The Murder Run
The Murder Run
The Travelers: Book Six
Michael P. King
Blurred Lines Press
Contents
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1. Mitchellville
2. The Windup
3. The Robbery
4. Next Steps
5. The Airport Pickup
6. Changing the Game
7. Tightrope
8. Getting Even
9. Back in the Bay
10. Blackmail
11. Goodbyes
12. Loose Ends
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A Note from the Author
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For a limited time
The Double Cross
The Double Cross is a novella-length dark crime thriller that tells the story of how the Travelers met. If you like fast moving action, unpredictable plot twists, and criminal chicanery, you’ll love this prequel to my Travelers series.
Get a free copy of The Double Cross when you sign up to join my Travelers Readers Group mailing list. Click here to get started: Free Book
Never cheat a partner. Always get revenge. . .
The Traveling Man takes on a quick and easy safecracking job…easy until his partners are murdered and he’s on the run.
His wife is trying to settle into her new role as a rich man’s girlfriend, so she isn’t at his side.
Who are these killers who are after him? And how are they connected to the government agency that wants the envelope he took from the safe?
With the help of a new associate, he tracks the killers until he’s steered into a trap. They think he’s cornered, but he’s still got one ace up his sleeve. . .
The Murder Run is a gritty, hard-boiled crime thriller. If you like criminal intrigue, surprising plot twists, and high-speed action, you’ll love the sixth novel in the Travelers series.
The Travelers
The Double Cross: A Travelers Prequel
The Traveling Man: Book One
The Computer Heist: Book Two
The Blackmail Photos: Book Three
The Freeport Robbery: Book Four
The Kidnap Victim: Book Five
The Murder Run: Book Six
Blurred Lines Press
The Murder Run
Michael P. King
ISBN 978-0-9993648-4-0
Copyright © 2019 by Michael P. King
All rights reserved
Cover design by Paramita Bhattacharjee at creativeparamita.com
The Murder Run is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons or places is entirely coincidental.
Simply for Sarah
1
Mitchellville
On Wednesday, in Mitchellville, a few hours west of Washington, DC, the Traveling Man, a con man going by the name Tony Rogers, sat on the sofa, his head down, trying his best to look despondent. Janet Gibson stood in the middle of the living room, her hair wet, her Japanese robe pulled tight around her thin body, an exasperated look on her face. “We both knew this was coming,” she said. “We’ve had some fun times.”
He ran a hand through his gray-streaked hair. “More than fun.”
“More than fun. But it’s still over. Charles gets back from his deployment next week. And I’ve got a thousand things to do.”
Tony sighed. He hoped he wasn’t selling the emotion too hard. He really was sorry her husband was coming home. She liked a good time, she didn’t ask too many questions, and she didn’t have a lot of nosy friends or neighbors. This had been a great living arrangement. And even if he didn’t want it to end, it was the best sort of ending. Her wanting him gone, not going all clingy because he had to make his escape.
He stood up. “You’re right. We should make a clean break. We’ve had some great times, and that’s the way I want to remember it. I’ll be gone by the time you get home from work. I’ll leave the key on the kitchen counter.”
“Thank you.” She crossed over to hug him. Her body was still warm from the shower, and she smelled of the shampoo he’d bought her. He smiled. If there was any goodbye sex in her plan, he certainly wasn’t going to turn it down.
Missy Grey set her silverware down on her plate and sipped her wine. Where was Jerry Chen? She glanced past her girlfriend Betty, a tall, thin Eurasian in a tight dress, to the hostess station by the front door. He was supposed to meet them for lunch. That’s why they’d chosen this vegan restaurant around the corner from his law office. That’s why she was dressed for business in her usual men’s suit and tie. She tried to hide her irritation, but Betty wasn’t fooled at all. “Give him a call, sweets.”
“No, it doesn’t work like that. He asked to meet face-to-face.”
“Then relax, enjoy the wine, and send him the bill.”
Just then, Chen appeared in the doorway and rushed over to their table. “Jerry,” Missy said, “I thought you’d be here in time for lunch.”
“My apologies. My last meeting went long.”
“You remember Betty?”
He nodded as he sat down. “I’m pressed for time. Can we get down to business?”
“Of course.”
He lowered his voice. “I need documents taken from a safe.”
“A real safe? Not one of those big-box store fakes?”
“A heavy wall safe. And there can’t be any evidence of entry.”
“That will cost you, my friend.”
He shrugged.
“What are you willing to spend? Ballpark figure.”
“Fifteen to twenty K.”
“Okay, my end is two grand. I’ve got a guy in mind, if he’s still in town. I’ll give you a call today or tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” He reached into his pocket, thumbed through a wad of cash, and set some bills on the table. “That’s for lunch. I’ve got to run.”
