Chapter 17
Mean as he was, Ricky Lee Pink couldn’t help but playfully launch tiny missiles of spear grass at Duvall as they crept through the darkness.
Hunkered low in the buckbrush on the property adjacent to Gerald Moffit’s fifteen-acre ranchette half an hour northwest of Fort Worth, Duvall stifled a yelp and put a hand to his unprotected neck.
Pink sent another of the needle-like grass-seeds, hitting Duvall in almost exactly the same spot.
He gave a low giggle, giving himself away.
“Grow your ass up!” Duvall turned. The black eye the Bryant woman’s dog toy had given him looked particularly bad in the dusk.
It was cut above the eyebrow, but Duvall had closed the worst of it with Super Glue—like they did in Nam, he said.
“My damned socks are covered with beggar’s-lice!
The last thing I need is you throwing more stickers my way.
We are in some serious shit, in case you forgot. Get your head on straight!”
Pink dropped the rest of his spear grass and looked at Duvall through the blue-black darkness.
His neck burned at the insult. It made it even worse that the other man was right.
He thought about shooting the blowhard right then and there.
Or maybe gutting him with the box cutter.
There was no doubt in his mind he could take the puny piece of trash.
“You call me stupid again and—”
“Sorry,” Duvall said, surely not knowing how close he’d come to dying right there in this field. “Just do me a favor and knock off the games.”
Pink took a deep breath. “Okay …”
This was as good a place as any to look for the diamonds. If Moffit had double-crossed them, he’d get the box cutter treatment—even if he gave the diamonds back.
A sticky hot breeze blew in heavy and humid from nearby Lake Bridgeport. Neither man had been here before. They’d be in the open once they crossed the fence, but the approach looked straightforward enough.
“No dog,” Pink mused. “Not even any geese or guinea hens. That don’t seem worrisome to you? Think he’s got some electronic alarms?”
“Maybe on the house,” Duvall said. “Or could be he’s just not very savvy about security.”
“Well, I don’t like it. A fancy place like this is bound to have alarms. Maybe it’s a trap.”
The red-brick single story ranch wasn’t anything grand, but the sheet metal barn looked big enough to house an airplane, maybe even two. There was a pool between the house and the barn all nestled in the live oaks. The painted drill stem fence around fifteen acres equaled rich in Pink’s book.
“It ain’t a trap,” Duvall said. “Moffit’s got no idea we’re even coming.”
“If I took the diamonds, I’d expect you to come for me.”
“Fair point.” Duvall chuckled under his breath. “You’ve seen what he’s like. Pompous son of a bitch believes he’s smarter than everybody else. He thinks he can keep the diamonds and we’ll just run off because the cops are after us.”
“Maybe,” Pink said, unconvinced.
The house was completely dark, but light spilled from the barn windows.
Duvall pointed with an open hand.
“I’ve heard about his collection of antique cars,” he said. “Wouldn’t mind a look.”
Duvall led the way like he did everything else, brashly, with nothing even close to a plan.
He said he liked to make things up on the fly.
It was easier to be nimble that way, lighter on his feet if he didn’t make too many decisions beforehand.
Pink figured he just didn’t have much of an imagination.
The two men sprinted across the mowed Bermuda grass, stopping at the outer stand of oak trees some fifty feet from the barn to catch their breath.
Pink was fine, barely winded, but Duvall, three times as old and packing twenty extra pounds of gut, sweated profusely, gulping air.
Not a good sign if this turned into a shooting war.
Still no sign of an alarm system. If Moffit had one, it was invisible.
Worrisome.
The barn door stood slightly ajar, spilling a shaft of yellow light into the darkness.
Pink thought it would be better to go in guns blazing, shoot Moffit in the leg and then demand the diamonds.
Duvall slowed to a creep for the last thirty yards, giving himself time to catch his breath.
He said the element of surprise would be enough.
Moffit was a businessman, not a killer. That was why he’d hired them.
They probably wouldn’t even need to draw their guns.
Duvall, breathing more normally now, made a hand sign that looked like he wanted Pink to go through the door first. Pink must have misunderstood, because the two men tried to roll around the frame at the same time, effectively plugging the hole for a harried second before they sorted out who would take the lead.
Pink was larger and had more momentum, so he made it into the light first. A flustered Duvall followed tight on his heels.
Instead of lying in wait, or even being ready for them, Moffit was bent under the open hood of a British racing green AC Ace sports car, tinkering with the throttle. The rumbling engine must have hidden their approach.
