Duke City Desperado Read online

  Duke City Desperado is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi eBook Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Steve Brewer

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  eBook ISBN 9780553390322

  Cover design: Scott Biel

  Cover image: © Stephen Mulcahey/Arcangel Images

  www.readalibi.com

  v4.1

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  By Max Austin

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “Bank robbery ain’t a matter of brains,” Doc Burnett declared in his reedy drawl. “It’s about balls.”

  Dylan James sighed. A new topic for Doc. The skinny redneck had talked nonstop for three hours while driving aimlessly around Albuquerque’s dusty streets. So far, he’d covered overpaid athletes, designated hitters, illegal immigration, welfare mothers, the national debt, the decline of country-western music, Memphis vs. Motown, Democrat vs. Republican, rich vs. poor, bacon vs. sausage, Japanese rice-burners vs. honest American motorcycles, and the undisputed fact that TV cartoons were better before censors eliminated the wacky violence.

  Doc jumped back and forth between subjects, quick with an opinion, dismissive of contrary views. Nobody preaches like a speed freak.

  He fished yet another black beauty out of the pocket of his faded denim jacket and dry-swallowed it as their westbound van zoomed through a yellow light on Central Avenue near the towering green marquee of the old Hiland Theater.

  Doc was wound tighter than Dylan had ever seen him before, his face glowing, veins visible under his skin. He hadn’t slept in four days, which meant Dylan hadn’t gotten much rest, either. Too busy listening to his mentor’s constant commentary.

  The speed made Doc aggressive and impatient. He definitely shouldn’t have been driving, but he blew up every time Dylan offered to take a turn at the wheel.

  Mid-afternoon on a Thursday, there wasn’t a lot of traffic, but Dylan kept his seat belt cinched tight.

  “See, here’s the thing about banks.” Doc changed lanes without signaling. “The employees are trained to hand over the money. That’s right in their job description. If a robber makes any threat on human life, they’re supposed to hand over the cash and wait for the cops.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Well, it’s got to be a credible threat,” Doc said. “The tellers can’t just hand over money hither and dither. They must truly believe their lives are in danger.”

  “That’s why you show ’em a gun.”

  “If you’ve got the balls, you don’t even need a gun. Put your hand in your coat pocket. Walk in there and say, ‘Give me the money or I’ll kill everyone in this place.’ Show ’em your poker face so they’ll believe you mean it.”

  “You’ve got a poker face?” Dylan said, kidding him.

  Doc scowled, his high forehead creasing into a flock of V’s. His skin stretched tight over his skull and jutting cheekbones, and his slicked-back hair and reddish goatee seemed glued on as afterthoughts. His dark eyes were set deep in their sockets, but Dylan could see the drug fire burning there.

  “Pretty scary, all right.”

  “Makes you want to hand over the money, don’t it?”

  “I think it takes more than a mean face, Doc.”

  “Of course. There’s also the bluff. You’ve got to display confidence. Got to make them believe they’re in the middle of a deadly encounter.”

  “And you could do that without showing a weapon?”

  “I could do it without getting out of the goddamned van,” Doc said. “I could drive up to a bank and make them hand over the money.”

  Dylan couldn’t take it anymore. “Now that’s bullshit. You can’t make ’em pass money out the window, I don’t care how mean you look. They’re not gonna let you drive away with—”

  Doc braked suddenly, throwing Dylan against his shoulder belt. The van careened into an asphalt parking lot next to a low brick building. Dylan had been so busy arguing, he hadn’t noticed they were near the Nob Hill branch of First State Bank of Albuquerque.

  “Hey—”

  Doc followed white arrows painted on the asphalt, tires squealing as he drove around to the back.

  “What the hell you doing, Doc?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The drive-through area was divided into three lanes, but only one put motorists face-to-face with a teller. Doc steered the flat-fronted Ford van into that one, stopping just short of the bumper of a blue Subaru station wagon being served at the window. The station wagon had little stick-figure people glued to the back window to show it belonged to a family of six, and bumper stickers that said, “Jesus Is the Answer” and “I (Heart) Menudo.”

  As Dylan puzzled over that combination, Doc said, “Gimme one of those garage-door openers.”

  “Come on, Doc.”

  “Do it, goddamn it!”

