Текст книги "Surviving Ice "

Автор книги: K. A. Tucker

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

THREE

IVY

“He never changed even a bit, did he?” Ian swings his foot at the trash can. Not hard. Just enough to shift it.

I quietly watch my cousin from my perch on the front desk as he takes in his dad’s shop—the dusty collectibles, the grungy black-and-red decor, the wall-to-wall mirrors—for the first time in fourteen years. I was able to get crime scene cleaners in the same day that the police finished collecting evidence, which was a twenty-nine-hour process. It’s not like anyone’s in a rush to get the business back up and running. But the idea of Ian seeing the dark red stain where his father bled out was not something I could stomach, even if they were estranged. By the time Ian stepped off the plane from Dublin, you’d never know that a double homicide had taken place in here.

All the same, Black Rabbit feels eerily empty. Void of life. I guess that makes sense, since it lost its heart.

“He was Ned, right to the end.” Never warm and cuddly, never someone who changed himself to try to please others. He always knew who he was, and for that, he earned the respect of many people.

Including me.

But had Ned been someone else—someone who groveled, begged, who offered his attackers anything and everything he could—would they have spared his life? That question has been haunting me for six days now.

“Where did you find him?” Ian asks quietly.

I point to the leather chair that was still occupied by Dylan Royce—aka Tree Trunks—when I left for subs that night. At some point, the two men with guns must have dragged him out of the chair and forced Ned into it, using the extension cord plugged into the floor fan to secure him. The police haven’t revealed anything about the other guy, but since I never heard his nasally voice during the few minutes that I was hiding in the back, I’m guessing he was already dead when I arrived.

Then again, I also never heard the gunshot that gave Ned a quick and painless end to his ordeal.

At first I didn’t believe that the hole in his forehead was from a bullet wound. The police say they must have been using a silencer. That makes sense, when I think about the length of the handgun that I saw. But who comes with silencers, unless they’re planning to kill instead of simply scare? These guys came prepared, and they knew what they were doing, hiding their faces behind masks and their fingerprints inside gloves, and smashing the camera trained on the front. They even took the VCR to ensure there was no video evidence of their entrance.

In some ways, I’m relieved that they did that. While I want the assholes who did this caught, I don’t ever want to have to sit in a courtroom and give testimony while a video of how “Mario” tested his skills with the tattoo machine against Ned’s left eyelid is played for a jury.

Ian chews the inside of his mouth. That’s one of a few signs that his father’s death has affected him emotionally. He hasn’t shed a single tear from what I’ve seen. Neither have I, though—and I’m devastated—so I guess crying is not a good indicator of pain.

But where Ned and I were close, Ian hasn’t spoken to his father in years, after he and his mom, my aunt Jun, walked in on Ned in the back room giving a female customer more than just a tattoo. When they divorced, Jun and Ian moved to San Diego, where he lived until he started college in Dublin. He’s been living in Ireland for eleven years now. So long that his voice carries a faint Irish brogue.

“I can’t believe he included me in his will,” he finally mutters, kicking the trash can again, this time denting it.

“Of course he did. You’re his son. He loved you.” It’s true, they hadn’t talked since Ian’s high school graduation day, but Ned never stopped loving Ian in his own way. I saw it, through the occasional questions that Ned would slip into a conversation, pumping me for information about Ian; and the times I’d catch Ned trolling Ian’s social media pages online after I taught him how to navigate this “goddamn computer-age world.”

Ned still kept the picture on his nightstand of seven-year-old Ian standing in front of the shop. When I was living in Dublin, I tried talking to Ian about it, hoping to convince him to pick up the phone and make amends with his father, to try and find the good in him. Unfortunately, for all that Ian inherited from his mother—which is most of his phlegmatic personality—he did get Ned’s stubbornness.

Ian’s head bows, his brow furrowed deep. He saw that picture, too, and now he needs to come to terms with the fact that he will never get the chance to know his father as an adult. “He shouldn’t have. I don’t feel like I deserve a penny of it.”

“Come on, Ian. You were everything to him.”

Black eyes settle on me, full of regret. “You’re the one who came back here. You’re the one who bothered staying in touch with him all these years.” It’s something that has caused Ian and me to have our ups and downs. He thought I was taking sides—the wrong side.

