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

about, years down the line: The crazy time your father stole some money from Romanian gangsters and I got held hostage until he gave the money back. Oh, it was such a hoot…

There her brain went again, wandering off into a future she knew did not exist.

She looked at the flat black armored car, which now had no wheels and looked like a boxy, beached submarine. And next to that, a pickup truck with four boots sticking out where the tailgate should be, and the legs attached to those boots.

Dead bodies.

She saw all of that and tried to put it into context with the man she knew as Adam, who was funny and enjoyed making her laugh, who put too much sugar in his coffee, who kept trying to convince her Die Hard was a Christmas movie and they should start a tradition to watch it every year on Christmas Eve.

To picture him doing any of this, to think he was capable of it…it disturbed her, but what was even more troubling was how much it pleased her.

To have someone in her life who was that capable—who came across a situation like Razvan and his men, then set about making a plan and executing it to come out on top—it ought to terrify her.

But it didn’t.

The idea of being next to a person like that for the rest of her life made her think of one word: Peaceful.

She didn’t need anyone to take care of her.

No, the thought of that was chafing.

It made her bristle.

But to walk through the world knowing she didn’t have to worry about people like Razvan anymore…

And there she went again, thinking she and Adam were going to walk away from this.

The pragmatic side of her brain, the one she used at work—and now that she was forced to examine it, just about every other part of her life—figured it was a survival response.

A coping mechanism meant to keep her from panicking.

She noted the irony.

Panicking and doing something drastic, instead of cooperating, was exactly what might keep her alive.

But so far, her brain wouldn’t let her.

It kept telling her things were going to work out fine, and maybe this would be a story she and Adam would tell her parents when they met this Christmas.

Chapter Eighteen

Connelly pulled out of Nora’s driveway at 4:15 and turned left, north.

Even though the sun hovered just above the western edge of the field off to his left there was still plenty of light to see, since there were no shadows or trees forming a darker canopy along the road.

Still, he found the headlights and turned them on.

He didn’t want anyone ahead of him to get the idea he was trying to sneak around.

All in all, he gave it about a fifty percent chance this was all going to work.

He would have put it at less, but Bruder had come up with the rest of the plan, and the man never seemed to do anything unless he was clear on the outcome, or at least clear on the contingencies if that outcome didn’t, well, come out.

So Connelly was either driving towards rescuing Nora and getting the hell out of town with the cash and crew, or he was driving towards his own torture and execution, alongside Nora, while the rest of the crew slipped away thanks to his distraction.

Fifty-fifty.

A coin toss.

For Connelly, the risk was worth the reward.

He just hoped everybody else felt the same.

Connelly came to the first house north of Nora’s and said, “Neighbor is two point seven miles from the driveway. Vehicles in the driveway but nobody moving around.”

He didn’t bother to turn his head when he spoke—they’d tested the radio with the mic locked open and the sound came through just fine with him looking forward.

The radio was inside the partially open zipper of the duffel bag in the middle of the back seat floor, likely to be one of the last bags Razvan and his men got to, if they got that far.

The explosives were tamped between bags in the trunk.

The remote was in Connelly’s hand.

So far, the hand wasn’t sweating.

He was still a mile out when he saw the truck waiting for him in the middle of the intersection.

When he got closer, he glanced at the odometer and said, “Five point six miles from the driveway. I can see two men standing behind a truck in the intersection, the first one coming north. Both have long guns, pointed at me. They’ve been waiting.”

Nobody could respond with the mic locked, so he had to assume they’d heard everything and would act accordingly.

He closed the last mile and dropped the driver’s window, then coasted to a stop just before the intersection.

He lifted his hands to show the left was empty and the right held the remote.

“Hey guys. Easy with the guns.”

The one behind the hood yelled, “Get out!”

Connelly got out.

He used slow, deliberate movements, watching the men as they came around opposite ends of the truck to flank him from both sides.

“Arms out,” the one from behind the hood said.

He was wiry with a cropped black beard and seemed to be in charge.

The other one was bigger, with a reddened face like he’d been exercising or standing in the sun and wind.

They both kept their rifles pointed at him.

Connelly spread his arms.

He told the one in charge, who was on his right, “Don’t touch this hand, please. Razvan told you about that, right? The explosives?”

“Yes, we know. I think you’re bluffing—nobody would blow up this much money—but you stole it from us in the first place, so maybe you are stupid enough to destroy it too.”

Connelly shrugged.

“I’m more than stupid enough.”

“I agree. I was there when you sucker punched Grigore. That was very stupid.”

Connelly watched the big one, on his left, stepping all the way behind him.

“Hey, that wasn’t a sucker punch. He was standing right there, ready to fight.”

“No, no, you had the woman distract him. Then you hit him. A