Dean R. Koontz - Surrounded

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Surrounded “”[Version 2.0 by BuddyDk – Oktober 9 2003][Easy read, easy

print][Completely new scan][front flap:]The second fast-moving thriller by

Brian Coffey featuring Mike Tucker, art dealer, heir to a vast unobtainable

fortune and highly successful professional thief. He is persuaded to lead

Meyers and Bates in the robbery of an exclusive California shopping mall

containing a bank crammed with cash, an expensive jewellers and eighteen other

shops catering for super-extravagant tastes. The job is expected to take

little more than an hour and is seemingly a walkover. But something is bugging

Tucker: something Meyers has not told him. The operation has hardly begun when

an alarm is sounded - too soon. They are surrounded. There is no way out. Yet

when the police finally break in the three men have vanished with the loot

into thin air.Jacket illustration by William RankinPrice(in UK only)£2-50 net

SurroundedBrian CoffeyArthur Barker Limited LondonA subsidiary of Weidenfeld

(Publishers) Limited

Inc.,Indianapolis/New York, in 1974Published in Great Britain in 1975 by

ArthurBarker Limited, 11 St John's Hill, London SWi iAll rights reserved. No

part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

bound in Great Britain at The Pitman Press, Bath

The slim, tousle-haired man entered the lobby of the Americana Hotel, leaving

the cacophony of the Seventh Avenue traffic behind him. Well dressed and

quietly hand-some, obviously sure of himself and in control of his world, he

had a trace of aristocracy in his fine-boned face. And a vague but

unmistakable touch of fear lay in his dark eyes.It was one thing for the son

of a respectable family to carve out a successful career as a criminal

entrepreneur, but quite another for him to come to accept this unconventional

way of life on a visceral level. He knew he was a good thief, a master

planner, but he always expected to get caught. He was not yet working on the

new job, was not currently engaged in anything illegal, but already he was

wary and on edge.Pushing through a mob of conventioneers and their wives, he

crossed to the seedily elegant marble staircase that led down to the hotel

restaurants. At the bottom of the steps he glanced at the ranks of public

telephones but decided against using any of them. He passed the entrance to

the Columbian Coffee Shop, turned the corner, and walked the length of the

long corridor to the second set of telephones at the back of the hotel. These

were used far less than those phones posi-tioned more conveniently at the base

of the main staircase. Here he was alone. The dead-end hall was quiet, an

unex-pected pocket of serenity in the center of the city.Here he would not be

overheard. And privacy was essen-tial, more for his own peace of mind than for

any real danger that the pending conversation would reveal his criminality.He

deposited a dime and dialed the operator. She waited through eighteen rings

before she deigned to answer, and then she placed his call to Harrisburg,

Pennsylvania, as if she were doing him a favor instead of performing a

service.“Felton's Bookshop,” the Harrisburg connection said. It was an old

man's voice: cracked, dry, weary.“Clitus?”“Yes?”“This is Mike Tucker,” the

dark-eyed man said. He leaned in toward the phone, sheltered between the

Plexiglas sound-proofing wings on both sides.Felton hesitated. When he did

speak, he unconsciously lowered his voice. “Look, I'm busy right now, Mike.

The place is full of customers. Maybe . . . Can I call you back in five

minutes?”“Of course,” Tucker said. The call back was part of the routine they

went through every time it was necessary for them to communicate. “I'll give

you the number I'm calling from. You have something to write with?”“Wait . . .

