Joe Gores - Cons, Scams, and Grifts

Yana met her eyes with a surprising directness. “On Easter I went to mass. That evening I was in my ofica , giving readings. It is like that on every religious holiday. People off the street, I don’t know who they are. I have no names. It would be impossible to find them now. I have killed no one, but without proof, I must flee.” She sighed deeply. “There is no rest for me.”

Trin Morales let the truck glide to a stop a quarter of a mile from Xanadu, not too far from the place where Dan Kearny and the Baron had stopped when they had come here. The lights were off, the engine throbbed too quietly to be heard at this distance by the guards on the gate.

The other three DKA men swarmed silently out of the truck. All of them wore Xanadu guard uniforms. All carried bulging stuff-bags. None was armed. None spoke a word.

By pale blue moonlight, O’B tapped the face of his watch. It read 12:33 A.M. They had synchronized before starting up the mountain. Thirty minutes to wait. Trin nodded.

Morales switched off the engine and settled back against his seat. The sounds of the night started up again, cautiously. Animals, birds, killing each other, who the hell knew what they were? Nature wasn’t his strong suit. But he realized that he was identifying with the predators again, after all those months of being only able to think like prey. Because of Milagrita.

Well, shit, what good had it done her?

He checked his watch. Twenty minutes to go.

By the dime-size disk of light from his tiny pencil flash, O’B worked his way up close as he dared to the brightly lit gate where two guards yawned and smoked their way through their graveyard shift. O’B moved away outside the electrified fence toward the left corner of the compound, unspooling a roll of Primacord festooned with strings of firecrackers. He hooked the fishhooks tied at intervals to the fuse over branches and bushes, and ran out of Primacord halfway down the left side of the compound. He checked his watch. Seven minutes to go.

Ballard and Heslip moved so quickly by the light of the failing moon that they came to near-disaster. They smelled the guards’ cigarette smoke just in time, veered off to the right. Just as the Baron had promised, no dogs. They’d have to be dealt with, but not now. Bart winked at Larry and preceded him down the right side of the perimeter fence away from the gate. Larry went more slowly, festooning the undergrowth with firecrackers. He ran out of Primacord halfway down the right side of the compound. He checked his watch. Five minutes to go.

The Baron had said the best place to go over the fence was at the back of the compound. Bart laid down his set of grappling hooks and coil of Gold Line nylon rope. From his stuff-sack he took the two toy guns and two darts. He very carefully inserted the darts’ shafts into the guns’ muzzles until they engaged the projectile springs with little audible clicks. No need to check his watch. The action would be loud enough to wake the dead.

O’B stared at the luminous dial of the watch on his left wrist. His right hand held an open cigarette lighter. The digital readout hit the mark. He flicked the lighter.

Larry stared at the luminous dial of the watch on his left wrist. His right hand held an open cigarette lighter, Mission: Impossible playing in his mind. The digital readout hit the mark. He flicked the lighter.

Sitting behind the wheel of the truck, Trin stared at the luminous dial of the watch on his left wrist. His right hand held an open cigarette lighter. The digital readout hit the mark. He flicked the lighter. He laid it against the end of the Primacord that led out of the window to the big box of fireworks in the bed of the truck. Flame ran along the fuse.

He floored it. The engine bellowed, his blazing high beams showed DANGER — HIGH VOLTAGE rushing toward him at warp speed.

Unseen by the guards, twin balls of sizzling flame raced along the Primacord fuses from both the left and the right sides of the perimeter fence. Unseen because the guards were leaping for their lives as the truck smashed into the gate at full throttle. They infiltrated toward the main building, running from tree to tree and bush to bush in evasive action as the strings of firecrackers around the perimeter began exploding with loud POPS! and spit flame toward Xanadu as if an encircling force was firing through the fence at the compound.

Trin rolled out of the open door and kept rolling right into the undergrowth flanking the track to a great BURST! of flashing electricity and ROAR! of destruction. The gates spronged wide open. The truck, going through, took out the circuit box for the electrified gate and perimeter fence with a huge burst of eye-searing sparks.

That should short out the fence, Bart thought. He let the grappling hooks fly. They arced up to tangle themselves in the barbed-wire rolls topping the fence. No sizzle. No sparks. No electricity. But he made no move to clamber up the Gold Line.

R.K. Robinson rushed to the window of the Security Control Center when he heard the crash. Electric starbursts showed him a truck rammed into his compound. As he stared, it erupted with a massive outburst of skyrockets, sizzlers, and Roman candles that looked like detonating explosives. Massed flashes and pops of gunfire came from both sides of the perimeter fence.

“Hit the alarm!” he yelled, whirling from the window. “Get out the guards! We’re under attack!”

He unleashed the dogs, yelled “Angreifen!” With a frantic scrabble of paws on the tiles, they sprang down the hall toward the stairs, R.K. hot behind. At the front door, he swung his arm in a circle. The dogs streaked off around the building.

Rose Bush, the duty officer, gleefully punched the red button he’d never had a chance to use before. The wall panel slid open. Guards tumbled pell-mell down the stairs from the third-floor barracks, still pulling on their uniforms. Rose Bush watched with satisfaction as the door swung shut behind them and the deadbolt shot home. His orders in attack mode were to not leave or open the door until the attack ended. Nobody could get at him in here. He studied the monitors avidly.

Bart Heslip waited with a toy pistol in each hand. The Dobermans came running in silent ferocity around the corner of the building. From six feet away they hurled their lean muscular bodies at the fence trying to get at him, deadly teeth actually biting at the steel diamonds of cyclone fence. Pfft! Pfft! Easy shots with the tranquilizing darts into their underbellies. The dogs spun away, puzzled and whimpering, then sprang again, but with less force. The powerful drug was taking effect.

Bart blew imaginary smoke from the barrels, thrust the toy guns into the pockets of his guard jacket as if into holsters at his hips. Inside the fence, the dogs had lain down and gone to sleep. Bart started climbing the Gold Line.

R.K. Robinson and his heavily armed guards fanned out across the grass, rushing from tree to bush to tree, dropping behind each bit of cover to fire at the muzzle flashes coming from the horde of attackers lining the perimeter fence.

Bart cut through the rolls of barbed wire topping the fence beside him so it sprung back, leaving an opening. Larry went over first, then O’B, panting heavily. They reversed and dropped down inside the fence. Bart followed, leaving the grappling hooks and the Gold Line in place for Trin. He dropped to the ground beside the gently snoring Dobermans, patted each dog on the head, then ran after the others, stuff-bag in hand. All three men were dressed like Xanadu security guards.

As the three DKA men got to the front steps of Xanadu, the two gate guards came panting toward them. When they were still too far away to see faces in the flickering light, O’B swung his arms at them.