Blind to Sin Read online

  He went back to cleaning the automatic weapon in front of him. “I’ve never done something like this before. I was always behind the scenes, giving you money and reaping the rewards. Was not as exciting.”

  “Shut up, Adrik,” Cole said.

  Manuel rolled onto his side and wiped his eyes. The couch shuddered underneath his girth.

  “Just days ago,” Cole said, “you grabbed Matt Herrick by the collar and threw him on his ass. You manhandled him no problem.”

  The words hung in the air as Manuel started to regain his composure. Cole got up and poured him a shot of whiskey. They never drank the night before a job, but Manuel needed to take the edge off.

  “I did,” Manuel finally said. He knocked the drink back. “I’m going to do it again. Right now.”

  He stood and Cole stood with him, his old knees aching in the process. “Tomorrow there will be three of us with a rocket launcher and machine guns. They will not be expecting us.”

  “How do you know Herrick didn’t…?”

  “Even if he did tell the cops, they blew him off. You know that. There’s no evidence. Nothing.”

  “Tomorrow, we blow that shit up and we are rich.” He put an arm around Manuel’s shoulders. “You get through tomorrow and you have the rest of your life to kill Matt Herrick. No one will know who you are. They will only know me.”

  Manuel blinked. “I can barely focus right now. Can barely think.”

  Adrik looked up from the gun and caught Cole’s eye. Cole shook him off. Adrik went back to the weapon.

  “You know how to aim and fire,” Adrik said.

  “It’s not that simple.” Manuel wiped away a tear.

  Cole shook his head. “Tomorrow will be a spectacle, a joke. Piece of cake.”

  “We went from seven to three.”

  “It will make our victory even better. I’ll be even more famous.”

  “That’s all you care about.”

  Cole flashed to the picture of Tammy. He loved that shot, her eyes so wide and blue. He’d kept a blurry copy in his wallet for years. Every time he looked at it, though, he knew one thing was missing. Himself.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to care about you getting your revenge.”

  “You’ll be in Cuba.”

  “I can still wire money. I still have my contacts.”

  Adrik said, “So do I.”

  Manuel took a deep breath. “Tomorrow, we will be rich.”

  “You have to focus.”

  Manuel nodded. Tears still streamed from his eyes. “I need more whiskey.”

  Cole passed him the bottle.

  DONNE SAT in the bleachers again, high up, looking out over the Federal Reserve building. It wasn’t yet six in the morning and the traffic on Route 17 was light. He counted a car passing just about every thirty seconds. In New Jersey, that was flat out an empty road.

  Next to Donne was a rifle—the hunting kind. Artie’s man called it a sniper rifle. It wasn’t. It was something he hadn’t handled in years, not since an afternoon in Jockey Hollow, putting bullets into the air and hoping to scare people into running away. Now he was going to have to be a pinpoint marksman, and he’d never done that.

  Donne figured they had maybe twenty minutes to get the job done, if the caravan was on time. Kenneth once said the men at the reserve wanted to get the shipment out of there fast. After they shit the bed handing billions of dollars to Iraq, the people in charge kept their schedule quiet.

  But if they took longer than twenty minutes, the witnesses would start coming out of the woodwork. Donne considered six a.m. the start of rush hour, but right now only early morning joggers were just starting to make their way to the track. Twenty more minutes and employees trying to get the jump on the day would fill up the road. In ten minutes, an armored car and two military vehicles would pull out of the reserve and head north, trying to make their way to Teterboro Airport.

  Tight window.

  Go time in seven minutes. Donne walked the bleachers over to the right corner, looking out at both the highway and the Federal Reserve building. The sun peeked out behind the buildings of New York in the east.

  Time was running short.

  Donne’s stomach burned acid. He hefted the gun, checked the chamber and weight and then leveled it out toward the road. He took a look through the sight and saw movement on the reserve campus. Two men in green were talking to each other and pointing at the road. For an instant, Donne expected them to look in his direction, and his muscles seized. But they didn’t, instead heading back toward a large garage door.