I never saw it that way, though. I was only ten when it happened, too young to really grasp what was going on. After Jun and Ian moved away, I asked Ned why. He said that sometimes people make horrible, stupid mistakes and sometimes other people can’t forgive them for it.

I told Ned I forgave him, and that was that.

Ian’s thirty now—five years old than me—so we were never especially close growing up, and had even less of a reason to stay in touch after he moved away. It wasn’t until I was finishing high school that we reconnected over email and our love of art. Sharing the same passions helps us understand each other. Very few people truly get me. My parents and brothers sure don’t. Ned was one. Ian is the other.

I shrug. “I guess that’s why he included me, too.” Not only am I inheriting half of Ned’s estate, he named me executor. What the fuck was he thinking? Me? Dealing with lawyers and real estate agents? It’s a sizable inheritance, with this shop and a small three-bedroom house in Ingleside. The house has got a hefty mortgage to go along with it, and it’s seen much better days, but it will fetch an easy seven hundred, as is.

“What the hell are we going to do with this place, Ivy?” He shakes his head, punching buttons until the cash register pops open to reveal an empty drawer.

Just like that guy did only days ago.

I squeeze my eyes shut and shiver at the memory. It’s one of a few that keep replaying in my head at odd times throughout the day and night, with no warning. The ding of the register, the buzzing of Ned’s tattoo machine. The cool metal desk against my skin as I hid.

The blood splatter on that guy’s wrist.

The cops blame my fuzzy memory on shock. They say I may remember more with time.

But a part of me hopes I don’t.

“Black Rabbit’s got a great reputation, a loyal clientele. It makes decent money. And we’ll make enough from the sale of the house to pay off the mortgage on the building.” After a messy and expensive run-in with the IRS back in the ’90s, Ned learned how to keep proper files and pay his taxes and bills on time. Ian and I were able to get a good understanding of the business affairs in one evening of going through the files. We know that he borrowed a hundred thousand against the building—that was previously paid off—only a month ago. But what that money went to, neither of us has any idea. It sure as hell wasn’t upgrades. And Ned’s bank account is bone dry, which we discovered when making funeral arrangements. It makes no sense, given how well he did here. He didn’t employ anyone besides me, and he didn’t pay me an hourly salary, because he let me take home all my earnings, without any chair rental fees.

Ned did like to gamble, but it was always low-key betting—day trips to the racetracks, poker nights, some online stuff—so if he was into someone for a hundred K, I’d be surprised.

But there’s also no sign of that money, which makes me wonder.

“I can’t run this place from Dublin and I’m not abandoning my own shop to keep it going,” Ian says.

“You’d make more money here, though . . .” The Fine Needle, Ian’s shop in Dublin, is great—small and full of character. But it’ll never compete against a well-established business in San Francisco when you’re weighing dollar bills. I know that argument is pointless, though. I knew before the words even left my mouth. Ian is about political movements and the environment. He’s about books and learning and experiencing life. He’s never been about money.

“And I’d get to deal with Ned’s amazing clientele, right?” He snorts. “You heard the cops. This is probably tied to one of them. I really don’t want to end up like that.”

“They’re reaching for the easiest answer because they can’t find another one.” A good third of Ned’s customer base are bikers and, while most of them are just that—guys who ride motorcycles—Ned also found himself catering to Devil’s Iron, the one percent who do more than simply “ride bikes.” The cops are having a field day right now, going through potential motives and enemies. They have no other explanation for why two masked men would show up here, empty the register—which had maybe a grand sitting in it—and murder him and a customer.

Ian snorts. “Besides, I’m guessing there won’t be too many rednecks and bikers coming in here to get their work done by a California Roll.”

“They might, if the California Roll is Ned’s son.” I smile, despite the derogatory name. I heard it plenty growing up in San Fran, before my family decided they wanted me as far away from my uncle’s bad influence as possible. Ian and I are both children of interracial couples. Ned was as white as white can get—born and raised in New Mexico before moving to California and charming a Chinese-American girl named Jun—my dad’s sister—with his bad boy ways at a local grocery store.

The result of Jun and Ned’s union is a skinny, nonathletic version of Brandon Lee.

I, on the other hand, am a Spanish-Chinese mix. My mother was raised outside Madrid. She met my dad while attending college on a Spanish exchange program. I was actually born in Spain, which technically makes me something other than a Chinese American, but kids are stupid.

