The Loot (Charlie McCabe Thriller) Read online

  “Hell of a way to learn the truth about Santa Claus.”

  The memory was distant enough, the hurt scabbed over, that poking it just put a bitter smile on Charlie’s lips.

  “The front door’s open, cold wind and snow blowing in; he’s literally down on his knees pulling at her arm while she’s walking out, begging her. Telling her how he was two hundred up, how he was going to make this the best Christmas ever, until he went bust. Wasn’t his fault. Never was.”

  “She didn’t leave, though,” Dutch said.

  “We were back by dinnertime. Longest we were ever gone.”

  Charlie studied her bottle of beer.

  “I left, though.”

  “Harry made his choices.” Dutch picked up a tray of cut limes and scraped them into a garbage can. “He’s the only one who can. And only you can make yours. That’s how this works.”

  “You said Lassiter’s connected.” Charlie watched him across the bar. “You used to be too.”

  He glanced up at her. “You looking to earn that twenty?”

  “You used to hear things. You’d get wind of, you know, odd jobs.”

  “That was never the kind of work you wanted.”

  “That wasn’t the kind of work you wanted to let me do,” she said.

  “Still isn’t.”

  “I was just thinking,” she said. “I mean, I’m not looking to get any blood on my hands, but if you knew something, if you knew anyone looking for skilled help—”

  “You don’t make twenty g’s without getting your hands bloody,” Dutch told her. “Nobody pays that kind of money for a victimless crime. Forget it, Charlie. That road’s not yours to walk.”

  They fell into a restless silence.

  “Does it ever get easier?” she asked him. “Sleeping.”

  “You know what we say about ex-Marines?”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s no such thing,” Dutch said. “Once a Marine, you’re a Marine for life. Don’t matter if you’re in or out; don’t matter if you still wear the uniform or not. Once you’re in, you’re in. Now, part of that’s a pride thing. Corps is big on pride. Comes from being the service that does the hard work, you know, as opposed to certain people who joined the army so they could take a nice, easy ride on our coattails.”

  Charlie lifted her bottle and cracked a tired smile. “Soon as I’m done drinking, you know where you can stick this, right?”

  He chuckled. “Point is there’s a deeper meaning. It comes home with you. Everything comes home with you. Get enough mileage on your tires, yeah, you can kinda feel like a civilian, maybe. Sometimes. But late at night, when the world goes quiet, and you’re all alone inside your head . . . that’s when the memories come back and you know the cold, hard truth. You’re always gonna be a soldier, Charlie. You’re in for life.”

  “Hooah,” she said softly. She tossed back the last swallow of beer.

  “And you got a new job,” he said. “Which I recommended you for. So don’t show up to your first day of work half-asleep and make me look like an asshole. C’mon, I’ll give you a ride back.”

  “Thanks, Dutch. For everything.”

  He grabbed his keys and led the way to the back door.

  “You oughta move into town, Charlie. Get some city around you.”

  EIGHT

  The headquarters of Boston Asset Protection—the real HQ, not the show office in town—was a big industrial box out in Cambridge. Out of the way and nondescript, at the end of a corporate park filled with identical big industrial boxes. Most of the park looked like warehouse space. Charlie idled at the edge of the parking lot, listening to the pickup’s engine rattle as a line of semitrailers pulled out and aimed their snub noses for the highway on-ramp.

  Jake met her at the front door and squeezed her hand in a firm, confident grip. Even his first handshake yesterday had been a calculated lie. She matched his style.

  “C’mon in,” he said. “The place isn’t much to look at—we go for function over form around here—but it’s home.”

  A small lobby waited beyond the tinted glass doors, and she saw what he meant. The reception desk and a small clutter of mismatched chairs looked like they’d come from a hotel-furniture sale, and not from the same hotel. The walls were unadorned white, the floor bare concrete. The drywall was down on the left-hand side, exposing bare wooden ribs and bundles of colored wiring.

  “We’re also in the middle of some renovations,” he said. “We’ve been in the middle of renovations since 2015, though, so . . .”

