Extending one hand, I turn the handle and shove it open, instantly pulling it back to the base of the gun. Held straight out before me, I sweep it across the opening, checking in both directions.
Again, there is no movement from within.
Hiram told me when he called back with the information for the place that it was deserted. It was the sort of place that friends of friends of friends had known about in high school, somewhere that kids long ago used to come when they wanted to drink or get high without the watchful eyes of their parents lurking nearby. Over time, they had abandoned the place for closer locales, increasingly lax laws and parental guidance making things far more accessible.
A few calls had confirmed that the place was still standing. The land had been turned over to the state years before, part of an estate clearance that had gone untouched. Having no more interest in the stretch of scabland than the deceased’s children, the place had stood untouched for more than a decade.
At the time, he had apologized for the vagueness of the location, for not having a better handle on what it did or did not have present. I had told him not to mention it, that what he was describing was perfect. So long as none of us were idiots – which I knew for a fact we weren’t – there would be absolutely nothing to tie any of us to the place.
Rising from my knee on the front porch, the first thing into the building is the front tip of the suppressor on the end of my gun. Sweeping it from left to right and back again, I am content that nothing is waiting inside to ambush me, that no rattlesnakes or equally unsavory things have decided to make the place their new home.
Abandoning my previous gait, I step across the threshold and inside, the amount of light present dropping, the temperature rising. The smell of dust and bottled air settles sharply in my nostrils, driving home the narrative that the place hasn’t been used in ages.
In total, the place is little more than a single room. Rectangular in shape, a counter is extended along the wall beside me, gaps present where a refrigerator and stove had once been. In the far corner are a curtain rack hanging along the ceiling, a dirty and tattered sheet piled into the corner, a dinghy toilet and tub comprising the bathroom.
Opposite it is a living area, the place filled with nothing more than a remainder couch from the seventies, the cushions eaten by various varmints, springs punching up through at odd angles. To my immediate left are a metal folding table and chairs, each showing just the slightest hints of rust.
Lowering the gun to my side, I step into the center of the room. I run through the plan once more, superimposing it onto the space that I now stand in. One item at a time I imagine things playing out, sweat rising to the surface of my skin, my heart rate increasing slightly.
Hiram might not have had any idea what exactly I needed when I called asking for his aid, but I’ll be damned if he didn’t nail it anyway.
The place is perfect.
The same girl placed the pair of beverages down on the counter before me. Stationed behind a wraparound desk almost twenty feet in length with a small island in the center, she had the unenviable task of trying to simultaneously check people in and fill their snack orders. Letting out a small sigh, she gave me a half-smile and said, “So sorry these took a while. Saturdays can be crazy. One ice water and one pineapple-kiwi smoothie.”
“No problem at all,” I said, returning the smile. “Sorry to be a bother.”
“Never,” the girl said. Leaning in, she gave a conspiratorial glance in either direction, and said, “It’s never anybody our age, if you know what I mean.”
I didn’t, nor did I know how she thought we were of the same age, though I wasn’t really interested in continuing the conversation any further. “Enough said. Thanks so much, and have a great day.”
“You too,” the girl said, raising her eyebrows for emphasis as she turned and headed in the opposite direction.
My own brows rose a bit as I shook off the odd interaction, taking up a pair of straws and heading across the lobby toward the back corner. Picking me up halfway across the open expanse, Mira smiled slightly. On the ground by her feet was a shiny black satin bag for her racket, a duffel beside it with her other gear. Face down on the table before her was a cellphone, a menagerie of bright colors swirled together in a pinwheel arrangement.
“Making a new friend up there?” she asked as I approached.
Setting the smoothie down beside her phone, I balanced a straw atop it, placing my cup down as I took the chair beside her. “Oh yeah, really chumming it up with the high school crowd.”
A single arched eyebrow was Mira’s only response as she looked at me a moment before reaching out a fist, using the side of it to swat my arm. “You think that girl is in high school? That’s so sweet.”
I could feel the burn of blood rushing to my face as I glanced over, careful to avoid any sort of eye contact. Already I had felt a little uncertain about our last interaction, but this put things into a different category.
Beside me, Mira inserted the straw into her drink, leaving several inches above the lid as she grasped it between her thumb and forefinger, holding it just beneath her chin.
“Great,” I mumbled, “so between her and Nancy, I’m just killing it around here this morning.”
A bemused smile came to her face as she wrapped her lips around the straw. Holding it an extra tick – no doubt to keep from laughing at my expense – she let the moment pass without comment. Instead, she focused on the drink, holding it out in front of her and giving an appreciative shake of the head.
“I know this is ridiculous, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t good.”
“I feel like I’ve heard people say the same thing about a thousand times over Starbucks,” I replied.
“Meh, Starbucks is for people that hate themselves,” Mira replied. “Overpriced caffeine? That’s nothing but self-loathing in a cup.”
A single laugh tumbled out of me, so forceful it rocked me forward at the waist. Had I been drinking anything, no doubt it would have ended up across the table, a few people glancing over our direction, a subset of them frowning at our volume.
“Self-loathing in a cup,” I echoed, “now there’s something they ought to put in a marketing campaign.”
Again, Mira raised her cup to take a drink. “Just make sure I get proper royalties.”
Shoulders quivering slightly with laughter, I raised my water glass, extending it her way. “Yes, ma’am.”
For a moment, we both sat in silence, our shoulders no more than a foot apart as we scanned the lobby around us. A half-hour earlier the place had been a veritable rush of people, the combination of the morning workout scene and folks having meandered over to watch the racquetball match still lingering.
