The Holdup Read online

  The Holdup

  A Charlie Cobb Thriller

  Rob Aspinall

  Contents

  Free Starter Library

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Also by Rob Aspinall - Death & Back

  Also by Rob Aspinall - Homecoming

  Also by Rob Aspinall - Truly Deadly

  Free Starter Library

  Connect with Rob

  Acknowledgments

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  Full details at the back of this book.

  1

  I wake up. A face full of hard rubber. Head pulsing with pain and the sound of a car horn blaring. I can barely move, a tightness in the back of my neck. Sweating heavy, I'm leaning forward, almost bent over double in my seat. And that damn sound, invading my skull. I force myself to move, everything fuzzy.

  I lift my head off what I realise is a steering wheel. The blaring sound stops. My face was against the horn.

  I see a smashed windscreen in front of me. A smoking bonnet crumpled against a telephone pole. The car is dark-grey. The logo on the steering wheel foreign to me.

  I sit up. Feel woozy. I catch a glimpse through the windows. See a vast blue sky. Beneath it, a dirty yellow dustbowl sprinkled with cactus plants and hard, thorny scrub.

  I lean back in my seat. Turn one way and see a stretch of highway. Turn the other and see a guy in the passenger seat. His head rests on his right shoulder. A gold Mexican wrestling mask over his head, stained in blood—matching stains on the cracked windscreen.

  Looks like he took a mighty hit. If he's not already dead, I reckon he's halfway there. I twist in my seat and see the rear passenger-side door wide open.

  I put a hand to my face—feel a mask of my own. I loosen the strings at the back and pull it off over my head. It's blue, spotted with blood. The air is hot, but still a relief on my face. I realise I'm wearing a pair of thin black gloves. The kind I'd wear for jobs. Serious, heavy jobs.

  What the hell did you do, Charlie?

  Last thing I remember is . . . Shit, my head hurts too much to remember. Makes me sick to even think.

  I run a gloved fingertip over my hairline. A big bump that stings to the touch.

  It hurts to turn, but I force my upper body to rotate slow. To crane my neck around the seat and check behind me. There's another guy unconscious in a bright-green wrestling mask. He's dressed in black combats, t-shirt, gloves and boots. Same as me and the dead guy.

  But this one has a large black holdall next to him. The zip half open. A wad of shrink-wrapped hundred dollar bills peeping out. An automatic assault rifle across his lap.

  Looks like a Colt M16.

  Coming to my senses, I realise there's the same model of rifle on the central console. Another in the lap of the guy in the front passenger seat.

  I notice other details, too.

  Shell casings on the seats and in the footwells. A blown-out rear passenger window and a trail of blood on the backseat leading out of the open door.

  Whatever happened—whatever I've done—I've gotta get out of here.

  I try the handle on the driver-side door. But the door's stuck fast. I swing both feet around in the seat and deliver a double-booted kick. The door opens halfway. I kick out again with the soles of my boots. The door snaps right off its hinges and lands in the dirt.

  At six-five and built solid, there's a lot of weight on my bones to haul out of the car. I use the door frame as leverage and put both feet on the ground. I'm as wobbly as jelly, but I can stand. I look around and get my bearings. The wind blows hot and dry across the flat plains. Only the highway for company and the shadow of a mountain range lurking behind a liquid heat haze.

  I turn to the rear driver-side door. There's damage all down the side of the car. The rear passenger door is crumpled to shit. I force it most of the way open and reach inside for the bag.

  The guy in the back stirs. He wheezes and snots blood through his mask. I see anger in his eyes. He picks up his rifle. But he's slow. And I've seen enough dying men to know a corpse in denial.

  I put a hand over his mouth. Pin his head back.

  After a long minute, he stops breathing. The rifle drops loose to his lap. I take the holdall from the backseat and walk around to the other side of the car. It's a family saloon. Big and modern. A Chrysler 300.

  I notice a trail of blood and footprints leading away from the car and into the desert.

  No doubt about it, there were four of us in that car.

  And I'd wager a second bag of money.

  I scan the horizon, but can't see anyone. Only vultures circling high overhead.

  I open the front passenger door and reach into the cabin. I open the glovebox and tear off the front panel. I dump the bag on the ground and rest the glovebox panel on top.

  A quick pad down of the guy in the gold wrestling mask brings up a chrome-plated lighter. A fumble in the glovebox finds me a yellow dust cloth. I release the fuel flap and unscrew the cap. The cloth goes in and I light the end.

  I toss the lighter in the car along with my gloves and mask. I pick up the glovebox panel and haul the heavy bag of money over my shoulder.