“Or Ned’s niece.” Ian meets my dark eyes with ones of his own. “This place means way more to you than it does me. What if we keep it and you manage it?”

A rare bark of laughter escapes me. Me, manage a shop in San Francisco?

“I was being serious,” he mutters.

My gaze shifts involuntarily over to the chair and that prickly ball that keeps lodging itself in my throat when I let myself acknowledge that Ned is gone forever appears once again. “I can’t,” I whisper hoarsely.

His face softens. “You haven’t said much about that night. I’m sure it was traumatic. Are you going to be okay?”

Everyone—Ian, Jun, my parents, local shop owners, regular customers—seems more concerned about how I am than about what happened to Ned and who killed him. None of them knows exactly what I saw. And none of them ever will if I can help it, because no one needs to hear those gory details. “I’ll be fine. You know me.”

“Yeah, I do. Tough as nails . . . on the outside.” His heavy dark brow furrows with concern. “I would have shat my pants. Were you scared?”

“Terrified . . .” And still am, for so many reasons beyond the obvious. Terrified to think what could have happened had I not gone for subs, had the sandwich guy known a tomato from his asshole and made the sandwiches in half the time, had I not been so quiet slipping through the back door.

Perhaps me being there could have saved Ned, somehow. Perhaps me running to the front instead of hiding in the back could have saved him. Maybe I made the wrong choice by crawling under the desk like a mouse. I have so many lingering what-ifs, all of them feeding that guilty burn that now festers deep in my core.

But talking about my guilt means facing it, and I don’t have the strength to do that. “So, I guess we should sell it, then.”

He sighs. “All the equipment is already set up.” As much as he isn’t about the money, he’s also not an idiot. “If we could freshen it up a bit, someone may be willing to pay good money for it.” He pauses. “But . . . I really can’t take care of all that.” I feel his gaze settle on me, and I keep mine glued to the deep grooves in the wood floor.

Because I know where this conversation is heading.

Ian just started his PhD two months ago. He’ll be the most highly educated tattoo artist the world has ever seen in another few years, but that means he can’t stay here to handle things. He has all kinds of commitments back in Dublin.

His little cousin, Ivy Lee, is the queen of not making commitments. She’s free as a bird. Only this bird had plans to leave here and pack up all her clothes and belongings today, so she could hit the road as early as tomorrow.

“I need you here, Ivy.”

I groan out loud, but that doesn’t stop him.

“This place is packed with useless shit. The walls haven’t been painted since he opened thirty years ago. We could make a good chunk off it, just by cleaning and painting it. You know, turn it into something from this decade.”

I shoot him a look that says “don’t ask me to do this” because I just want to leave and put this all behind me while I’m still numb.

He folds his arms over his chest. “You owe me, and you know that you owe me.”

Dammit. I do owe Ian. He gave me a job and a couch to sleep on for four months last year, when I booked a one-way ticket to Dublin. I needed a change, and I gave him two weeks’ notice to accommodate my needs. He rolled with it.

“And you are the executor, after all.”

I take a deep breath, taking in Black Rabbit’s interior. Really taking it in. This was Ned’s passion, his life. But the place itself is a dump. Anyone walking in off the street is going to lowball us, and that would be almost as offensive to Ned as selling it in the first place. “Maybe someone would pay for the name, too. You know, keep it alive. That wouldn’t be so bad.”

“It shouldn’t take too long.” Ian rights the trash can. “A week to empty it out, tops.”

I snort. Thirty years of Ned’s memories are in here. Thirty years that I can’t just toss in the trash.

Ian ignores me. “Another week for the painters. It could be ready to go on the market in a few weeks. Staying for a few weeks isn’t that bad. Especially when you have nowhere that you need to be.”

I don’t say anything, prompting him to continue.

“And you know, maybe we could look at fixing up the house a bit. Paint it, too. I was looking at real estate in the area, and we could get another fifty off that place with some paint and a good clean. Or we could keep it as an investment property and rent it out. A lot of people in that neighborhood rent to students from the college.”

“And you’re going to manage all that from Dublin?”

He clamps his mouth shut.

“I like how I’ve gone from staying in San Francisco for a few extra weeks to taking care of a house for months and beyond, in a matter of seconds.” This is not an organic conversation. Ian has been trying to convince me to plant some roots and act more responsible. He clearly had this conversation planned. Everything he’s suggesting means having legal ties and responsibilities to San Francisco. Funny thing is, a week ago I was entertaining the thought of putting down roots.

