“Does matter if those pictures lead to you, because you lead to my family here. That guard is a loose end. What did I tell you? You should’ve gone in hard, with masks.”
Gibson protested, and Deja shouted him down. Lea listened to them argue back and forth, voices rising, echoing across the junkyard, Gibson becoming more and more animated.
Again, Deja shut him down. “Both you boys got records,” she said. “They find you, they find us. Can’t have that. Told you that up front. So now this thing needs tying off.”
“Not happening.”
“Really not going to tell me, are you?”
“Can’t do it.”
“Even if Truck beats old Swong to death with that sledgehammer? Even then?”
Lea prayed that was a rhetorical question. At some point, the shotgun had made its way into Claudette’s hands. Underscoring the importance of every choice made, every word uttered from here on out. The only thing she knew for certain—she wasn’t about to let Gibson Vaughn act out whatever morality play he planned on staging.
“You don’t get it,” Deja told Gibson. “We talking about risk. It ain’t worth the risk to me.”
“What would be?” Lea said.
Everyone turned to look at her.
“What would what be?” Deja asked.
“What would make it worth the risk?”
“To leave that guard alone? What you got?”
“Ten percent of my end.”
“Ten percent of what end?”
Lea hesitated, unsure how to answer since she didn’t know how much there actually was to offer. She guessed at a number. “A million.”
Deja Noble came down the stairs to search Lea’s eyes. “What are you all into?”
“What do you think the van’s for?” Gibson asked.
“What’s the job?” Deja clarified.
“This isn’t an interview. We’re not hiring,” Lea said.
Deja froze and then burst out laughing. “Oh, shit,” she said. “Listen to this bitch here. Not hiring, she says.”
“Ten percent.”
“You pay us a hundred thousand to leave that guard alone?”
Lea nodded. “As Gibson said, we got away clean. So as long as we don’t raise further suspicion, the guard will delete the pictures once security is back up and running and things get back to normal. But as your partner, I can see your concern and that you are assuming a measure of risk here. I think it’s only fair to compensate you for managing that risk on my behalf. Insurance, if you will.”
“If I will?” Deja was smiling and shaking her head in amused disbelief. “Getting all MBA up in here. All right, well allow me to counter—we, the undersigned, do accept your offer of one hundred thousand, but not contingent on the success of the heretofore mentioned ‘job.’ You owe now. One hundred thousand, regardless. Do you stipulate?”
“We go free and the guard doesn’t get hurt?”
Deja glanced to her brother, who pursed his lips and arched an eyebrow.
“Yeah, I believe that buys you a ticket on my ride.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Margo lived in a thumbprint of a house on the outskirts of Niobe. She hadn’t seemed especially happy to see them, but she agreed to stash the van in her two-port garage, which was almost as large as the house itself. Gibson knew she and Lea had ended their business partnership after the incident at Slaski’s house, but the two women embraced in the driveway, and a relieved Margo slapped Lea’s back before letting her go. Gibson backed the van into the garage. He didn’t expect a hug.
For the most part, it looked like an ordinary panel van; however, four small antennae arrayed across its roof might draw unwanted attention. Swonger had said he might have a solution and, after measuring the roof of the van, left and hadn’t been back all day. Having them both out of his hair suited Gibson fine; he had work to do, and the showdown with the Nobles had left everyone rattled. The delicate ecosystem of their alliance had taken a serious hit, and some time apart would do them all good. Hopefully when they reconvened, Lea and Swonger would have figured out that last night was a net win. The proof of which was parked right here in Margo’s garage.
Margo stuck her head in to say she was going to work. She looked around at the mess he was making.
“Y’all make sure you red up after you’re done.”
Not knowing what “red up” meant, he gave her a silent okay sign without breaking away from the screen. Margo lingered by the door until he removed his earbuds and looked her way.
“Was it worth it?” she asked.
“What?”
“Almost getting killed.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“That you know if it is or not.”
He shrugged, put in his earbuds, and turned away. He didn’t have time for bartender philosophy. His thoughts were already elsewhere. He got this way when deep in a project, zoning out for eighteen-hour stretches while the real world passed by out of focus. He had never seen a Stingray, and the Virginia State Police hadn’t been considerate enough to leave a user’s manual, so Gibson was learning how it worked by trial and error. Charles Merrick walked out of prison in eleven days, so it needed to be more trial and less error.
He couldn’t say for certain how long it was before the knocking at the side door made its way down to his conscious brain. He threw open the door with an apology, expecting Swonger. Instead, it was a trim Asian man with a doughy face and short-cropped hair, uniformly black apart from a small, perfect shock-white circle above his temple. He wore blue jeans and wading boots; a frayed fishing vest with a dozen densely packed pockets hung heavily over a green plaid shirt. Gibson recognized him from the hotel. They’d passed in the hall a few times, but the fisherman smiled at Gibson like they were the oldest of friends.
“Mr. Vaughn,” he said in a clipped, inflectionless cadence. “Have I come at a bad time?”
Mr. Vaughn, not Mr. Quine. That did not bode well.
“I’m sorry, who are you?”
“A friend. Perhaps an ally. May I come in?”
Gibson couldn’t place the accent, but if he had to guess, it would be somewhere in the mid-Atlantic. Or maybe midwestern? The man’s accent kept drifting.
“I’ll come out,” Gibson said, conscious of the half million in stolen equipment behind him.
The man put a gentle hand on his chest. “Better that I come in. Trust me, I’ve seen a Stingray before.”
The mention of the Stingray knocked Gibson sideways. This man knew his name and his business here in Niobe. His immediate reaction was fear, anger fast on its heels, panicky questions piling up on his tongue. But he also felt admiration for the man’s ploy—a threat painted as reassurance and framed with a smile. Gibson knew the role he was expected to play here and held his tongue, unwilling to play defensive or nervous. Instead, he stepped aside and invited the fisherman inside.
“If I’d known you were coming, I’d have put out cookies.”
The fisherman shook his head. “No. You’re overdoing it. Less is more.”
“Fine, why don’t you just feed me my lines?”
“May I?” The fisherman indicated the van.
“Be my guest,” Gibson said with a tired wave of his hand and watched him poke around in the back of the van. The man wasn’t law enforcement; beyond that Gibson had no idea.