Kim Oh: Real Dangerous Ride Part 4

"Something went wrong, huh?"

"Yeah " I nodded. "You could say there's been some, um, unexpected developments."

"Well, at least it wasn't the cops coming down on you."

"How do you know that?" I set the backpack down on the bike seat again.

"Not how they work," said Mason. "Cops make their moves on tip-offs. From somebody on the inside. Believe me, I'd know not my last time, but a couple stretches before, that was how it came down. Never know who your friends really are, do ya?" He folded his skinny, tatted-up arms across his chest. "But if the cops've been clued in, they ain't gonna wait 'til a shipment's on the road. They come bustin' in on ya soon as you're loaded up. 'Cause that's all the evidence they need, and they don't have to chase after ya to get it. So logically and all if you got chased down, it wasn't by cops."

I could see how he'd figure that. Plus, it was obviously something he'd had more experience with than I had.

"So do you know who it was? Guy who was after you and the package, I mean."

"Not some guy." I shook my head. "Guys. More than one. And they weren't working together."

"Hmm." Mason gave a judicious nod. "That complicates things. Doesn't often happen that way. I'd have to know more, about the whole deal, if I was going to sort it out."

So I told him. Not everything, but enough to get started.

"That's it?" The one eyebrow crept up even higher. "You don't even know what you're carrying?"

I looked away from him and out across the sky, that was all night-dark now, the parking lot lights contrasting fiercely blue-white. Usually it happens when I'm by myself and looking out a window, but this time I was out in the open, with some beat-up ex-con type sitting on an empty beer crate beside me. Same feeling, though that things weren't quite real. The stars were just holes poked in black velvet, the traffic going by on the streets beyond the parking lot was just some audio file on endless repeat, and even the smell of the garbage in the dump came out of one of those little spritzer machines.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to at least make the stuff inside my head real, or real enough.

"Pretty much the case." I opened my eyes and nodded. The stars looked like stars again, way out there in s.p.a.ce. I hadn't told Mason all the details about getting the a.s.signment all the stuff about the message from Morton, steering me to that ratty old office building in Los Angeles because I figured that didn't really matter. "For that kind of money, I didn't need to know."

"And the guys who came after you? Know anything about them?"

I gave Mason a rundown on what had happened on the freeway, with the Challenger and its crazy-a.s.s driver and the fake paramedics.

"They used a drone?" Mason gave me an incredulous look. "That's a military thing, right? Like a toy helicopter."

"This one wasn't a toy. If it hadn't gotten dinged up, it would've gotten away with the backpack, I mean."

"Yeah, but the U.S. Army uses 'em, okay over in Iraq and c.r.a.p-holes like that. To shoot missiles at bad guys, blow 'em into little bits."

"That's a whole different thing," I said. "Those are like planes. So yeah, this was more like a helicopter, I suppose, but with the rotors at the corners. And remote controlled, or at least when it started out."

"Weird." Mason nodded slowly as he went on smoking and thinking about all I'd told him. "And complicated. If people just wanted to get that bag off you, why not do it the easy way?"

"Which would be . . ."

"Simple." His thin shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Pull up alongside on the freeway, roll down the window, stick a gun out, and blow ya away. Soon as your bike comes tumbling to a stop, just get out and pick the bag off your body." He gave me an almost pitying look. "Like I said. Simple."

He had a point there. And it was something that'd already pa.s.sed through my mind. "You're right . . ." My turn to give a slow nod. "If they just wanted to get it off me, why screw around like that?"

"Yeah . . . that was an awful lot of cutesy-pie stuff. These punks, whoever they were, went to an awful lot of trouble. And the gear they were using a dummy paramedics van? Frickin' drone? That kind of stuff's not cheap. Okay, maybe not a million bucks, but hey they had to have some kind of money behind 'em."

"Okay . . ." The sc.r.a.pe under the square bandage stung as I furrowed my brow. "So not cops. And not professionals I mean, not like this." I patted the .357 inside my jacket. "But they were really set up . . ."

"And they were waiting for you." Mason looked from the tip of his cigarette over to me. "They knew what they wanted. So you might not know what's in that bag but they do."