Now none of that sounds at all appealing to me.

“We have to sell that house fast or it’ll go into foreclosure. Unless you can afford that mortgage and taxes, and all the utilities. I know I can’t.” It would eat my savings up in two months.

“Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry.” He heaves a sigh. “I’m a complete jerk for leaving you with all this.”

“I’ll manage,” I mutter, though I don’t know how.

“Look, if you don’t want to stay in San Francisco after it’s all said and done, you can come back to Dublin. I miss having you there.”

“Even though I stole all your good clients because I’m that much better than you are?” I’ve always been good at using sarcasm and humor to steer conversations away from serious topics.

He chuckles, and the sound squeezes my heart because his laugh sounds like Ned’s laugh. “Something like that. Seriously, come.”

“Okay. I’ll think about it.” Though I’m not sure I want the drama of my last trip to Ireland. I’m definitely going somewhere. If it’s not Dublin, it’ll be somewhere else.

It’s obvious that it was Ned who made San Francisco feel like home, because now that he’s gone, I just want to get the hell away.

FOUR

SEBASTIAN

I spot my driver immediately—a stocky man with cropped gray hair, wearing a boxy black suit and holding a sign that reads CAL ENTERPRISES. An innocuous business name that’ll vanish from anyone’s memory two seconds after seeing it.

“Gregory White?”

I nod once. That’s the name on the passport I’m traveling with today. Almost as innocuous as CAL Enterprises. As are my blue jeans, white T-shirt, and unmarked baseball cap.

“Any checked baggage, sir?”

“No.” I sling my carry-on over my shoulder. I never bring enough to check luggage when I’m on a business trip, no matter how long. It slows me down when I need to be moving quickly and discreetly.

The man leads me out to a plain black town car with tinted windows. Nothing over the top. Again, ideal when you’re a person who needs to slip in and out of a city unnoticed.

I’m that person, most days of my life.

“How long have you been out?” Steve—the driver—asks, his shrewd eyes stealing a glance at me in the rearview mirror before settling on the stone house as we crest the hill. It’s designed to look like a Tuscan castle. From what I’ve seen in my travels, the architects built a commendable replica.

“Awhile.” I leave it at that, affixing my attention to the hills and valleys of Napa Valley grapevines ahead. It’s not too shocking that this ex-Marine senses my links to the military. Even though I’ve traded in my crew cut for something longer, more stylish, and I’ve shed my standard gear for civilian clothes, there’s something identifiable in all of us, especially the ones who’ve deployed, who’ve pulled triggers that stopped heartbeats. Our movements, our demeanor, the way certain sounds grip our attention, the way we can never truly relax. We all deal with it in different ways. We all let go in different ways.

But most of us never let go all the way.

“Did you and Mr. Bentley serve together in Afghanistan?”

Bentley obviously trusts this guy, to send him to the airport to collect me, to risk the two of us sitting in a car for the ninety-five-minute drive to his Napa vineyard, also his home. But Bentley also trusts me to keep our continued relationship under wraps—which makes the idea of bringing me right to his doorstep all the more strange. This is obviously highly classified. Or personal. Or both.

“No.”

That’s a lie, and thankfully the end to the questions, as the car snakes up the long driveway, the house growing proportionately until it looms over us. Bentley is already waiting at the heavy wood doors when the brakes squeak to a stop. The sight of his broad smile sparks a wave of nostalgia that I hadn’t expected. It’s been more than five years since I last saw him, our communication limited to brief conversations on burner phones and wire transfers to offshore accounts.

“It’s good to see you.” He clasps hands with me the moment I step out of the car, pulling me into a friendly hug. “How was your flight?”

“Long. My secretary will invoice you shortly.”

His deep chuckle rattles in my chest just like it did ten years ago, when I was an eighteen-year-old newly enlisted SEAL and he was a thirty-two-year-old officer. He’s in his early forties now. Once a trim and powerful man, time and wealth have obviously taken their toll on him, his muscles softer, his movements more relaxed.

Still, I wouldn’t want to piss him off.

“Come inside.”

The interior of Bentley’s estate is as ritzy as the outside. “Overcompensating for something?” I murmur casually, trailing him through a small courtyard within, shaded by high walls all around and decorated with flowers and shrubs and patio furniture.