  The receptionist—the real receptionist this time, a woman in her early twenties with cornrows and sharp brown eyes—was busy with a phone call. She tucked the receiver between her shoulder and neck as Jake and Charlie walked by, handing out a bundle of yellow sticky notes. Jake took them with a nod of thanks.

  “Amenities: We’ve got a conference room, armory, break room, a small gym”—he leafed through his messages, leading the way down an unadorned eggshell-white hallway—“big room with modular walls we use for training scenarios and ops planning. Got a soundproof firing range, but keep that to yourself.”

  Charlie tilted her head at him. “Why’s that?”

  “We’re not zoned for it, and it isn’t exactly legal. And I keep a few weapons on site for training purposes that you’re not technically allowed to own in this state. But you seem cool, and I think I can trust you not to narc on me. You’re not a cop, right, Charlie? You know that if you’re a cop, you have to tell me so, or it’s entrapment.”

  She almost missed a step. “I—I don’t think that’s really how the law works . . .”

  Charlie paused, catching the faint twitch at the corner of Jake’s mouth.

  “You’re messing with me right now, aren’t you?”

  “I am absolutely messing with you right now. About the cop thing, I mean. The firing range is real, highly illegal, and please keep it a secret.”

  “The firing range does not exist,” said the woman poking her head through a doorway just up ahead. “Also we totally don’t have an after-hours betting pool. There is no gambling happening in this establishment.”

  The new arrival had a swagger in her footwork as she stepped into the hallway. She squared her hips in a gunfighter’s stance and took Charlie’s measure. Her dark complexion had traces of Spanish and Italian blood, and she wore her jet-black hair in a functional ponytail that brushed the sharp neckline of her blazer. Charlie quietly studied her square-toed shoes, her sturdy belt—Not ex-military, she thought. Ex-cop. She took Charlie’s hand in a rock-firm grip.

  “Dominica Da Costa. Call me Dom. Handy tip to remember about Jake, here: if his mouth is moving, he’s probably full of crap. Get used to it.”

  “I’m also your boss,” he told her, still faintly smiling. “Just pointing that out, not for nothing.”

  “That’s funny,” Dom said. “You say that, yet it’s Sofia’s signature on all my paychecks.”

  “Keep it up, see who gets assigned to parking lot detail tonight. I hear the forecast is calling for rain.”

  Dom put on a face of mock dismay and rested her hand on Charlie’s shoulder, instantly familiar. Charlie didn’t mind. She felt at home in the banter, the same kind of friendly ball busting she got from her squad back—

  —back home, she thought for a heartbeat, before her brain course corrected.

  “I’m sorry,” Dom said, “I believe protocol and tradition dictate that the shit jobs go to the new fish, until such time as they’ve paid their dues.”

  “I’m pairing Charlie here up with Beckett tonight.”

  “Does he know that?” Dom asked.

  “He will when I tell him. Sofia ready with the briefing?”

  Dom gestured to the door at her back. “Waiting on you, boss.”

  Jake led the way into a dimly lit box of bare drywall, where more hotel-surplus chairs formed ragged lines facing a tripod-mounted projection screen. A folding table in the back sported a Sunbeam coffee m
aker and pylons of disposable cups, next to an overflowing plastic garbage can. Twelve or so people were milling around, drinking black coffee. They conversed in low voices while Sofia hunched over a laptop computer. Charlie took the crowd in. Jackets, polished but well-worn shoes: quiet professionals dressed for a quiet, professional job. Mostly men. She spotted only one other woman in the bunch beside Dom, Sofia, and herself. Jake’s sister looked up, pushed her cat-eye bifocals higher on her nose, and gave a quick wave across the room.

  “We ready?” she called out.

  “We ready.” Jake shut the conference room door. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  The crowd broke up, the operatives finding places and scraping chairs across the concrete floor. Dom dropped into a seat in the back row. She saved the one next to her and waved Charlie over. Sofia tapped a few keys on her laptop, and the projection screen lit up with a corporate logo: a mountain of gray iron under a sky lined with silver clouds.

  “Ladies and gents,” Sofia said, “this evening’s job is a one-night stand. We’ll be providing protection at a corporate banquet to be held at the Stark House, in collaboration with hotel security. The client is one Mr. Sean Ellis, the current president of Deep Country. Deep Country is a privately owned mining company with holdings in Kentucky, West Virginia, and Wyoming.”

