"Scott Wolven - The Syndicate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wolven Scott)

"It's not what they're worth, exactly," Bob Gunstock said. "It's that they're unmarked. We ll put a High Eagle stamp on them ourselves. But if they were stolen, it would delay the opening of the casino, plus if whoever stole them got hold of a High Eagle stamp, they could come cash them in."

"Are those easy to get?" Greg asked.

"We had to submit originals of all our casino emblems to the Bureau of Indian Affairs in Washington, D.C. So anyone with the cash to bribe a BIA operative could get our stamp," Bob Gunstock finished.

"Fine," Greg said. "Where do we meet the truck?"

"We've got two of our own men driving it up from California," Bob Gunstock said. "They'll meet you right at the state line in Pullman, in front of the gravel pit just before you get to the university."

"Right," Greg said. "We'll take the chips and then both of us will drive back here."

"Sure," Bob Gunstock said. "That way, if somebody is still after the chips, they might go after the armored car by accident."

Greg and I walked over to Greg's ugly truck and got in. Bob Gunstock followed. He leaned on Greg's door and spoke in a low voice.

"These people play hardball," he said. "Be awake."

"I'm awake," Greg said.

"I'm awake," I said. I pulled a beer from the twelve pack.

Bob Gunstock shook his head. "I don't mean awake like you think," he said. "I mean fast and alive." He walked back inside the tribal council center. And we started back the way we came, toward Moscow and then Pullman to pick up the chips. I dumped the rest of my beer out the window and dropped the empty can on the floor. Awake and fast and alive. Three things I wanted to be. I looked over at Greg and he nodded.

* * *

The silver armored car was sitting along the side of the road in front of the gravel pit, just over the Idaho state line in Pullman. A police cruiser was pulled over in front of it. Greg swung the Toyota around behind the armored car and we both got out. Two Native American guys got out of the cab of the armored car and came back to help us.

"Bob Gunstock just called to let us know you'd be here," the one guy said. They were both young, with jet-black hair, wearing flannel shirts and jeans. They opened the back door of the armored car and we loaded the boxes of chips into the Toyota. The cop in the police cruiser gave us a wave and pulled onto the road, headed back into the state of Washington.

"Anybody follow you?" Greg asked.

"All the way from California," the one guy said. "Sometimes one car would stop and then another car would pick us up." He paused. "They were never more than a mile away from us."

"What type of car?" Greg asked.

"This last one picked us up just outside of Pasco," the guy said. "A blue four by four."

"Okay," Greg said. "We'll be right behind you, all the way to the reservation." He pointed at the armored car. "Keep the windows rolled up and the doors locked."

"We will," the guy said. Both of them got back into the armored car. The Toyota was packed with boxes of chips. Slowly, the armored car started off the shoulder of the road and then got on the highway into Idaho. We followed in the Toyota, heading through Moscow. I watched every car like a hawk.

* * *

We drove along the road, heading north for the reservation and the casino. The armored car was five hundred yards ahead of us. A blue four by four with smoked windows came up behind us and passed.

"There they are," Greg said.

We watched as the four by four accelerated and easily caught the armored car.