“Better?” Deja asked her brother.
“Don’t like being stared at.”
Deja rolled her eyes at Swonger. “See what you got me dealing with here?” she said. “Got me back in West Virginia, and you know how I feel about that.”
Swonger nodded. “Sorry, Deja.”
“Don’t fret none. You did right to call. So tell me . . . what’s this boy done with our money?” Then directly to Gibson: “Where’s our money?”
Gibson looked at Swonger. He’d been wrong about the moment of truth. This was it now. Swonger looked back at him. For a sickening moment, Gibson knew, knew without question, that Swonger hadn’t believed a word that he’d said. That he was about to be fed to the sharks.
“No, not him,” Swonger said.
Gibson couldn’t have been more surprised if Swonger had burst into flame. He wanted to plant a kiss on the top of his pointy little head.
Deja’s eyes narrowed. “On the phone, you said it was your partner.”
“I know what I said.” Swonger swallowed hard. “Meant my other partner.”
“White girl double-crossed you?” Deja said. “Didn’t think little miss had that in her. Where she at now?”
“Across the street. But she didn’t double-cross us; she got taken. The people who took her have the money now.”
The best lies traveled in the shadow of the truth, changing only the bare minimum to achieve that end. Gibson gave Swonger style points for his performance, as he unspooled a version of events that was 95 percent truth and 5 percent fantasy. In the lie, Martin Yardas ceased to exist. The money was still a reality, but the fifth floor had snatched the Merricks at the airfield, brought them back to the hotel, and were probably up on the fifth floor counting the loot right this very minute. It was an impressive yarn, and Swonger grew into the telling of it. Gibson saw Swonger’s plan—set Deja against the fifth floor. Let the two battle it out. Best case, the two sides would decimate each other. Worst case, Deja took the Merricks and found out Swonger had played her. It was a dangerous play, but it bought them a window of opportunity. It wouldn’t stay open for long.
“How much?” she asked.
Swonger finished baiting the hook that Deja Noble wanted desperately to swallow. “A billion dollars . . . Maybe more.”
Easy, Gibson thought. Don’t overplay the hand. He needn’t have worried; Deja’s ambition betrayed itself in her smile. She asked how many guns up in there, looking to Swonger, then Gibson.
“Hard to say,” Gibson said and described the scene at the airfield. “Could be a few, could be a whole lot.”
Deja looked over to her brother. “What do you think?”
Truck nodded meaningfully. “Risky.”
“No doubt. But is it worth it? That kind of money, we level up. Won’t need the Russians no more.”
Truck thought it over. “Don’t like Russians.”
“Amen,” Deja said and stood up. She handed Swonger’s gun back to him. “You’re coming with us.”
“Why do I got to go?”
“You don’t go, you don’t get paid.”
“This is my score,” Swonger protested.
She looked at him pityingly. “Swong, the only thing yours is those hopes and dreams, but that’s all they are. Now, are you my boy or not?”
Tight-lipped, Swonger nodded that he was, indeed, her boy.
“So what’s the plan?” Gibson asked.
“They’re going to give us what’s ours, or we’re going to take it. One or the other.”
“You’re going to storm the hotel by force?”
“We’re in the real world now, baby. Force is all there is. Once you get past all your weak-ass mind games, it comes down to force and the will to use it.”
“What about me?”
“You? You stay put, Dr. King. Have yourself a little sit-in. Truck, keep an eye on Mr. Computer Hacker here. He tries to go anywhere, learn him why Malcolm was right.”
Her brother nodded and slid Gibson’s whiskey back to him as a consolation prize. Deja gathered Terry and the rest of her team to the side and laid out the situation. Swonger stood with them. When Deja finished her speech, Swonger glanced over at Gibson, who saw fear in his eyes. Fear but also something else. Swonger had always talked a big game, but now he was quiet and looked calmer than at any time since Gibson had known him. Almost brave. Well, he would need to be. They both would. One of Gibson’s commanding officers had been fond of quoting Patton: “A good plan violently executed now is better than a perfect plan executed next week.” Gibson had also heard it put more bluntly—a bad plan is better than no plan at all. Well, this was both of those, and none, and it would turn violent sooner rather than later.
Deja led her people out the front door and across the street. Gibson finished his whiskey in two gulps. He pushed the glass away and reached over for Swonger’s tumbler. He needed to get free of Truck Noble. Easier said than done. The man was the size of the Death Star. He doubted the old “I need to use the bathroom” bit would come off like it did in the movies. Although he kind of did need the bathroom, now that he thought about it . . .
Truck Noble didn’t view Gibson or Old Charlie as threats. He found the remote and put on SportsCenter. The office door opened a crack. Gibson had forgotten all about Margo. Old Charlie saw it too. From his angle, Gibson couldn’t see in the door, but Old Charlie could and was having a telepathic conversation with Margo. The two seemed to arrive at a silent agreement, and the old man turned to stare at Truck Noble. Truck didn’t notice at first, but at a commercial he caught Old Charlie’s stare and didn’t like it, not one bit. Gibson doubted Truck had had to say things twice very often in his life. Certainly not to run-down old men in bars.
“Tell your boy to quit staring at me,” Truck muttered to Gibson.
“He’s not my boy.”
“Tell him.”
Gibson told him, but Old Charlie kept on staring.
“I’ve been drinking here since 1967. I’ll look where I goddamn please,” Old Charlie said imperiously.
That brought Truck to his feet. He shoved Gibson toward the old man.
“I’m already done with this town, now quit staring before—”
Truck didn’t finish his threat.