James Swain - Take Down

A big man playing video poker jumped out of his chair. Ike recognized him as having been in the garage earlier, a member of Billy’s crew. Travis was his name.

“Let’s go,” Travis said. “The getaway car’s parked in back.”

“I thought Billy said there’d be two of you,” Ike said.

“No, just me,” Travis said.

They moved in tandem toward the casino’s back entrance. Travis walked backward, never taking his eyes off Ike or T-Bird. Ike sensed motion behind him and looked over his shoulder. Misty had gone AWOL. Pepper was still there, holding the briefcase with the money orders. Ike drew a gun from his pocket and pointed it at her.

“Eeek,” Pepper said.

Ike relieved her of the money orders. “Don’t follow us, or I’ll clip you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Pepper said.

Ike and T-Bird bolted out of the casino. The baby-faced guys who were part of Billy’s crew had parked a red Chevy Malibu in a spot by the back entrance and were standing beside it, in anticipation of making their escape. Seeing Ike’s gun, they both turned pale.

“Go stand in the grass,” Ike said.

The baby-faced ones did as told. Ike got behind the wheel of the rental, while T-Bird rode shotgun. The keys were stuck in the ignition. Ike turned over the engine and hit the gas, making the engine roar. He circled the massive parking lot searching for the exit.

“We did it, man. We’re rich,” Ike said.

“Sunny Mexico, here we come,” T-Bird said.

“Did you see their faces? Wish I had a camera.”

Ike found the exit and took the turn on two wheels. He’d mapped out their escape plan that morning; they’d take the back roads to Spring Mountain Road, drive west to the freeway, and head due south to the California state line. From there it would be a leisurely drive to San Diego and across the border to the promised land, where they’d spend the rest of their days hanging out in their big hacienda, living in the lap of luxury.

T-Bird held the briefcase with the loot in his lap. “Holy shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It changed color.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The briefcase changed color. It was black inside the casino; now it’s dark brown.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I ain’t kidding you, man. It changed.”

It was at that moment that Ike knew they’d been double-crossed. Misty disappearing, only one guy inside the casino to help when there were supposed to be two. Billy had figured out they were going to rip him off, so the little guy had beaten them to the punch.

“Open it,” Ike said.

T-Bird popped the clasps and lifted the lid. “Fucking shit! It’s filled with rocks!”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“Turn around. Come on, do it!”

Ike wasn’t paying attention, his eyes focused on the roadblock at the end of the street. A line of men wearing bulletproof vests were pointing high-powered rifles and shotguns at the rental’s windshield, ready to mow them down. Ike’s foot touched the brake but didn’t press down. What was the point? They’d just end up rotting to death in some crummy federal pen with a thousand other losers. That was not the way he wanted to check out. Better to do it in style.

Seconds later, the first bullet penetrated the windshield. T-Bird jumped in his seat and then slumped forward with his chin resting on his chest, never knowing what hit him.

“I’m right behind you,” Ike said.

Rock stood at rigid attention in front of the flat-screen TVs, watching the mayhem unfold. Punches thrown, bodies flying, the lavish hotel lobby and its beautiful furnishings trashed by the army of determined gaming agents that had raided his casino. His security staff was putting up a decent fight but was outgunned and would ultimately lose to a superior foe. That was the law of the jungle, and it was only a matter of time before the gaming agents came upstairs to arrest him. Clutched in his hand was his walking stick, whose ornate handle he smacked viciously into his open palm. His bodyguards flanked him, unsure what to do.

The landline on the desk rang.

“Answer it,” the drug kingpin barked.

Doucette and his wife had taken up positions behind the couch, afraid of Rock’s wrath. Doucette sprinted to the desk and hit a button on the phone.

“Hello?”

“This is Don Winter, the cage manager. We’ve been robbed. The money orders are gone,” came the man’s weakened voice out of the speaker.

“ What? ”

“It was Ike. He and his partner stole the money orders.”

“Ask him where he is,” Rock said.

“Where are you?” Doucette asked.

“By the cage. I’m hurt,” the cage manager replied.

“Give me the remote,” Rock said.

One of the bodyguards found the remote. Rock punched in a command, and the images on the TVs changed to show Don standing outside the cage with a cell phone. Don was having trouble keeping his balance and listed from side to side.

Rock crossed the office and brought his mouth next to the speaker.

“How much did Ike steal from us?” Rock said to the speaker.

“Who’s this?” the cage manager asked.

“The person you were supposed to give the money orders to.”

On the screen, Don started coughing. A reflexive action, born from fear.

“Answer the question,” Rock barked.

“He got all eight million,” the cage manager said.

“How the fuck am I gonna pay my dealers back in LA!”

“I don’t know,” the cage manager said.

Rock brought his fist down on the speaker, disconnecting the call. Then Rock played back the events of the past twenty minutes and realized that while he’d been watching the Gypsies scam him, another scam had been taking place. There was no doubt in his mind that Cunningham had orchestrated this; Ike and T-Bird were too brain-dead to scam a casino and get away with it.

Rock shifted his gaze to Doucette. “Your guy ripped me off.”

“You’re not blaming me, are you?” Doucette said.

“Yes. I trusted you, and you failed me.”

“Wait a minute-I’ve got an idea,” Doucette said.

Doucette removed an abstract painting from the wall and spun the dial of a combination safe. It sprang open, and he pulled out stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills, which he tried to give to Rock’s bodyguards. The bodyguards refused to take the money, and Doucette tentatively approached Rock. The drug kingpin shook his head and scowled.

“Give the money to your dealers, tell them the rest is coming,” Doucette said.

“Coming from where?” Rock said.

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”

“You’ve never had a smart idea in your life.”

“Come on, Rock, I’ve always been loyal.”

In Rock’s experience, those who proclaimed their loyalty were usually the first to roll on him. He clutched his walking stick with both hands and took a practice swing. The stacks of bills spilled from Doucette’s hands to the floor, and the casino boss started backing up.

“No, please,” Doucette begged.

“I’ll make it painless, if that makes you feel better,” Rock said.

Doucette tripped over his own feet and fell backward onto the couch. His arms shot out and he begged for mercy. Rock didn’t know the meaning of the word and came forward.

A shot rang out. One of the TV screens imploded, the image of Don the cage manager cascading to the floor in a thousand pieces. The bullet had sailed by Rock’s head, yet the drug kingpin hadn’t flinched. It wasn’t the first time he’d been shot at.

Shaz stood behind her husband’s desk, holding a silver-plated handgun she’d pulled from the center drawer, her arms trembling in fear.