Page 5 of Backtrack

Vince Millner was always bringing up subjects out of left field.He probably thought it would calm Ricky Lee’s nerves before the job.

“What do you mean, where’d I get it from?” Ricky Lee’s voice was half an octave deeper than Millner’s. “It’s my name. I got it from my dad.”

“I know how names work!” Millner scoffed, sounding exasperated. He hit the gas, chewing up more distance between them and the armored truck. “What I mean to say is, you don’t hear of many Pinks. What kind of name is it?”

“My mother told us it’s German,” Ricky Lee said. “The sound a hammer makes on an anvil. You know,pink,pink,pink—”

“That’s right.” Millner glanced sideways, looking him up and down. “You did tell me that once. Makes a hell of a lot of sense.”

“Why’s that?” Ricky Lee bristled. “You got something against blacksmiths?”

“Simmer down, kid.” Millner chuckled. “It makes sense on account of you’re as big as a damned ogre, that’s all. You’d make a good blacksmith.”

Ricky Lee relaxed. He nodded. “I think I would, too.”

Duvall’s voice crackled over the CB radio.

“Mile marker 397. The Brock cutoff. I’ll flash my headlights to signal.”

That was two miles ahead—less than two minutes.

Millner glanced sideways through narrow eyes. “You sure you’re up for this? Don’t forget, if you have to—”

“I know,” Ricky Lee groaned. “Aim for the belt buckle. I’m fifteen, Vince. I’m not an idiot.”

The black velvet bag full of diamonds was locked in a quarter-inch steel vault about the size of a carpenter’s toolbox. This box was secured in the back of the TexSafe Armored truck, which, when novice guard Robert Foster thought about it, was just a bigger metal box. Mr. Moffit, the company’s lead supervisor, had been at the pickup point to oversee the loading before heading west for other business in Abilene. Moffit and the client, an Eastland, Texas, rancher named Hiram Dietrich, had locked the strongbox and signed the seal, ensuring that none of the guards helpedthemselves to even a tiny portion of the cargo. As a measure of extra security, Moffit, who talked like some kind of antebellum plantation owner, had assigned an armed guard up front with the driver, in addition to the standard one in the back.

Twenty-two-year-old Robert Foster drew the front passenger seat. As far as this armored car business went, Foster was about as green as could be. Just a couple of months ago, he’d been grating coleslaw at the Long John Silver’s in the College Park Shopping Center while his wife worked double shifts at the fried pie shop on the Weatherford courthouse square. They weren’t even getting by, not really. Now here he was in a TexSafe uniform making enough money they could actually pay his wife’s grandparents some rent for their little farmhouse.

Foster took a sip of coffee from his thermos and pondered how easy it would be for someone to knock over an armored truck. The company paid better than Long John Silver’s, but it wasn’t like they gave their guards any training. You got a half day of orientation—which was mostly telling you what not to do—then they issued you a hand-me-down uniform and a .38 Special revolver that had probably belonged to Eliot Ness. After that, you hit the road. One minute the supervisor, Mr. Moffit, was counting out twelve .38 Special cartridges like they were precious gemstones, the next you were in a truck guarding … well, precious gemstones. Moffit knew guns and stuff and got all pissy if you called cartridgesbullets. “The bullet is what comes out of the gun, not the whole cartridge,” Moffit would chide. The older guards told him toshove itthat he knew exactly what they meant. Foster said, “Yes, sir” and took his issued bullets … cartridges.

If you were lucky—or if Mr. Moffit deemed it a special run—you got to sign out one of the coveted Remington 870s. He’d been stingy about it this time for some reason, but Mr. Dietrich, the rancher in Eastland, had insisted the guards carry more firepower than the puny revolvers. The Remington rested muzzle down between Foster’s knees. Mr. Moffit had still only given him four 12-gauge shells—even a novice knew not to call those bullets. Moffit warned him to come back with all four. Foster resolved to buy a box of buckshot next time he got paid so he could carry a few extra in hispocket. He took another sip of coffee and peered out the thick bullet-proof glass at the Texas countryside—dusty, distorted stands of live oak on rolling, drought-stricken pastures.

A rising sun painted everything bright orange, like it was on fire. Black Angus cattle with their freakishly long shadows looked like creatures out of that newStar Warsmovie. Almost pleasant for now, the heat would soon make it miserable for anything outside.

The winter had been brutally cold, with more snow than Foster could remember in his life. Spring brought torrential rains, filling the rivers and lakes—and drowning several in Dallas. Then, in May, the spigot just shut off. The rains stopped, and the temperature shot up. It wasn’t long before people started wishing the snow would come back. Endless hundred-degree temperatures blistered the once lush fields.

Armored trucks weren’t known for their ventilation. Even with the AC on full blast, the walls felt like they were closing in. The plastic from the seats gave off some kind of gas, like those cheap blow-up pool toys. Curtis Watts, the big-bellied driver, grabbed the steering wheel and shifted back and forth as if he was brooding on a clutch of eggs. Sweat blossomed from the pits of his tan uniform shirt.

Wattswasalmost forty, an old man, in constant need of a restroom break. Stopping was always dangerous. Today it was out of the question. Hauling around enough loot to retire made the hair on Foster’s neck stand up. Armored truck robberies weren’t exactly unheard of around the Metroplex. Just a month ago, three guys wearing pillowcases over their heads had blown a three-foot hole in the back of a truck when it was stopped at a red light in South Dallas. The overpressure from the blast made sausage out of the guard riding in the box—which was why Foster had jockeyed to ride up front with the shotgun. That, and temps in the box were just slightly below the surface of the sun.

Watts drove on, squirming and sweating.

Foster took another sip of coffee and broke the silence.

“Does it seem at all weird to you that some rancher in Eastland would keep five million in diamonds laying around?”

“Who knows with these rich sons of bitches,” Watts said. His facetwitched into a squint, like he was trying to keep a pair of nonexistent glasses on his nose.

The little six-by-six-inch window on the bulkhead behind Foster snicked open. Bruce Goddard’s mouth and nose appeared from inside the cargo box. Foster had puked in an empty money bag the last time he rode back there. Worse than that, it was boring. Mr. Moffit needed to put in an AM radio or something.

“It’s hot as a bitch back here!” Goddard said. “Where we at?” He kept talking before Watts or Foster could answer. “You know, the lock on this box would be so easy to pick.”

“Knock it off,” Watts said. “Don’t even joke.”

“You know you want to see what five million in diamonds looks like!”

Foster licked his lips. He couldn’t wrap his head around five million dollars. “Not today,” he said. “I need this job. You break the seal on that box and Mr. Moffit will fire us all.”