  A hand went up in the middle of the room. Sofia gave a nod.

  “Same company that lost that mine in Rockhouse last month?” the operative asked.

  “Bingo, give that man a gold star.” Sofia adjusted her glasses. “See, kids? Reading is good for you. For those who aren’t up on current events, I’ll make a long and tragic story short. Mine? Goes boom. Miners? Thirty dead. Safety standards? Nonexistent, as it turns out. Too early for a verdict, but it looks like the executives were lining their own pockets by skimping on the regulations. And so, in one fell swoop, Deep Country has gone from a nonentity to one of the most hated companies in America.”

  Charlie leaned closer to Dom, frowning. She murmured, “And we’re protecting these people?”

  Dom let out a faint snicker and whispered back, “Get used to it. Perfect angels who say their prayers at night usually don’t need to hire bodyguards. We mostly work for scumbags, minor celebrities, and the occasional minor-celebrity scumbag.”

  “This is the company’s annual employee-appreciation banquet,” Sofia continued. “We’re being asked to provide coverage for the entire event, but our primary is Sean Ellis. As the public face of the company, he’s become a target for everyone who has an ax to grind with Deep Country, especially after a, dare I say it, spectacularly stupid interview where he blamed the accident on the dead foreman. Continuing a rich tradition of our clients creating their own worst problems.”

  Another hand went up. “What about Boston PD?”

  Sofia shook her head. “The police have strongly advised Deep Country to not rent out a public venue, at least until the heat in the press dies down. Ellis is . . . say it with me, kids—”

  “Creating his own worst problems,” chorused half the room in a playfully tired drone.

  “Suffice to say, the cops aren’t happy, and they’re not sticking their necks out either. Expect minimal presence unless we call them in ourselves. On the plus side, I had a lovely conversation with the head of hotel security. Off the record, he’s less than thrilled about his boss’s decision to rent the venue to Deep Country, his staff is anxious, and they’re glad to have us there. They’re willing to let us take point and follow our lead tonight.”

  “A rare and wonderful thing,” Dom murmured in Charlie’s ear. “Security guards can be a pain in the ass to deal with. We meet a lot of mall-cop Napoleons.”

  “As far as threats go,” Sofia said, “if you could put emails in buckets, I’d say they were getting buckets. A lot of noise and very little signal: they’ve forwarded the most dangerous-sounding letters to the FBI, but I’m not convinced Deep Country’s staff knows what they’re looking at, and the real wackos could be slipping past in the clutter. I talked to the feebs in the local office, and they’ve got a few credible threats. That said, they passed the leads on to Boston PD, and the PD isn’t inclined to share with us. They’re mysteriously not returning my phone calls.”

  “They’re hoping Da Costa ends up as collateral damage,” said the first man who’d raised his hand.

  Dom’s eyes flashed with genuine anger, and she lurched forward in her chair. “Hey, screw you, Malloy—”

  Jake held up his hands, getting between them as he paced up the center aisle. “People, people, please. Focus up, huh?”

  Dom sat back and folded her arms tight across her chest, glowering. Jake moved to stand at his sister’s side.

  “Secondhand, we’ve also got confirmed threats coming out of Rockhouse and neighboring towns in every direction,” Jake said. “Lots of surviving loved ones, lots of angry families. Otherwise we’re dry on intel. No names or mug shots to match up with the death threats. As always, assume the worst. It’s a thirteen-hour drive from Kentucky to Boston. That said, anyone willing to murder Sean Ellis in the middle of a banquet is probably willing to drive thirteen hours to do it.”

  A stack of paper stood beside Sofia’s laptop, printed-out packets stapled in the corner like a homework assignment. Jake held up one of the packets and fanned it out.

  “In addition to the hotel floor plans and duty zones, we’ve got bios on the company’s entire board of directors. Memorize faces and names; they’ll all be in attendance tonight. Bear in mind that Sean Ellis is our primary: he hired us personally, and he’s expecting star treatment all the way. This is our first job for Deep Country, and they aren’t going to get more popular anytime soon, so there could be a lot more work in it for us if we shine tonight.”

