“I got most of my teeth,” Swonger said, hung up on the wrong part of the conversation.
“So, what . . . ? You just business associates?” she asked. “That what I’m supposed to believe? Please. Tell me a bedtime story. Tell me how you got rolled up stealing cars again and cut a deal to serve up the Nobles to save your narrow ass. And after what my brother did for you . . .” There was cold fury in her voice as she strode forward and pressed the muzzle to Swonger’s forehead like the cold finger of God, forcing him to his knees.
She’s going to kill him and I’m next. Gibson believed it beyond a doubt until he saw her staring at him, calculation and purpose in her eyes.
“You police?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know this fool?”
“Hammond Birk.”
“Judge that lost his mind?”
“That’s the one. I owe him.”
“Owe him how?”
“That’s private between him and me.”
“That a fact? And what’s that got to do with Swonger here?”
Gibson shrugged. “Believe me, I’ve been asking myself the same question. I mean, you ever try and get rid of him? Can’t be done.”
“Hey!” Swonger said.
Deja’s piercing black eyes narrowed for a moment before she burst out with a laugh. “Well, that’s the damn truth.”
“Hey!”
Deja let the hammer down and stepped back. “Oh, don’t be sore, Swong. Had to make sure. Go on and get up out the grass.”
“I got my teeth,” Swonger muttered to himself. He stood and dusted himself off, pale and shaken.
Deja slapped the side of the van three times, and a man in camos emerged from the woods with a scoped hunting rifle. Pointed at the ground. Gibson took that as a good sign. The man strolled over and leaned against the van as if he’d just happened along and was taking a break before continuing his hike.
“Terry,” Swonger said.
Terry nodded but didn’t answer.
“So are we okay to do some business?” Gibson asked. “Or are you going to scare the piss out of Swonger some more?”
“Is he for real?” Deja asked Swonger.
Swonger shrugged. “Can’t do nothing with him.”
She gave Gibson another look. “Truth is, ordinarily we don’t have time for this kind of thing, you understand.”
“Swonger said the Nobles were the people to talk to.”
“Well, I appreciate good word of mouth, but our business model is pretty straightforward. We like it like that. And your needs are kind of specialized. A goddamn cell-phone interceptor? You know what a Stingray costs?”
“About three hundred thousand,” he said. “Give or take.”
“Give or take if you’re law enforcement, which we just established you ain’t. Gonna cost you a half mil on the street, easy.”
“That’s what I figured. We don’t have that much.”
“That’s all right. I don’t have one to sell you.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Well, these are what you might call special circumstances.”
“Special how?”
“An opportunity has presented itself to my family. Might be, we can help each other. You were in the military? Some kind of computer expert?”
“Something like that.” Gibson glared at Swonger, who looked guiltily away.
“I don’t have a Stingray, but I know who does. Owners aren’t going to sell it to you, but you might be able to liberate it. If you’re willing to cross the line.”
“What line?”
“I need a little something; you need a little something. Your lucky day because so happens they’re in the same place. Should be a cakewalk if you’re as good as Swong says.”
“What line?”
Deja slapped the side of the van three more times. After a moment, a second man stepped out of the far side of the clearing, also carrying a rifle. He moseyed toward them. Gibson wondered how many more guns Deja Noble had pointed at them.
“Starting to get hot,” she said. “Let’s go somewhere cooler and cut it up.”
“What line?” Gibson asked for the third time.
He didn’t like the answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
12:57 a.m.
Three minutes until he crossed Deja Noble’s line.
It had been a hectic thirty-six hours prepping her little job. That’s what Deja called it anyway. Easy enough for her to say from the sidelines, but there was nothing little about the prison time they’d face if caught.
Gibson started the van and reached for his phone to send Swonger an angry text for running behind schedule. It had been tough to sell Deja Noble on his plan. She favored a far less subtle approach, but he’d made it clear that violence was not an option. No one would pay for his choices but him. Deja agreed and made it clear that any foul-ups would be on him, so a late start did not augur well.
As if on cue, Swonger roared to a stop in a black 2013 Mustang Boss 302 Laguna Seca, pelting the side of the van with gravel. The love Swonger had for that car was not wholly platonic, and he was already mourning her loss after tonight. The ex-con looked a full three inches taller in the driver’s seat—truly a case of the car making the man.
Swonger grinned, a little too amped up for Gibson’s liking, and gave a thumbs-up that meant Lea was in position and the alarms and cameras were down.
Most modern security was networked to off-site servers that stored camera footage and other data. A good system, in theory, but one that rendered it vulnerable to direct, simple hacks. Gibson had found the junction/relay box a quarter mile up the road. A drab, easy-to-overlook metal box. Tens of thousands like it spread along roadways throughout Virginia, millions across the country. Those boxes cobbled together the digital infrastructure of the country, yet few had security beyond a simple pin-tumbler lock. It had taken Swonger less than a minute to pick it.