Blake Crouch - Confidence Girl - The Letty Dobesh Chronicles

The seventh guard stepping out from the entranceway with an expression of pure disbelief spreading across his face.

Three men were already on their feet, reaching for weapons, the others rising.

Someone said, “How the hell—”

Letty said, “I sort of come with the room.”

The tallest, oldest of the bunch stepped forward and trained his Glock on the center of her chest.

Thank God—he was blocking the camera from seeing her.

He said, “How did you get into this room?”

“Did you not just hear me?”

“You have no idea the world of shit you have just brought down on yourself.”

Letty smiled through the mask, making sure to keep her hands visible and still.

“Worlds of shit are all I know, dude.”

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she heard the faintest sound coming through the wall—something sliding across the bathroom floor.

In her ear, Isaiah whispered through a strained voice, “Keep him talking, we’re almost in.”

She said, “Are you sure you don’t want that drink? Gotta be honest. You all seem a little tense.”

The man glanced at the wide-load who had been on the door.

“You were first in, asshole. Where’d she come from?”

“I checked everywhere.”

“Really.” He came another step forward, Letty growing increasingly uneasy with that black hole of death staring her down. Wasn’t the first time, but you never got used to it. The difference between you being here and not—just the smallest movement of a finger.

Isaiah said, “Letty, get down.”

She dropped.

By the time she hit the carpet, the lights had gone out.

Instinct drove her to cover her head with her arms.

She heard confused shouting.

Footfalls on carpet.

Bursts of suppressed sub-machinegun fire, rounds chewing through the drywall.

Then the sound of snapping filled the room, interspersed with the shuck-shuck of shotguns pumping, more snapping, men screaming.

Isaiah’s voice, “Go, go, go.”

Jerrod: “Hit him again.”

Men groaning, struggling against the electrical current.

Stu said, “Lights back in ten. Disable the camera.”

Jerrod: “It’s toast.”

Letty sat up, grabbed hold of the edge of the bar, and hauled herself back onto her feet.

Isaiah said, “Everyone secure?”

“Yep.”

“Yes.”

Stu said, “Five seconds. Remove goggles.”

“Done.”

“Done.”

“Three, two, one.”

The lights returned.

What a difference thirty seconds had made.

Letty said, “Color me impressed.”

Six of the seven guards lay on their stomachs, hog-tied with Zip Ties, twitching with the remnants of Taser shock. The barbed electrodes were still embedded in their chests, the propulsion cartridges dangling by wires.

Stu and Jerrod straddled two of the men, tightening ball-gags around the backs of their heads. Isaiah sat on the chest of the seventh who wasn’t gagged. He held a radio in one hand, a Fairbairn Sykes in the other, the knifepoint digging under the man’s right eye.

Letty’s crew looked more like mercs than thieves. Outfitted in close-fitting night camo. Night vision goggles hanging from their necks. Super 90’s strapped to their backs. All wearing neoprene face masks screen-printed with demonic-looking clowns.

Isaiah said to the guard pinned under his weight, “Tell them the camera shorted out, and to send someone up with a spare. I double-dog dare you to try a goddamn thing.”

The man nodded.

Isaiah clicked TALK.

“Hey, it’s Matt, over?”

“Copy, we lost visual, over.”

Letty walked out from behind the bar into the living room.

“Yeah, the camera crapped out. Send up a new one.”

“Copy that. En route.”

Isaiah set the radio down on the carpet. “Very good. Very good, Matt.”

“You’ll never make it out,” Matt said. “Not in a million years.”

“Well, if it was easy, any old goon could do it. Maybe even you.”

Stu had moved over to the cages.

“What do you see, my man?” Isaiah asked.

“Four-jaw independent chuck, top reversible D-4 cam-lock.”

“Same on each cage?”

“Yep.”

“This happy news or bad news?”

Stu said, “It’s just news. Nothing I didn’t plan for.” He reached into his pocket and tossed Isaiah a chunk of grey metal the size of a chalkboard eraser.

“Stick that magnet under the doorknob.”

Stu hurried off toward the bedroom.

Jerrod followed.

The guards lay still on the floor all around them, just panting now. With the red ball-gags in their mouths, they reminded Letty of roasting pigs. She glanced back at the wall behind the bar. A spray pattern—two dozen holes—arced up toward the ceiling.

Isaiah gagged his man and stood.

He headed to the entrance, glanced through the peephole.

Stu and Jerrod returned, Jerrod toting the empty duffel bags under one arm, Stu carrying a small, beefy drill.

He hit the first cage, had the lock drilled out and off in less than forty-five seconds.

Jerrod glanced at Letty, said, “Shall we?”

He pulled open the door to the first cage. Letty reached in. Both hands grabbing crisp stacks of hundreds bound with black wrappers. On each wrapper, “10,000” had been printed in gold. The cube of money was twenty stacks high, twenty-five packets per story.

$5,000,000 per cart.

Six carts.

$30,000,000.

Give or take.

Something so satisfying about dropping them into the duffel, the smell of ink and paper filling the room.

Letty could feel the eyes of the guards on her as she worked. Stu was already through the third lock, and she and Jerrod had nearly filled the second duffel.

“Report,” Isaiah called from the door.

“Cruising, brother,” Stu said. “What’s our time in?”

“Two minutes, fifty-five seconds.”

Jerrod zipped the first two duffles, pushed them aside.

They started in on the third cage.

Aside from the whine of the drill, they worked with a quiet intensity. The minutes whirred past with a staggering paradox of speed and timelessness.

So much adrenaline raging through Letty’s system it felt like they’d been in this room for hours.

Stu drilled out the last lock. Then he lifted something that resembled a TSA wand and started moving it slowly over the duffle bags.

“We got company,” Isaiah said. “One guy.”

“Need an assist?” Jerrod asked.

“What are you implying, brother?”

“Armed?”

“Just stay on task. I got this.”

There was a knock at the door.

Letty looked up. Would’ve missed the entire thing if she’d blinked.

Isaiah opened the door, dragged a good-looking Latino into the suite, and turned his lights out with an elbow strike.

Ten seconds later, the man was bound and gagged with the rest of them.

Isaiah jogged over as Stu was wanding the last cage.

“We happy?”

“Yeah, none of the cash is chipped.”

“What does that mean?” Letty asked.

“It means they can’t track it.”

Letty packed the last armful of stacks into a duffel and zipped it up. Isaiah, Stu, and Jerrod had already carried most of the bags into the bathroom. Letty tried to lift one, but it didn’t weigh much less than she did. It was all she could do to drag it across the carpet.

Halfway to the bedroom, she heard the guard’s radio.

A man’s voice. Deep, raspy.

“Matt, did your camera show up, over?”

Letty dropped the duffel, rushed back. She turned Matt over, unfastened his ball-gag, and grabbed the radio. The closest weapon was a MAC-10 lying on the coffee table.

She grabbed it, held it under the man’s chin.