Momentum had gotten Pink through the door first, but it also made it difficult to stop on the uneven rug.
He slid, stutter-stepping to keep his feet under a blindingly bright light.
Duvall tripped and fell, sprawling on his face.
Focused on immediately locating Moffit, it took Pink precious seconds to realize he wasn’t standing on a rug at all.
The floor was lined with clear plastic sheeting.
A quick scan revealed that the walls in the corner where Pink and Duvall now stood were also draped in clear plastic.
Even as inexperienced as he was, it didn’t take long for Pink to recognize the gravity of the situation. They’d stepped into a kill box.
Duvall clambered on all fours, slapping the ground in a vain search for his handgun—which had fallen out of his pocket and lay five feet away in a fold of the plastic.
Moffit stood up from the roadster and wiped his hands on a shop towel. “Welcome, gentlemen. I did so hope y’all would come calling this evening.”
He wore a pair of blue oil-stained coveralls that were tight across the chest and shoulders, like he’d had them tailored.
A slow Virginia drawl and manicured look made him seem like a Southern plantation owner.
He was a tall man, though not as tall as Pink, with sandy-blond hair, perfectly styled with pomade.
He glanced down at Duvall. “What happened to you, Allen? You look like you’ve been ridden hard and put up wet.”
Duvall crawled forward, scrambling for his gun, but Moffit clucked at him.
Pink started to draw his weapon.
“Let’s not!” Moffit let his shop towel drop to the floor.
Only then did Pink realize the man didn’t have to draw a gun.
He already had one. He’d been holding a semiautomatic pistol under the towel from the moment he stepped away from the roadster.
Pink had never held a Browning Hi-Power, but he recognized the sleek black lines from pictures he’d seen in Soldier of Fortune magazine.
Duvall froze in place. He looked like an idiot, floundering on the plastic. Pink raised both hands high above his head.
Moffit strode forward and kicked Duvall’s handgun behind him, toward the idling car.
He kept walking, one eye on Pink. The Browning in Moffit’s hand carried fifteen rounds in the magazine.
He could put a couple in Duvall and Pink and still have plenty left over in case they’d brought friends.
Instead of shooting, Moffit flicked his wrist, using the barrel of the gun to motion Duvall to his feet.
Duvall sheepishly put a hand on one knee and pushed himself up.
Moffit’s boot came out of nowhere to impact the side of his head with a sickening thwack. A blow like that could have killed him. Moffit must have pulled it. Duvall slumped to all fours again.
“Do I have your full attention, sir?” Moffit snapped.
Duvall swayed in place, loopy, like he might collapse. “You could have brained—”
Moffit struck with his boot again, this time to the point of Duvall’s tailbone. The blow rolled him over and left him writhing in pain. Moffit kept the Hi-Power trained on Pink, nodding to his own boots.
“You need a boot-leather enema as well?” His voice was calm, like he was asking if Pink wanted another Dr Pepper. “Any threats, idle or otherwise, that you feel compelled to get off your chest?”
“No, sir.” Pink stood motionless, hands still in the air. “Can’t think of a one.”
Moffit gave a slow nod. “You are cool under pressure,” he said in his syrup-sweet drawl. “I would hate to have to kill you.”
“I wouldn’t care much for that myself.” Pink relaxed a hair. If this guy was going to shoot him, he would have done it already.
“Truth be told, I’m relieved y’all showed up when you did.” Moffit shot a glance at Duvall, who’d managed to get up on one knee again. Blood dripped from his nose. One eye was rapidly swelling shut. “Apart from that minor misunderstanding about your pistol … are we good?”
Duvall raised the hand he didn’t have pressed against his knee for support. “Oh, I’m golden,” he said. “But if you’re so glad to see us, why’d you set up your place like a damned slaughterhouse? How exactly did you expect us to react?”
“That, sir, is a fair point. The truth is, I keep a lot of expensive cars in this barn.” Moffit waved the Browning in a little circle.
“I assumed you’d be upset enough with me that you might force me to kill you.
Gunshots produce a powerful back spatter, as I imagine you well know.
” He glanced at Duvall who was still bleeding from his nose.
“I don’t care to get any on the paint jobs. ”
“How did you know we’d come?” Pink asked.
“I didn’t know,” Moffit said. “I hoped.”
“Horseshit,” Pink said. “Why would you hope a couple of armed men would—”
“Think about it, son—”
“I’m not your son,” Pink growled, low and menacing. His hands curled into tight fists.