The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set by Ernest Dempsey (non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

The Puerto Rican stroked his beard again with his free hand, the other rested on the desk still clutching the hand cannon. A minute ticked by, though it felt more like an hour in a defensive driving class.

His phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket. Perturbed, Bert reached into his pants and pulled out the phone. He looked at the number and his brow tensed.

"Do me a favor," Dak said. "Don't tell him I'm here."

Bert answered the phone. "What is it… Baker? I hope you aren't going to try to skip out of town on me."

Dak heard a forced laugh and then some inaudible noise. He waited patiently, listening to Bert's end of the exchange. The boss finally ended the discussion with a "Sure, you can come by my place. That sounds like a good plan. I'll text you the address."

When Bert ended the call, he stared at Dak with bewildered eyes.

"Told you," Dak said dryly.

"Okay," Bert replied after a short deliberation. He uncocked the weapon and set it to the side. He motioned to Deno, and the bodybuilder wannabe reluctantly lowered his pistol. "I'm normally the one who deals with gamblers, but I'm willing to take a chance on you. But before I hear your plan, I'm going to need to know your name."

"My name is Dak. That's all you need to know."

"All right, Dak. What are we going to do?"

Eleven

Miami

Carson woke early the next morning to begin preparations.

He pulled most of his firearms from their concealed locations in his home: a few from the gun safe in the study, one from a desk, and another two from behind a secret RFID activated panel that doubled as a bookshelf. He stuffed the guns into a bag along with eight spare magazines.

He doubted he would need that many rounds, but it was better to have too much than too little.

Carson did a drive-by of Bert's palatial home the night before. He pulled up to the curb a half block away to admire the two-story mansion. He envied all of it: the red-tiled roof, the white stucco wall surrounding the property that matched the home's exterior, and the lush palm trees sprouting up to the height of the rooftops. It was the picture of pure luxury in every sense of the word.

Not that Carson was doing badly. His home was more than enough for him, with over four thousand square feet of space and all the luxury he could ever want. The location, though, wasn't ideal. It was situated in Homestead, nearer to the Everglades. While Homestead was a great place, he longed to be closer to the nightlife he craved; he feasted on. The bars, nightclubs, beaches, and the entire scene around the islands and South Beach beckoned to him.

While Bert's place wasn't in the hub of the party zone, Carson knew that if he were to acquire a home such as Bert's, the party would come to him—and be much more inviting than his current residence.

He didn't risk getting out of the car during his recon mission, instead driving by at normal speed once he'd taken a look from a few hundred feet away.

With a tertiary understanding of the home's layout and no sign of any exterior security forces, he drove to the end of the street, turned around, and sped home.

Now, with the bag full of everything he figured he needed, Carson zipped it up and lugged it into the kitchen where a full pot of coffee waited.

The earthy, nutty smell of the brew called to him as it filled his home. It was already half-past ten in the morning and he was way overdue for a second cup of joe, having already had his first before his routine morning workout.

He set the rucksack down next to the front door, ambled over to the coffeepot, and poured the steaming brown liquid into a to-go mug. With the lid secure, he walked back to the door and hefted the bag over one shoulder.

The drive at this time of day offered little in the way of traffic. In three or four hours, however, the roads would be packed with commuters. Carson planned on being in and out of Bert's in less than thirty minutes, though he believed he could pull off the heist in less than half that time.

In his mind, he went over the exterior of the house. That wouldn't matter much since there had been no guards by the gate or at the front door. He concluded that Bert kept most of his men inside with only a superficial offering of security outside.

The plan was simple. Bert expected Carson to show up to pay his debt. That meant getting in would be easy enough. Once inside, Bert would probably invite him into his study or maybe the living room for a drink to exchange the money. Bert was a bookie, but he wasn't an animal. The man possessed at least a modicum of civility.

Carson would set down the bag, letting Bert and his men assume it was the money. If any of them got close to it, Carson would take that person out first, then kill any other guards in the room.

All of his weapons were equipped with suppressors, but even with the muted effect of the silencers, any other guards in the building would probably hear what was happening.

They would rush to help their boss, and Carson would be ready to cut down. Then he would ransack the place. He'd take Bert for every nickel he had hidden. Carson was certain there would be a horde of cash stuffed in vaults or safes free for the taking.

He'd let Bert live, though Carson knew the Puerto Rican would probably have to be shot in the shoulder or leg. After all his men were dead, Bert would give up the combinations or codes to any security box or safe he had in the building. Only then would Carson give him the mercy of a bullet through the head.

The plan