His chuckle sounds again, even louder now that it echoes through the halls. “Eleanor would say that, but that’s because I divorced her before I made my first million.”

And he’s made many since as the founder of Alliance, a private security company that provides elite protection services to companies and governments, including our own. The contracts are worth tens of millions each—sometimes more—and rife with global media attention, with claims of everything from corruption to undue aggression against civilians in war-torn countries. Bentley pushes on, though, succeeding by continually sticking with his good intentions. Keeping people safe is a motto he lives and breathes every day, and America is a country he loves. He draws no lines when it comes to doing what needs to be done for the greater good. Things that our own government doesn’t want to get its hands dirty dealing with.

That’s why sometimes he needs me.

We go through another door and pass several staff members in various uniforms who smile and nod but otherwise remain part of the backdrop. “Have you been back to California since—”

“No.”

He nods but he doesn’t press it any further, reaching for the willowy, pale blonde who rounds the corner. She looks exactly like her pictures in the newspapers and magazines, the Finnish wife of an influential U.S. Navy SEAL officer turned businessman, who likes to dress in white to match her hair and throw cocktail parties.

“This is Tuuli.”

Her cheekbones protrude with a bold smile, her deep-set chestnut eyes flashing with interest as they size me up. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. . . .” she probes, her English perfect, trace amounts of her origin detectable. She’s been in California for only four years, when Bentley married and imported her, so I’m guessing she’s had the help of a linguistics trainer.

“White,” Bentley answers for me, not giving me a chance to use my real name. He obviously wants to keep his beautiful wife in the dark where I’m concerned.

If she senses any deception, it doesn’t show. “Well, I hope you’ll be staying with us, Mr. White? I can have a room made up for you.”

“I need to get back to San Francisco tonight. But thank you.” As nice as a few nights watching California put its vines to bed for the winter would be, I have big plans for a hole-in-the-wall motel that accepts cash payments and asks no questions.

Leaning in to plant a kiss on her cheek, Bentley murmurs, “I’ll come find you when we’re done.”

She looks at the diamond-encrusted watch that decorates her slender wrist. “Don’t forget that we have that dinner tonight, right?”

“I’ll be in my suit and waiting by the door at six p.m. sharp,” he promises before continuing on, forcing me to trail, Tuuli’s curious gaze on me as I pass. I wonder exactly how much he keeps from her. I wonder if she’d be looking at me like that—and inviting me to sleep under her roof—if she knew the kinds of things I’ve done for her husband.

Maybe. Obscene wealth has a way of making people view the dark side of reality differently.

Bentley leads me into his office—a grandiose room with vaulted ceilings and Persian rugs and even an American flag in the corner—and gestures to a chair with a perfect view through the French doors of a balcony and, beyond that, hundreds of rolling acres of vineyard.

“How do you cope with such poor work conditions?”

He smirks. “Not exactly the Aegean Sea, but it’s a decent view.”

Of course he traced our call.

He settles against a hefty walnut desk in the center of the room, resting his arms on his chest. “How have you been, Sebastian? It’s been a while.”

It has been a while, both since I saw him and since someone has called me by my real name. Sometimes it feels like just yesterday that I was squatting behind blown-out walls with this man—my team’s leader—doing nothing but waiting. To live, to die, we were never sure what the long hours would bring. It was during those times that our friendship grew, that our mutual trust solidified.

A lot has happened since then. Things that cannot be forgotten.

Things that have left permanent scars.

“Fine.” I roll my eyes over the shelves, artfully decorated with books and vases and record albums. Bentley always was a sucker for a good record. My attention zeros in on the gold SEAL trident resting in a glass case. It’s identical to the one stored in my safety-deposit box in Zurich.

He sighs, stooping down to access a false panel in one of the bookcases and opening it to uncover a safe. “Still a man of few words, I see.”

“Always the ones you need, though.”

He nods, more to himself. “Yes, that too.” Spinning the dial with deft accuracy, he pops open the door and pulls out a silver briefcase. It’s the kind of case I normally open at the start of an assignment, locked by a combination and waiting for me in a secure location, left by one of a few highly trusted Alliance employees who won’t ask questions and have no information to share. “We have a situation in San Francisco that needs sorting out. A search and recovery, and potential target elimination.”

It has always been so easy to talk to Bentley. We speak the same language.