  A plastic tote bag on the floorboard contained two dozen garage-door remote controls Doc had collected in burglaries over the years. They’d spent the past few weeks driving up and down residential streets, pushing buttons on the remotes. Only so many frequencies in use for garage-door openers, so once in a while they’d get lucky and a door would glide open. They’d back the rusty white van up to the garage and load up anything of value. Be gone
in minutes.

  A good scam, but fences paid only pennies on the dollar and you could burn a lot of expensive gasoline before getting a hit. And the prowling was tedious, particularly for a man like Doc, a high-wire act surviving on a diet of fast food and amphetamines and Mountain Dew.

  Dylan handed over a remote, an anonymous gray plastic box with two buttons on the top.

  “This’ll do fine,” Doc said.

  The blue station wagon drove away.

  “This is crazy, Doc. Don’t screw around with this teller.”

  “I’m about to show you how it’s done.”

  “They take this shit seriously.”

  “They should! I’m serious as a heart attack.”

  “Come on.”

  “I’m serious as cancer.”

  “You’re gonna get us busted.”

  “Shut up. I’ll do the talking.”

  Late-afternoon sun glared through the windshield. Doc let the van creep forward, trying to get into the shade of a flat awning that jutted above the drive-through teller window.

  Dylan pulled up the hood of his favorite sweatshirt, an oversized gray pullover that had “Dukes” scrolled across the front in black. The defunct Albuquerque Dukes minor-league baseball team had been named after the Spanish duke from whom Albuquerque gets its name. The Dukes were replaced years ago by the Isotopes, so now anything that said “Dukes” was considered retro and cool. Dylan still wasn’t sure what the hell an “Isotope” was supposed to be. He pulled the hood close around his face, trying to hide.

  “They’ve got cameras everywhere, Doc. They’re taking our picture right now. They’re recording our license plate.”

  “I don’t give a shit. This ain’t my van.”

  That gave Dylan a brain stutter. “It’s not?”

  “Hell, no. You think I’d pay good money for a piece of shit like this?”

  “We’ve been driving around for weeks in a stolen van?”

  “Stop distracting me.”

  Doc rolled down his window, letting in a gust of cool October air scented with auto exhaust.

  Dylan peeked out of his hood just enough to get a look at the teller. She was a plump brunette in her mid-forties—around the same age as Doc. Her black dress and lacy white collar made her look like a judge.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” Her voice sounded tinny through the speaker set into the thick glass. “How may I help you today, sir?”

  Dylan whispered, “Don’t. Please.”

  If Doc heard, it had no effect on him. He held up the gray garage-door opener for the teller to see.

  “This is a holdup!”

  Dylan groaned.

  “I’ve got a bomb,” Doc yelled. “Hand over the money or I’ll push this button and blow us all to kingdom come.”

  The plump teller pursed her lips.

  “Sir, that appears to me to be a garage-door opener.”

  Doc twisted his scowl even tighter and shouted at the woman, “It’s a detonator! This van is loaded with explosives! I’ll level this entire goddamned block!”

  “All right, sir. There’s no need to curse. If you say you have a bomb, I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  “Goddamned right,” Doc growled. “You’ve got one minute to round up the cash and hand it over. Any longer than that, and we all die here.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand the situation, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

  As the teller turned away from the window, Dylan muttered, “She’s not buying it.”

  “Shut up,” Doc said through clenched teeth. “It’s working.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “I’ve got her buffaloed.”

  “They’re calling the cops.”

  “I said shut up.”

  “This is crazy.”

  Doc looked over at him, his eyes on fire, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He still had his bony finger poised over the button.

  “Drive away,” Dylan whispered. “Right now. Before it’s too late.”

  “Shut up, you little prick. You’re gonna ruin my play.”

  “Sir?”

  The teller was back at the window.

  “Yeah?”

  “The money bags won’t fit through this drawer. Those zippered deposit bags are as big as we can go. Unless you want me to haul it outside—”

  “Use the zippered bags. Hurry up. You’re almost out of time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As she turned from the window, Dylan heard the quick whoop of a police siren. Maybe a mile away.

  “Screw this.”

  He unsnapped his seat belt and popped open the door.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Dylan didn’t answer. He was too busy running.