Yeah, here's a pencil. Go ahead, Mike.”After Tucker gave him the number, the

old man read it back. Neither of them had mentioned the area code, an omission

that would have made the number meaningless to anyone who might be listening

in on the line.“I don't want to wait here too long,” Tucker said.“I'll get

back to you in five minutes. Promise.”The dark-eyed man hung up.All the papers

that he carried—driver's license, credit cards, museum membership—identified

him as Michael Tucker, although Tucker was not his real last name. His legal

surname was well known to readers of the Times society and financial pages

because his father's wealth commanded both respect and envy. However, he felt

more comfortable with his alias because the Tucker identity had not been

contami-nated by his father. He did not merely hate the old man, he loathed

him. When he was masquerading as Michael Tucker, he felt fresh and clean; and

he could almost con-vince himself that there was no blood tie between him and

his father. The Tucker identity was a release from unpleasant associations and

certain burdensome responsibilities. Besides, when you broke the law to earn

your living, you were wise to use a name that could not be traced back to

you.The hotel corridor remained quiet. Far down at the other end, past the

public restrooms and the entrance to the bar that would open later in the day,

dishes rattled in the coffee shop. Someone laughed, voices rose in good humor,

but no one turned the corner and came Tucker's way.Finally the telephone

rang.“Clitus?”“Hello, Mike. How are things with you?” He had left the bookshop

for a public phone. Traffic noises filled the air behind him.“Not bad,” Tucker

said. “How's Dotty?”“Couldn't be better,” Felton said. “She's taking

belly-dancing lessons.”Tucker laughed. “What is she—sixty-four?”“Sixty-three,”

Felton said. “I told her she'd be making a fool of herself. But you know

something? When she comes home from the lessons and shows me what she's

learned, she gets me so excited I'm like a honeymooning bridegroom again.” His

own chuckle complemented Tucker's laugh. “But this isn't what you called

about. You got my letter?”“An hour ago,” Tucker said.The letter had been in

the morning's mail at Tucker's midtown Manhattan post-office box: a white

envelope with no return address. He knew it was from Clitus before he opened

it because he received letters exactly like it once every month or so. Half

that often, it was something worth follow-ing up. Clitus Felton earned his way

as liaison between criminal free-lancers on the East Coast. Once he had been

in the business himself, pulling off two or three big robberies a year. But he

was old now, sixty-eight, nearly forty years older than Tucker. And he had

retired because Dotty was afraid that his luck was running out. However, after

six months in the bookstore, he had known he would be unhappy as long as he

was permanently estranged from the old life, the old excitement. Therefore, he

had contacted friends and offered his middle-man services. He kept names,

aliases, and ad-dresses all in his head, and when someone contacted him to

find the right partners for a job, Felton considered the possi-bilities and

wrote a few letters and tried to help. In return, he got five per cent of the

take if the job went as planned. It was second-hand excitement, but it kept

him going.“Your letter mentioned bank work,” Tucker said. “You know I don't

like bank work.”“The letter also mentioned that it was different from your

usual bank work,” Felton said. “It's very different. Safer, surer, with a

bigger-than-average reward.”“Where?”“California.”“That's a long way from

home,” Tucker said.“It's always best to work that way,” the old man said.

“Don't you agree?”“I guess I do.”At the far end of the corridor a young couple

turned the corner and started down the long hall toward Tucker. The girl was

searching the bottom of her purse and passing change over to the young man

with her. Clearly they were going to use one of the pay phones.“I can't talk

much longer,” Tucker said. “Can we get down to basic facts?”“You should get in

touch with Frank Meyers,” Felton said. “You know him? Ever worked with him

before?”“No.”“He's right there in your city.”“Is this his job?”“Yeah. He lived

in California for a while—that's where he got the idea,” Felton said. “He's a

good man.”“We'll see,” Tucker said, watching the young couple as they drew

nearer. The boy had hair to his shoulders and looked out of place in a

well-cut business suit. The girl was dark and pretty. “When can you set up a

meeting?”“I'll give you his home address,” Felton said.Tucker frowned. “He

doesn't mind my knowing it? He's that careless?”“He isn't careless,” Felton

said. “He—”“I don't like working with a man who can't separate his

professional and private lives.”“Not everyone's as fanatical about that as you

are,” the old man said. “Lots of guys have been in the business for years and

years, not separating anything, and they haven't taken any falls. I can name

dozens.”“Sooner or later they'll get bitten,” Tucker said.“Then you aren't

interested in this?” Felton asked.“I'm interested,” Tucker said. He had to be

interested because he needed the money. He took a note pad and pen from his

jacket pocket and copied down Frank Meyers' address.“I'm sure you'll like the

setup once Frank explains it to you,” Felton said. “If you don't . . . Tell

Frank to let me know if you aren't interested. I know I can find someone else

for him.”“I'll do that,” Tucker said.“It really is a sweet job, Mike.”“I hope

so. I need it right now. Otherwise, I wouldn't even give this one a second

thought.”“He's good. I guarantee it.”“Give Dotty my love,” Tucker said as the

young couple stopped at the telephone next to his.“Good luck, Mike.”“Sure,”

Tucker said, hooking the receiver in its cradle. He smiled at the girl, nodded

at the boy, and walked back toward the main stairs.