Missy watched him zigzag off through the tables. Betty picked up the money and counted it. “Very generous.”
“He called the meeting.”
“Is this how one of these meets usually goes?”
“Usually. Unless they want to kill you. Which is why you always do the preliminary meet in a public place.”
“Well, he certainly seemed nice enough.”
“Yeah.” Missy watched Chen pass the hostess station on his way out before she picked up her phone. This was curious business. Not like Chen at all. Paul Robertson would want to know about this. The phone rang twice.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Missy.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Isn’t Jerry Chen one of your guys?”
“We’re connected.”
“He just asked me to find him a safecracker, an old-school touch guy.”
“Jerry Chen?”
“Yep.”
“He wants a guy who can open a safe without tools?”
“That’s right.”
The line was quiet.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“Find the guy. And Missy, keep me in the loop. I’ll drop three thousand in the usual account.”
In Washington, DC, at the National Defense Agency, Paul Robertson glanced out the door of his office. He couldn’t hear anyone in the hall, but he got up from his desk and shut the door just in case. Chen was a reliable guy and an excellent lawyer. He’d known him for years. He always stayed just on the legal side of the law, never crossed the line, which was why he’d recruited him for the Kyrgyzstan project. Jerry Chen? Hiring someone to crack Clemens’s safe? It just didn’t make sense.
Robertson went to his window and looked out on the park across the street. People were sitting on benches eating their lunches out of p
aper bags. The trees were in flower. The grass was green. How could anything be going wrong on a day like today? The plan was simple. He dealt with the intelligence angle from here at the National Defense Agency. Chen did the legal paperwork. French and his contractors took care of the Kyrgyzstan end. Clemens did the back-and-forth from his spot at the embassy. Everything nice and tidy. But when the others found out what Chen was up to, all hell would break loose. Chen was his guy. He had to find out what was really going on. He took out his cell phone.
“Jerry? It’s Paul.”
“You’re not supposed to call.”
“And you’re not supposed to be breaking into Clemens’s safe.”
“Clemens’s safe?”
“Don’t deny it.”
“I’m not crazy, okay? I’m not trying to steal from the group.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Three guys are dead since last month.”
“That’s overseas.”
“I think French and Clemens are reducing our numbers to increase their shares.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“Easy for you to say. You and French are old buddies. But he doesn’t need me anymore since the last green card came through for the Kyrgyzstani nationals.”
“So what are you planning?”
“I’m going to get the bank-account codes and put them somewhere safe. Then when French and Clemens get here, and I’m still alive, we can access the bank account together and make the split.”
“Jerry, don’t break into Clemens’s safe. When French finds out, I won’t be able to protect you.”
“Paul, that’s the whole point. When I have the bank codes, I’ll be the only one who can access the numbered account. I won’t need protection.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be untouchable once I have the codes. Everything will be fine.”
“You’ve never seen French go ballistic.”
“You’re not going to change my mind.”
“Okay, then.” Robertson ended the call.
He turned off the lights as he left his office. Chen was fooling himself. If French found out that he was planning to steal the bank codes to the numbered account, he’d have him killed in a minute, police investigation or no. And they couldn’t have police involvement, not now, not when they were so close to splitting up the money. Maybe he should call French, try to spin Chen’s actions before this situation careened out of control. He punched the button for the elevator. No, that was a stupid idea. If he backed Chen, French would think he was part of Chen’s plan. He could call Missy and make sure that Chen couldn’t get a safecracker. But then what would Chen do? Reach out to someone unreliable? Put the project at even more risk? The elevator door opened. No, the best thing for him to do was stay out of the way. Chen thought he could handle things. Maybe he was right. If not, it wasn’t his fault. He’d tried to warn him.
Clara Garcia caught sight of Robertson as he ambled down the hall to the elevator. She knew he was dirty. She’d been leading the investigation into the Kyrgyzstan foreign aid scam for over a year. They’d turned Clemens, a state department employee stationed at the Kyrgyzstan embassy, almost six months ago. So she knew that Robertson was running interference from this side while an NGO contractor and Kyrgyzstani criminals were skimming the aid over there. Clemens had emailed her that the scam was closing down and the principals were coming to the US to make their final preparations to divide the money. This was the tricky point. Events were moving at high speed. It looked as if the conspirators were turning on each other, killing anyone who was no longer needed, but Clemens had managed to get control of the only copies of the bank-account codes and had placed them in the safe in his home office, which was why, in all probability, he was still alive. Her team had to stay focused. They needed to keep Clemens’s apartment and Robertson under surveillance. The bank-account codes were the key. When the contractor and Clemens showed up, her team needed to be ready to seize the codes and take all the conspirators into custody.