Another slow and silent nod from me, as I thought all this over.

"Thing is," continued Mason, "how would these guys know that, if the person you got the job from is running a tight ship? Which, if he's got the kind of bucks you said he's got, he'd be way capable of doing. And if that's the case . . ."

I filled in the blank. "It's a setup. He set me up."

Mason shrugged. "That's one possibility."

"c.r.a.p that's too weird." I set my hands on the bike seat, on either side of myself, and leaned forward. "That'd mean Dalby gave me the job, then turned around and sicced these people on me the guy with the Challenger and the phony paramedics so they'd do their best to make sure I wouldn't be able to pull the job off and make the delivery." I shook my head. "That's the kind of sick game I really hate."

"Lotta people with money are nuts." Mason tapped the side of his head. "Maybe the guy's schizophrenic."

I wasn't going to argue with that. As dinged up as my head had gotten while doing this kind of job, I'd worked for some definite psychos, all right.

"You know like one of those multiple personality types." Like a terrier with a rat, he was going to keep on with the notion. "Maybe he was like one person when he gave you the job, and then he became somebody else and decided to pull the plug on you."

"Great." By this point, I was having second thoughts about having confided in this Mason guy. Sure, he'd operated in the same world I inhabited, but maybe there was a reason he hadn't been as successful in it as some of the other professionals I'd known. "You know," I mused aloud, "I bet you did a lot of reading while you were in the can."

He shrugged. "It's what you do. Keeps you outta trouble."

"That's great. Very smart of you. But I don't have a lot of time for theory right now, if you know what I mean." I squeezed the seat's padding tight in my hands. "Maybe later. For the moment, I have to concentrate on the practical. Like what the h.e.l.l I'm going to do."

"Fine," said Mason. "You want practical? Here's practical. Instead of hanging out here and ga.s.sing with me, why don't you get on your bike, get back on the freeway, and head for wherever you're supposed to drop off that thing. Whatever you got there. Some people tried to take it off ya, and you handed their a.s.ses to them. Maybe that's the end of their particular story. Just do your bit and get done with it."

"Yeah . . . that'd be my Plan A, all right." If nothing else, it had the virtue of simplicity. I could just shut off all the thoughts racketing around inside my head, get back on the motorcycle like Mason said, and just roll on the throttle while targeting due north on the freeway. Enough time had pa.s.sed without any sign of the police looking for someone like me, so I didn't seem to have anything to worry about on that front. "But . . ."

"Yeah." Mason nodded. "But. What if those guys aren't done jackin' ya around? If whatever load you're carrying is valuable enough for them to come after it in the first place, then what're the chances of them giving up just 'cause their first attempt didn't pan out? Maybe they're out there waiting for you to pop up again, and then they're really going to stick it to you. With the gloves off, this time."

"Okay . . . sure." My voice sounded b.i.t.c.hy and irritable, even to me. "But . . . they wouldn't have the element of surprise on their side. I'd be watching out for them."

"Fine." There were a couple of missing teeth in his brownish smile. "Off you go, then."

This guy was seriously annoying me now. Well, not him, actually what bugged me was that I knew he was right. "Okay, so what's your suggestion for a Plan B?"

"Well, let's think about this, sweetheart." He seemed to be enjoying himself, revving up his brain. He'd probably had the reputation of being the smartest guy on his cell block. For what that's worth if he was such a genius, what'd he been doing there in the first place? "Coupla possibilities you might want to rule out." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Just waiting 'em out probably not such a good idea."

"Why?" I knew the answer, but asked the question anyway.

"That package you're hauling " Mason pointed to the backpack sitting next to me. "I'd bet there's some kind of tracking device in there. The guy who hired you for this job if he was also setting you up, so that those other punks could come at ya, that'd be the best way to do it. 'Cause then they'd know where you were, and they could get their act ready."

"Yeah . . ." My turn to nod again. "I was starting to figure that."

"So, if you just sit and wait for things to cool down, that would just give them more time to pull themselves together, get ready for their next chance. So they'll either be out there waiting for you on the road, when you finally start up again, or they'll just come around here looking for you."