  I zip the holdall up all the way and start walking along the side of the highway. The car catches fire behind me and the whole thing goes up in a ball of flames.

  I use the glovebox panel as a sunshield. In the distance, I notice a car breaking out of the heat haze. I take no chances, quick-shuffling off the highway and taking refuge behind a tall cactus.

  A police cruiser wails past, pushing a hundred. With the car long gone in the distance, I figure this is as good a place as any, so I wander away from the road in a straight line. There's a rock formation a little off the highway. It's jagged and white, like a shark fin rising out of the sand. A tall cactus plant to the right, missing an arm.

  This is perfect. Easy to recognise. So I start with my heels at the base of the rock. I pace out a short distance in my shoe size, counting under my breath.

  I drop the bag and start digging, using the glovebox panel as a makeshift shovel. I don't dig too deep, in case I need to access the cash fast.

  Once I'm a few feet down, I drop the bag in the hole. I peel open one of the wads and prise out a fistful of bills. I zip up the holdall and drop the glov
ebox on top.

  Next, I pile the sand back in. I flatten it out the best I can.

  Hot, thirsty and with the mother of all headaches, I walk back to the highway. There's a road sign a little further on.

  Welcome to Rattlesnake, Arizona.

  I walk towards the town.

  How the hell did I get here? And what the hell have I done?

  2

  Rattlesnake is dominated by a backdrop of mountains. It's an island in a sea of sand. Another stop on an endless highway.

  According to the road sign, the population is seven-hundred.

  Less of a one-horse town and more of a three-legged mule.

  From first glance, I notice a bar, general store, butcher's, post office, town hall and hardware store. There's a church steeple peeping over the rooftops and a few other places. Most of 'em up and down a short strip of a main street. Basically the highway, with slower speed limits.

  Otherwise, the locals seem to live in small clutches of houses dotted around the outskirts of the town.

  Exhausted and numb, I walk along the main street. I find a small doctor's surgery. The blinds are shut and the sign on the door says CLOSED: Doctor on Vacation.

  I look around me and see a bar called Al's across the street. It's got all the medicine I need.

  So I cross over and enter the bar.

  Thank Christ for air con. And the dark, dingy atmosphere. It's much easier on my head. Slow country music plays quiet. The place near empty, except for a couple of old drinkers at the bar nursing beers.

  They nudge each other and turn to stare my way. The barman stops what he's doing and throws a towel over one shoulder. He stares at me, too.

  I take a stool. Ask for a whisky and two beers—one with the bottle top on.

  The barman slides me a beer with the top still on. I wrap my hand around the ice cold glass and hold it to my head. The barman pours me a whisky. He's a rake of a guy with jet-black hair slicked back over his head. He wears a white open-neck shirt that has Al stitched into the breast pocket. He sees the world through a pair of dark, letterbox eyes.

  I neck the whisky and slam the glass down. Al slides me another beer. This one without the top.

  I take a few gulps and sigh in relief.

  Al puts both hands on the bar and leans in, looking me dead straight in the eye. "Well?" he says, under his breath.

  "Well what?"

  "How'd it go?"

  "How'd what go?" I say, taking another drink.

  "The job," Al says.

  "What job?"

  'Quit screwing around, Charlie."

  I lean forward on my stool. "Listen pal, I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know you. And I don't even know what the hell I'm doing here . . . Unless you care to fill me in."

  The guy looks both ways along the bar. "Hell, I'm not gonna say it out loud."

  "Good," I say, putting down the empty beer bottle. "Then don't." I take a twenty dollar bill of my own from my wallet and slap it on the counter. I slide off my stool and head to the far end of the bar. I find the gents and head inside.

  There are two urinals up against the left wall and a pair of cubicles to the right. Like most pissers, it smells like heaven. If heaven smelled like shit, piss and crumbling cakes of blue detergent.

  I unzip and take a piss. Try to remember. Try to think. Neither come easy when your head feels like there's a man inside your skull, hammering nails into your brain.

  All I remember is—

  A toilet flush breaks my concentration. I hear a guy cough and spit out his lungs. The latch on the door opens. I carry on pissing, staring at a rusty urinal pipe.

  I sense a lingering presence behind me. And not just the hot funk from the guy's private business. I glance over my left shoulder. The owner of the offensive smell stares at me, a nasty black and blue swelling around his right eye. He has a dishevelled beard and long ginger hair in a ponytail.

  "Can I help you?" I ask.

  The guy takes a snub-nosed black revolver from under a baggy grey Guns 'N' Roses t-shirt. "Remember me?" he says.

  "Should I?"

  "You're gonna get yours," he says.

