Country Roads: A Dak Harper Thriller (The Relic Runner Book 3), page 1
Country Roads
A Dak Harper Thriller
Ernest Dempsey
138 Publishing
For my great friend Chris Anderson.
North!!!!
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1
Dawsonville, North Carolina
Merritt Wheeler didn’t like the rendezvous point one bit. He’d done deals like this before, so it wasn’t that he doubted his resources, or his connections. He simply doubted the location.
He’d scoped out the old quarry in the hills of western North Carolina before agreeing to the meeting. Initially, it seemed like a good idea. No one would see the deal go down out here in the middle of nowhere, and most of the time, he preferred the solitude, as opposed to how so many others in his trade sold their wares.
This one, however, felt different.
The buyer had requested to meet here, which was the first problem. Merritt always preferred to pick the spot, but the buyer had insisted, even suggesting he might back out of the deal if Merritt refused.
Merritt couldn’t afford to miss the opportunity.
The items in question had been in his possession for too long, and until now, he’d been unable to find a way to sell them or a person willing to fork over this kind of money. The other goods he’d stolen were simpler to sell, at least for him, but they had all been paintings or sculptures. Never anything like this.
He sat in his gray four-door sedan, staring out over the shimmering water. The rippling surface sparkled, reflecting the moon and stars in the sky.
That was another thing Merritt didn’t like about this whole shindig. Doing it at night would allow more room for trouble, and there were no guarantees the buyer wouldn’t try to axe him out here, dump his body, and make off with both the money and the items.
His eyes wandered over to the passenger side, where the black case sat on the floor, secured with a couple of towels on either end so it wouldn’t slide around while he drove.
Something stirred in the bushes to his right, startling Merritt. He snapped his head to the side and looked out into the darkness. The forest gave up no secrets, and he forced himself to calm down. He actually enjoyed being in nature and spent most of his time outdoors. It was one of the benefits his unusual line of work afforded him. He didn’t have a boss to answer to, and very few people he trusted, other than his partner, Elliot Hankins.
Typically, Merritt worked alone, but for certain situations, he called in Elliott to run backup, as was the case in this scenario.
At the thought of his partner, Merritt leaned his neck over and spoke into the radio mic hidden under the seam of his shirt. “How’s it lookin’ out there?”
“Nothing yet, Merritt,” Elliott answered. “You sure this is the right place?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” He peered through the windshield at the eerie beauty of the quarry and its liquid surface. “Only abandoned quarry with these coordinates.”
“True. Although there are a lot of quarries in this part of the country.”
“So I’ve heard. Just keep your eyes peeled. They should be here any minute.”
He knew his partner would have his eyes on him. Elliott was reliable, and always happy to work for a quick payday. This occasion would net them both enough money to live on for years. Merritt had even considered retiring and moving down to Mexico. He could still steal a few pieces here or there south of the border if he needed. The lower cost of living that Mexico offered would make today’s take last a long time. He even toyed with the idea of going into legitimate business—maybe open up a couple of restaurants, a cantina, or a small beach resort in some small, out-of-the-way place.
Merritt rolled his eyes at himself the second he’d thought of that last one. He certainly knew his way around a kitchen, not that he’d be the one cooking if he opened a restaurant in Mexico, but he knew absolutely nothing about the hospitality industry. He’d made his living stealing high-value items, not catering to the needs of a bunch of pampered tourists.
Still, the more he pondered the notion of moving south of the border and going into a real business, one that didn’t involve hiding all the time, or breaking into high-security places…
He glanced over at the case again. “Those pistols have been more trouble than they’re worth,” he muttered, reinforcing his own judgment.
But not for much longer. Once he offloaded the guns to this buyer, his perspective on that would definitely change.
A two-million-dollar payday could have that effect on people.
Originally, the pistols had been valued at around $650,000. Such a rare and expensive treasure should have been kept in a much more secure location than the National Civil War Museum in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
He recalled the night as if it were just hours ago.
Staking out the museum had been a simple task, and the theft almost as easy. Most modern places would have alarm systems that locked down the entire building within seconds of a break-in. Merritt knew that wasn’t the kind of system the museum had, so when he broke the glass, he simply stepped right into the building, hurried over to the exhibit where the pistols were on display, smashed the case, and took the guns.
The alarm didn’t even go off the instant he smashed the glass. Even if it had, the police reaction time was far too slow, which he’d also calculated beforehand.
The cops had never come anywhere close to locating him, and Merritt had been sitting on the two pistols ever since, unable to find a buyer on the black market. Maybe he’d been too paranoid, keeping his searches infrequent so as not to draw attention from the cops. He’d tried to convince himself the cops were clueless, and no one was on his tail, but he always heard footsteps at night, movements in the shadows. Even when there were none.