  Chapter 2

  Doc Burnett yelled after the kid, but it was no use. Dylan was moving at a full-tilt sprint, baggy jeans flapping around his legs, his black-and-white sneakers barely touching the ground as he angled across the parking lot.

  “Well, hell.”

  Doc turned his attention back to the window teller.

  “Where’s my damn money?”

  “It’s coming, sir. Just getting it into bags for you.”

  “Fuck the bags. Shove some cash through that drawer. Right now.”

  She clutched her hands before her ample bosom and lifted her chin. A posture of defiant resolve.

  He held up the “detonator” to remind her who was in charge. His finger hovered over the button, but she seemed to be fighting back a smile.

  “All right, damn it,” Doc said. “You asked for it.”

  Her eyes went wide as he pushed the button. There was a moment of silence, a pregnant pause, then Doc shouted, “Boom!”

  The fat bitch jumped straight up in the air, her hands fluttering like plump white doves.

  Doc threw the remote at her, making her jump again as it smacked off the thick glass. He cackled wildly as he yanked the van into gear.

  A siren whooped behind him as an Albuquerque Police Department black-and-white swerved into the drive-through, stopping at an angle to block all lanes. The car’s roof lights flashed red and blue. The uniformed patrolman at the wheel was talking into his radio.

  Doc stomped on the gas. The van surged forward, its tires chirping as they grabbed asphalt.

  Another APD patrol car lurched into view, trying to block the exit. The car’s siren abruptly came to life, shrieking wildly, grating on Doc’s speed-raw nerves.

  He yanked the steering wheel to the right, trying to squeeze between the second cop car and a utility pole set into the sidewalk. The corner of his bumper caught the wooden pole, and the sudden jolt caused the van to dance sideways into the cop’s front fender.

  Worse, the collision set off the air bag in the van’s steering wheel, and it exploded into sudden inflation.

  Right in Doc’s face.

  Chapter 3

  Dylan James raced across Washington Street, dodging a shiny red pickup that honked in protest.

  The far sidewalk was lined by a construction fence bordering one of the old Route 66 motor courts. The graffiti-spattered motel was boarded up, awaiting renovation, and prickly weeds grew thick along the chain-link fence. Dylan bounced off the wire as he took a hard right, his sneakers slapping the sidewalk.

  A brown-and-black German shepherd materialized on the other side of the chain-link fence, barking savagely. Dylan’s rational mind knew a six-foot fence stood between them, but his body still tried to jump onto the nearest cloud.

  The big dog paced him as he ran, barking and snarling and snapping. But as soon as Dylan crossed Copper Avenue, the beast lost interest and trotted away. No longer its territory. No longer its concern.

  Washington turned into a residential street on the next block. Boxy stucco houses sat close by the curbs, which were lined with mulberry trees, their fluttering autumn leaves as yellow as penalty flags.

  Two police cars barreled downhill toward him, fallen leaves swirling in their wake. Dylan veer
ed left onto a side street. His lungs burned and he had sweat in his eyes and a stitch in his side, though he’d run only four blocks.

  An engine raced somewhere behind him. He didn’t look back to see whether a cop car was gaining on him. With his luck, he trusted that it was.

  He cut to the right, into a gravel driveway that ran between a tan stucco house and a seven-foot-tall wooden fence. Two wheeled bins—one black and one blue—sat in the driveway, parked against the side of the house. Blue was for recycling, and Dylan guessed that one would contain fewer germs. He lifted the lid of the waist-high bin and dived inside. The bin was half full of cardboard and paper and aluminum cans, but the trash crushed under his weight, making room. He yanked his feet in, and the lid shut out the daylight.

  His breath came in ragged sobs, loud inside the plastic bin. The corner of a cardboard box stabbed him in the ribs, but he lay still, curled up like a fetus, expecting the cops to throw open the lid any second and drag him out into the light of day. He could hear the engines of their patrol cars as they raced up and down neighborhood streets nearby, searching for him.

  He wondered if they’d captured Doc, if they’d hurt him. The Albuquerque Police Department had a bad reputation for killing people, especially under the current chief, Harmon Schlitz. Trigger-happy cops had put down so many crooks and crazies over the past few years, the feds were investigating the department. The whole town was talking about the controversy, and it was a regular topic of Doc’s speed-fueled monologues.