  Bill Martin had held a gun like this once, and used it to end a senator’s life. That bullet was the one that sent Donne into this spiral—into hiding, into jail and now homeless and hoping a few thousand stolen dollars would be a nest egg. Sweat formed at the back of his neck. Too many memories returning because of just one type of gun.

  Two shots. All he would need were two shots, and then he’d run. Grab the money and be gone. But now that the time was near, his plan felt faulty. Could he really grab a handful of cash and get the cops here in time? He had no doubt that Manuel, Haskins, Adrik and Cole would engage the military dudes in a firefight. He had no doubt they’d planned for the contingency and would be able to get the back door of the car opened.

  But he didn’t know if he would be able to sneak in and out without, well, dying.

  No other choices though.

  It was the only way to keep Herrick home and out of this, and get himself started. The only way to stay alive.

  Behind him, the metal clunked, as if someone set foot on the bleachers. Donne felt the weight shift, and he whirled, aiming the gun below him.

  Matt Herrick stood there, arms in the air, and his mouth hanging open.

  “Jackson,” he said. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Go home,” Donne said, lowering the gun.

  “No.” Herrick kept his hands up.

  His phone buzzed signaling an alarm he’d set, and Donne took a look at it. Four minutes. Get in position. He could handle this.

  “I’m doing it for you, Herrick. I don’t want you to become like me. Your dad tried to drag you down, but you’re a good person. You don’t deserve this.”

  Herrick lost his balance on the bleacher for a moment, and had to put his left foot on the step below to balance himself. A car revved by, heading north. Donne glanced toward the reserve building, but didn’t see any change. He only had scant minutes to talk Herrick away from here and get on with his job.

  “For me? You’re standing here like some crazed militia man waiting to rob an armored car.” Herrick stepped back up. “I’m trying to save you.”

  Donne shook his head. “I’ve been here before. Go home, Matt. Help your mom. Mourn your dad. This is a bad place for you. It’s going to be national news. You know that.”

  “And that’s good for you?”

  He turned his back to Herrick. I need the money. I need to go back to jail. Maybe I need to die.

  He leveled the gun and realized how much he reminded himself of Bill Martin, stuck on the roof, aiming a rifle at the senator. And Herrick was his old self, a younger Donne, trying to fix things.

  “I need to put things right,” Donne said.

  Herrick said, “Who killed my dad?”

  “Cole did it. I told you.”

  Herrick didn’t say anything.

  “Maybe he sent Haskins. I don’t know.”

  “Walk away and it’s all over,” Herrick said. “Haskins is dead now. The cops can catch them later. There are cameras everywhere. They can’t escape this.”

  “For you, it’s over. I got you into this. I’m ending it. Leave, Matt.”

  “I’m sorry my dad got you involved in everything. I’m sorry I gave you his name. But you don’t have to fix everything.”

  “The only solution is a clean slate,” Donne said.

  Donne leveled the gun again. Through the sight, he watched the garage door open and the security
gate rise. A black Jeep pulled out first, followed by the armored car, and then another Jeep. Just as Cole had said. Maybe Haskins had gotten him the information. It didn’t matter.

  “We have to stop Cole, but without anyone dying,” Herrick said.

  “That’s the mistake people make,” Donne said.

  Herrick didn’t answer.

  The Jeep made the first left onto Route 17, traveling away from Donne. The armored car started its route. Donne looked through the sight again and gave the armored car a lead.

  “Put the gun down, Jackson!”

  Donne ignored the words, and Herrick watched his finger squeeze the trigger.

  Before Donne could complete the act, something exploded.

  THE SHOCKWAVE tore through them, and Donne’s gun clattered down the bleachers. Herrick kept his balance and watched the rifle spin past him. It didn’t go off. Donne fell to his knees.

