Chapter 1 #2
If you were lucky—or if Mr. Moffit deemed it a special run—you got to sign out one of the coveted Remington 870s.
He’d been stingy about it this time for some reason, but Mr. Dietrich, the rancher in Eastland, had insisted the guards carry more firepower than the puny revolvers.
The Remington rested muzzle down between Foster’s knees.
Mr. Moffit had still only given him four 12-gauge shells—even a novice knew not to call those bullets.
Moffit warned him to come back with all four.
Foster resolved to buy a box of buckshot next time he got paid so he could carry a few extra in his pocket.
He took another sip of coffee and peered out the thick bullet-proof glass at the Texas countryside—dusty, distorted stands of live oak on rolling, drought-stricken pastures.
A rising sun painted everything bright orange, like it was on fire. Black Angus cattle with their freakishly long shadows looked like creatures out of that new Star Wars movie. Almost pleasant for now, the heat would soon make it miserable for anything outside.
The winter had been brutally cold, with more snow than Foster could remember in his life.
Spring brought torrential rains, filling the rivers and lakes—and drowning several in Dallas.
Then, in May, the spigot just shut off. The rains stopped, and the temperature shot up.
It wasn’t long before people started wishing the snow would come back.
Endless hundred-degree temperatures blistered the once lush fields.
Armored trucks weren’t known for their ventilation.
Even with the AC on full blast, the walls felt like they were closing in.
The plastic from the seats gave off some kind of gas, like those cheap blow-up pool toys.
Curtis Watts, the big-bellied driver, grabbed the steering wheel and shifted back and forth as if he was brooding on a clutch of eggs.
Sweat blossomed from the pits of his tan uniform shirt.
Watts was almost forty, an old man, in constant need of a restroom break.
Stopping was always dangerous. Today it was out of the question.
Hauling around enough loot to retire made the hair on Foster’s neck stand up.
Armored truck robberies weren’t exactly unheard of around the Metroplex.
Just a month ago, three guys wearing pillowcases over their heads had blown a three-foot hole in the back of a truck when it was stopped at a red light in South Dallas.
The overpressure from the blast made sausage out of the guard riding in the box—which was why Foster had jockeyed to ride up front with the shotgun.
That, and temps in the box were just slightly below the surface of the sun.
Watts drove on, squirming and sweating.
Foster took another sip of coffee and broke the silence.
“Does it seem at all weird to you that some rancher in Eastland would keep five million in diamonds laying around?”
“Who knows with these rich sons of bitches,” Watts said. His face twitched into a squint, like he was trying to keep a pair of nonexistent glasses on his nose.
The little six-by-six-inch window on the bulkhead behind Foster snicked open.
Bruce Goddard’s mouth and nose appeared from inside the cargo box.
Foster had puked in an empty money bag the last time he rode back there.
Worse than that, it was boring. Mr. Moffit needed to put in an AM radio or something.
“It’s hot as a bitch back here!” Goddard said. “Where we at?” He kept talking before Watts or Foster could answer. “You know, the lock on this box would be so easy to pick.”
“Knock it off,” Watts said. “Don’t even joke.”
“You know you want to see what five million in diamonds looks like!”
Foster licked his lips. He couldn’t wrap his head around five million dollars. “Not today,” he said. “I need this job. You break the seal on that box and Mr. Moffit will fire us all.”
“I can open the lock without breaking the seal,” Goddard said. “Easy peasy. Fact is, I’ve already picked it twice.”
“What!?” Watts barked like a drill sergeant. “You—”
“Relax,” Goddard said. “I didn’t break the seal. I just like to practice.”
“That’s a good way to practice going to prison,” Foster said.
“I locked it back. Nobody will ever know unless we tell ’em.” Goddard shrugged off the advice. “I read in Nat Geo where some guy in India found a big old diamond stored in the toe of his dead father’s slipper. The fifth-largest diamond in the world or something like that.”
“My grandma says too much money makes you go batty,” Foster said.
Goddard scoffed. “Wouldn’t mind finding out—”
Foster glanced at the side mirror. A blue Crown Victoria was camped out in the right lane.
A copper-colored LeSabre moved up, looming large.
Something about the vehicles made him think they were on a mission.
Foster had no official training in bad-guy identification, but the older guards were always warning him to keep an eye on the mirrors. It made sense.
“Asshole in a copper Buick coming in hot at six o’clock,” he said, hoping it didn’t sound too dramatic. “There’s a blue Crown Vic back there, too. I’m thinking they might be together.”
“Probably just a couple of rich kids racing with Daddy’s wheels,” Watts said. He gripped the wheel and started shifting in his seat again.
Foster snapped the safety on and off his shotgun. “No rich kid’s gonna be up at six thirty on a Sunday morning.”
Bruce Goddard adjusted his position in the slot, trying futilely to get a look at the side mirrors. “What are you talking about … cars coming up fast?”
“Probably nothing,” Foster said.
Goddard backed off enough that Foster could see his whole freckled face through the sliding hatch. He had a new baby at home, which made him extra jumpy. “You sure it’s nothing?”
“Pretty sure,” Foster said, trying to convince himself. He glanced across the seat at Watts, trying to see what the old guy was thinking. The man’s uniform shirt was one giant sweat stain. “Speed up and see what they do.”
Behind them, the copper Buick flashed its lights off and on.
Watts let out a deep groan. His eyes locked straight ahead. “I’m really sorry, boys,” he said. “I never intended for it to go down like this.” He stomped the brake.
In the back, Goddard began to pound on the wall. “You bastard!” he screamed. “Foster! Don’t let them blow me up!”
Watts slid the heavy truck to an abrupt stop on the side of the interstate, throwing everyone forward.
Shotgun in hand, Foster braced himself against the dash.
The pounding in the back fell off and Goddard’s eye appeared in the hatch again. “Foster! Listen to me, man! Listen! Please—”