Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [59]
Another container was full of small plastic bags of coke, heroin, and other goodies Hardie recognized from his days battling Philly drug gangs with Nate. The street value, based on his best guestimate, was enough to buy a house in the suburbs. And probably a sweet piece of automotive eye candy to park in the front drive.
Other items weren’t so familiar. Hardie popped the top of a plastic container that held a bright orange suit that was heavy and reeked of rubber. Another contained little pouches labeled RSDL—“reactive skin decontamination lotion”—and next to it, a box of injectable ampoules of hydroxocobalamin.
Then there was a box in the middle of the floor, half full of little spring-loaded vials. Just like the ones Hardie saw in that box they’d mounted on the front door of the Lowenbruck house. He fished one out, held it up to the light. Inside, clear liquid. Didn’t look like anything, really. Hardie slid it into his back pocket. You never know.
There were no guns. With every container top he opened, Hardie kept hoping, wishing, praying. But there was not so much as a slingshot.
“Charlie, come on. What are you doing?”
“One minute.”
There it was. Tucked into the corner, sealed in thick, opaque plastic.
His luggage.
Hardie reached out and touched it, just to make sure it wasn’t a mirage. He pressed his fingertips against it, saw the headless Spider-Man, and yeah. Definitely his bag. Hardie wondered what they had planned on doing with it. Burn it? Bury it? Divvy it up with a dice game? Which made Hardie think about the poor courier who’d had the unlucky assignment of delivering this bag. His body wasn’t in the van, and his delivery truck was nowhere in sight. Which was further proof that the world was random and mean and didn’t really give a shit about anybody. The world would run you down and slam a tire over your exploding skull and not even wonder what it had just hit.
Hardie was about to go back to the front of the van, when he remembered his carry-on. It should be back here somewhere. Maybe tucked away in some secret compartment?
Hardie began opening more tiny doors, kicking others. Had to be here. Where else would they have put it?
“Charlie! Get up here now or I’m getting behind the wheel.”
“Hang on.”
“Seriously? You’re really going to do this to me?”
“Coming, coming…”
The carry-on bag contained the only thing that couldn’t be replaced, the one link to his old life, the one reminder that he used to be a decent person…
Had to be here.
Somewhere.
While Lane waited, literally on the edge of her seat, trying not to scream at Charlie for taking, like, fucking forever back there… her eyes fell on the GPS unit mounted in the dashboard. Huh. Maybe this would show where these creepy bastards lived. She tapped the touch screen and cycled backward through the searches until a familiar address popped up.
Her own.
572 Westminster Avenue, Venice, CA.
Goddamn it, did they come to the house last night? How long had they been watching her?
She tapped the screen again and another address appeared. One that made her body turn ice cold.
No…
They couldn’t.
The carry-on wasn’t back here. Clearly the fuckers had stashed it somewhere else.
Hardie knew he was wasting time. They had to move. Now.
He gathered up a bunch of first aid–type supplies, unzipped the side of his bag, and shoved everything inside. He climbed back into the front and noticed Lane tapping the screen of a fancy-ass GPS unit on the dashboard. Hardie caught a glimpse of an address in bright white letters—11804 Bloomfield St.—before Lane tapped the screen again and it went dark.
“What was that?” Hardie asked.
“No idea,” Lane said.
“Hang on. Pull that address back up. Maybe that thing can tell us where these bastards live.”
“Already thought of it, already looked. There’s nothing. Just a lot of random