Chapter 2
AT A QUARTER TO THREE the following afternoon, Foreman was once again in his office, staring at a grainy security video and once again chewing his lip.
He’d been there two hours. A random lunchtime sweep of the security cameras installed throughout the office—and, in a few cases, at the residences of his employees, unbeknownst to them—had revealed something alarming.
He’d isolated the two videos that most concerned him and replayed them, zooming in until the screen was more noise and grain than recognizable image.
Then he’d gone back over all the other videos, carefully.
But no: it was just those two moments, captured on camera—first a friendly punch in the arm and a few exchanged words as two men left the office parking lot the day before; and later the same two, in the plaza outside one’s apartment, eating a quick meal from a po’boy vendor.
Foreman isolated each video to its relevant five-minute segment and watched them in turn.
A little banter between the two as they left the office was of no concern.
But their meeting outside the parameters of work was a conduct violation.
The place of their meeting suggested they both knew where the other lived—another violation.
Foreman snapped off the monitor and took a moment to prioritize his thoughts.
First was a sense of betrayal, given the breach of protocol.
Second was concern for the next day’s job.
Although he had not mentioned it yet with his team, this was a particularly important assignment.
Not only did it come with an unusually large payment, but—perhaps more important—it would cement his position of trust within a certain wealthy circle, ensuring a flow of remunerative jobs in the future.
He could cancel or try delaying the assignment.
But one did not abandon jobs like these, sometimes involving the transfer of gemstones, gold, or tens of millions of dollars, and expect to remain in business.
True: this near to the start of a job, he often fought with a heightened sense of suspicion, even paranoia.
There was no question his two operatives had broken strict protocol.
But they’d done so openly, in a public space.
If they were planning to sabotage the mission, would they have gone about it like this?
The camera view was a distant one, but the body language of the two as they relaxed over a meal didn’t show any obvious signs of guilt or complicity.
Of course, that could be by design. As careful as he was to keep all his delivery jobs legal, or at least in a legally defensible area, that didn’t necessarily make his employees saints.
It might be—probably was—nothing. When the mission was successfully completed, he would deal with the violation.
For now, the only option was to proceed… under advisement.
His intercom buzzed. “Sir? Mr. Proctor has arrived.”
“Thank you, Alice.” Rising from his chair, Foreman stepped into the outer office and passed through a smoked-glass door into a corridor.
At its end, another door led into a vast, echoing garage.
Inside were two medical transport vans emblazoned with EMT logos, first-aid crosses, and a caduceus.
The only signs they might not be what they claimed were the tinted (and bulletproof) windows, oversize engine manifold, and bonded polyurethane tires upon which the vehicles—weighted down as they were with over a ton of shielding and interior armor—rode low.
The small embrasures, sized to accommodate automatic weapon muzzles, were form-fitted and nearly invisible.
It had never been necessary to use them—yet.
Also in the garage were three escort cars of innocuous makes and colors, fitted out in similar fashion. At the far corner were a few other vehicles kept for unusual situations—an old school bus, a pickup truck, a taxi.
Proctor waited quietly in his work-specced uniform of T-shirt and jeans.
“Proctor!” Foreman called out with a joviality he didn’t feel. He stepped up and they shook hands. “Glad to see you.”
“I appreciate the opportunity.” Proctor had a low, gravelly voice—not because he was trying to be a badass, Foreman assumed, but because his vocal cords were the one part of his body that didn’t get regular exercise.
“Good man. Since you’ll be taking rear lookout for the first time, I wanted to make sure you were up to speed. Feel free to ask any questions, and don’t worry about sounding stupid—it’s more important you feel 100 percent comfortable. Ooh-rah?”
“Understood.”
Even after six months, Foreman occasionally poked at Proctor like this, more out of curiosity than anything else.
The way he’d responded just now meant he hadn’t been a marine.
Or perhaps he simply chose not to reveal that he’d been one.
Anyway, he knew how to shoot a gun, and if there was a fix on with this job, he wasn’t involved.
