Terrapin Sky Tango

1 I need to scrub the blood off my reputation. Yes, “mess with Beaks and she will utterly destroy everything you love” is a useful addition to it. And a rep should grow with you, developing fine notes and subtleties, so that it becomes worthy of a connoisseur’s attention and a higher billing rate. But a reputation is your best advertising. I can’t put up billboards to broadcast my services. What would they say? Beaks: She Steals, so You Don’t Have To? Maybe Six Feet of Skinny Sneakiness? Or Limber. Lethal. Lawless. No, the only way people learn about me is by word of mouth. Or the bulletin board at the local Interpol office. Plus, I’m told there’s an FBI agent that has my picture in his office, my smiling Mediterranean face over my real name: Billie Carrie Salton. And that he uses it as a dart board. But the person who told me that is kind of a suck-up, so who knows? If it’s true, it’s adorable. I’ve worked hard on the core of my rep: “They’ll never know Beaks was there, until they realize something’s missing.” If you’re a bloated rich bastard, you can hire me to rob some other bloated rich bastard. None of my clients think they’re bloated rich bastards, of course, but here’s a hint: If you can afford me, you’re bloated rich. If you’re thinking of hiring me, you’re a bastard. The one who hired me for this gig? Even more of a bastard. And not because of the thievery. First: Arizona. No, not the nice cool mountains, but—ugh—Phoenix. North of Scottsdale, more precisely. In August. Even early in the day, before the sun’s poked its head up above the mountains lining the valley, it seems the locals replaced the sky with an open-air incinerator. It’s seven AM and I need another gallon of sunscreen. The light’s bright enough to threaten my scalp beneath my inch-long hair. Four nights in this hellhole and I’m so dry my eyeballs hurt and the inside of my nose has cracked like I’m in close solar orbit. I can smell the dried-up traces of my own nosebleeds. I’ve already drunk a gallon of water just trying to keep the headache to a distant thud. The few bushes and scrub trees scattered across the flat, dead ground have gone into some kind of weird summer hibernation. Even the cacti look shriveled. A couple of them have a sturdy wooden cage supporting them. I hear these particular cacti are a protected species, because the world doesn’t have enough thorns. We’re standing at the east side of this useless intersection. A bunch of developers convinced the city council that the boom would never end and got them to approve this network of main roads in the desert. Four lane roads, of course, because everything grows forever and you want your city infrastructure to support all that growth, right? One square mile sections, so you can allocate chunks one after the other. And you’ll want underground utilities, because they’re storm-resistant and they cost more to install. Think of the tax base you’ll get from all these homes and businesses! Oh, wait, there’s an economic crash? Economies don’t grow forever? Sorry, we’ll take our fees for pouring all this concrete and shut up now. The only thing traveling this road is blown sand. The only sound: the faint grumble of traffic, thousands of gas-guzzlers and the shouts of frustrated drivers blended by distance. Our rental car lurks behind us. It’s a great big Old Rich People sedan, silver. The trunk is shut, but both front doors are open so we can leap in if we need to. I had to knock out the rear window when the bullet holes made the safety glass opaque. We won’t even have air conditioning until we get the hell out of this Hell. A mile west I can make out the white line of the brick wall separating the cozy upper-middle-class condos from the wilderness. The limey reek of hot concrete already fills the air and it’s not even proper daytime. But if you want to exchange stolen goods for a suitcase of cash, and you don’t want anyone sneaking up on you, this desolate intersection is perfect. The only man-made things in miles are the roads and a gray utility box sitting on the opposite corner like an abandoned bedroom dresser. Next to me, Lou shifts uneasily. Lou is the second problem. He’s got to be twenty years older than me, at least mid-forties and probably pushing fifty, but in this business he’s a newborn. Give him coveralls and a pipe wrench and he’d look like a Nintendo plumber. Maybe an older version, with the bits of gray salting his mustache. I have no idea why Lou wants to be in the business. He’d tried to tell me, that first night, but I’d put him straight. Me knowing wouldn’t help me and might hurt him. We freelance because we literally can’t fit in anywhere else. If you have a happy childhood, you don’t do this kind of work. Every one of us is a unique freak. But we’re in good company. “Relax,” I say. Lou is so nervous he looks like he’s about to have his first prostate exam and fears he might enjoy it. “You did well so far.” “Well?” A voice that deep shouldn’t crack quite that badly. “How many people shot at us last night?” “Part of the job, sometimes.” I study his outfit one last time. Three days ago he’d arrived in denim shorts, T-shirt, and baseball cap, but on our first day he’d swapped the cap for a floppy flow-through hat with a brim just short of sombrero. We’d spent most of the days afterwards posing as hikers to research our target. For the trade, I’d had him add sturdy slacks and a polo shirt, plus some sunglasses tougher than they looked. No, not darker—tougher. Today called for unbreakable sunglasses. “The men after us last night, they worked for the man we robbed.” “We think.” I’ve seen federal prosecutors look more trusting than Lou right now. “Don’t trust anything anyone says at gunpoint,” I say. “Here, we’re meeting our customer. Rules are, you don’t bring a gun to the swap.” Lou glances up the south road. “Even if it wasn’t the customer that was after us last night—are they going to follow that?” “They’ll have guns in their car.” My lips tingle as I speak—they’re a chapped ruin. Once we escape this level of Hell, I’m bathing in moisturizer for a week. “But they won’t want to damage the goods. That’s the whole point of this little game.” The breeze picks up, flowing through my outfit. My pants and shirt are a tough synthetic, breathable but difficult to cut through. It’ll stop a knife s***h. Won’t do any good against a bullet, of course, but hopefully the shooting’s done. Until I say so, at least. Plus, my pants have pockets. Screw you, fashion tycoons. My earpiece buzzes. “Incoming,” Deke says from his hidden nest. “White van, from the north.” “Thanks,” I say. I’ve left my throat mic on—Lou and I won’t be saying anything Deke can’t hear. My Deke can hear anything I ever say. Last time I doubted Deke, he was tortured within an inch of his life. That’s when the blood got all over my reputation. “Are we really going to return the car?” Lou says. “When we’re done.” “Won’t the bullet holes make them—” “That’s what I bought all that rental insurance for.” I raise a hand to shield the side of my face as I look north. I can’t see anything yet, but a white van against the distant line of houses would disappear at half a mile. “Seriously, this isn’t the time. It won’t be an issue, I promise. We have to stay chill. Focus completely on the moment.” My phone buzzes with a text message. Not my regular phone—the special one I wear on gigs. Maybe a dozen people in the world have that number. I glance at the display on my wrist. My brother Will. Annoyance tightens my gut. Then I read the text. FATHER IS DEAD.