Thick as Thieves by Sandra Brown
Prologue
That night in 2000
Talking about it is the surefire way to get caught.”
He let the statement settle, then looked each of his three companions straight in the eye one at a time, using the deliberation rather than additional words to serve as a warning.
The huddled quartet was coming down from an adrenaline high. It hadn’t been a crash landing but a gradual descent. Now that they were no longer in immediate danger of being caught red-handed, their heartbeats remained stronger than normal, but had slowed to a manageable rhythm. Breaths gusting into the humid air were just as hot, though not as rapid as they’d been.
However, what hadn’t let up, not by a single degree, was the tension among them.
They couldn’t risk being seen together tonight, but before going their separate ways, they must forge an understanding. If, during the process of creating that bond, a threat was implied, so much the better. It would discourage any one of them from breaking the pact to keep their mouths shut. One stuck to the vow of silence, or else.
“Do not talk about it.” The speaker’s hair was a paprika-colored thatch that grew straight up out of a sidewall. A freckled scalp showed through the bristle. “Don’t tell any-damn-body.” He made five stabbing motions toward the ground to emphasize each word.
Somewhat impatiently, the oldest of the group said, “Of course not.”
The one vigorously gnawing his fingernails spat out a paring while bobbing his head in assent.
The fourth, the youngest of them, had maintained an air of cool detachment and remarkable calm throughout the evening’s endeavor. A laconic shrug conveyed his unspoken Goes without saying.
“One of us boasts about it, or drops a hint, even joking, it’ll have a domino effect that could—”
“You can stop going on about it,” the oldest interrupted. “We got it the first time, and didn’t need a lesson from you to start with.”
The ditch in which they were hunkered was choked with weeds, some thriving, some lying dead in the mud, having drowned during the last hard rain. The ravine was four feet deep and made for an ugly scar that cut between the narrow road and a listing barbed-wire fence demarcating a cow pasture that reeked of manure. Without a breeze to disperse the odor, the sultry atmosphere kept it ripe.
At the center of the circle formed by the four was the cause of the resented lecture: a canvas bag stuffed with stolen cash.
It was a hell of a lot bigger haul than they had anticipated, and that unexpected bonus had been both exhilarating and sobering. It made the stakes seem higher, which wound the tension tighter.
Following the rebuke about unnecessary lessons, no one moved or said anything until the young, aloof one reached up and ground a mosquito against the side of his neck, leaving a smear of blood. “Nobody’ll hear about it from me. I don’t cotton to the idea of jail. Already been there.”
“Juvie,” the redhead said.
“Still counts.”
The older one said, “Only a fool would blab about it. I’m no fool.”
The redhead thought it over, then nodded as though reassured. “All right, then. Another thing. We see each other on the street, we act the same as always. We don’t go out of our way to avoid each other, but we don’t get chummier, either. We recognize each other on sight, maybe we’re well enough acquainted to speak, but that’s it. That’s why this will work. The only thing we have in common is this.” He nudged the canvas bag with the steel-tipped toe of his boot.
The other pair of cowboy boots in the circle weren’t silver-toed. They weren’t worn for show but lived in. This wasn’t the first time they’d been caked with mud.
The pair of brown wingtips had sported a shine before sliding down into the ditch.
The navy blue trainers had some mileage on them.
“Six months is a long time to wait to divide it up,” the eldest said, eyeing the carrot-top. “In the meanwhile, why do you get to keep the money? We didn’t vote on that.”
“Don’t you trust me with it?”
“What do you think?”
If the one with the gingery thatch took offense, he didn’t show it. “Well, look at it this way. I’m the one taking all the risks. Despite our pledge not to talk it up, if one of you lets something slip, and somebody who wears a badge gets wind of it and starts snooping, I’m the one holding the bag.”
The other three hadn’t missed the emphasis he placed on that certain word. They exchanged glances of patent mistrust toward the self-appointed banker, but no one argued with him. The youngest gave another one-shouldered shrug, which the redhead took as consensus.
“Once you get your share,” he said, “you can’t go spending cash like crazy. No new cars, nothing flashy, nothing—”
The older one cut him off again, testier than before. “You know, I could well do without these instructions of yours.”
“No call to get touchy. Anything I tell you is a reminder to myself, too.” The redhead fashioned a placating smile, but it wasn’t in keeping with his eyes, which reflected the meager moonlight like twin straight razors. He then turned to the nail-biter, who was running out of fingers on which to chew. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.”