Heist 2 (22 page)

31

Isaiah

M
y hot streak is over.
I don't know what happened. The first two hours, the poker chips were piled on my side of the table, making me look like a boss. Then I either got too cocky or these muthafuckas are cheating. I think they're cheating. All these shady-ass players are now hiding their eyes behind various sunglasses and winning with one miraculous river card after another.

When I'm finally the short stack at the table, I'm suspecting a damn conspiracy. Did Gold Dawg lure me back to the table today by making shit so easy last night? I wouldn't put it past him. Ain't no such thing as an honest thief no damn more.

“All in,” I announce.

“I call,” the only other player who didn't fold matches my bet.

“Two aces,” I proclaim, standing up and tossing down my cards.

My opponent sucks his teeth and turns over his own cards. “Two jacks.”

Maybe my luck is turning around.
That notion is quickly dispelled when the dealer turns over the flop and another jack makes an appearance. Next comes the turn card: another ace. I'm back on top—but I still have to hold back my jubilation because the dealer has to turn over one more card. For the next five seconds, I'm holding my breath, certain that my opponent isn't going to be able to beat three aces. That is until the river card turns out to be the last jack in the deck.

Half of the table erupts in celebration for the winner and while the other half groans, sharing in my pain. I'm in shock.

“Better luck next time,” Gold Dawg says, swatting me on the back.

Since I don't have any more chips, I know this is his polite way of telling me that I ain't gonna go home, but I either have to pony up more money or get the hell out of his card house.

I get up from the table, chuckling. “That's all right. You win some and you lose some.” I remind myself that I have plenty of money back at the hotel. Once I pay off my debts, I can come back and turn this whole thing around. As I head out the door, I engage in another mental argument with the two devils on my shoulders on whether my returning is such a hot idea. After all, the last thing I need is to fall back into old habits.
But what's one more game?

It's a short ride back to the InterContinental. I have an hour before I have to meet with Kingston West. After that, I should book a private plane and put Atlanta in my rearview. Ibiza is still calling my name—so says the devil on my right.

The argument continues as I make my way up to my room. However, the second I step into the room, I know that shit isn't right. I didn't leave the closet door open.
Did the cleaning crew come in this bitch after I left a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door?

I immediately rush over to the bed and drop to my knees. There's nothing there. “No. No. No.” I swipe my hand across the bare rug as though my vision isn't trustworthy. There's clearly nothing there. “What the fuck? What the fuck?” I jump up and tear through the room like the Tasmanian devil. The money
has
to be here. It just has to be. After my sixth search around the room, I start grabbing fistfuls of my short-cropped hair and pulling. “This can't be happening. It can't.”

Without thinking, I grab the phone and dial down to the front desk. I was just about to say, “Yes, I'd like to report a robbery,” when my common sense kicks back in.

“Front desk.”

Gritting my teeth, my grip on the phone tightens.

“Hello. Front desk.”

“Uh . . . never mind.” I slam the phone down and then take another sweeping look around the room.
I'm a dead man.
For the first time, the two devils on my shoulder agree with me. My heartbeat goes haywire as I struggle to come up with a backup plan. But the only option available to me is to get the fuck out of Dodge.

With nothing but the fucking clothes on my back, I race toward the door—only there's these two brick-building-looking muthafuckas standing on the other side.

“You must be Isaiah Kane,” one of them says, grinning. “Kingston West sent us to make sure that you show up to your appointment this time.”

32

Sam

“I
might have something here that may fall into the category of shit you won't believe,” Renee says, joining the team in our hotel lobby.

Taking a moment to stop rubbing my temples from a caffeine-induced migraine, I look up. “Oh. I don't know. At this point, I may believe any damn thing.”

Renee hands over a stack of photographs. “Hot off the presses from the team working on the Isaiah Kane escape.”

There, in bold digital color, are clear images of Mr. Kane entering a hotel, talking to a clerk at the front desk, and a few pictures of him waiting for an elevator. “Where and when was this?”

“At the InterContinental Buckhead Hotel in Atlanta. And they were taken last night. One of the agents from the other team decided to follow a hunch regarding Mr. Kane's rumored gambling issues. In the early 2000s, Kane was arrested a few times during illegal gambling raids in Georgia. It was enough to get them to wonder whether he still had the itch.”

Greg looks as disappointed as I feel. “So they didn't come here to Laredo? We've swept through every backhouse, cathouse, and outhouse in this whole damn town. Could we have gotten the shit this wrong?”

“If Banks and Robinson were going to Atlanta, they were certainly taking the craziest scenic route I've ever seen.” I hand the photos back over to Renee. “Maybe they weren't racing to the same location. Maybe one escape has nothing to do with the other.”

“Or,” Max interrupts, but then doesn't follow through with his thought.

“Or what?” I don't have time to try to read people's minds today. “Spit it out.”