The apartment house on Seventy-ninth Street was not yet unfit enough to be

slated for demolition, but it was getting there. The front steps were badly

cracked and hoved up, the concrete eroding away as if it were not much

sturdier than loose sand. Scarred, badly weathered, the outer foyer door was

centered with a sheet of heavy, cracked, grime-smeared glass. The foyer

itself, dirty and dimly lighted, boasted a rather complex mosaic floor, but

more than a hundred of the tiny tiles were missing.Tucker checked the

mailboxes against the address that Clitus Felton had given him: Meyers, 3C. He

did not have to ring Meyers to get inside the building because the security

lock on the inner door was broken. Anyone could walk in and out as he pleased.

Tucker went in and climbed the steps to the third floor.The man who answered

the door of 3C looked more like cheap muscle than an idea man. He was about

six feet, weighed maybe two-twenty, giving him three inches and sixty pounds

on Tucker. His face was square and hard, framed by short yellow hair and

enlivened by a pair of intensely blue eyes.“Meyers?” Tucker asked.“Yeah?” His

voice was low and rough. Tucker knew the sound of it and what it meant.

Someone had once stomped on the big man's throat, giving him an Andy Devine

imitation for a voice. His neck was not inflamed or swollen, which meant it

had happened a long time ago.“I'm Tucker.”Meyers blinked, surprised. He wiped

one hand across his face, trying to pull off his confusion as if it were a

mask. His bright blue eyes seemed slightly unfocused. “But . . . You just

called a couple of minutes ago.”“I used the telephone booth on the

corner.”“Oh.”Standing there in the shabby hallway where he might be seen by

anyone entering or leaving another apartment, Tucker was getting impatient

with Meyers. “Do I have to say a secret password or something?”“What?” Meyers

asked.“To get in. I need a secret word?”“Oh, no. Sorry,” the big man said,

stepping back out of the way. “Didn't expect you so soon, that's all. You

caught me off guard.”Tucker was uncomfortably certain that it did not take

much to catch Frank Meyers off guard. How in the hell had a sound head like

Clitus Felton become involved with an ox like this?He entered the apartment,

sidled past Meyers, and went on through the dingy little reception area. The

living room measured ten by twenty feet and had four large windows, yet it

seemed like a closet. The walls had once been clean and white but had since

yellowed and now were gradually turning brown at the edges as if subjected to

a great and relentless heat. Like lumps of charred matter, the furniture was

all dark and heavy and ugly. Everything was overstuffed, shape-less. And there

was too much of it: a pair of squat gray sofas, three unmatched easy chairs, a

low-slung coffee table, end tables, pole lamps, table lamps, a desk, a hutch,

a television set . . . Tucker thought the place must have come fur-nished and

that Meyers had added considerable belongings of his own to what the landlord

provided.“Sit down, sit down!” the big man said, motioning to the easy chairs.

Tucker sat on one of the sofas. “Can I get you something to drink?”“No,

thanks,” Tucker said.“A beer? I've got Scotch, vodka, rum . . . How about a

rum and Coke?” He rubbed his hands together incessantly. They were calloused

and made a soft hissing noise.He could see that Meyers was nervous—rather,

curiously agitated. Though he did not want a drink at eleven-thirty in the

morning, he was willing to take one if it would help to relax the other man.

