The Take(20)

Neill took the suggestion as an affront. “You think they’ll stop there? What if they make a copy and sell that to the other side? No, Mr. Riske, we need the letter.”

“I can’t help you.”

“We’ll double your fee.”

“My answer stands.”

“Two hundred thousand dollars. More than enough to pay for that dynamometer you’re looking at.”

“Excuse me?”

Neill stared at him unapologetically. Simon laughed at himself. To think he’d actually considered working for him. He made a note to call Bill Shea and ask that he strike Simon from his list of investigators.

Simon opened the door and waited for Neill to precede him downstairs. Outside, the rain had stopped. “Need a cab?” he asked.

“I can give you the name of the man who engineered the heist,” said Neill, coming to his side.

“Not interested.”

“You should be.”

“Nothing you can say is going to change my decision.”

“You’re wrong about that.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said, you’re wrong about that.”

Simon took in the smug expression, the knowing cast to his head. Suddenly he had his hands on Neill’s jacket and the American agent was on his toes pressed against the wall. “Didn’t you hear me?” he said. “I said no. Now go. Just leave.”

Neill didn’t struggle. He continued to stare at Simon dispassionately, with a gaze that said he’d been right all along.

“The man’s name is Coluzzi,” he said. “Tino Coluzzi.”





Chapter 10



It had been a hot day. Early September. Tourists gone. The mercury scraping eighty degrees Fahrenheit at dawn. And dry. The sirocco blowing across the Mediterranean, the “devil wind” from the Maghreb sending dust and grit and last week’s garbage spiraling through the narrow streets of the 15ème in the hilly northern reaches of the city.

Simon left his house early and dipped down to the coast, taking La Gineste toward Cassis. They met at a café high on the hill with vineyards all around and a view of the sea. They had breakfast and coffee and made a toast with a shot of grappa for good luck.

This was the big one. The one they’d practiced for. A Garda armored truck carrying payroll for the navy, whose fleet was anchored down the coast in Toulon. Five million euros.

It was Simon’s job. He was nineteen, six feet tall, hair tied in a ponytail that touched his back, the last vestiges of his American roots burnt away by the Marseille sun. It had been seven years since his unwelcome arrival. His mother was no longer Mary Riske but Marie Ledoux, mother to three children by Pierre Ledoux and stepmother to his two teenage sons. Pierre drank. He made no secret of his displeasure at Simon’s arrival. The young American prince whose clothing was nicer than his children’s. School was a violent mix of poor French and poorer Africans. He returned home with a split lip after his first day and a swollen jaw the second. He learned to fight. He grew taller. He made himself stronger. He discovered he was every bit as vicious as his classmates. And then he discovered he was more vicious. He took refuge on the streets. His home sat in the center of the city’s worst neighborhood, an area so lawless police refused to patrol its streets. At fourteen, he became a lookout for a small-time hood who controlled a block of the tenements that grew like weeds in the wild northern suburbs. It wasn’t long before he moved up to cars. No one could hot-wire a Renault faster. And from cars to real jobs. Breaking and entering. Smash and grab. Banks. Jewelry stores. The luxury mansions around Cannes and Antibes.

And then the big targets.

Simon didn’t need the tumbler of grappa to get him going this morning. He’d started his day with a line of Bolivian coke and a hit of Thai stick. He was primed. Bristling. This was his sixth armored car. First time he was in charge. He was a name. The cops knew him. The other crews knew him. He was a man on the rise.

They left the café in two cars and traded them for two others stolen the night before, new plates, full tanks of gas. Simon rode with Léon and Marcel, both a year younger, both as crazy as he was, rock solid. Theo Bonfanti, Il Padrone’s son, drove the other car, with Franco and Tino Coluzzi, a few years older, the veteran. Two years pulling jobs together and they’d never been caught. They were invincible.

They parked near the Port de Toulon and waited. Lookouts along the route reported as the Garda truck passed by, until finally Simon spotted it in his rearview and flashed his high beams.

Theo Bonfanti pulled into traffic ahead of the truck. Simon cut in behind it. The guns were out. AKs for every man, round chambered, safety off, two spare clips apiece. A thousand bullets between them.

They followed the truck for ten minutes through town. Their destination was the Crédit Lyonnais. The largest bank in the city. The government’s bank.

They hit the truck as it stopped at the last light a hundred meters out, the bank in sight. Simon gave the signal. Theo and his guys jumped out, firing before their feet hit the ground, raking the front of the truck, flaming out the engine block, blowing the tires, fragging the windscreen to leave the driver blind.

Simon and his team took the rear, Léon keeping an eye for police who came too close. Simon emptied his clip, firing on full auto, mainlining adrenaline, juiced by the heat and the noise and the drugs. He placed a charge on the lock and blew the door, the guards jumping clear, deafened, hands raised. Simon met each with the butt of his AK, putting the two on the ground, bleeding, semiconscious. He jumped into the cargo bay and hurried to the sturdy twill bags bulging with cash.