On Friday, Tony sat in a black RAV4 in a parking spot in front of Chen Associates, a law office among a strip of professional offices located near a cluster of restaurants. He was waiting for Missy Grey, a player he knew who’d called him about a possible job. And there she was, coming down the sidewalk, in her men’s clothes and athlete’s swagger. He got out of his SUV and buttoned his suit coat to hide the Glock on his hip. She spotted him and waited.
“Trav,” she said.
“It’s Tony Rogers now.”
She nodded. “Where’s your wife? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you alone.”
“She’s busy elsewhere.”
She pushed open the door, and he followed her in. A google search had told him that Chen was a fiftyish Chinese American who specialized in green cards, visas, and international contracts of various sorts. The waiting room was dark paneling, heavy furniture, and Impressionist prints. The receptionist, a middle-aged woman wearing a sweater set and pearls, looked up from her computer.
“We have an appointment,” Missy said.
She nodded. “Go on back.”
Chen’s office was more of the same, but law books and diplomas replaced the artwork. Chen stood up from behind his desk to greet them. He was a lanky man in a black suit. “Have a seat,” he said.
He gave Tony that evaluating look all lawyers seem to learn in law school. “Don’t tell me your name. I don’t want to know it. Missy vouches for you. That’s all that matters. Will you do the job?”
“Fill in the details.”
“It’s all straightforward, really. The apartment owner is out of town indefinitely. In his home safe—this is a real safe, not some discount-store fireproof box—is a manila envelope and a bag of diamonds. You bring me the envelope, unopened, to my house. You keep the diamonds and anything else you find. I give you five thousand dollars when you hand me the envelope. Most important, there must be no sign of intrusion—nothing broken, no witnesses, no police, no disturbance of any kind. That’s what I’m paying for.”
“This is blackmail material.”
“Yes.”
“They can’t run to the cops when they find out it’s gone?”
“Whenever he finds out, he can’t go to the police.”
“When do you want this job done?”
“As soon as possible.”
Tony studied Chen’s face. “Five thousand dollars is not much money.”
“For a few hours’ work? If the job is done right, there’s no shooting, no police, no getaway.”
“But I’m the one who makes sure the job is done right. I need to get paid. How do you know the diamonds are there?”
“They’re there.”
“If they aren’t, you kick in another ten thousand.”
“You could take the diamonds and claim they weren’t there.”
“And you could call the cops after I give you the envelope. Trust has to begin somewhere.”
“Okay,” he said. “An extra ten if the diamonds aren’t there.”
“It’s a deal. Do you have the job details?”
Chen passed him an envelope. “Address, safe specs, everything you need to know. When will I hear from you?”
“Monday unless there’s a glitch. I’ll scout it out, hire my help, get it done.”
“But anyone you hire will know nothing of our arrangement.”
“Their arrangement is with me.”
Later in the afternoon, Tony sat in the Caffeination coffee shop across the street from 2087 Cummings Place. It was a ten-story red brick apartment building with a doorman. The safe was six floors up. He counted three security cameras that were easily visible. There were sidewalks down both sides. He’d walked the block. Dumpsters and parked cars lined the alley behind the building. Two more cameras guarded the service entrance. The fire escape on the side of the building, on the other hand, might be an access point. The fire doors would be alarmed, but the roof access? Unl
ikely. He thought about climbing up and climbing down without being seen. That could be a problem. The easiest way would be going through the front door. He sipped his coffee. The plan still needed a lot of thought, but he knew he needed two guys to work this job. Who did he know who was close at hand? He’d seen Duke in a bar on Kellogg two weeks ago. This was his kind of gig. Duke was a large black man who had a face like a TV preacher. Civilians believed anything that came out of his mouth. Plus he was good at picking up vehicles, equipment, uniforms—he had some sort of union connection. Maybe he had a friend. Tony got out his smartphone.
“Hey, Duke, you working?”
“No.”
“You still here in town?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m moving, need two guys to help with the lifting. You interested?”
“Yeah.”
“You know a guy?”
“I’ve got someone in mind.”
“Great. Can you meet me at the Cup-N-Sup over on Grant Avenue tomorrow at eleven a.m.?”
“I’ll be there.”
Tony drank some more coffee. This little project was hardly big enough to be called a job. Bag of diamonds and five grand—split three ways, maybe as much as $6,000 apiece. Not vacation money. But it would pay the bills. He should call his wife, Nicole, and fill her in. He didn’t think he’d need her help, but she’d want to know. She was semiretired, living with James Denison, a millionaire they’d helped out of a scrape. It was her retirement package: the easy life, hanging out in San Francisco drinking martinis. It was a work in progress.