The Box, Jeremy Brown [big ebook reader TXT] 📗

to the stakes with wire so old it had flaked and snapped as soon as Bruder tried to unwind it two weeks earlier during a scouting run. Since then, the chain was kept in place by short pieces of bronze baling wire, the closest thing they could find to the original.

Kershaw stopped at the chain and Bruder got out, unhooked one end and carried it across.

The truck rolled forward and took the first curve and stopped. Bruder re-hooked the chain, then used a dead tree branch to fluff the dead grass between the wheel ruts and sweep the tire tracks from the dusting of snow.

He straightened up and examined his work. The tracks were still obvious to him, but he knew exactly what to look for. Any civilians driving by wouldn’t notice them, he figured, but there were some non-civilians on the prowl…and folks in the Midwest were notorious for checking on their neighbor’s property when something didn’t look right, even if the neighbor who owned the land lived in another state and hadn’t been back for years.

Bruder knew about the out-of-state part because they had checked the local property tax records. The part about not being back in years was an educated guess based on the condition of the place.

While Bruder was standing there scowling at the ground a gust of wind kicked up and pushed the snow around and did a much better job of concealing their tracks.

He didn’t know of any ways to make the wind blow faster and harder, so he tossed the branch into the woods and got in the truck.

“Good as it’s going to get.”

Kershaw took his foot off the brake and let the truck’s idle speed carry it forward. The tires jounced in and out of small pits and over tree roots and rocks. The track curved left and the trees around it grew denser, tangled with wild grape and thorns and climbing vines, some of them as thick as Bruder’s wrist.

After a few hundred yards of tilting and bouncing and taking slight curves left and right the truck broke into a small clearing with a single-wide trailer, a wooden outhouse, and a burn barrel so rusty it looked more like a sieve.

Everything was overgrown, with tufts of tall brown field grass sprouting in random spots and a few brave mini-copses of sumac venturing into the clearing to see what would happen.

Kershaw drove the truck around the back of the trailer so it wouldn’t be seen from the two-track and killed the engine.

Everyone got out and met at the back.

“Divvy time?” Connelly said.

Bruder shook his head.

“Not yet.”

He opened the hard cases and started passing out the long guns, one for each man, then closed the back of the truck again.

Connelly said, “What, the money stays here?”

Rison, who hadn’t said much the entire ride, said, “You want to haul it all back in here if those assholes come out of the woodwork?”

“I guess not,” Connelly said. “I’m just curious about how much the take is.”

Bruder said, “It’s zero if we can’t get out of here with it. Get the winter gear on and go watch the road. Rison, go inside and see what you can find out.”

Rison nodded and hustled toward the trailer.

Connelly reached for the bundle of insulated turkey hunting camouflage in the back of the truck.

“What are you guys gonna do?”

Bruder said, “We still have three explosive charges left. We’re gonna make a line in the sand.”

Rison stepped up into the hunting trailer and closed the flimsy door.

The place had been gutted long ago of anything resembling comfort and looked like a subway car without any seats or poles. It was cold inside because of the thin walls and broken windows, and it smelled like mouse piss and moldy wood and tomato soup. He took a moment to turn on one of the kerosene heaters to feel a little more civilized and beat back the odors.

He’d take the fumes, as long as the broken windows could keep up the ventilation.

Stacks of boxed and canned food and shrink-wrapped trays of bottled water were against one wall, along with rolled-up sleeping bags and duffel bags full of clothes and other gear.

He went to a small card table with folding legs surrounded by four collapsible camp chairs and turned on the police scanner and the small color TV, both of them powered by an array of batteries Kershaw had rigged up; a generator would make too much noise.

The TV had an antennae, which Rison hadn’t seen in probably twenty years, and he was out of practice moving the wands around to get a clear picture. Then he found something local showing a game show and turned the volume down but kept an eye on the screen for any breaking news.

He needed answers, right now.

Rison was just under six feet tall and built like a cornerback, with wide shoulders and a thick neck and narrow waist. When he wasn’t working with men like Bruder he was a professional poker player based out of Vegas, and jobs like this bankrolled him for months at a time, sometimes a year or more if he hit a good streak.

He adjusted the heater while he waited for the TV and scanner to give him something.

When in Vegas he lived in hotels, either comped or as a paying civilian when things weren’t going his way. Being based in Vegas gave him access to all sorts of heist training disguised as tourist attractions, like semi- and full-auto shooting ranges, tactical driving schools, and endless opportunities to observe world-class security systems and teams.

He enjoyed the driving courses the most. The crew out at the tactical driving school thought he was just a bored gambler with too much money, but over the years Rison had developed driving skills that put him on the same level as anyone on the Secret Service’s presidential detail.

Standing there in the hunting trailer, he tried not to think of what he’d do when they got out of