  He craned his neck, meeting Charlie’s eyes from across the room, and pointed her way.

  “Before I get into duty assignments and the nitty-gritty, yes, we have a new face in the ranks. This is Charlie McCabe, she comes highly recommended, and tonight’s her shakedown cruise, so treat her right. Everybody come on up, grab a packet, and I’ll be seeing each of you for some one on one.”

  As the room shuffled to its feet, clumping toward the front table, Charlie gave Dom a sidelong glance. The other woman was still sitting frozen, her face a mask of stone fury.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Fine,” Dom snapped. “Excuse me. Need to have a word with somebody.”

  Charlie watched her stomp off. Dom waded through the crowd, corralling the towheaded man she’d called Malloy. He stepped back, wide eyed, as she jabbed a rapid-fire finger against his chest. Under the buzz of conversation, Charlie strained to hear her.

  “Told you,” Dom said, “you keep my name out of your damn mouth—”

  The rest was swallowed by the room, a dozen voices bouncing off the drywall at once. Movement caught her eye. Jake was waving her over.

  “Charlie,” he said, “c’mere. Want to introduce you to somebody. You’re about to graduate to the big leagues.”

  NINE

  Charlie didn’t know about the big leagues, but the big part definitely checked out. The man standing placidly at Jake’s side was a monolith of muscle in a tailored jet-black suit, the razor-sharp fabric just a few shades darker than his skin. He was groomed to perfection, his scalp so smooth she couldn’t tell if he was naturally bald or shaved it without missing a single bit of stubble, and the sculpted V of a thin goatee framed his generous mouth. He had a philosopher’s eyes, taking in the world around him with quiet contemplation.

  “Charlie,” Jake said, “meet Beckett. He’s been with me since we opened our doors. Our MVP, and the best guy you could ever hope to learn from.”

  Her small hand disappeared inside of his. He had a gentle, firm grip and looked her intently in the eye as they shook.

  “Beckett,” Charlie echoed. “That a first name or a last name?”

  “Never seen a reason to be particular. People should go by whatever
name fits ’em best. Take you, for instance. You do look like a Charlie, but I’m betting that’s not the name on your birth certificate. You’re a Charlotte or . . .” Beckett tilted his head, studying her. “No. Charlene.”

  Jake put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “What she is, tonight, is your understudy. I want you to show her the ropes, teach her the ground rules. At the end of the night, you tell me if you think she can hack it.”

  Beckett’s deep eyes didn’t leave Charlie’s face for a moment. “She moves like ex-military. You military, Charlie?”

  “Army. EOD.”

  “Explosives,” Jake said with an eager glint in his eyes. “Like that movie, The Hurt Locker.”

  Charlie winced. “That movie was, um . . . well . . .”

  Jake had prodded a sore spot, but she wasn’t sure how much leeway she had with her new boss. Beckett filled in the blank for her.

  “Bullshit,” he said.

  Charlie sighed and nodded. “Pretty much. Fun to watch, but anybody who pulled cowboy stunts like that in my unit would’ve been out of my unit in a New York minute. EOD is careful work. Detail work.”

  “So you’ve got an eye for detail, and you can follow orders,” Beckett said. “That about right?”

  “I like to think those are my two best skills,” she said.

  “Then you and me are going to get along just fine.”

  “Tonight, I want you to be like a . . . a duckling,” Jake told her. “You know how they imprint on whoever they see and follow along? Beckett’s your mama duck.”

  “Your gift for analogies,” Beckett said serenely, “never fails to underwhelm.”

  “You’re welcome,” Jake said.

  Beckett nodded at Charlie. “C’mon, Little Duck. We need to get you sorted before the festivities. Get you a proper ID card and suchlike. Let’s go talk to the boss.”

  “Hello,” Jake said, waving a hand. “Boss. Right here.”

  Beckett’s only reply was a deep chuckle. He led Charlie across the cluttered conference room. Midway through the milling crowd of operatives, most of them studying their packets and comparing notes, Charlie glanced over her shoulder.