  "Can it wait 'till I've emptied the tank?" I say.

  The guy considers it a second. “Sure.”

  I whistle as I piss and turn around as I finish, dribbling over his dusted old boots.

  "Shit, sorry pal," I say.

  The guy hops away. "Son of a—"

  While the guy's still staring at his shoes, I tuck away fast and punch the guy in the jaw. The force of it rocks him back into the cubicle. He lands on the toilet seat. I follow him in and snatch the revolver off him. As he slides onto his back on the tiles, I empty the chamber, bullets dropping into the water in the toilet bowl. I toss the gun in too and flush.

  With the guy out cold, I wash my hands and look in a cracked mirror. At my sun-tanned face. The purple lump on my forehead. Heavy stubble and a light bruising around my neck, like someone had their hands around my throat.

  The guy in the cubicle murmurs as he comes round.

  I turn on the tap. "Filthy bastard," I say to him. "Next time you draw your gun, wash your hands first.”

  3

  I leave the gents and return to the bar. There's a row of tables down the left-hand side and the bar itself on the right. The glare of daylight from the street casts everyone in shadow. As I approach the bar, the silhouette of a woman walks towards me. My eyes adjust and I get a good look. Her high heels make a racket over the old wooden floorboards. Her red dress hugs the life out of her slim curves. With straight raven hair down past her shoulder blades, she's an exotic beauty. And angry.

  Angry at me?

  "You bastard," she says, slapping me across the face.

  As I shake off the sting, Al slides a fizzing G&T across the bar top. She grabs it and throws it in my face.

  Quite refreshing in the circumstances.

  "You not got anything to say to me?" she says.

  "Yeah, thanks for the drink," I say, brushing past her.

  I walk out of the bar and look up and down the main street. Dig a hand in a trouser pocket and feel a key attached to a thin, oval piece of metal.

  I take it out. The keyring has Mountain Spring Motel engraved on one side. The number six engraved on the other.

  A quick glance to my right and I see the sign a short walk to the right across the street. The Mountain Spring Motel is a shabby, low-rising strip of rooms a little back off the road, framed by a palm tree at either end.

  The motel has nine rooms in total. I come to number six. Slide the key in the door and open it slow. The first thing I do is check behind the door—an old habit dying hard.

  I check out the rest of the room. Small but clean. Bed made fresh. No obvious clues as to what I've been doing here.

  Into the bathroom and I wash my face and neck, making sure I'm clean of any blood and booze. I go to rinse off my hands again and realise there's a series of numbers written on the inside of my wrist in black marker pen.

  09204012

  I peel the sweat-soaked t-shirt off my skin and haul it over my head. I take a plastic white liner from the empty bathroom bin and bag up the t-shirt. I move into the room and slide a wardrobe door to one side. I find my black holdall packed at the base of the wardrobe, as if I was ready to leave. I pick up the bag and carry it to the bed. I find a fresh black t-shirt on top of folded clothes inside. I pull on the clean one and stuff the sweaty one in the bag.

  I zip up the bag and wonder how I'm gonna get out of town. The last thing I wanna do is steal a car, but I'm not exactly flush with options.

  I don't fancy hanging around for a Greyhound or a train that might never come. And this doesn't seem like the kind of place you can catch a cab or hire a car.

  No, a stolen set of wheels it'll have to be.

  There's gotta be a car parked down a side street. A clapped-out one I can boost and drive to the next town.

  As I zip up the bag, there's a heavy
knock on the door--even-spaced thuds. I return the bag to the bottom of the wardrobe and slide the door closed. I walk to the front door and open it a crack.

  Peering out of the gap, I see a small, plain woman in brown and beige uniform, sandy hair tied up under a hat, with thin, crooked lips and a jaw that looks like it could take a punch.

  She wears a badge that says Sheriff Dooley.

  Her cruiser is parked behind her. She rests a hand on the butt of her weapon, the holster unbuttoned.

  She removes her mirrored aviators. "Charlie Ronsen?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Motel owner seems to," she says.

  "Then I guess I must be.”

  "Yeah, I guess you must be," she says, pulling a pair of cuffs from her belt.

  "You got a warrant to go with those?" I ask.

  She cracks a wry smile. "Not yet." She tucks the cuffs away. "Worth a shot."

  "What's this about, Sheriff?"

  Dooley runs a tongue inside her mouth and looks up the street. "I thought you might tell me."

  "I'm just a tourist. Passing through."

  "Passing through, huh?"

  "Yep," I say.

  "Then a friendly chat it is," she says, waving a hand towards her cruiser. "Unless you want me to come back with that warrant."