Terrapin Sky Tango

Chapter 5

5

Yes, I’m an i***t.

But not because I’m using a cello case as body armor.

I’m an i***t because the cello case should have been my first warning it’d end in gunfire.

Say you have an incredibly valuable musical instrument, arguably the finest of its sort in the whole world. Perhaps even the finest of its kind ever made. And say you’re a bloated rich bastard. That instrument is going to have the most protective custom case in the world.

Cellos aren’t very heavy. Less than fifteen pounds.

Lou had trouble hauling this one because of that case.

Near as I can tell, it’s made of layered carbon fiber with a Kevlar outer sheath. It’s as if someone told the case builder, “This thing has been stolen twice in recent memory. The next time it’s snatched, there’s gonna be a whole bunch of blood and bullets. I want a case that’ll stand up to military-grade gunfire. Hell, I want a cello case that can survive a United flight.”

Half a dozen rounds hammer the cello case.

Crouching on the balls of my feet and sitting on my heels, I wobble with the impact—but the case, it shudders and slides an inch to one side.

The inside of the case doesn’t have any handles. I’m supporting it by pressing my fingers against the sides.

All I can do is press harder.

I crouch lower, trying to drop my center of gravity.

The case’s open lid bounces against my shoulder, making me wobble again.

A cello case is a misshapen suitcase. The upper part where the neck goes is narrower than my shoulders, narrower than my head, so I’ve got to damn near curl up into a ball. The dusty white concrete underfoot has already picked up the sun’s August heat and started casting it back up.

I don’t dare stick even a finger around the outside—the gunbunny might be really good with that rifle.

Another three-round burst pounds the case.

The concussion echoes in each knuckle, but I don’t drop the case. “Deke.”

“Shooting blind into the minivan,” my Deke says in my ear.

I glance back towards my rental car.

Lou is kneeling behind the car. A car’s body can’t stop a bullet, but the engine block might.

More rifle shots.

The case’s lid bounces back, knocking into my butt, pushing me forward. I have to shift a foot forward—are my toes sticking out from the case now? No, wait—how about my butt? That’s all I need, one round straight through the cheeks and out the other side. I’d never live that down.

Lou rises a couple inches, pulls off two quick shots, and ducks back.

Deke says in my earpiece, “Can you lure him out?”

What am I supposed to do, hold up a white flag and ask for terms? They made it clear all night that this wasn’t up for discussion.

Another three-round burst. The cello case shakes once.

The guy might have been a decent shot, but his aim is degrading. Firing a rifle on full auto is tiring. The gunbunny needs to lift more—

My money!

The box of bearer bonds is about eight feet back, but a couple of feet to my side. Well within the stray bullet field.

Banks don’t accept bearer bonds full of bullet holes. Or bloodstains. Trust me, I’ve tried.

I try to look up, but I don’t dare raise my head enough to see the top of the cello case. Do I have an inch of clearance? Or a hair?

Three rifle shots. All go astray.

Dammit.

I have to take a chance.

I quickly work one hand down towards the bottom of the case. The massive case wobbles with the unbalanced support, but I get my hand anchored before it topples. I rely on that ballast to hold the case long enough to reach up and press the side of my hand against the case’s top, where the cello’s body would end and the neck begin.

Sweat greases my forehead, but the heat’s so bad that it turns to sludge and evaporates before it can hit my eyes. The summer desert sun hammers my back almost as forcefully as the next three-round burst from the automatic rifle.

I shout, “Don’t suppose we can talk about this?”

My only answer is another six rounds, all punching straight into the cello case.

My shoulders are really beginning to ache.

Now the tricky part. I don’t dare raise my head. If I turn a knee out from behind the cello case, it’ll catch a bullet.

Teeth gritted, I ignore my screaming instincts and scoot the cello case farther away.

Another inch.

I push the case maybe three or four inches when I hit the limit of my reach. I could get more distance, if I wasn’t holding the case’s bottom and top firmly enough to balance it against the intermittent gunshots.

Then I shift my weight to the hand on the bottom of the case and start working my feet backwards.

The whole thing takes me maybe fifteen seconds. Each second feels like an hour.

The gunbunny stops shooting. Magazine change?

I hear Lou fire, one-two-three-four quick shots.

The gunbunny opens up.

Keeping my weight on the hand, I ease up on one foot. Careful—don’t raise my head. Don’t raise my butt above the top of the cello case. Stay perfectly in the case’s shadow. Hardly daring to breathe, I stretch that leg behind me. Countless needles stab my blood-starved calf, but seconds later I have that knee on the scalding concrete. Pebbles barely larger than grains of sand gouge craters into my kneecap.

It’s tempting to rush, but no. Just as carefully, I ease the other leg behind me, only exhaling when I have both shins firmly planted on the pavement.

Kneeling on the concrete gives me far more balance and mobility than balancing on the balls of my feet. I can concentrate more on keeping the cello case pinned upright and less on keeping myself upright.

It also lets me scoot an inch to the side.

New pebbles introduce themselves to my patella.

“Hey!” I shout. “How much is Baywater paying you? Not enough, I bet. Wouldn’t a cut of the take be a better deal for you?”

Another burst hammers the cello case. Guess they know I don’t pay my way out of problems.

Well, not in money.

“They’re not coming out,” Deke says in my ear.

“I noticed,” I hiss, scooting a few more inches.

My foot bumps the edge of the cardboard box. My heart gives a little trill.

Someone shouts indistinctly from in front of me.

I quickly scoot my knees, an inch at a time, until the box is behind me, in the cello case’s shadow. My knees are hamburger, but the money’s safe.

Knee pads are standard gear during an infiltration. I guess I need to wear them during exchanges too. But then some dickbag would ask me if I’d also brought mouthwash and I’d have to kill him and the whole deal would go sideways.

“Beaks!” someone beyond the cello case shouts.

Why doesn’t he mention Stabbity Joe? Or Candy?

If Candy’s dead, I’ll kill the gunmen. And probably Joe, for shanghaiing a civilian. “Yeah?”

He sounds like he’s barely stopped himself from laughing. “I’m a-guessing that box has the payoff in it?”

Who calls it a payoff? Someone who’s watched too many Mafia movies. “So what?” I shout. “It’s my money.”

The guy has an annoying choked-up laugh, like he wants to be an evil mastermind but can’t quite get his full lungs into the Villain Guffaw. “You know you can’t get out of this.”

“I know the cops will be here soon.” With the break in the gunfire, my headache demands a tribute of cool water or it will trample my brainstem. My mouth tastes like hot iron. “I can hang out here until they arrive.”

Another gunshot, this one distant. “People coming from the north car,” Deke says in my ear. “Handling it.”

“The cops aren’t coming,” Failed Villain shouts. “We’ve handled them.”

Crap. Not that I want the police involved, but a siren would shuffle all the cards.

“So how about it?” I say. “Take a few bills and say you couldn’t find me?”

“Sorry,” he shouts. “Mister Baywater doesn’t want anyone messing with his niece’s cello.”

“You know she can’t play worth a damn. The silly girl can’t even hold her bow right. I saw the video on YouTube.”

“Mine is not to reason why,” he shouts. “Mine is to take your fool head back to my Boss. Thanks for keeping our bullets out of it, though.”

Typical.

“I’m running around for a better angle,” Deke says in my ear.

That’ll take time. I have to keep Failed Villain talking.

“Listen.” My mind churns desperately. “There’s more money than what’s in the box.”

Failed Villain calls back “I’ll take tha—”

His voice cuts off in a gurgle.

There’s more gunfire, but it’s not aimed at me.

Beyond the cello case, someone screams.