Still, he knew it was far better to worry too much than not at all. That’s how thieves got caught. That and thinking they were too good to fail.
Merritt knew his weaknesses and picked his targets accordingly—never anything too high profile but still valuable enough to bring in a solid payday. The pistols on his floorboard were the biggest ticket he’d gone for in his career, and he’d debated whether or not he should even try, knowing the sale on the back end would be trickier than usual.
Fortunately, he’d finally found someone after years of waiting, searching, and sitting on a couple of items that not only had extraordinary monetary value, but historical significance.
The pistols had once belonged to Simon Cameron, Abraham Lincoln’s secretary of war. The two Colt pistols were still in remarkable condition after so many years, and more than a few times Merritt had wondered if the guns still worked. He wasn’t about to find out, though. Discharging a 150-year-old firearm didn’t sound like a good idea, not to mention if the thing fouled up, he wouldn’t be able to sell it and would be left with only one. He dismissed the notion as childish and never touched the weapons with his skin for fear of ruining the wood or the metal.
Merritt wondered if the pistols had ever killed anyone, since weapons that had done so often fetched higher prices on the market. That part of his research had revealed nothing, though he did learn that the guns were given to Secretary Cameron by Samuel Colt himself, which was a huge deal. Merritt figured that little feature of their provenance probably added to the value.
Elliott interrupted his train of thought. “Headlights coming down the road, boss.”
“Roger that,” Merritt said. He felt the same tingle he’d always felt when he was about to move a valuable. The sensation felt like a combination of adrenaline and trepidation, as sales like this always came with an element of uncertainty, and danger.
He pulled the door open, got out of the car, and walked around to the passenger side. The sounds of late spring in the forest filled the air. Crickets chirped, and frogs sang their constant songs from a creek nearby.
Before opening the passenger door, Merritt took a second to absorb the beauty around him and the serenity of the moment. It relaxed him, more than he suspected it might, and he drew the clean mountain air in with a long, deep breath.
He exhaled, then opened the door and removed the case. He gently set it on the hood then looked back toward the forest, where the road disappeared into the darkness of the lush canopy.
Bright beams of light flicked in and out between the tree trunks. The lights turned and bounced, making their way closer to the quarry overlook. Merritt stretched his neck to both sides and looked back at the case to make sure it hadn’t shifted. He would have hated to come all this way, to wait all this time, only to have the case with the pistols slide off his car’s hood and crash to the ground, damaging what were two pristinely preserved weapons. So, he remained extra careful.
Merritt saw the lights stop moving for a couple of seconds and then continue forward. He stood by the car, waiting as his nerves tightened in his gut like a freshly wound baseball.
The seconds crawled by, and Merritt wished the buyer would hurry up so he could get his money…and get out of here. The sooner this was over, the better.
Finally, a black Cadillac Escalade appeared in the opening of the forest. Tires crunched on gravel, and the engine purred as the vehicle approached. The entire SUV was blacked out from wheels to windows, and Merritt couldn’t see the occupants in the back, only the driver in the front.
The SUV pulled up and turned about thirty feet away from Merritt, parking at an angle that effectively blocked the way out. Merritt didn’t think the buyer was trying to block him in, but he couldn’t help but acknowledge the fleeting thought.
The vehicle’s driver climbed out and opened the door, while two men climbed out of the other side of the SUV, one from the back and one from the front.
The buyer’s bodyguards carried pistols; each man equipped with the same style weapon. Merritt had never been much of a gun guy. He used them out of necessity, and so far, he’d never needed to shoot his way out of a tight spot.
He kept his eyes on the men, immediately realizing he was severely outmanned, though he knew Elliott was watching from the shadows. If the SUV blocked his view, he could easily shift positions without drawing attention. Right now, Merritt knew that his partner had the buyer and his men dialed into his crosshairs, and if they tried anything stupid, Elliott would light them up.
Merritt couldn’t see the buyer’s face even through the open doors. The glow from the dome light seemed to flee from him as he turned away and walked around the back of the vehicle. Only then, in the light of the moon, did Merritt see his face. Even then, the man’s black, beady eyes retreated from the light.
“Nice night for an antique sale,” the buyer huffed in a slow, Southern drawl.
The buyer’s rotund figure spoke of too many years of too many biscuits and gravy, and probably frequent trips to name-your-buffet. He wore an expensive black suit with a tie that looked like spring had puked all its pastel colors into one strip of fabric. It was the only thing colorful about the man—a glaring tribute to contrast.
The buyer sauntered toward Merritt, who fought the urge to retreat a few steps as the man approached. The buyer unsettled Merritt, in ways that no one else had before, and he’d only seen the guy for less than thirty seconds.
