Blitzed (32 page)

"I know," Felix said. "Regardless, I have made my decision. Nothing she does tonight will sway my thinking."

"That sounds more like the man I call my brother," I replied cheerfully. It seemed my concerns earlier had been just phantoms, building on my own feelings as well. "Come, let me put together a feast for all three of us, and then after dinner, maybe Jordan will play for us. Or with us."

"Francois, choose your words carefully," Felix said warningly. "You were right earlier in that I do feel something for her."

“As do I, Felix. Why do you think I'm trying everything in my power to create a mental separation already?" I shot back. "If you haven't noticed, it's a pattern of mine."

"I've noticed," Felix replied, his eyes full of condescension. He may be my brother, but he's also an arrogant ass a lot of the time.

Before I could reply, though, the door to the bedroom opened, and Jordan came out with a tentative smile. "Hi, guys. Uhm, I kind of decided on some songs I could play, if you guys want to sing along that would be great."

"Perfect," Felix answered with a huge smile. "But first, Francois and I were thinking let's have dinner. The guitar can be the evening's entertainment."

"Well then, what are you boys cooking?"

Dinner was actually veal milanese, which is where you take a veal chop, butterfly it, bread it, and then cook it in butter. Considering I was working with an old camp stove that doubled as our heater, I think I did a pretty good job all around with it. Felix, bowing to Jordan's wishes, did mostly just preparations, while I did the actual cooking. It was for the first time in a long time fun to cook, with Jordan there cheering us on and keeping up the conversation. She was telling us about a show she did where the lead singer decided in the middle of the set that it was a perfect time to strip naked when I pulled the last chop out of the cast iron pan, putting it on the plate. "Dinner is served."

"My God it looks amazing," Jordan said as she cut into it. "I've never had veal, though. What's it taste like?"

"Veal is young cow," I said, "so it should be like a really tender beef."

She took her first bite, her eyes closing in appreciation of the meal. "This . . . this is the best thing I've ever put in my mouth," she said. "You lied when you said you weren't very good. You just haven't tried yet. But this . . . buttery, crispy . . . you could be a chef with this talent, Francois."

"Thank you," I said, my face warm from the unexpected praise. "I guess I was just lucky tonight."

After a nice meal where Jordan finished her story, I built up the fire while she made sure her hands were totally clean. "No use saving the wood, we're going tomorrow," I said as I added another log to the stove. "Might as well be totally warm for an evening."

Jordan hummed and nodded. She strummed a few notes on the guitar before picking up her fingering. I couldn't place it at first until Jordan's voice started, plaintive and haunting. She was right in that she was a better guitar player than she was a singer, but the main reason that it took me a while to place the song was because it was originally recorded for a man. It made sense, rock isn't generally a woman's arena, and that comes doubly for love songs. However, the original artist couldn't hold a candle to Jordan Banks that evening in the San Bernardino mountains as she brought the Spanish guitar influence to her playing, leaving both Felix and me speechless.

T
he drive
away from the cabin was almost totally silent the next morning as we pulled away. Francois was driving, having maneuvered the fire trail other times before while Jordan sat in the front passenger seat and I sat in the back behind her. When we reached the Rim of the World Highway, I was able to get a signal to our disposable smartphone and loaded the address that Francois had gotten the day before from our agent into the mapping program. According to the estimates, it would take us approximately three hours to get there. We could have cut nearly an hour and a half off the travel time by taking the Interstate, but by using State roads and highways, we were minimizing the chances of encountering a police officer. The Jeep was in the clear, but we wanted to be sure. Jordan's face was most likely all over the news still as a missing person.

"I hate this," Francois grumbled as we made another sharp turn heading toward Big Bear. The road was very twisting, curving along the mountainside so tightly that even my stomach was making complaints. “It's too damn close to major population centers."

"I'm more worried about you two taking off within fifteen miles of Edwards Air Force Base," Jordan said, and I shook my head. She was well meaning, but not yet all that aware of the realities of my world. I'd already researched some of this, and while the details were different from the original plan, much of my research held true.

"I'm not worried about that, they only have test aircraft. So many of those ranches around there have small airfields that they're probably used to it. I would hate to know what sort of contraband is moved in and out of Southern California through those hundreds of tiny little dirt strips. As long as we don't get pulled over by a police officer, we're going to be fine."

Jordan looked over her shoulder, her eyes large and dark with concern and unasked questions. The night before, she had practically begged through her music, and I knew what she wanted. She wanted to come with us, to be swept away. Her mind was whirling with the romance, with the freedom.

I wanted the same thing. Still, Francois words haunted me. I was worried I hadn't told her enough about the bad times as well, but my mind was made up. The life of a thief, especially a Gypsy thief, is not an easy one. I had spent the entire night pondering my own greed, my own desire to feel Jordan's lips on my own and her body snuggled against mine. It was overwhelming my logical thinking. It wasn't until early in the morning that I was able to make my decision and go to sleep.