“Vodka and ice. But a small one.”“Sure,” Meyers said. “Back in a second.” He

went out to the kitchen, where he started rattling bottles and glasses.Tucker

studied the room more closely than he had been able to do when Meyers was

there. He saw that the place was not only overcrowded with furniture but

cluttered as well with dirty whiskey glasses, week-old newspapers, empty and

crumpled cigarette packages . . . The worn maroon carpet had not been swept

for weeks, perhaps not for months. The end tables, television, and coffee

tables were sheathed in jackets of gray dust.Could Frank Meyers possibly be an

idea man, a group leader? The concept was ludicrous as far as Tucker was

concerned. How could Meyers conceive, plan, and execute an intricate crime

when he could not even manage to keep his own living room clean? What was

wrong with Clitus Felton? Why would he work with a man like this? Or was it

possible that the old man had known Meyers years ago when he was something

better than he seemed to be now?Meyers, returned from the kitchen and gave

Tucker his drink. He took his own whiskey over to one of the easy chairs and,

holding the small glass in both hands, sat down.For the first time Tucker saw

that the man reflected his sloppily kept apartment. His trousers were

unpressed, his white shirt a rumpled mess. He had not shaved in a couple of

days, and his yellow whiskers were beginning to cast soft shadows over his

face.“You aren't what I expected,” Meyers said.“Oh?”“I thought you'd be

older.”“I'm twenty-nine,” Tucker said.“That's awfully young.” Meyers sipped

his whiskey and watched Tucker over the rim of the glass. His eyes were wide

and slightly bloodshot.“You?” Tucker asked.“Forty-one.”“You aren't that far

ahead of me.”“How long you been in the business?”“About three and a half

years,” Tucker said.“Pulled my first job more than twenty years ago.” He

sounded faintly nostalgic, like a high school jock recalling his biggest game,

as if he longed to relive those early years.That was a bad sign. When a man

began to yearn for the past, he was not doing very well in the present. And

when a thief longed for the past, it also meant that he expected to get nailed

by the cops in the near future. It meant he was losing faith in himself and

that he could not be fully trusted.Tucker knew he should stand up and get out

of there. He could see that Meyers was trouble.But he did need the money . . .

His share from the hijacking of a Mafia cash collection, split only three

months ago, had run out even though it had been a substantial sum. He lived

extremely well, and he wanted to keep living ex-tremely well, wanted to keep

the Park Avenue apartment, the art work, all of it . . .He had been offered

two other jobs recently, but he had turned them both down when they failed to

meet one or the other of the three criteria he had set for a robbery. First of

all he never robbed individuals, but hit institutions like insurance

companies, banks, department stores—and the Mafia, once. Second, he would work

only when he was the undisputed boss, when the plans for the operation were

marked with his personal and careful attention to detail. Finally, the job had

to feel good to him, had to appeal to some internal gauge that, as

indescribable and indefinable as it was, had never yet failed him. He rejected

a great many deals that ultimately worked out for other people. He passed up

potentially rewarding opportunities. However, his caution and his three

criteria had thus far kept him out of jail.“Something else about you,” Meyers

said, still looking at him over the whiskey glass.Tucker waited.“You don't

look like what you are.”Tucker still said nothing.“What do I look like?”

Meyers asked. Then he answered his own question: “Muscle. I look like a cheap

hood. That's how I got started, and I'll never shake the image.” He fin-ished

his drink and put the glass on the water-ringed coffee table. “Everyone I ever

worked with . . . You could tell they were in the business. It was stamped on

them. But you look like some hot-shot young executive.”“Thanks,” Tucker

said.“No offense meant.”“Or taken.”“I just meant that you don't look like a

hood. And that's just great. That's a plus in this business.”“I'm not a hood,”

Tucker said. “I'm a thief.”“Same thing,” Meyers said, though it was not the

same thing at all to Tucker. “As clean cut as you look, you'd make a good

front man in an operation.”Tucker had been holding his vodka, but he had not

drunk much of it. The day was too new to support liquor. Besides, after

studying Frank Meyers and the man's apartment, Tucker wondered how well the

glass had been washed. He finally put it down. “Speaking of operations, what

about this one of yours?”“I still don't know much about you,” the big man

said, shifting uncomfortably in the easy chair.“What do you need to

know?”“Clitus recommended you. I guess that ought to be enough . . . But what

are some things you've done? Who have you worked with?”Reluctantly, Tucker

leaned back in the stale-smelling couch. He did not want to stay here any

longer than he had to, for the disorder and filth put him on edge. However,

Meyers was beginning, just beginning, to sound like a careful man. Perhaps he

was more and better than he appeared to be. There might be a safe profit in

the job after all. “You ever hear about the armored car hit in Boston two

years ago? Allied Transport truck was knocked over for six hundred thousand.

