“There’s a school on that street,” I said.
Richie sneered and gave me a look. “Then I guess you better be sure the job’s done before school lets out.”
He gave Butch a radio and then tossed me the keys. “You’re driving, O’Shea. Watch out for the kids.” The smile that flashed over his face made me want to plough my fist into his face, but that could wait.
Driving was the first good news I’d heard. Then came the bad.
Richie passed out weapons, and everyone got one but me.
WE SAT ON ARMITAGE, dressed in our uniforms for Armor Security. The guy driving the delivery transport must have been legally blind because he drove right by us. Red flags went up. The vehicle turned down Burling, and I followed slowly past some nice homes. It was a great neighborhood, but I’d known it would be with millions of dollars in jewels on the line here.
About half a block down, the truck signaled and pulled into the driveway in front of the gate to an imposing white brick mansion with large mullioned windows and a tree-lined courtyard. Turn of the century. Pretty as shit.
“Stop here,” Butch said. “If things go the way they’re supposed to, you take this truck back to Armor Security.” He rattled off the address, but of course I already knew it. “If things go south, I don’t give a fuck what you do. Just get the hell out and disappear for a while. Do not come back to the club.”
Butch dropped from the cab and walked toward the other armored car. The men in the back of my rig pushed open the rear doors and exited. They all followed Butch.
Then the unheard of happened. The driver of the other armored car got out of the transport and met Butch. So many red flags went up I couldn’t even count them. An armored car driver never got out of his vehicle.
The two men exchanged a few words, and the driver moved toward the side door. He lifted a radio and spoke to the man behind the armor—the one who would have a gun trained on anyone who approached.
I leaned across the seat. “Fuck.”
“Change of plans,” the driver said. I strained to hear the conversation as the man spoke into the radio, but with the dense bulletproof glass, it was hard to hear. I tried to rely on a bit of lip-reading, but couldn’t catch all of it. “High-security transport—the other side of the city—unscheduled delivery—switch trucks.”
I read between the lines. The driver had been ordered to switch trucks with us. I wondered how much the man behind Armor Security would pay one of this employees for that. The other men in the truck would never have taken a job with a new driver without a serious damn reason, so this man was one of the regular crew.
A garbled word squawked over the radio, but I figured it out.
“I don’t ask why, Jackson.” The driver’s voice got louder. “Lower the weapon. I’m opening the door.”
“Like fuck you are,” Jackson said, plain as day.
While the two argued through the tiny glass slot, the driveway gate began to swing open. Men poured out of the house, taking up stations around the courtyard. Several moved down the driveway toward the gate.
“Jesus jumping Christ,” Butch mouthed. He lifted his radio as he ducked behind the first armored car.
The driver of the delivery transport dropped his radio and took off running.
“Chicago P.D.,” someone shouted.
When the driver failed to stop, the cop shot his leg out from under him, and he fell to the sidewalk. He rolled over and wrapped his hand around his calf to staunch the bleeding, but blood poured through his fingers and that shattered bone protruding from the wound didn’t look too good. He’d better hope this ended quickly and he got to a hospital.
“Weapons down,” a cop shouted.
“Like fuck,” screamed one of Richie’s men, and he opened fire, spraying the courtyard with a hail of bullets.
Bark chips flew from trees, and leaves shredded and flurried around like green snowflakes. Chunks of concrete exploded from the gate columns, whizzing through the air to pepper everything in sight.
Instinctively I reached for my weapon, but then I remembered I had none. I was in the safest possible spot, so I watched as Butch yelled into his radio, trying to hear anything he said, and then a body falling caught my attention. Two down, four to go. The remaining professionals were all bent double, backing away, guns swinging left and right, toward my truck. A swarm of cops, dressed in SWAT gear, followed. One of Richie’s men jerked backward as a bullet caught him in the chest, and he collapsed in a heap.
One of the goons pounded on the passenger window. I gave him the finger, and he growled through his teeth and ducked behind a parked car.
An officer trained his gun on my vehicle.
A voice rose over the noise of ricocheting shots, shouting, and bullets clipping cars and shattering windows.
“Driver is Daniel Dutton, one of ours.” I recognized the voice, even in the chaos.