"Are you sure?" she asked, her lip nearly quivering.

I reached up and patted her shoulder. "We'll be fine, Jordan. I promise you, things will be just fine."

For the next two hours, Francois steered us expertly along the winding, twisted highway. We crested the mountains just north of Big Bear and started down into the California desert, the hard desert where only the hardiest of native plants and animals lived. "Think we can pick up speed?" I asked.

"Why? It would be useless to arrive early unless you plan on getting some Taco Bell to take on the flight out of here," Francois said, shaking his head. "If that's the case, I'm sure I can find somewhere we can do drive-through."

"No, not at all. I guess I'm just anxious, that's all," I replied, looking out the window. There was a harsh beauty to the desert, and I thought about my homeland. It had been nearly six months since I'd seen Europe, and far longer since I'd been to what was best described as home. As beautiful as it was, it wasn't the same sort of beauty as the arid vistas around us. I'd remember the California desert for a long time, I knew for sure. "Jordan, would you turn on the radio? I need something to distract my mind."

"Sure," Jordan said softly, switching on the Jeep's radio. Hitting the search function, the first three options were talk radio, an NBA basketball game, and country music that was so horrible Jordan did not even need to be asked to change the channel.

The fourth time, however, I was greeted by an almost familiar melody. I listened more, then realized Jordan had played it the night before on the guitar, in a piece that was originally meant for violins, piano, and a full orchestral background. Steven Tyler's vocals kicked in, and I heard a song I hadn't listened to since my teen years, speaking directly to my heart as I thought about Jordan. "I don't want to miss a thing," I said softly as I looked at her rich cherry wood hair. "I don't want to miss a thing."

"What was that, Felix?" Francois asked, his eyes flickering to me in the rearview mirror. I knew he was concerned about me, but he would understand my decision.

"Nothing. How are we looking for time?"

"Just fine. In fact, we should probably make a stop for refreshments and to make our timing better," he said. "Are you worried about making our rendezvous?"

"No," I said quietly. "Just thinking about other things."

Jordan looked back at me again, her eyes pleading silently, and I had to blink and look out the window to not say what I wanted to say right then. It wasn't the right time, and Francois would have flipped out. I'd rather have that happen when he couldn’t throw one of his infamous tantrums. He never did learn the value of self-control, something our father had tried to teach him over and over and over again. It was what held him back from reaching his potential as a thief and, sometimes I thought, as a man.

At about four in the afternoon, an hour and a half before the sun would begin to set, Francois pulled into a dusty gas station and put the Jeep in park. “We’re less than twenty minutes from the meetup point, and we've got at least forty-five before the plane lands. We need to kill time."

My stomach growled lightly, and the three of us laughed lightly. "I guess the motion carries," I answered. "Okay, but nothing too heavy. We don't know how good this plane will be, and I'd prefer not to lose a stomach full of potato chips all over the back of a Piper Cub."

"With the amount of money we're giving them for this, I want a Gulfstream," Francois remarked, then sighed. "Then again, we're going to a ranch strip. You're probably right."

I clapped him on the shoulder and looked at Jordan. "Come on, let's get something."

We were about halfway through our shopping when I saw the tweaker come in. Unfortunately, the deserts of California were crawling with drug addicted burnouts, with crystal meth being the drug of choice. Cheap, intense, and easy to manufacture even in your own home, the deadly side effects were of little concern to the desperate. This one had been on the hook for a long time from the look of it, his skin had that drawn out, sallow look of a perpetual meth user, and when he reached up with a scabbed hand to wipe at his crusted lips, I could see most of his teeth had rotted out of his head as well. "Francois," I whispered, tapping him on the shoulder. "Just in the door."

He looked into the security mirror and nodded. I took Jordan's arm and guided her down and behind the shelf. "Meth head," I whispered. "Keep low, stay behind us. I have a bad feeling about this."

I no more than had the words out of my mouth when a crash came from the front of the store, the meth head screaming as he flipped something heavy onto the ground. "Empty the register motherfucker! Now!"

I looked to my right, where there were packs of batteries and some other light electrical devices. I looked up at Francois, who was studying a can of dog food before rejecting it in favor of a larger can of beef stew. He held it up to me and I nodded in understanding. We'd work together, him distracting while I took out the robber more directly.

"Come on motherfucker, in the bag NOW!" the addict screamed in a high-pitched, cracked voice that sounded about two meth trips away from a one-way ticket to the county morgue. Patting Jordan on the arm, I gave her a silent kiss on the cheek before slipping back and around the rear of the aisle I was on.

In almost any other instance, Francois and I would have let the robbery continue. After all, the guy was after money only. If we stayed down there'd be little danger to us. However, with potentially millions of dollars in stolen Japanese cultural artifacts in the back of our Jeep as well as a very tight schedule, there was no way we could take the chance. Even just the fact that any interaction with the police would easily eat up an hour or more of our time meant I could not wait around.