Four men did the job.”“I heard of it. That was yours?” Meyers leaned forward,

shoulders hunched, interested.Tucker explained how it had been done, whom he

had worked with. He did not try to make it sound better than it was. He did

not need to gloss it over, for it had been a perfect caper, cleverly planned

from the start. There was no way, in the telling, to improve upon it.“Now

you,” Tucker said when he finished talking about himself.Whether he had

planned them or not, Frank Meyers had been in on some good bits of business

over the years. And he had worked with many of the right people. He did not

appear to be a sound, seasoned, successful operator, but apparently he was. In

his retellings he was as straightforward and brief as Tucker had been. His

record was not as flashy as the younger man's, but it was solid and impressive

in its own way.“Anything else you want to know about me?” Meyers asked.“Yes.

What's the job you've got now?”“You don't like the preliminaries, do you?”

Meyers asked, smiling.“No.”The big man drained the water from the melted ice

cubes in his whiskey glass, shoved to his feet. “Come on out to the kitchen.

It'll be easier to go over the plans.”The kitchen was small and certainly as

poorly kept as the living room had been. Dirty dishes filled the sink. The

waste-basket was overflowing with used paper towels, empty car-tons, and open

cans that were crusted around the edges with the food that they had once

contained. The cracked lino-leum was stained in dozens of spots and was filmed

overall with the grime of day-to-day city life.A cockroach was feasting on

bread crumbs by the refriger-ator. It sensed their footsteps and scuttled for

cover under the oven.“We'll use the table here,” Meyers said. He removed a

dirty plate and a set of silverware left over from breakfast— or perhaps from

the previous night's supper. He ran his big hands over the top of the dinette,

satisfied himself that there was nothing sticky or wet to get in their

way.“Clitus told me it was a bank job,” Tucker said. He stood at one end of

the table, preferring not to sit down.“That's right,” Meyers rasped. “And a

sweet one.”“I don't like bank work,” Tucker said. “There are too damned many

risks. You've got to deal with fancy alarm systems, closed-circuit television,

heroic tellers, panicky pa-trons, guards, limited getaway routes . . .”“This

is different,” Meyers said, echoing Clitus Felton. He went to the bread box

that sat on the counter by the sink and removed a large, folded paper from

beneath a tin of store-bought sweet rolls. “When you see the setup, you'll

love it.”When he saw the setup, Tucker thought, he would more than likely

laugh in Frank Meyers's face and then get the hell out of there.But there was

nothing to be gained by leaving before Meyers said his piece. The big man

might just have some-thing after all. That distracted look had finally left

his blue eyes. He seemed to be more alert, less pumped up with nervous energy,

and more inclined to get down to the facts. He was still rumpled and somewhat

sour smelling, but he no longer looked as if he belonged in this pigsty of an

apart-ment. Obviously the thought of this bank job energized and lifted him.

Which might mean something. Or nothing.Meyers unfolded the paper on top of the

kitchen table and stepped back to give Tucker a good look at it.It was a

carefully rendered diagram of a large building. The paper itself was a

four-foot square, and the scale was twenty-five feet to the inch. It was well

drawn, full of names and shorthand descriptions.“The bank?” Tucker asked,

impressed by the detail. He bent closer, squinting at the writing.“No,” Meyers

said. “It's the full layout of a small shop-ping center near Santa Monica.

