BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1)(36)

Three more bars were set at my feet. Then, Goose shoved a backpack through the hole. “Probably weighs one fifty. Gold and diamonds.”

“Cash?” I asked.

Another backpack slid through the hole. “That weighs about the same. All cash.”

“Is that it?”

“Short of watches and shit, yeah,” he said. “There’s another small safe, but--”

The men knew not to fuck with watches. Despite their worth, they were too easy for the police to track, as all high-end watches were serial numbered.

“We don’t have time for the other safe,” I said. “We get greedy, and we’ll get got.” I turned to Tito. “Time?”

“One and fifteen.”

I leaned in front of the hole. “Get the torch and get out of there.” I faced Tito. “Get that shit on the roof.”

Within thirty seconds, Cash had everything hoisted everything on the roof. Fifteen seconds later, we stood at his side.

“Tool check,” I said.

“Fifteen seconds,” Tito said.

I glared at Cash. “Motherfucking tool check.”

Excitedly, Cash rifled through the equipment. “Twenty-pound sledge. Four. Plasma rig. One. Cell phone jammer. One. Flashlights. Five. Tool box small. One. Tool box large. One. Dust masks. Six. Night vision. Five. Six-foot pry bar. One. Cutting torch. One. Folding aluminum ladder. One.”

He looked up.

I looked at the human computer. “Is that it?”

Tito shook his head. “Missing one flashlight.”

“Reno’s got it,” I said.

“And, the goggles,” he said.

I looked at Goose. “God damn it, Goose.”

“Fuck!” he exclaimed. “I set ‘em on the small safe.”

I looked at Cash. “Get loaded.” I turned to Goose. “Get your ass in there and get ‘em. Hurry the fuck up.”

High on adrenaline, I began to pace the roof. Concerned that I hadn’t heard any sirens from police racing to Reno’s diversion, I wondered if it happened at the same time we were beating on the wall. Hoping I’d simply missed it, I walked to the parapet and peered over the edge. An orange flicker in the distant northern sky brought a smile of reassurance to my face.

Atta boy, Reno.

Fifteen seconds beyond my nine-minute mark, and forty-five seconds shy of Tito’s ten-minute estimate, we pulled out of the lot with an undetermined amount of cash, nine bars of gold, and a back pack filled with jewelry. I had no idea how much cash we’d taken, nor what the jewelry was worth, but the gold bars alone had a street value of six million dollars.

The drone of the SUV’s exhaust acted as a subtle hint as to the power it had under the hood. I glanced over my left shoulder. “What’s the top speed of this fucker?”

“One-eighty. Give or take. It’s not limited by horsepower,” Ghost said. “It’s drag coefficient.”

“One-eighty, huh?”

“Didn’t take their word for it. I’ve tested this fucker. We’re faster’n CHP, that’s for sure.”

The SUV had been professionally covered in matte black vinyl, had black wheels, and tinted windows. We were definitely in stealth mode, and in SoCal, the black on black on black theme fit right in. I chewed on my bottom lip for a moment while I wondered about the red paint beneath the black film.

Technically, it was still a red vehicle.

While we traveled down the two-lane highway at five miles an hour over the speed limit, I struggled with my superstitious beliefs. Eventually I gave up.

“You see Brother Reno’s glow?” I asked.

Ghost grinned. “Every time I check the rear view.”

The sign for Pala Mesa Drive illuminated at the end of the headlight’s reach. An intersecting road to highway 395, it was the pickup point for Reno. I prayed that he was there, waiting. Short of making it back to the clubhouse, it was the last piece to the night’s puzzle.

As I gazed through the side window anxiously, we passed the intersection.

“See him?” I asked.

Ghost shook his head and then checked the mirrors. “Not yet.”

Leaving a man behind troubled me. We couldn’t wait for him, nor could we search. Putting the entire club at risk wasn’t practical, and I knew it. It didn’t make not knowing any easier, though.

As we passed Via Belmont, and intersection a little more than half a mile ahead, two narrowly placed headlights illuminated in the parking lot of a hotel. Ten seconds later, the lights shot past us and merged into our lane.

It was Reno. I relaxed into the hard back of the of red leather racing seat. “We’re good.”

“Thank fucking God,” Cash spouted. “I was sick and tired of this silent shit.”

Another rule of mine was that there was no talking until everyone was accounted for. It wasn’t uncommon for us to use a vehicle and a motorcycle while doing a job. En route to the clubhouse, the motorcycle acted as a rabbit – a lure to police – if it was necessary to get them away from the vehicle carrying the stolen cargo.

Until I was certain we were all safe, the laughing, story-telling, and discussions about who was going to do what with their share ground against my already worn nerves.

Now that Reno was leading the way, everyone was free to speak.