here to do business. .
The buzzer sounded, and the blond man pushed open the door with his elbow. He held it as the dark-haired woman entered. She gave him a quick pat on the shoulder to let him know he'd done well. The blond man nodded his acceptance.
The corridors were well lit, but the apartment doors looked like they hadn't been opened in years. Culvert clearly had his command center and had no use for the other apartments in the building. Yet there were cameras everywhere. The blond man made a note of them. Cameras meant a security log. A security log meant there was a recording station somewhere inside the building. He would have to find it before they came back.
Cameras, the woman said.
I'm on it. .
We're not leaving without the tapes. .
Today? the blond man said. If that was the case, their whole plan would change.
Don't worry about today. But be ready for next time. .
The blond man said he would be.
The elevator took them to the eighth floor. A white guard a shade under six-five and 280
pounds greeted them. He had a layer of peach fuzz for hair, and a semiautomatic strapped over his shoulder. His mouth nearly sank into his several layers of chins, but despite the man's loutish appearance, he didn't need much dexterity to aim and pull the trigger. The rifle's safety was still on, but the muzzle was pointed at the two visitors. It wavered between them as though playing eeny, meeny, miny, moe.
M4, .22 caliber semiautomatic, the woman said, gesturing at the gun. A fine rifle. .
Glad you like it, the guard said. He had a massive chest but a doughy face, and was already breathing hard. So far neither guest was impressed with Culvert's choice in security. Just follow me, keep your mouths shut and your hands where I can see them, or this baby here will do all the talking, .
Fair enough, the woman said with a smile.
What did I tell you? Doughy said, his eyes wide. You told us to shut up, the blond man said, playing along.
Okay, that's the last thing I'd better hear out of you. Come on, you freaking wiseasses.
Mr. Culvert wants to see you. .
They followed Doughy down the corridor. When he approached the end, he banged loudly on a metal door. Then he looked up at a camera stationed above it.
With a click the door unlocked and someone inside opened it for them. Doughy waited until the door was wide open, and then led them into the command center.
Sitting on a large, plush sofa was a black man, late thirties, thin but with the muscle tone of someone who spent their whole life jittery, on edge. His bald head shone under the soft lighting, and his goatee was trimmed to a fine layer of stubble. He was wearing a pair of dark blue track pants and a white, wife-beater undershirt. Thick gold chains that must have weighed in the neighborhood of five pounds were draped over the undershirt. He had a drink in one hand and a gun in the other.
The blond man wondered whether he thought the gun was really necessary, considering the half-dozen other men in the room, all armed with rifles and bulletproof vests. They all watched the two guests like they were gazelles wandering into a lion's den. Easy meals on the surface, but they had to have something up their sleeves to enter such a dangerous place with such little regard for their own safety.
The gun in Li'l Leroy's hand, the blond man thought, laughing to himself, was overkill.
Two large guards came over. Doughy said, Spread 'em, hands behind your heads with a little too much zeal.
Both spread their legs shoulder-width apart. They placed their hands behind their heads.
The guards then spent several minutes patting the guests down, looking for weapons, large and small. The blond man noticed one guard was taking his time searching the dark-haired woman.
Neither of us has any weapons, the blond man said.
Doughy laughed and said, Maybe, maybe not. But we also want to be sure this bitch's snatch isn't going to cut my boy's fingers off. You ready to
The buzzer sounded, and the blond man pushed open the door with his elbow. He held it as the dark-haired woman entered. She gave him a quick pat on the shoulder to let him know he'd done well. The blond man nodded his acceptance.
The corridors were well lit, but the apartment doors looked like they hadn't been opened in years. Culvert clearly had his command center and had no use for the other apartments in the building. Yet there were cameras everywhere. The blond man made a note of them. Cameras meant a security log. A security log meant there was a recording station somewhere inside the building. He would have to find it before they came back.
Cameras, the woman said.
I'm on it. .
We're not leaving without the tapes. .
Today? the blond man said. If that was the case, their whole plan would change.
Don't worry about today. But be ready for next time. .
The blond man said he would be.
The elevator took them to the eighth floor. A white guard a shade under six-five and 280
pounds greeted them. He had a layer of peach fuzz for hair, and a semiautomatic strapped over his shoulder. His mouth nearly sank into his several layers of chins, but despite the man's loutish appearance, he didn't need much dexterity to aim and pull the trigger. The rifle's safety was still on, but the muzzle was pointed at the two visitors. It wavered between them as though playing eeny, meeny, miny, moe.
M4, .22 caliber semiautomatic, the woman said, gesturing at the gun. A fine rifle. .
Glad you like it, the guard said. He had a massive chest but a doughy face, and was already breathing hard. So far neither guest was impressed with Culvert's choice in security. Just follow me, keep your mouths shut and your hands where I can see them, or this baby here will do all the talking, .
Fair enough, the woman said with a smile.
What did I tell you? Doughy said, his eyes wide. You told us to shut up, the blond man said, playing along.
Okay, that's the last thing I'd better hear out of you. Come on, you freaking wiseasses.
Mr. Culvert wants to see you. .
They followed Doughy down the corridor. When he approached the end, he banged loudly on a metal door. Then he looked up at a camera stationed above it.
With a click the door unlocked and someone inside opened it for them. Doughy waited until the door was wide open, and then led them into the command center.
Sitting on a large, plush sofa was a black man, late thirties, thin but with the muscle tone of someone who spent their whole life jittery, on edge. His bald head shone under the soft lighting, and his goatee was trimmed to a fine layer of stubble. He was wearing a pair of dark blue track pants and a white, wife-beater undershirt. Thick gold chains that must have weighed in the neighborhood of five pounds were draped over the undershirt. He had a drink in one hand and a gun in the other.
The blond man wondered whether he thought the gun was really necessary, considering the half-dozen other men in the room, all armed with rifles and bulletproof vests. They all watched the two guests like they were gazelles wandering into a lion's den. Easy meals on the surface, but they had to have something up their sleeves to enter such a dangerous place with such little regard for their own safety.
The gun in Li'l Leroy's hand, the blond man thought, laughing to himself, was overkill.
Two large guards came over. Doughy said, Spread 'em, hands behind your heads with a little too much zeal.
Both spread their legs shoulder-width apart. They placed their hands behind their heads.
The guards then spent several minutes patting the guests down, looking for weapons, large and small. The blond man noticed one guard was taking his time searching the dark-haired woman.
Neither of us has any weapons, the blond man said.
Doughy laughed and said, Maybe, maybe not. But we also want to be sure this bitch's snatch isn't going to cut my boy's fingers off. You ready to
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