Nineteen stores, all under one roof.”“Nineteen stores,” Tucker said, not

believing it. “Nine-teen stores—and one bank.”“That's right.”“You want to hit

a bank that's situated in the center of a goddamned enclosed shopping mall,”

Tucker said, incredu-lous. “Is that it?” He half turned away from the diagram

and stared hard at Meyers. The big man had to be joking.He was serious. His

broad face was creased by a silly but sincere grin. “I want that bank. That's

mainly what we're after, naturally. But I also want two or three of the very

best stores in the place.”Tucker just stared at him.“Stores,” Meyers repeated.

“Jewelry, furs, antiques . . .”“I understood you the first time.”“Do the

logistics bother you?” Meyers asked.“They don't bother you?”“No.”“They

should.”“If you'll look more closely at the drawing,” Meyers said, “you'll see

that there are only four entrances to the mall.” He held up four thick

fingers, as if he thought Tucker might need some learning reinforcement. “We

can gain control of all the doors and then clean out everything worth taking.”

He laughed at Tucker's expression. “Sounds crazy, doesn't it?”“Absolutely,”

Tucker said. He turned completely away from the table. “And you can count me

out.”Meyers stopped grinning. “Wait a minute.” He laid one heavy hand on

Tucker's shoulder. “It really is possible. It's safe. It's the sweetest thing

I've ever come across.”Tucker grimaced, shrugged.Meyers took the hint. He

moved his hand.“Look,” Tucker said, “even if you had control of the four mall

doors, what would you do with all of the customers? That place will be full of

them any day of the week. Shop-pers coming and going, in and out . . .”“I'm

aware of that.”“Glad to hear it.”Meyers's hoarse voice was touched by anxiety.

“Believe me, I've got it all figured out. I'm no amateur. Those people won't

bother us.”Tucker ignored him, because he was pretty much con-vinced that

whatever Meyers had “figured out” would be full of holes. “And what are you

going to do about the tele-phones?”“Telephones?”“There, must be a hundred or

more public and private phones in a shopping mall that size. Are you going to

be able to put them all out of use before anyone in there can call the

cops?”“We won't have to worry about the telephones,” Meyers said. He was

grinning again, though only tentatively. He resembled a big clumsy hound that

wanted approval, affec-tion, congratulations. But there was a decidedly human

desperation in his eyes.“Furthermore,” Tucker continued, “you'd need an army

to hold the mall, once you'd taken it.”“Just four or five men,” Meyers said

hastily.“Is that right?” Tucker turned, started for the kitchen door.“Wait a

minute,” Meyers said. “I'm not stupid. I know what the hell I'm doing.” His

anger was feigned. It was only meant to arrest Tucker, to make him listen for

another moment. In the middle of the cluttered living room he caught Tucker by

the arm and stopped him. “We wouldn't hit the damned place during shopping

hours. I never said that.”Tucker sighed, pulled loose of the big man's hand.

He worked his shoulders to straighten his coat. “It's still no good. This

would be twice as difficult as any normal after-hours bank job. You'd have two

sets of alarms to deal with—the mall's and the bank's systems.”Meyers shook

his burly head. His close-cropped hair glinted like metal bristles. “No

alarms.”“A bank without alarms?”“Come back to the kitchen with me,” Meyers

said. He was almost pleading now. His desperation, whatever the source of it,

was growing sharper by the minute. “Look at the diagram and listen to me. Hear

me out. I won't keep you long. But . . . Right now you don't have any idea

what's up my sleeve.”“And I don't think I want to know,” Tucker said.“Felton

deals with me!” Meyers said. His whispery voice now contained a note of pride,

a curious dignity that was at odds with his slovenly appearance. “I'm not a

loser. I've been in this business all my life. I've been successful at it,

too.”Tucker looked around at the dirty walls, the unswept carpet, the tattered

furniture. “If you've been so terribly suc-cessful what are you doing in a

place like this?”Following the younger man's gaze, Meyers seemed to see the

apartment for the first time. He coughed, wiped his face with both hands, a

man trying to slough off the insubstantial but disconcerting residue of a

nightmare. “I have one weak-ness.”“Is that right?”“Women.”“That's no

weakness.”“It is with me.” Meyers's right hand went to his throat. His blunt

fingers traced a series of vague, pale scars that Tucker now saw for the first

time. Someone had stomped on his throat, or had opened it with a quick knife.

