Tyler checked the bag one more time. Rollins did a hell of a job. Héctor and his lackeys would be too busy gawking at the stacks of cash to notice they didn’t quite go all the way to the bottom. The drugs took up another two bags Tyler didn’t care about. He expected everything to either explode or burn. The detonator—the same model he’d used in Afghanistan—was clipped onto Tyler’s belt. He brought the Sig even though he expected someone would disarm him. A vest, however, would be pushing it. They wouldn’t let him in dressed for war. As it was, Tyler wore all black, including the thin gloves covering his hands.
He drove the 442 north to Bel Air. Evening traffic was light, and Tyler hit the neighborhood ten minutes early. It gave him a chance to poke around. He didn’t see any guys stashed at Windholm’s model house. A search with night vision binoculars showed no one lurking in the trees behind Héctor’s property. He probably didn’t have enough men left to get cute in how he deployed them. At the appointed hour, Tyler guided his car up Héctor’s driveway and stopped at the gate.
A Spanish-accented voice came over the intercom. “What do you want?”
“Héctor’s expecting me.”
“What’s your name?”
“If he doesn’t want his stuff back,” Tyler said, “I’m happy to leave. I’m not going to sit here and play your little games.”
No reply came. The gate swung open a moment later, and Tyler drove up the rest of the driveway and stopped alongside the house. He watched the barricade close in the rearview mirror. He was committed to this plan now. No early escape. No easy way out.
Exactly like he wanted it.
Two slender Latinos emerged from the side door, both of them training their guns on Tyler. “Out of the car,” one of them said.
Tyler got out and turned so he presented his side to the duo. “Stuff’s in the trunk.”
The one who spoke took a few steps forward. His pistol was about three feet from Tyler’s face now. “Maybe we kill you and take it.”
“Héctor and I had an arrangement,” Tyler said. “I expect him to live up to it.” There had always been a possibility he wouldn’t, of course. Tyler readied himself to make a grab for the gun. One step to the left would allow him to use one man to screen the other. He didn’t want to do this outside, but if Héctor and his paid idiots forced Tyler’s hand, he would. After another few seconds of staring and posturing, both men lowered their weapons.
“We gotta search you,” the pair’s apparent spokesman said.
“I figured you would.” The guy patted Tyler down. He found the M11 right away. “You can just toss it in the car.” Like a good lackey, he threw the gun through the 442’s open driver’s side window.
“What the hell is this?” The man said as he felt the outline of the detonator.
“I’m diabetic,” Tyler said.
“Fine.” He finished the mediocre patdown and stood. “Let’s get the stuff inside.”
Tyler opened the trunk, set the two bags of coke down, and picked up the one with the cash. He pushed the lid closed again. “I’m carrying the money,” he said. “You two can bring the other stuff.”
“I ain’t here to carry your shit,” the second man said.
Tyler shrugged. “Leave it here, then. See what your boss thinks of your decision. We going in?”
The two looked at each other and turned up their hands. They held a short conversation in Spanish before each stuffed a pistol into their waistbands and hoisted a bag. Tyler followed them inside. Héctor’s massive kitchen could hold the first floor of most Baltimore houses. White granite countertops gleamed in soft overhead light. All the appliances were stainless steel. The rest of the first floor looked like it came from a luxury furnishings catalog. Two more Latinos stared at Tyler from a sofa.
They walked through the kitchen, and the guy in front of Tyler opened a door in the main hallway. He gestured for Tyler to walk down the stairs. He did, and both men followed him. The main area of the basement held another couch, TV, and a foosball table where two more guys played a game. Another door was open to a large room. Tyler’s escorts led him inside. A well-dressed man sat behind a huge wooden desk. Most of the floor space was empty save a smaller desk and chair on the opposite wall. “You must be Héctor.”
He didn’t smile. Someone in Héctor’s position couldn’t afford to. He’d taken a bad deal because the alternative was even worse. “Mister Tyler. You’re carrying the money, I presume?”
“I am.” He set the bag in front of Héctor, making sure to point the business side—the one with the logo—toward him. “Your guys have the drugs.”
Héctor nodded. His workers set their bags down nearby and flanked their boss. “I know how much money Windholm had at his company,” Héctor said. “How much will I find here?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Tyler said. “I never counted it. I just kept a little to compensate me for my annoyance.”
“We’re going to see how much is here.” One of the two guys who had been playing foosball approached Héctor and whispered something in Spanish. He repeated himself louder when the main man didn’t respond. “I heard you, Rodolfo. If I need you, I’ll call you.”
Rodolfo turned away and glared at Tyler. “Hi, Rodolfo. How’s it feel to be the one who screwed your cousin?”
“Ignore him,” Héctor said as Rodolfo seethed. One of the other guys led him from the room and closed the door. “You don’t mind staying while we count, do you?”
Tyler felt he didn’t really have a choice in the matter, but he was happy to stick around. “Sure. Can I sit at the other station?”
Héctor turned up his hand, and Tyler crossed the room and sat behind the smaller desk. Maybe Héctor employed a secretary in the past. Perhaps this was the room where the men counted the money in one spot and divided up the drugs in the other. One of the lackeys opened the bag and whistled. It was the reaction Tyler hoped for. He reached toward the contents, but Héctor slapped his wrist. “We’ll take our time and see how much is here. This isn’t a race.”
Both guys removed some stacks from the bag and counted. A lot still remained. Tyler wanted them to pull a few more out before he got on with the plan. The less weight on top of the claymores, the better. A few minutes later, they grabbed several more piles each. Tyler put his left hand under the desk, grabbed the detonator with his right, and scooted back an inch in the chair. His thumb popped the hinged cover up, exposing the circular button. A tiny red light pulsed to indicate a connection to the explosives.
With everyone distracted by the money, Tyler flipped the secretary table forward. When the three men looked up at him, he hit the button.