He sets the case on the coffee table in front of me and pops the latches. I don’t even need to look to know that there’s a Beretta Px4 inside. It’s my model of choice, what I’m most comfortable with, and Bentley always ensures I have one. Next to it is a suppressor, a Gerber multi-tool, a fixed-blade knife, and a new burner phone. Beneath is a folded copy of the San Francisco Chronicle and an unmarked tan folder.

I don’t make a move for the folder just yet.

“There was a . . . complication recently,” Bentley begins, choosing his words carefully. I never get all the details, but I always get enough to do my job proficiently. “It involves an ex-employee of Alliance, giving explicit details about an assignment in Afghanistan.”

“What kind of assignment exactly?”

“Intelligence collection. Marine Corps captured an insurgent and allowed my guys to question him. It was highly successful, leading us to the capture of Adeeb Al-Naseer.”

A terrorist on the most-wanted list who bombed an office building in Seattle, killing almost a thousand people.

There’s only one reason that I could understand the U.S. forces handing him over, and it’s that they wanted to keep their hands clean of what needed to be done to make him talk. “But the general public doesn’t need to know the details behind the interrogation,” I surmise.

“I’m sure you’ve been following the news. You know how much heat Alliance has been under lately. The media has cost me millions in contacts, which are smaller and harder to get as it is. The war glory days are over. And if these lies that Royce was spewing get out . . . the Pentagon will hang someone for this, just to appease voters. It’ll be Alliance, and that isn’t good for anyone.”

I nod. Average Americans, driving along in their Chevrolets, filling their stomachs with burgers and their heads with Hollywood’s latest heist or action movie, have no fucking clue what it’s like to be in enemy territory, fighting a war to make sure it’s never brought to American soil again. Half of them are even arguing the need for the war over there to begin with.

So when a journalist latches onto bullshit propaganda about U.S. military and guys like Alliance’s contract workers doing unsavory things and blasts it out into the media, all those lefty liberals start screaming. While they enjoy their breakfast coffee under the blanket of safety we’ve given them. And then our government responds, because it has to. In the end, Bentley will suffer.

Just the thought of that makes me grit my teeth with anger.

“His name was Dylan Royce. He was let go four months ago for performance-related and drug dependency issues. Basically, he was a shit disturber, with a developing taste for violent behavior. We gave him a heavy severance package in exchange for a signed confidentiality agreement. Turns out he didn’t think that gag order applied in a tattoo shop. He ran his mouth off to a fucking tattoo artist and the entire conversation was recorded on the store’s surveillance system.”

“What kinds of things were said?”

“Bullshit. All of it. All kinds of false accusations. But it won’t matter if the media gets hold of it,” Bentley mutters. “The tattoo shop owner actually called Alliance’s 800 number—pulled it off our website, I assume—and told the operator that he had damaging information on Alliance that I would want to know about. She didn’t know what to do so she put him through to my operatives director’s voice mail, where he then left a message threatening to send the video to a journalist.”

I see where this is going. “How much was he asking for in exchange?”

“Six hundred and fifty-five thousand.”

“That’s . . . specific. Why not an even million?”

Bentley snorts. “Who knows. My operatives director called him back and asked for proof, so the guy texted him a short clip of a video, taken by a phone, of a monitor—some crappy little security monitor, it looks like. My guy bought us four days by agreeing to an exchange. Told the shop owner that we needed that time to round up that much cash.”

I snort. I doubt Bentley would have an issue filling a duffel bag in an afternoon.

“That’s when my operatives director briefed me. I couldn’t risk that video floating around for four days so I briefed and dispatched a team within two hours to recover the video from the shop owner and eliminate both of them from future risk of talking. Quietly. Royce sure as hell couldn’t be trusted anymore, gag order or not.”

Eliminate.

Kill.

I trust Bentley’s decision making, so if he thinks the guys had to go, then they had to go. “What happened?”

“That major clusterfuck happened.” He nods toward the newspaper. “Two dead bodies, surrounded by a media and police circus and a missing videotape. Had they used their heads and followed orders explicitly . . .” Bentley shakes his head. “My guys were supposed to take out Royce somewhere quiet first and then get to the shop at closing to seize the tape. But they decided to improvise, seeing as Royce was at the shop getting work done. A ‘two birds with one stone’ robbery cover-up.”