I saw something as I made my way up the front aisle that looked helpful, a squeegee of all things. The handle was old-fashioned, made of wood and not a cheap hollow plastic. Taking it in hand, I nodded silently. Creeping up as far as I could, I pursed my lips and whistled lowly.

The addict started to turn, and I had to hope that Francois's reactions were true. The man’s arm came around in a sharp, wicked arc, the hammer on the cheap revolver in his hand already rising up to fire. I swung the squeegee, praying that I could at least knock the gun a bit out of the way.

I shouldn't have worried. Francois, whose aim with thrown items had never been better, nailed the inside of the man’s wrist, sending it wide, the shot missing my chest by a good foot to shatter the front glass door of the store. I adjusted the swing of my squeegee, taking the meth head under the armpit. Stepping in and past him, I threw him to the hard floor, where I stomped him in the stomach and then kicked his gun away. The potential robber went from screaming to breathless in a second, his face turning beet red before he curled into a ball, holding his most likely fractured ribs.

The cashier, a stunned-looking high school boy who had probably wondered if he was going to die a virgin or not, stared at me in absolute shock. In the course of two minutes, he'd gone from a normal boring day to thinking he was most likely going to die, to suddenly being saved by a can of beef stew and a squeegee. "Dude . . .”

"You'll be okay," I said, taking a twenty dollar bill out of my pocket. I handed it to him. "For our items. Keep the change."

Francois was already up, holding Jordan by the arm as he led her toward the now useless door. "Add another twenty."

I nodded, after all, we were taking the store's wire hand basket as well, not wanting to take the time to bag up everything. Tossing the kid another bill, I smiled and left, making sure to step on the addict as I walked away. Back in the car, Jordan stared at the both of us with a strange light in her eyes as Francois started up the Jeep and pulled away. "Hope the cops don't respond quickly out here."

"What the hell was that?" Jordan asked, finding her voice. "You're throwing beef stew like Bob Gibson threw fastballs while Felix takes the guy down with barely a ruffled hair, and then you toss the cashier forty dollars and walk out like we're on a stroll."

I laughed. ”You should see him with throwing knives at the celebrations and fairs. As for me, I had the size and strength advantage over him. Once the gun was taken care of, it was no object to disable him. Who is Bob Gibson?"

Jordan looked at me like I was half crazy, her mouth dropping open, before she shook her head, blinking unbelievably. “An old major league pitcher. Grandpa was a big Cardinals fan, and he'd watch the old games on videotape all the time. He talked about Gibson constantly."

I nodded. "Never much of a baseball fan," I said. "As for the money, well, it just seemed like a nice thing to do."

Jordan gaped at me again, then shook her head in amazement. "You two . . .”

"Come on, let's just hope that there wasn't an external security camera there," Francois said. "The chances are low, but I would prefer to not have this Jeep pulled over by the police."

The drive to the ranch was completed in relative silence. Jordan sorted the things we had already gotten into the two shopping baskets like she was packing a lunch for each of us. It broke my heart to watch her carefully pack them, making sure that each of us got exactly the same amount.

We pulled onto the ranch road just as the sun disappeared below the horizon, casting the desert sky in oranges and purples. I saw our target, an SUV with the lights on next to a shape that I assumed was our airplane. It was smaller than I'd hoped but larger than I had feared.

Francois got out and shut off the engine. He left the keys in the ignition and headed toward the back of the Jeep, opening the tailgate. "Can I help?" Jordan asked.

Francois looked at her carefully for a moment, then nodded. "Sure," he said, sadness in his voice. They quickly unloaded our bags, the same duffel bags we'd used all week to carry wood, along with Francois's footlocker, taking them over to the plane. I got the bundle of swords in their cases out of the back and carried them over to the SUV where our agent's representative got out.

"You boys are right on time," he said in thickly accented English. He sounded like he was most likely a Mexican national, which I would not be surprised by. The Mexican Cartels knew plenty about how to move things and people both into and out of the United States. "Ready to go?"

"Not quite," I said. Jordan, who was packing the plane with Francois, wiped her head and turned to go back. I pointed at her with one of the sword cases, one I'd marked specially. "How much for her to join us?"

"You must be crazy,” the man replied. He was wearing a Tecate beer t-shirt and blue jeans, along with what looked like light boots, but that wasn't overly important. I was more concerned with his face, which was simultaneously surprised and greedy. I had a chance. "You bargained for two people."

"And I want to make a change," I said. "How much?"

"How much are you offering?" the man asked, curious. "That is one fine senorita."

I flipped the sword case in my hand over, offering it to him. "Our agent is supposed to get seven blades. This is number eight. It was supposed to be my personal memento of this job. It's complete, battle ready, and the finest blade produced in Japan in the past decade. She comes along — it's yours."

The man considered it, then looked at the plane. "That's a four-seat Cessna. The range is going to be shorter because of the extra weight, and your pilot is not going to be a happy man. You kick in another . . . ten thousand, and you have a deal."