CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Boggs finally arrived at the crime scene, his black Escalade almost running down several civilians and two officers as it slewed to a stop at the police line. He got out, followed by some underlings, and they all trotted toward David.

The CEO was in a dark blue parka with Penn Southern’s logo emblazoned on the chest. He left the hood down, snow immediately beginning to accumulate in the collar.

“What the fuck?” he shouted, waving both arms. “The vault was robbed?”

“I don’t want to jump to any conclusions—”

“Where the hell were your people? How could this happen?”

David started to explain what he’d begun to figure out: the break-in and everything else happening that night mere distractions. He’d already dispatched two men across the road to see which of the warehouses the tunnel might have started from.

“I can’t believe you were so incompetent—” Boggs sputtered. “Are they still in there?”

David made a calming motion with both hands. “No, no, they’re gone. The vault’s empty.”

Empty?” Boggs’s voice was almost a scream.

“Of people.” He saw Sean stifle a grin.

“You.” Boggs couldn’t even get a sentence out. “You …”

David’s phone rang. As he pulled it from his pocket, he said, “Police are establishing the crime scene. Detectives and a forensic team are on the way. The mayor’s been called. It’s under control … Yes? Hello?”

For a moment, the men all were silent. Emergency lights strobed around them. People yelled here and there. Newark’s hazmat truck continued to spray foam on the locomotives. Sean, best attuned to his boss’s moods, picked up David’s increased alertness first.

“What’s up?”

David took the phone away from his ear and looked around. His officers, the few of them visible, were fully occupied with the crowd, but one of the Newark sergeants was nearby. He hurriedly gestured him over.

“Yeah?”

“Are your guys mobile? Or should we give it to the ESU?”

“What?”

David indicated his phone. “We have a description of their truck, a plate number, and a location as of two minutes ago,” he said. “What do you think? You or the NYPD?”

Nicola broke down her equipment fast, pissed off and practically throwing stuff around. First, the operating-system thumb drives, straight into a degaussing box that was plugged into the wall, waiting. In the few minutes it took to thoroughly burn them clean, she yanked all the cables out and stuffed them into Ziplocs. Monitors, computers, and other equipment went into their padded carry-bags, then into a larger rolling suitcase.

Another satchel for all the miscellaneous stuff—radios, headset, the scope.

And one last step: She broke the newly demagnetized flash drives out of their plastic sheathes and fed the internal media into a small, portable shredder. It made a noise like a blender. The little confetti-size pieces, she dumped into a plastic bag.

One last scan through the room, checking under the bed, in the trash can, the drawers, anywhere a stray, incriminating bit of hardware might have fallen.

In the hallway, she stripped off her latex gloves and held them balled in her fist. They’d go into a trash can far away from the hotel.

Her credit card was a burner, good for the cost of her stay but little more, and associated with completely false personal data. Once she drove away, they could go over the room with a microscope and never get closer to her than some useless surveillance video from the lobby.

All standard housecleaning. But she didn’t feel good about it, not at all.

They’d lost the entire haul. Finn hadn’t been able to take out a single ingot, a single dollar.

What a fucking waste.

It took time get the school bus moving.

First, they had to wait while people kept running up, having decided they really did want to leave after all. Then a slew of emergency vehicles got in the way—ambulances, fire engines, police. More police. They were all going the other direction, and none were inclined to wait a minute while the groaning yellow bus eased around them.

Finally, though, the driver got them pointed the right way and in a clear lane. The seats were only half full, but everyone had stayed toward the front, so Kayo stood in the well next to him. Millz had a seat of his own, no one inclined to ask him to share.

“Fuck, that went to shit in a hurry,” Kayo said. Looking out the back, he could still see scuffles, though most of the remaining protesters had been efficiently rounded up and flexi-cuffed.

“Just be glad we’re on our way.”

They continued through dark, snow-covered streets, few other cars out. A half mile down, a black Suburban tore past, portable blue light on its dash. A few minutes later, a dark sedan, also with a removable lightbar, followed it.

“What you think they’re up to?” Kayo said.

“Ain’t nothing I’m interested in.” The driver kept them moving steadily down the avenue. “At all.”

They stopped at a red light, no traffic on the cross street. The bus’s engine rumbled quietly, the wipers pushing snow off the windshield.

Kayo noticed someone at the corner—no, two men. They wore plainly inadequate clothing, some kind of blue uniform, no coats. They watched the bus warily, half hidden under a bodega’s shuttered awning.

The light changed, and the bus started to move.

“Hey.” Kayo leaned forward to peer through the window glass. “Hold up.”

“What?”

But Kayo had already yanked the door lever. He leaned out into the snow as the driver, muttering, stepped on the brakes.

In the open air, no mistake. He gestured as the two men looked up at him, one frowning, the other shaking his head and starting to smile.

“Yo,” Kayo called. “Need a lift?”