He was right. I glanced over at the backpack sitting next to me I felt a little resentful that an inanimate object could betray me so thoroughly. Usually, it takes real flesh-and-blood human beings to get yourself screwed.

"Then there's no sense taking a different route," I said. "If they're tracking me, I wouldn't be able to throw them off that way, either. Straightest shot's as good as any other."

"Pretty much. Plus, you stick to the freeway all the way up there to San Francisco that's where you said you're going, right? Then everything's nice and public. That's got to cramp their style. Whereas, if you tried to take some back-road route, you'd not only take a lot longer to get there, so they'd have more time to take another shot at you, but they'd be able to do it on some stretch where you'd be out by yourself. And n.o.body would be able to see what they were doing. Being out in the open limits 'em a lot."

That was a good point. Usually, in my line of work, it's best to keep things as secretive as possible. The less people knew about what I was up to, the better the chances I'd be able to pull it off. And not suffer any consequences, like the police grabbing me and throwing my b.u.t.t in jail. So far, I'd been either lucky or smart enough to avoid that, and I didn't want to screw up my perfect record.

"Okay, so I can't wait them out, and it's a bad idea to screw around with the route. I'm still not getting a Plan B here."

"Guess it depends, then, on what you want to accomplish. You already came pretty d.a.m.n close to getting killed, with all that bashing and banging on the freeway you told me about. So if you just want to stay alive, there's your Plan B." Mason pointed to the dumpster. "Toss the backpack in there, then get on your bike, and ride off in any direction you choose, fast as you can. Just let 'em have it."

"Screw that," I said. "That's not a plan. That's just giving up."

"Sure but you'll be fine. They're not after you, they're after the bag."

"No, I wouldn't be fine." I shook my head in disgust. "I wouldn't get paid and that's the main thing. I don't make the delivery, then I would've done all this for nothing. If I were just going to flake out and hand over the bag, I could've done that back on the freeway. Would've saved myself a lot of trouble, not to mention maybe getting killed."

"Oh, I get it now." Mason's discolored smile widened. "You got a pretty good idea that the guy who hired you for this job, back in L.A., already screwed you over about it. Set you up for those guys who tried to get it off you, stuck a tracker in there so they'd know where you are but for some reason, you trust him about getting paid if you do manage to pull it off. You're going to turn up at the drop-off point, hand over the backpack, and this guy will have your paycheck all filled out and waiting for you." The smile tautened into a thin, grim line.

"Really believe that? People who screw over other people they usually don't stop at one time. Sorta becomes a habit with them, if you catch my drift. How do you know your payout will be waiting there at the end of the line? Instead, it'll be some other guy that's been hired, with a piece even bigger than that cannon you're carrying around. And he'll just cook one between your eyes, sweetheart. 'Cause that's the way the fellow who hired you was planning on paying you off, all along."

"Then I'll just have to be ready for that little eventuality, won't I?" I focused a slit-eyed glare at this Mason guy. "You might not be aware of it, but I've actually got a pretty good track record of icing people, before they're able to ice me."

"Yeah, I'm sure you're a real hard case. But if that's how it finally winds up going down . . . you still won't get paid."

"I'll take the chance."

I know that sounded bullheaded on my part, but there was a reason I said it, which I didn't bother explaining to him. Strictly business on my part, and a cold calculation. I'd been steered onto this job by Morton and while I had my suspicions about him as well, the hard facts were that right now, I was getting most of my business from him. Yeah, he was a mysterious sonuvab.i.t.c.h, who I'd never actually met face-to-face, but I was making a living from the gigs he sent my way. If I botched one up not just failed to deliver the package, but gave up and walked away from it because things had gotten tougher than I'd expected what were the odds I'd get another a.s.signment from him? Even if he wanted to give me one that's the kind of screw-up, word gets out. Good luck getting another job, from Morton or anyone else in this business, reputation is everything. I'd be better off getting killed, or close to it, rather than going all gutless. It'd been hard enough, showing everyone that a girl could do this job. If I bailed, there'd be a bunch of people including some of my friends who'd be shaking their heads and thinking that it really did depend on what you had between your legs, rather than what was in your head.

So one way or another, I was stuck with seeing this one through. Even if I wound up not getting paid for it. Or iced.