Max shrugs as if he doesn't believe his own hypothesis before he puts it out here. “Or . . . maybe . . . Isaiah won the race.” He gestures to the pictures. “Where did he get the money to stay at a place like the InterContinental anyway?”

The rest of the team, mute, blinks up at him.

Now self-conscious, he shrugs and shakes his head again. “It's just an idea.”

I look over at Greg. “Actually, it makes sense. We missed them somehow.”

He nods, bolting up from one of the cheap upholstered chairs. “If Kane got to the money first, then no way Banks lets him ride off into the sunset.”

“He'll go after the money,” I agree.

The rest of the team hop out of our seats, each of us experiencing the same jolt of adrenaline.

“It looks like we're headed to Atlanta.” I turn toward Max and pound him hard on the back. “Good job!”

“Thanks!” He puffs out his chest and then tosses a wink over at Greg as if to say he'd snatched the teacher's pet mug right from up under him.

Greg rolls his eyes. “Whatever, rookie. Let's go catch these damn thieves.”

33

Johnnie

B
ack at Jonathan Banks's home, I stare wide-eyed at the open steam trunk of money. I've never seen so much cash at one time in my entire life. The idea of twenty-five million dollars is one thing; to actually see it is another. “You
stole
all of this money?” I hadn't meant to ask the question aloud, but when Harlem's head swiveled in my direction, I suddenly feel embarrassed by it. I try to cover by pinning on a smile, but I get the feeling that it doesn't work.

“Are you all right?” he asks, standing up from the trunk and moving over to me.

“Yeah. I mean . . . wow.”

“Who wants a beer?” Rawlo shouts, still jubilant about their latest heist.

“I'll take one,” Harlem answers and signals to him. “What about you, Johnnie?”

“Uhm, you wouldn't happen to have something a little stronger?”

Jonathan's smile doubles in size. “A woman after my own heart.” He elbows Harlem. “You better hang on to this one.”

Harlem nods as he keeps his gaze locked on me. “Don't worry, Uncle Jonathan. I intend to do just that.”

“What's your pleasure, little lady?”

“Hmm. Bourbon, if you got it.”

“One bourbon coming right up.” Jonathan tosses me another wink before turning toward the living room's small bar.

Suddenly, I find it hard to keep Harlem's gaze. Waves of fear, regret, and doubt are now the size of tidal waves and I can't help but feel that at any moment I'm going to be crushed under them. But why? I'm the one who pushed for us to follow the money. I'm the one who refused to let him dump me in the middle of that cemetery. Now, I don't know what I want.

Still laughing and congratulating himself, Rawlo's heavy footsteps continue to stress the wooden floorboards as he crosses the living room to hand Harlem his beer. “Here you go, my boy. You definitely earned this one.”

“Thanks, Rawlo.” Harlem accepts the bottle with a stiff smile.

When he turns his attention back to me, I'm still doing a lousy job of pretending that I'm okay.

Meanwhile, Tremaine exits out of the kitchen with a bowl of chips and his hearing aid whistling again. “Hey, Jonathan, when are you supposed to put that lasagna in the oven? I'm starving.”

“Amen,” Rawlo growls before stealing a handful of chips.

“Aw, damn. I forgot.” Jonathan hands me my drink before taking off toward the kitchen.

I, on the other hand, waste no time downing the strong drink in one long, burning gulp.

Harlem's beer bottle stops halfway toward his lips as he watches me. “Okay. Maybe we need to talk,” he says.

“What? No. I'm fine,” I lie. When it's clear to me that he's not buying it, I switch tactics. “You know, it's just been a crazy kind of day, you know?”

“A crazy couple of days,” he amends, nodding in agreement. “You got to be exhausted.”

“You have no idea. I could really use a nap.”

“Oh. Okay.” He turns toward the kitchen to yell, “Hey, Unc. You got a spare room for Johnnie to go and lay down?”

We hear the oven door slam shut. “What?”

“Spare room. You got one?”

“Oh, yeah. Tremaine, show them where the room is.”

“Uh? What?”

“I'll do it,” Rawlo says, rolling his eyes at his deaf buddy.

We follow Rawlo to the top floor of the house to a cute bedroom with twin beds on each side of the room. The pale pink tea roses are a nice touch.

“One of us will come knock when dinner is ready,” Rawlo promises before leaving us alone.

Harlem's gaze searches for mine, but I turn away to test the firmness of one of the beds. “Are we really going to play this game?” he asks.

“What?” Even as the question escapes my mouth, I wonder if I appear as bad an actor as I feel.

He cocks his head. “Really?”

Finally, I give up the ghost with a long sigh. “Sorry. I just . . . I don't know. Seeing all of that money . . .”

“It finally hit you what I did for a living?”