  After regaining his equilibrium, Herrick bounded the last three steps of the bleachers. As he peered over the edge next to Donne, he saw the armored car careening into the guardrail. A loud crunch reached their ears, along with the squeal of brakes. The armored car went up on two wheels, and for a moment it looked like it would right itself. But the top weight of the armored car took it over on the side. A fireball funneled toward the sky from a crater in the road.

  Donne blew air out of his mouth. Herrick glanced at him. He grimaced.

  “Are you okay?”

  “You’re going to win this time,” Donne said. “I can’t fight a war.”

  Herrick looked back at the brewing warzone. The soldiers from the Jeeps ran toward the wreckage, guns out. It was compelling to watch, as they ran a move Herrick had learned during his boot camp training. He’d never seen the movement from this high before. In fact, he’d only been involved in it. Two soldiers watched the road, slowly stepping backward, one guarding their six. Two others kept their eyes north and south. And two more rushed the armored car. They were talking, the words lost in the wind and hitting Herrick’s ears as a garbled mess.

  And then it happened, from the far side of Route 17, near a used car dealership, something arced through the air. Herrick saw it immediately and tried to scream and warn the soldiers. The words didn’t reach their mark. Donne turned his head toward Herrick, reacting to the sound. A rocket soared through the air with a whistle, hit the armored car and blew it up, flipping the car on its side. The concussive blast sent two of the soldiers to the ground. Another fireball.

  There was the rocket launcher Manuel had stolen.

  “Shit,” Donne said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  He whirled and started down the bleachers. Herrick took a few more seconds to watch the scene unfold before him. From where the rocket had come, two men appeared with assault rifles. Behind the barrier, another man was putting the launcher down. He then hopped the barrier as well. They were all wearing Kevlar and helmets, keeping Herrick from identifying them from this distance.

  But he could guess.

  It was in that second that Herrick realized how truly unprotected he and Donne were. He turned to warn Donne, but found himself alone. Donne had disappeared. The gunfire started. Instinct sent Herrick to the ground, his face pressed against the cold steel of the bleacher seat. More shouting from the street. Herrick’s heart pounded.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw the boy on the base again. Strapped in explosives. About to press the button. The memory of Herrick leveling his gun. The boy always returned at the worst time.

  He blinked, snapping himself out of it. Air caught in his throat. The gunfire continued. Sirens emerged in the air, and somewhere helicopter blades whupped. Maybe a news chopper. Maybe the police. Herrick had no idea how much time had passed. And then there was another explosion, softer this time, like a magician’s trick.

  Pulling himself up, Herrick looked out over the scene again. He pulled his phone and opened the video app and started recording. There were two more bodies on the street—soldiers. Two of the men in armor were laying down cover fire as one of them made his way to the armored vehicle. The smoke was coming from the back doors, which had been blown open. The last two remaining soldiers were torn. Stop the guys laying down cover fire or move toward the man who had blown the doors. One stood up and his head immediately exploded in a puff of red dust. The last soldier was screaming. He fired several times and caught the big guy in the helmet and chest. He fell backward, body motionless. The military had powerful bullets.

  Was the big guy Manuel? Had to be.

  Herrick looked toward the Federal Reserve building. There was a commotion there as well. Men running. Probably arming themselves. Herrick supposed Cole and crew knew they had a finite amount of time, but could handle between six and ten soldiers guarding the truck.

  The balls on them.

  And then, Donne appeared.

  “No,” Herrick whispered.

  The last soldier was down, a bullet must have caught him while Herrick had his eye on Donne. The two remaining Kevlar guys were hustling toward the vehicle now.

  Donne reached into the back of the armored car, and that was when Herrick turned off his phone and took to the stairs. He was down to the bottom in Maybe four seconds. He didn’t stand a chance with just an ASP, but he was going to run full-blown into the middle of a gunfight anyway.

  Real smart, Matt.

  But his legs wouldn’t stop. He ran through the concourse of the stadium and out to the sidewalk. The sirens were louder now, as was the whup of the helicopter blades. Herrick ran toward Route 17, and the closer he got, the more chaos reigned. Broken glass, the smell of bullets in the air. He was in the sandbox again, but this time it was in the middle of New Jersey.