Now, most had bundled up and filed out, off to the next item on their weekend to-do list.
“What did you go with?” Mira asked, gesturing to the cup in my hand. “Anything good?”
“Sadly, not,” I said, my mouth twisting to the side. “I have practice in an hour, so just plain old water for me.”
Opening her mouth to respond, she pulled up short, glancing down at her cup. Whether it was because of my drink choice or the fact that I would be leaving soon I couldn’t be sure, though I knew which side I was hoping for.
Especially given what I was trying to work myself up to.
“So what did you think of your first racquetball experience?” she asked, raising her head and turning my direction.
Shifting my attention her way, I mulled the question, considering telling her about the old guys at the YMCA back home before deciding against it. “I especially liked the part where you wiped the floor with Nancy.”
Pausing from her drink, Mira’s cheeks colored, her eyes sliding shut for an instant. “Come on now, it wasn’t that bad.”
It was, and we both knew it. Only late in the third set had Nancy even gotten to double figures, a score that looked to be more pity than anything.
“The look on her face each time she’d glance up and see me sitting there,” I said. Pursing my thumb, index, and middle fingers together, I raised them to my lips, mimicking a kissing noise, “Priceless. I thought she was going to explode in anger.”
Once more, her eyebrow rose to a sharp angle. “Explode, yes. Anger, no.”
Having no idea what she was getting at, I asked, “Meaning?”
“Meaning she was embarrassed. Nobody likes to get beat in front of the guy they’re crushing on.”
Of everything she could have said, little would have surprised me more. My brows rose as my eyes went wide, my jaw sagging just slightly. “Crushing? You’ve got to be kidding me. She practically hates me.”
“Didn’t you ever go to kindergarten?” she replied. “The whole pick-on-the-one-you-like thing?”
Pulling my head back a half-inch, I returned my focus to the room. I tried to envision what she was saying, pairing it against my every interaction with Nancy.
I wasn’t buying it.
“Does that mean this wouldn’t be a good time to ask you out?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Two cars have been procured. Both rented from separate agencies in the city – one from the airport, the other from a strip mall in La Jolla – they sit side by side out in front of Stapleton’s house.
On the right is a Ford Escape, a mid-sized SUV with black paint and dark windows. Sitting up high off the ground, the back has already been loaded with all necessary supplies for the night ahead. Like the cars themselves, the items were bought with cash from a variety of places in the area, nowhere getting enough of my business to ever piece together what was about to happen.
Beside it was a low-slung Lexus with matching paint and even darker windows. Procured at a hefty price from the counter at the airport specializing in luxury automobiles, the plates on it have been swapped out for a pair from Oregon that I had used more than a decade before and kept around as a souvenir. A smudge of well-placed grease obscures the registration sticker in the corner, getting pulled over for driving on expired tags about the absolute worst thing that could occur.
For us, anyway.
Standing just inside Stapleton’s garage, the door up and the front of the cars just a few feet away, there is no latent nervousness. No signs of anxiety. Not even the tedious task of going through the plan one last time.
To one side of me is Ross. To the other, Swinger. All three of us are professionals, have been through things much more complex than this against men of a much fiercer mettle. This will be fine. We all know it.
There is no need to belabor the obvious.
To the man, all three of us are dressed in black. Swinger and Ross have opted for a more tactical approach, wearing boots and cargo pants, long sleeve polyproline shirts covering their upper bodies.
As I will be at least quasi more visible than them, I have opted for canvas pants and a black t-shirt. Black running shoes cover my feet. If anybody were to look at me they might think my choice of attire a bit goth, but they wouldn’t mistake me for someone about to go to war.
Unlike my two friends.
All deep in thought, we stand in silence, waiting until the door leading from the home to the garage bursts open. Through it walks Stapleton, her exterior almost unrecognizable as she steps out. Moving slowly, she extends one foot at a time, descending the three concrete steps down to the garage floor and pulling the door shut behind her.
There she pauses, lifting one palm toward the ceiling. “Well?”
For those that know Stapleton in a strictly professional capacity, her attire is always some variation of the uniform. Either urban BDU’s or the official dress, always in a shade of blue or white or tan.
Those of us lucky enough to be friends with her know that the minute she clocks out, comfort overcomes all other matters, far outstripping fashion on her priority list. Sweatpants and hoodies if she can help it. Jeans and sweaters if she cannot.
Never more than that.
Certainly not the black dress she has on at the moment.
None of us say a word as we examine the look she’s put together. Starting at the floor, I sweep my gaze the length of her, scoping the dress with the plunging v neckline and the blonde wig that covers her bright mane. Obscuring the top half of her face are dark sunglasses, the bottom outfitted with a bold shade of red lipstick.
It is a look that would have made Mira proud.
Damn sure will turn heads in just a little bit.
A second pass reveals the smaller details, the ones that are just as necessary. Like the fact that the hem is short, but still long enough to obscure the holster along her upper thigh. Or that the heels she wears are only a half-inch in height, easy to run in and even easier to discard if need be.
Around her neck is a chain that can be tugged free in an instant, the corded steel it’s made from as lethal as razor wire when wielded by someone that knows what they’re doing.
Turning to Swinger and myself, Ross is the first to speak. Nodding, he simply says, “Yup,” and climbs into the driver’s seat of the SUV.
Taking an extra moment to look, Swinger shakes his head slightly. “Blonde. Who woulda thought?”
Like Ross, he heads to the SUV, sliding into the passenger seat. Neither says anything as they sit and stare straight ahead, waiting for us to pile into the Lexus.
A moment later, we do just that, closing the garage door in our wake.