“So,” the man said, “you’re the one who pulled off that heist in Pennsylvania a few years ago.”
It was more than a few, Merritt thought. No need to correct him and risk pissing him off. He briefly considered saying something clever, like “How do you know I didn’t kill them?” But Merritt had a feeling the guy wouldn’t appreciate it, or wouldn’t believe it, so he went with the thief’s truth.
“What heist?”
The buyer stared at him for a moment, as if assessing every breath and every twitch.
Then, he burst out laughing. The large man tilted back as he laughed then turned to face one of the guards standing a few feet away. “Did you hear this guy?” he asked. “What heist?” The guard barely flinched, only allowing his lips to crease slightly in acknowledgment.
The buyer calmed down and rubbed his nose when he was finally settled. “Oh, that’s a good one. Smart man,” he said, pointing at Merritt. “You never know if there are cops around.”
He stole a glance to his left then right.
“Do you know who I am?” the buyer asked, elongating the “I” with his drawl.
“No,” Merritt said truthfully. “I’m not from around here.”
“No, you’re not.” He took a breath before speaking again. “My name is Mitchell Baldwin. Does that ring a bell?”
“Can’t say that it does,” Merritt said. “Normally, I don’t introduce myself to clients. Keeps it simpler that way.”
Baldwin nodded, seemingly in approval. “Yes, I can see how that would be a prudent practice in your line of work, Merritt.”
Hearing his name stunned Merritt for a second, and he had to recover quickly to maintain at least a semblance of professionalism.
“You do your research,” Merritt replied, doing his best to stay cool.
“I always do my due diligence in any of my business dealings.”
“Is that what this is?”
Baldwin’s lips barely creased. “Of course it is, son. You have a product I want very much. Two products,” he corrected himself. “Do you not see it that way?”
“Of course. I just go about things differently.” The truth was Merritt had exhausted all his resources in trying to figure out who the buyer might be. He’d obviously come across the name Mitchell Baldwin during several of his searches in the area, but he wasn’t about to give the egotistical buyer the pleasure of admitting he’d read his bio.
He’d considered playing up to the man’s narcissism. That, however, wasn’t Merritt’s style. He loathed men like Baldwin; small-town billionaires who thought they could buy and sell people, justice, and anything else they wanted. Then again, maybe Merritt was just jealous.
After the sale of the two troublesome pistols, he would finally have a leg up on becoming one of those types, though he had no plans of running a town. All he wanted to do was disappear.
“Where are the guns?” Baldwin asked.
“They’re safe,” Merritt replied coolly. “Where’s the money?”
Baldwin cracked a wicked smile to the right side of his lips. “It’s safe, too.” He turned to one of the guards, who returned to the back door of the SUV and removed a black metal case from the floorboard.
The guard returned to his side, held it out in front of him, and flipped open the lid.
Merritt stared into the case. The stacks of green cash nearly glowed in the moonlight, or maybe he just imagined it did. This score was his ticket out.
“Now you show me yours,” Baldwin said.
“Okay.” Merritt walked cautiously over to his vehicle’s passenger door.
He took his eyes off the buyer and his men, ducking in front the windshield to grab the case by the handle with one hand and the bottom edge with the other. He’d always been exceedingly careful with these items, knowing that if he did anything that marred them, their value would plummet.
Merritt stood up and turned, held the case out with both hands, walked around to the back of his car, and set the object on the trunk. After turning the combination lock, he pulled up the lid and stepped to the side so the buyer could inspect the goods.
“May I?” Baldwin asked, gesturing to the weapons now illuminated by the moon’s glow.
“I wouldn’t expect you to buy them without an inspection. Too many lowlifes out there trying to sell forgeries of pretty much everything, including antique pistols.”
Baldwin eyed him curiously for three heartbeats then moved closer to the antique weapons.
He fished a pair of white gloves from his suit pocket and pulled them on tight.
At least he respects the goods, Merritt thought.
The buyer cautiously inched his gloved fingers to the first of the two pistols, as if afraid it might bite him, or more logically, shoot him.
Baldwin slipped his fingers under one of the weapons and carefully lifted it out of the case with the same gentle care he would a newborn from a pram. He pored over the priceless piece of history in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship produced by its maker—one of America’s earliest innovators.
“I suppose I don’t need to tell you the history of these pistols,” Baldwin said as softly as his gruff voice would permit.
“I’m aware of it,” Merritt answered. “Those guns were made by some of the most prominent craftsmen in American history. They’re priceless.”
Baldwin huffed, and his shoulders rose and fell with the sound. “Oh? And here I thought we had already agreed on a price.”
The comment caught Merritt off guard, and he chuckled. “That’s true. I trust they’re to your satisfaction?”