  When Herrick finally got to the road, everything was quiet. The Kevlar guys were gone. Donne too. Herrick ran first to the back of the armored car and found it empty. Nothing he could do there. He looked south and saw an ambulance, lights whirling, siren screaming, racing toward him. There were shouts to get his hands in the air behind him. The scrambling troops at the reserve had gotten their asses in gear.

  Herrick didn’t stop, though. He didn’t listen to the orders. He was moving from soldier to soldier, trying to find one breathing. No luck. All he saw was spurting blood, bone fragment and smoke. There was nothing he could do. No one to save. Not even Manuel, whose empty eyes stared at him from the pavement.

  He bit his lip to hold in a scream.

  He turned toward the approaching troops and shot his hands up in the air. He screamed at them that he was a witness. That he wanted to help. They told him to get down on the ground. They repeated it.

  Herrick had no choice.

  He hit the ground, and the barrel of a gun was pressed hard into his neck.

  If they had only listened to him instead of telling him to shut up, they would know he wasn’t involved. And they would hear the names he kept shouting.

  No deal.

  “SO, YOUR life the past two and a half years has been Jackson Donne gets you in shit and you try to unfuck it?”

  The military cop crossed his arms and stared down his nose like Herrick was an underperforming power forward. No wonder his players hated that look. It was effective.

  “Well,” Herrick said, “Donne spent some of that time in prison. So I went out and got myself a girlfriend and a Playstation. Killed time until the next screw up.”

  He was lying about the Playstation.

  “Son, you’d best figure out your next sentence before you say it.” The guy was old, with gray clipped hair and a bushy gray moustache. His nametag said Montana. His voice had the effect of years in the Army, a bit southern, but mostly worn away like an eroded stone. “Otherwise, and maybe even still, you’re in a world of hurt.”

  Herrick scrunched his nose like he smelled something awful. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned Donne’s name. But these guys had videotape, Herrick was sure of it. Montana would have shown him that eventually. And Herrick just wanted to get the hell out of here.
/>   “Donne isn’t the one you have to worry about. He wanted to stop the whole thing.”

  Montana nodded. “Yeah? Well, he didn’t save any of my men. You want to be the ones to call their relatives?”

  Herrick let that one go.

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “Are you guilty of anything?”

  Herrick didn’t answer. And Montana waited.

  One thing that cops hated was silence. If you didn’t answer their question right away, they filled the air with more words and sounds. More questions. The strategy was to get the witness or suspect so uncomfortable they talked just to shut the cops up. Montana was different. He kept as quiet as possible. Herrick liked the strategy.

  But he hated the silence.

  “Wrong place wrong time,” he finally said.

  “So you’re a witness.” Montana ran a hand through his hair. “You’re not under arrest. But help us out here. Who are they?”

  “The dead guy is Manuel Parada. There are two other guys who planned this whole thing. Elliot Cole and Adrik Vavilov. They both got away. They flipped the truck, they wanted the money.”

  “And you just happened to be there.”

  Herrick shrugged. “That’s what I said.”

  “You were in the sandbox, right? I looked you up. You’re not hard to find. I talked to Major Christenson. You do a good job with those kids at the school.”

  “You want any recruiting scoops?”

  Montana shot him the same look. Guess that was a no.

  “I see what you’re doing. I’ve been there,” Montana said. “It’s respectable. You’re trying to make up for something you did across the ocean by coaching those kids. I appreciate that you’re trying to help. That’s a commendable thing, son. Maybe you should stick to it. Become a full-time teacher. Because all this? You’re going to get yourself killed. And by letting Donne go, by not calling us—you got a lot of good men killed. You balanced the scales. Save your brothers in Afghanistan and let my men die.”

  Herrick adjusted his position in the chair. He’d had the same conversations with Sarah over the past year. That Montana could read him so quickly made Herrick’s fingers tingle. And it felt like a knife dug through his lower intestine as Montana talked more.