J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

“I been waiting more than an hour,” he says.

“Keep your shirt on, brother.” Ford’s voice. “I said we were coming. Now, let’s take a look at what you got.”

“Is that for me?”

“All in good time. All in good time.”

The three men move into the unit, leaving me with a view of the empty corridor. I push my ear against the gap, straining to hear, but all I get is the hum of voices. I can’t make out the words. Seconds pass, but they feel like hours. All the precautions I’d imagined them taking-searching the rest of the corridor, checking the restrooms, making sure the locks on the other doors are secure-none of it seems to matter to Ford. This could all be over quick, the money exchanged, Ford and his companion exiting with the guns. Could two men carry them all? If they enlist Wrangler, the three of them could manage.

I can’t do anything from behind this door. Getting my feet under me, I rise to a crouch, drawing the door open about a foot, peering out into the corridor. They’re still inside, still talking, and all I can see are shadows cast across the corridor from the lights inside the unit.

I take a deep breath and pass through the door, pausing to cushion the impact as it pulls shut. On tiptoes I cross diagonally to the edge of the T, pressing myself against the wall, getting as close to the edge as I dare, feeling terribly exposed. There are glass doors at either end of the short hallway. Anyone approaching could look right in and see me.

“They’re all here,” a voice says. I don’t recognize it, so it must be Ford’s companion. “Ten carbines. Just what the doctor ordered.”

“And here’s ten grand, like we said. It’s all in small bills, tens and fives and ones, like you took it in at a register. Nobody’s gonna look twice.”

“You expect me to count all that?”

“Do what you want. But we’ll need a hand first getting them out to the van.”

A long pause follows. I imagine them eyeballing each other while Wrangler makes up his mind whether to count the money first or take Ford’s word. If he didn’t know I was out here, I’m guessing he’d insist on the count. Hopefully he’ll do that anyway, so they don’t get suspicious. I steal a glance around the corner, but the corridor is still empty.

“All right,” he says.

I hear a dull thud, then a metallic ring followed by the sound of a padlock being threaded through a hasp and snapped shut. He must have taken the money and dropped it into the icebox where the guns had been stored, locking it up for safekeeping. I hear the Cordura cases rubbing against each other.

“I can take one more,” says Ford’s companion. “Lay it on me.”

More shuffling, and then footsteps.

“Come on,” Ford says. “You go up front so I can see you.”

Three sets of heels click on the concrete. I glance around, and there they are, backs to me, silhouetted against the sunlight pouring in through the entrance. Time to move. I advance on tiptoes as far as the open storage unit, ducking inside for cover. I use the edge of the doorway to brace my arm, lining up my sights on Ford’s silhouette.

I’m about to call out when I feel the vibration in my pocket. Ignore it. The phone buzzes more insistently, and if I don’t stop it the ringer will sound. I reach into my pocket and mute the sound, raising the glass face high enough to check the screen-force of habit.

The call was from Jeff.

Down the corridor, Ford is halfway to the exit. Far enough now that he might think he can draw down on me, or make a run. The phone buzzes again. A text message this time. My hand is shaking as I look at the screen.

ABORT.

No, no, no, no, no . I put the phone away, drop the safety on the Browning, and edge into the corridor. There’s still time. If I advance quickly to close the distance, I’ll risk exposing myself and they’ll have the light at their backs, making it harder for me to see their hands. But it’s just two against one and I have the advantage of surprise.

I step out, gun leveled, licking my dry lips so I can shout a challenge.

The phone buzzes again, insistent. The word flashes in my head. He wants me to abort. I can’t see what he’s seeing, can’t judge whether his call makes sense or not. Heart pounding, I start to backpedal, tucking myself behind the cover of the open unit. What else can I do?

One more look. They’re at the entrance, pushing their way out into the light. Wrangler goes first, and he’s scowling through the glass, probably wondering what happened to the cavalry. Ford motions him forward and the three men disappear from view, heading in what I presume is the direction of the white van.

The ringer chirps audibly and I answer.

“It’s a scrub,” Jeff says. “There’s at least one in the van and then a separate car. I can’t tell how many men they have total, but they’re switched on and ready for a fight.”

“What’s happening now?” I ask.

“They’re loading the van. The curly-haired guy is over at the car, saying something to the driver. He’s going around to the other side.”

“What about the good guy-cowboy-looking-?”

“Going back inside.”

I peer around the corner. Wrangler comes through the glass doors, takes a few steps, then starts running in my direction.

“They’re rolling out.”

I take off running, too, heading to the entrance. We pass each other in the corridor and I tell him to collect Dearborn and get out of here.

“Are we square?” he calls. “What about the money?”

“I’ll be in touch!”

When I reach the glass doors, I pause for a look before pushing through. The white van brakes at the edge of the parking lot, waiting for traffic to clear, then accelerates onto the street, the back end sagging. It disappears behind a stand of pines overlooking the road.

I walk outside, squinting at the glare. I rub my hand against the holster for reference, then slide the Browning in. Jeff cruises up with one hand draped over the wheel.

“Get in,” he says.

I slump into the passenger seat and pull the door shut. He punches the gas, pinning my shoulder blades against the upholstery.

“Don’t lose that van.”

“Don’t worry,” he says.

We turn onto the street in time to see the lights change at the next intersection, freeing the van to proceed on its way. I rattle off a host of instructions: don’t get too close, don’t change lanes if you can help it, don’t do anything to attract the van’s attention. In reply, all Jeff does is nod. He keeps nodding until I’m done talking, then nods some more, like he wants to make it clear he knows what he’s doing.

“They’re heading back to the tollway, looks like.”

“Just keep them in sight,” I say.

I cradle my phone in the palm of my hand, looking down at the screen. Thinking. I can have them pulled over, no problem. I can call dispatch and have patrol intercept them. I can also get a tactical team in motion if I call Lt. Bascombe and fill him in. He won’t be happy about it, but what’s more important? Keeping people happy or picking up Brandon Ford? With him in custody, the John Doe investigation blows wide open. I can hand him over and let Bascombe and Cavallo take things from there. Or I can dial Bea’s number and let the FBI take it from here.

It’s not up to me to see this through. Not personally.

“Are you gonna blow the trumpet?” Jeff asks. “Summon up the cavalry?”

“I’m just working out what to say.”

The van swings U-turns under the tollway and takes a northbound entrance, heading back toward I-59. As Jeff speeds up the ramp, he strains over the wheel, trying to see farther up.

“March,” he says.

“What?”

“I don’t see the car anymore.”