They made a slow circuit of the vehicle, Foreman pointing out various features and explaining instructions to follow in emergency situations. For the most part, Proctor listened in silence, his questions limited to minor details.
They stopped at the side of the vehicle and Foreman opened the door, pointing out the explosive bolts as he did so, along with the stun and gas grenades attached to the interior roof in neat Velcro rows.
They both stepped inside, and Foreman quickly went over operation of the safety chamber: a four-by-four-foot metal cube secured to the ceiling and floor of the vehicle’s midsection by redundant fastenings. A chair was placed in the middle.
“This is the moneymaker,” Foreman said, wrapping up the tour.
“Everything we do is about getting the contents of this chamber from point A to point B. It’s never held a client before—and she won’t exactly be comfortable—but you can see the air vents along the top and bottom, and there’s plenty of room for both her and her briefcase.
So: any questions about opening or securing the chamber? ”
“No, sir.”
“The three—I mean two—guys in the escort vehicle will be responsible for taking point during the time that the, ah, package is being placed inside the chamber. That’s an obvious vulnerability.
Over time, we’ve shaved down how long it takes to move and secure a dead load to around twenty-five seconds.
Since a person is involved this time, it will probably take longer. ”
Proctor nodded.
“Once rolling, primary responsibility for safe delivery is transferred to you four in this vehicle.”
Foreman pointed out each position: driver, shotgun, payload master, tail lookout.
He asked Proctor to take up position in the swivel seat of the last to make sure he was familiar with the recon fields, and he pointed out where the ammo for the chopped-down M240 were stowed.
He went over a couple of minor errors Rodriguez had made when manning tail lookout over some past runs, and how they’d been rectified.
As he spoke, there was no fear or doubt in Proctor’s gaze—just quiet attention.
Foreman finished up and, after a hesitation, decided to share his misgivings with Proctor. “Listen,” he said, taking a seat on an armored panel behind the safety chamber. “Something’s come up. It may be nothing.”
Proctor remained motionless, waiting.
“I’m telling you this out of a hyperabundance of caution. Hopefully, tomorrow’s run will go without a hitch. If that’s what happens, you’re to forget what I’m about to tell you and never mention it again. Understood?”
Proctor nodded.
“I’ve come into possession of some unreliable intel that the shotgunner and payload master might attempt to subvert tomorrow’s action in some way.
Beyond that, I know nothing. I want to emphasize this intel is highly questionable.
But with Arnie Carson as wheelman, you’re the obvious choice to keep watch on those two guys. ”
Proctor nodded, more slowly this time.
“I’m fairly sure that if they’re planning to make a move, it won’t happen until the package is secure and you’re rolling.
On the other hand, they wouldn’t wait until you reach the delivery point—especially since they don’t know its location yet.
” He paused. “Carson’s likely not in on it, so shotgun might just take him out while you’re on the road or stopped at a light.
If that happens, the payload master would be tasked with snuffing you.
Your job is to prevent that. Carson wears no armor; you do.
If shit goes down and they drop you, we’ve failed.
Take out payload, then shotgun—if Carson is killed, make sure the others are neutralized, then take over as driver and complete the mission.
You’ll find the envelope with the location in his breast pocket. ”
He stood up again, shoulders bent beneath the reinforced roof.
“You don’t need to worry about the package—no small-arms fire is going to penetrate the safety chamber.
But in this case, the ‘package’ is also our client—so any problems en route, even small ones, will reflect badly on us.
Like I said: consider the scenario I’ve just outlined to be just left of paranoid. But keep your pecker up.”
Foreman sighed, then cursed under his breath.
“You know what the most fucked-up thing is? On the one hand, I can’t just let this go without preparing.
On the other, I can’t afford to alert anybody—even you, new man.
If two people are dirty, I guess six could be, too.
But it’s because you haven’t buddied up yet, and because of the field of fire that rear seat affords you, that I have to trust you.
” He paused. “How’s my signal coming in, mister? ”
“Five by five, sir.”
And somehow, this response—as clipped and emotionless as it was in delivery—made the unexpected weight Foreman had been carrying the last several hours just a little lighter.