I figured I'd think about all that later, if there was a later. Right now, I was still dealing with the practical matter of what, specifically, I was going to do.

"Okay . . ." Mason had gone on thinking about that. He pulled something out of the pocket of his grease-stained jeans. "Here's something you might try."

I watched as he flicked open a cheap little pocketknife. Its skinny blade glinted blue in the light shading over from the strip mall parking lot.

"What?" I stared at him in disbelief. "Are you kidding? Cut it open? I told you already it's got to be delivered intact. That's the terms of the a.s.signment. Which is also why it's all sealed up, the way it is. So whoever's at the receiving end would know if I got into it or not. Even if we were able to find the tracker device in the bag and throw it away, that would still screw up the job. And I wouldn't get paid."

"Not what I'm talking about, sweetheart." Mason raised the little knife higher. "Yeah, we get into the bag but not for some stupid tracker. We cut it open and find out exactly what it is you're carrying. And why it's so valuable that somebody would pay that much to get it delivered."

"I told you that, too. It's some kind of tech thing, like a portable hard drive, with info on it. That's so important you know, for some deal this guy's putting together he couldn't risk sending it any other way."

"Yeah . . ." Mason nodded slowly. "Right. That's what he told you. You know that for sure?"

"Actually no, I don't." I hadn't had any reason to doubt Dalby about the matter. At least until now.

"So what if it's something else?"

"Like what?"

"If I knew that," said Mason, "I wouldn't be talking about cutting the bag open to find out, would I? But we don't know. Which means it could be something else altogether. Something that might be valuable to a whole lot of other people. If something's so hot that you could get killed for holding it, which usually means it's fenceable. You can find a buyer for it."

"I'm getting the picture, that's the sort of business you used to be in. Finding buyers for stuff."

"I've moved a little merchandise, now and then. Among other things."

Wondering out loud about how good he'd been at it, considering the amount of time he'd obviously spent in the can, probably wasn't a good idea.

"So you think maybe there's the Hope Diamond or something like that in the bag." I set my hand on top of the backpack. "And instead of delivering it, there'd be more money in selling it to somebody else. And easier, too."

He shrugged. "Just a suggestion."

"Thanks," I said, "but no thanks. I've already made my mind up." Frankly something else I wasn't going to tell him this struck me as short-term thinking on his part. Pretty clear he didn't have the same concern about my career prospects as I did. Something a guy like him would come up with sure, I'd get a quick cash infusion from fencing off the backpack's contents, whatever they were. But just as I'd figured before, I'd have screwed up my chances of getting any more gigs routed my way. FedEx doesn't stay in business by having that kind of flexible att.i.tude about making deliveries or not.

"Your call." He tried not to show his disappointment as he folded up the knife and slid it back into his pocket. "So what're you gonna do?'

I could tell he was sulky about missing out on what would've been his cut, if we'd gone ahead and cut open the backpack, then fenced whatever was inside it.

"Guess I don't have a Plan B." I shrugged. "Thanks for talking it through with me "

That got a little smile from him. "Any time, sweetheart."

"I'm just going to run for it." I realized I had known that from the start. "That's all I can do."

PART TWO.

All sorts of things catch up with you eventually. Unless you catch them first.

Cole's Book of Wisdom.

EIGHT.

"Here you go."

I took the plastic shopping bag from Mason it had the store's logo on the side, a stylized motorcycle racer dragging his knee through a sharp curve.

"That took a while," I said.

"They were closing up early." He shoved his hands into the pockets of the faded denim jacket before setting out on his errand, he'd fetched it out of the restaurant kitchen. "Usually they stay open 'til nine. I had to pound on the door to get 'em to let me in."

From the bag, I extracted a motorcycle helmet plain white, full-face, size small. The one I'd lost in all that action on the freeway had been a nice, top-of-the-line Shoei this was just a cheap-o HJC, but it'd do for now. Annoyed me that I'd had to send Mason to buy it for me one more little tick off my profits for this job but California's a mandatory helmet state. Last thing I wanted right now was to have some Highway Patrol unit pull me over for riding bareheaded while I made my way up to San Francisco.