“No . . . yes. I don't know.” I jump back to my feet. “The police car chase and shoot-out should've brought that home. Then there was the car-jacking . . . and the grave robbing and a hotel heist.” I sigh as my shoulder feels like it's getting heavier by the second and my low-grade headache is increasingly becoming an eye-twitching migraine.

“So . . . you're having second thoughts?” he asks, trying his best to wipe all emotion from his face. The problem is that it isn't working.

“Look. I really am just tired.”
And I miss my family, my house, and my own bed.

“I understand.” Harlem nods as if he'd heard my private thoughts. “Maybe you should wash up and get some sleep. We're going to have to load up and leave in a few hours anyway.”

“That sounds good,” I agree eagerly. Anything so that I can get a few seconds alone. A bathroom is just across the hall and I have no trouble figuring out where the towels and toiletries are. When I'm finally beneath the hot spray of water, the tears flow. Suddenly, I'm not sure of anything. I love Harlem and I don't want to let him go—but can I really give up
everything?

After washing and rinsing until my fingers turn into prunes, I exit the shower, towel off, and slip into a robe Harlem's uncle borrowed from his wife's closet. As I make my way back to the spare bedroom, I can still hear the men downstairs, joking, laughing, and playing poker.

Lying down, I think about all that I've been through the last three days. All of the action, all the emotions; it's left me drained. Maybe I will feel better after a quick nap. The second my head touches the pillow I'm out like a light. Hours later, I feel Harlem's lips grazing the back of my neck.

Moaning, I inch back so that he can have better access; that's when one of his strong hands slides inside of the robe. Instantly, my body comes alive and we make love. He has never tasted so good or felt so right. It's probably why my tears return, but it doesn't stop our flow. Hell, I'm not even sure how in the hell the two of us are able to fit on this small bed, but we make it work.

“Don't cry,” he repeats. “I got you.”

And I believe him. By the time we climax, I'm back to wondering how in the world I could ever think about letting him go. The past five years nearly tore me apart. I can't go back to that. I won't.

34

Harlem

L
eaving Johnnie is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my life—but I know that it's the right thing. When we're together, there are sparks, fireworks—you name it. But it's not enough. It can never be enough. Life on the run would be harder on her than she realizes—or maybe she's already beginning to suspect it.

There's not a day I don't wish that I could just take my little Tyler into my arms and tell her how much I love her. I'm the one that should be by her side when she has her next surgery. I should be the one encouraging her to be brave—but I can and will never be able to do any of it.

My retirement will now be a life on the run. I can never look back—not even for Johnnie. When I creep downstairs, Uncle Jonathan is still up. He's in a pair of black pajamas and eased back in his La-Z-Boy. He has my number the second our eyes connect.

“I take it that you said your good-byes?” he asks.

My heart is so heavy that I can't even post up like everything is cool. “It's for the best,” I tell him.

“Maybe.” He nods. “Is that how she's going to feel about it when she wakes up in the morning?”

“To be honest with you, I don't know. Eventually, probably not tomorrow, the next day or maybe even a year from now, but one day she'll understand that I'm doing right by her.”

“That's taking one hell of a gamble. Women are . . . complicated. I know. I had to lose Sandra and my daughter Robyn for a long time before I could win them back. Maybe the same will happen for you.”

“You never had to deal with the US Marshals,” I remind him. “I'll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. Johnnie isn't built for that. She should be with a man who can give her and . . . her future children a real life in a nice house, a white picket fence and maybe even a damn dog if she wants it. I can't do any of that shit now.”

“I hear what you're saying.” Our eyes connect. “I'm proud of you. It takes a real man to be able to set someone you love like that free.”

“Well, it definitely doesn't feel so good,” I admit.

“No. I don't imagine that it does.” He pushes himself up from his chair and for the first time in my life I allow another man to hug me good-bye.

When I step back, my eyes are wet and I force myself to go through with my new plan. We've already divided up the money. He'll make sure that the Tyler's surgery money will be funneled through Nana Gloria's church—so the payment will look as though the church had raised the funds. He'll also see to it that her bills are paid and that she'll never want for anything. I trust him. He knows how to move money around undetected. “Oh. And make sure you get that other money to this cat.” I pull out a slip of paper with Goon's contact man written on it. “A man gotta pay his debts.”

“Always.”

“Is Rawlo downstairs?” I ask.

“Waiting on you with your
retirement
money.” Uncle Jonathan grins. “He'll take you down to Jacksonville, Florida. He knows a guy who knows a guy that can get you on a private plane to anywhere you want to go. Fair warning: Rawlo can talk your damn head off. Just smile and nod to try to get through it the best way you can.”

“Thanks, Uncle Jonathan. I really appreciate you looking out for me.”

“Don't mention it.” He walks me to the door. “In case our paths don't cross again, I love you and take care of yourself.”

“Love you, too, Uncle Jonathan.” We exchange another hug and then I'm out the door, pretending the whole way that my heart isn't breaking.