The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set, Ernest Dempsey [summer books TXT] 📗

The man nodded. Flesh around his neck jiggled again.

"I'm going to let you leave now. If you call Bert and tell him I'm coming or that I asked about his operation, I will find you. Am I making myself clear?"

Another eager nod.

"Good. Now go home. Place your bets. Don't do anything different. Got it?"

"Got it. Yes, sir. Thank you."

"Get in your car."

"Yes. Of course."

The gambler nervously pulled the door open and slumped into the driver's seat. Dak stepped back and watched the man turn on the ignition and hurriedly drive away. The gambler probably wondered how Dak knew so much about him. Getting information like that with unsuspecting, normal folks was easy. The first time Dak laid eyes on the guy, he knew the man was a regular for the bar and whatever seedy underground operation was going on there.

He tailed him back to his apartment and then put the rest of the pieces together. The family thing was a guess, but probably an accurate one. Based on the lack of protest when Dak asserted as much, he figured he'd hit the nail on the proverbial head.

Things were falling into place. Carson hadn't seen him yet, and if he had, the man didn't make a move on. Maybe he'd seen Dak and simply not recognized him. Probably not. Dak's change of appearance and meager disguise would—at best—cause a second glance from someone who really knew him, but so far it seemed to work.

When the gambler's car was out of sight, Dak spun on his heels and stalked back toward the bar.

He needed to have a little chat with its proprietor, Bert, and he hoped the man was in the mood to talk.

Eight

Miami

Carson sat down on his black leather couch and turned on the television. The 72-inch flat screen TV blinked to life, displaying Samsung in white letters on the black backdrop.

He sighed impatiently and cracked open a can of beer he'd retrieved from the fridge.

"Come on," he urged.

Finally, the television switched to the last channel he'd been viewing—ESPN. He pressed the channel up button on the remote several times until he found the obscure horse racing channel way down on the list. Selecting it, he eased back into his soft couch and took a sip of lager.

It had been a bad week, a bad month, actually. In the months prior, he'd been ahead a significant amount of money, nearly thirty percent of his five million dollar take from the deal Bo set up in Germany.

Four million gone in just under four weeks, though much of that was from his previous winnings.

Not a good weekly win rate by any gambler's standards.

He still had plenty left and Carson knew there were swings like this, ups and downs that plagued a betting man from time to time. He'd get it back, of that he was certain.

After paying cash for his home in Homestead, Florida, and two high-end luxury cars, he still had more than a million or so left in the vault hidden within the confines of his basement.

He couldn't trust banks. Investing was also out of the question. Carson viewed gambling as a kind of investing. The risks were similar, and so were the payouts. The difference between the two was that neither the government nor Dak Harper could track the flow of money—if Harper was still alive.

Carson believed the man died out in the desert somewhere. It was possible his ex-teammate was hanging out in some sheep village in Northern Iraq. Maybe he'd crossed the border into Turkey, as the colonel believed. It didn't matter. Harper was in his past. Carson had a new name and no way of being discovered by anyone from his past life, not even Bo and the other guys.

That was one rule Bo insisted upon. No contact between the five of them had seemed a little paranoid at first, but Carson accepted it, happy to begin his new life out of the military.

The announcer for the race broadcast a rundown of the participants and the odds for the favorites and long shots. Carson watched as the horses were led into the numbered stalls, colorfully clad jockeys riding atop the steeds.

Carson shifted in his seat, anxiously awaiting the start of the race.

A shot rang out, and the horses took off, their legs and hooves churning in a furious blizzard of motion, dirt flying in their wake.

"Come on, Mounty," Carson said. He'd placed a significant wager on a horse called Canadian Mounty to win. The horse wasn't the favorite, but it had strung together several good races and recently won two of them.

The payout was 4 to 1 and a win would get Carson back up to nearly break-even for the month. It helped he had a connection in the horse racing industry, a former trainer at Lake's Bend Farms north of Orlando. His guy claimed that Canadian Mounty was a sure thing for this race, especially given the track conditions, the weather, and the competition.

The favorite didn't run as well on days when thunderstorms were in the area—so the trainer claimed—and as with so many afternoons in South Florida, there just so happened to be several storms to the southwest.

Carson watched with rapt interest, eyes locked on the television as the horses rounded the first turn and entered the backstretch. He'd only recently gotten into betting on horses, usually preferring to bet baseball. But baseball gains were slow and his tastes expensive.

Halfway through the backstretch, Canadian Mounty pulled into the lead, the horse taking long, powerful strides ahead of the pack.

"Come on, Mounty! There you go!" Carson cheered, inching forward to the edge of his couch. "You're not taking my money today, Bert," he muttered under his breath.

The bookie irritated him, but he was a means to an end, the conduit to more cash, and at the very least a way to filter his money through various channels so it came out clean on the other end.

Carson's laundering plan was solid at first,