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

leading to the second floor.

“Burn the barns too. More farmland for us to use. Is your boyfriend coming into town soon?”

The sudden pivot caught Nora off guard.

She waited too long to answer, and Razvan started to smile again.

She tried to turn it around on him.

“Why do you want to know?”

He stood there at the bottom of the stairs, smiling at her like he knew something she didn’t and wanted to savor the moment.

As he climbed the stairs, the gun still hanging at his side, he said, “Do you know a man named Charles Larson?”

Nora stayed at the base of the steps.

She knew Charlie, but had no idea where this was going.

“Yes, why?”

She could hear his footsteps as he moved from room to room above her, and doors opening, and his voice.

“One of my men, Luca—you know Luca, of course—stopped Charles Larson as he drove his truck into town. This was after we saw the white truck coming out this way, and Charles Larson came from the same direction the white truck had come. So Luca wanted to know if Charles Larson had seen anything.”

Nora gripped the wooden newel post at the bottom of the stairs.

Razvan’s voice fell on her from above.

“From what Luca told me, Charles Larson seemed nervous. Possibly even guilty. So Luca stuck a knife under his kneecap, and do you know what Charles Larson told Luca?”

Razvan appeared at the top of the stairs, just his legs and torso and the gun visible from where Nora stood.

“He told Luca that he saw your boyfriend, the guitar singer, in the white truck.”

Bruder crouched behind the seat of some sort of tractor in the back left corner of the shed.

The tractor was high enough to see between the cabs of the larger machines in front of him, but not high enough to highlight his spot, make it a focal point.

He waited, watching a narrow strip of light along the edge of the shed door, about thirty yards away.

Scanning to the left, his view was blocked by some chutes and smokestacks, then he could see all the way to the other side of the opening.

He could hear Connelly in the front corner, shifting around and cursing under his breath.

Bruder let it go.

He’d tell him to knock it off when someone approached the shed.

The Romanian in the wooden barn had come back out to stand by the pickup truck. He was watching the sheds, apparently waiting for Razvan to come out of the house before checking them.

The man with the machine gun was still on the road.

That put a small wrinkle into the plan.

That, and Razvan having Nora inside the house.

If the man from the barn poked his head inside and got it shot off, Kershaw would have to take out the man with the machine gun.

Then, what?

Razvan takes the woman hostage and calls for backup?

They storm the house and get into a firefight?

No.

Bruder’s choice would be to pack the money into the pickup and drive away.

But he didn’t like leaving Razvan behind him to make calls to whoever he had left and the crew coming in from Chicago.

Or go to work on the woman, getting what little information she could offer.

Whatever she told him, it would be too much.

So Bruder sat and waited.

He had one of the remotes for the explosives tucked in the hopper with the duffels of money.

Kershaw had the other two.

So if it came down to it and Razvan took her as a hostage, they had a hostage of their own to negotiate with.

Until somebody got a chance to shoot Razvan, hopefully.

It was all a mess, and unnecessary, but there wasn’t any point in dwelling on it or getting frustrated.

He just looked at what was in front of them and how to get around it or through it.

Over the radio Kershaw said, “Razvan on the second floor, looking out the window. AK still by the truck.”

Bruder heard an irritated sound from Connelly’s corner, like he wanted to know more.

Too bad for him.

Then Kershaw said, “No sign of Nora,” like he thought it would soothe Connelly’s nerves.

“Goddam it,” Connelly whispered.

Things were quiet for almost a minute.

“Razvan and Nora back on the porch,” Kershaw said. “AK starting toward you. He’s not in a hurry.”

Bruder sat and waited.

He kept still when Connelly pulled himself out from under the trailer and stood up, in full view of anyone who looked around the door.

Bruder keyed his mic.

“Get back to your spot.”

Rison and Kershaw were both in their spots, so they knew who he was talking to.

Instead, Connelly picked his way through the machinery and equipment toward Bruder.

Bruder watched him coming, making noise and inviting fire from the AK when it arrived, and decided he’d had enough.

Connelly was a good breacher, a good thief, but he was going to get them all killed.

Bruder touched the mic and whispered, “Are we still clear?”

Kershaw said, “AK by garages. He’s waiting for Razvan.”

Too close for anything that made noise.

Bruder pulled the knife out of the horizontal sheath on the back of his belt and waited for Connelly to get close enough.

Kershaw said, “Nora is on her phone. Not talking, I think she’s making a call. And, ah, Razvan has the gun in her face.”

Connelly stumbled over a bundle of hydraulic hoses and leaned up toward Bruder with his arm outstretched, making it easy.

Bruder would grab the wrist and pull him onto the blade, up under the chin, then drop down and wrap an arm around his face and keep him quiet while he sawed around.

Connelly was three steps away, then two, when he said, “Nora’s calling me.”

Bruder saw the phone in the outstretched hand.

It vibrated and the screen was lit up.

“She’s standing out there with Razvan, calling me. What do you want to do?”

“Don’t answer,” Bruder said.

He kept the blade ready while they stared at the phone until it went silent, the call kicked into voicemail.

“She’s talking,” Kershaw said in their earpieces.

Connelly could hear, but not respond.

He whispered to Bruder, “What about Razvan?