“What if I can’t find the bag?” Grant asked for about the tenth time. Logan had lost a substantial amount of cash to a Navy lieutenant in a poker game at Angelo’s club in downtown Chicago a few nights before, and afterward he’d tailed the lieutenant north to this bar. Logan had watched the lieutenant carry the bag of cash into the bar, then emerge empty-handed. There had been more than one hundred thousand dollars in that bag, and now it was stashed somewhere. Logan knew if he didn’t get the money back, Carlo would be quite angry—the kind of anger that led men to kill.
“You’ll find the bag. Get into the basement room your buddy described, and I’m sure it will be hidden there somewhere.”
Grant, ever the planner, felt increasingly nervous as the robbery approached. “What if they’ve changed the code? Simkins hasn’t been there for months.”
Logan sighed. “Calm down. It will be fine, okay?”
“You’re calm because you’re fucking staying in the car! Why don’t you do this?”
“Because I already have a record, unlike you, Mr. über Patriot Boy. And because that Navy uniform will help you blend in.”
Logan placed a large hand on Grant’s forearm before he exited the car. “You’re not going to run into anybody you know, are you?”
“I doubt it. I haven’t lived on the base in ten years.”
Reluctantly releasing his grasp, Logan added, “If anything bad goes down in there, you don’t know who I am, got it? You don’t want anything happening to Joe.” Logan let his cruel words sink in before adding, “Be careful, bro.”
Grant glared and felt a catch in his throat as he stared into the deep-blue eyes of the brother who once tried to protect him from their father. Their adult relationship could have been different. Grant could have loved his older brother, if only Logan had let him. And Logan could have encouraged his little brother, instead of threatening him and dragging him into criminal activity. But wishing it didn’t make it so.
Hastily exiting the vehicle, Grant straightened his khaki uniform and strode into the bar, hoping nobody could detect the quivering throughout his body.
He gave a plastic smile to the bartender, then turned to the stairwell. Grant quickly descended, pausing for a moment at the base of the stairs. He glanced to his left, the direction he intended to go, and then to his right, where the restrooms were located. At just that moment, the door swung open and Grant froze as a man in a captain’s uniform emerged. Grant spun on his heel and headed left when he heard a deep voice call out behind him.
“Grant?”
Shit. He had seen him. Closing his eyes, Grant turned and faced his uncle’s former boss. They exchanged salutes. “Captain Lockhart! How are you, sir?”
“That is you!” Archibald Lockhart’s booming voice rang out in the basement corridor as he gave a big smile, stepping closer.
Feeling his face flush, Grant tried to hide his palpable anxiety.
Archie’s smile faded. “Is something wrong?”
“N-n-no, sir. I was just looking for the bathroom.”
“Well, you know where it is, Grant. You used to come here all the time with Joe.”
Grant nodded. “Yeah, I guess I got turned around or something.”
A lieutenant came bustling down the stairs, and she stopped immediately upon noticing the captain. Archie tilted his head dismissively, and she scampered toward the women’s restroom.
After an uncomfortable silence, Archie finally spoke. “So, you decided to visit your old stomping grounds?”
“Yes, sir, something like that.”
“Why don’t you come join me for a drink, Madsen? You can fill me in on how that fucker Joe is doing.”
Grant laughed nervously. “Uh, thank you, sir. But I, um, I can’t.” He forced himself to relax. Nodding his head toward the bathroom, he said, “I gotta hit the head. Good to see you, sir.”
Grant quickly ducked into the restroom, hoping the captain wouldn’t follow him. The few moments he waited were beyond tense, but the door never opened.
Stealthily emerging from the restroom, Grant peeked out the door and swiftly made his way down the hall, his heart pounding furiously.
He arrived at a heavy steel door at the end of the hallway, just as his buddy Simkins had described it. Grant was suddenly thankful for Simkins’ otherwise annoying motormouth. There was a keypad located on the wall to the right. Furtively glancing down the dimly lit hall, Grant held his breath and entered the code: POKE HER, 7-6-5-3-4-3-7. Though the code was incredibly sexist, Grant was relieved to have the reminder for his fear-addled brain.
Sighing with relief when the door clicked open, he slipped inside. He stood in the darkness for a few seconds, listening to the frantic beating of his heart. Groping along the wall, he located the light switch, and suddenly the room was bathed in buzzing fluorescent light.
Grant heard himself panting and willed himself to relax, knowing he would not find what he needed if he continued to be this jumpy. The framed painting was right where Simkins had told him it would be, hanging slightly askew on the left side of the far wall. It was, of course, a group of dogs playing poker, and Simkins was right. It stuck out in otherwise bare room, and its off-center placement looked suspicious.
Grasping the sides of the ugly brown frame, he lifted it off the wall and discovered a secret compartment behind. He set the framed picture on a wooden table and studied the thick padlock on the little handle to the compartment set into the wall. He had brainstormed several possible lock combinations involving famous Navy dates, and Grant swiftly took out a crumpled piece of paper before spinning the numbers on the lock.
To his surprise, his fourth try, 12-7-41, resulted in a beautiful clicking noise as the lock fell open in his hand. Grant froze, but there were no angry knocks at the door, no shouts about an intruder breaking in.
Gulping, Grant opened the compartment. To his immense relief, he found a blue gym bag stuffed inside. Carefully pulling out the bag, Grant unzipped it and peeked in, detecting bundles of cash. Joe would be okay.
Grant was then all action: in one motion closing and locking the compartment door, then replacing the hideous poker painting on the wall. Checking around him for any evidence left behind, he backed out of the room and slowly creaked closed the steel door.
The hallway was clear. Making his way down it, carrying the heavy gym bag over his left shoulder, he tasted freedom just ahead of him. He would get the money to Logan, and Logan would leave him and Uncle Joe alone.
His reprieve was short-lived, however, when he neared the base of the staircase and found Captain Lockhart descending the stairs quickly.
“Grant!” he boomed, seemingly out of breath. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I just talked to Joe and—”
Archie stopped midstream upon noticing Grant’s panicked expression.
“What’s wrong?”
Grant bit his lip while dread pulsed throughout his bloodstream. What was he supposed to say?
Archie continued staring at him. “What’s in the bag?”
“Nothing, sir. Please excuse me, I gotta go.”
With wary brown eyes, Archie stood fast, blocking the stairwell. “What is wrong with you, Grant? I called Joe, and he’s trying to get in touch with you. Why are you acting so weird, son?”
Grant’s voice turned to ice. “I can’t explain. Just please get out of the way.”