Right now Meyers looked as if he could still feel the flesh parting under the

blade. “I get ahead, pull a few good jobs, build up a cushion, figure I don't

have any worries . . . Then I hook up with a woman. And she takes it all away

from me. You know how it is. Women are parasites.”“Maybe yours are,” Tucker

said. “Mine isn't.”“Then you're damned lucky,” Meyers said. “Mine are always

parasites.” But there was a false note in his voice, a lack of conviction. He

did not sound like a woman hater—or like a man who would let anyone, man or

woman, take money away from him. “Look, we aren't here to talk about women.

Come back to the kitchen. Give me ten minutes to explain everything. I know

you'll want in on this as soon as you understand what it is.”“I already know

what it is,” Tucker said sourly. “It's a bank job with especially high risks.

I'm not that desperate for money.”“Sure you are,” Meyers said. He chuckled.

“If you weren't desperate, you'd be long gone by now. You're small, but you

wouldn't let me stop you so easily unless you wanted to be stopped. You'd flip

me on my ass and walk out that door. No . . . You want to hear the whole

scheme, but right now you're playing little games so that you can learn more

about me.”Tucker smiled. Meyers was entirely correct, and it was to his credit

that he had perceived the situation so clearly. Maybe he was a better man than

he appeared to be.“Ten minutes?”“Okay,” Tucker agreed.“Let's go out to the

kitchen and look at the diagram again.” The big man led the way.Fifteen

minutes later Meyers thumped the top of the kitchen table with one clenched

fist. “That's the whole plan, every last detail. Smooth as silk. What do you

think?”“It's extremely clever,” Tucker admitted, still studying the whiteprint

of Oceanview Plaza, the shopping mall. “But there are a few problems.”The

anxiety returned to Meyers's voice. “Problems?”“You don't seem to have given

any thought to weapons,” Tucker said. “Have you?”“We don't need anything

fancy.” Meyers rubbed his hands together as if he were soaping them under a

hot-water spigot. “Each man can supply his own piece.”“I disagree,” Tucker

said. “In the first stages of this job you're going to have two professional

guards, probably ex-cops, and you're going to have to subdue them quickly. One

of them is bound to be a hero type. But he's less likely to become a real

threat if he's faced with a gun that intimidates him. The bigger and uglier

the guns, the less trouble you'll have with the people on the other end of

them. It's just good psychology.”Meyers continued to lather his hands with

invisible soap. “We can't conceal machine guns under our coats.”“They don't

have to be machine guns.”“What else?”“Let me worry about that. I have a good

contact. He'll find something suitable.”Meyers licked his heavy lips. “I

didn't expect to have to finance this operation.”“I'll put up for the guns,”

Tucker said.“Then you're in?”Tucker looked at the diagram for a long while,

admired the work Meyers had put into it. Then he let his eyes move around the

kitchen, from the filthy dishes in the sink to the pair of cockroaches that

had come out in the far corner in bold defiance of the human presence. “I'm

in—but only if this is my job.”“It's your job,” Meyers said.“I don't know if

you fully understand me.” Tucker began to fold up the diagram of the shopping

mall. “I make all the decisions, right down the line.”Meyers nodded rapidly.

He walked quickly to the sink, turned on his heel, leaned against the

drainboard, then came away almost at once, paced nervously back to the table

as Tucker finished folding the whiteprint. He started lathering his hands

again. “Clitus explained how you work. You always have to be in charge of the

operation. I accept that.”“Just so we're straight with each other from the

start.”“I don't mind,” Meyers said. “You've got a good reputa-tion, so I trust

you. The only thing that really matters is getting a team together, getting

the job done.” He was growing increasingly agitated, as on edge as he had been

when Tucker had first come into the apartment. He wanted badly to get on with

the job, wanted to set it up and knock it off as fast as possible. Apparently

he needed money even worse than Tucker did. However, he looked as if he

required it for something more essential than food, a new apartment, and a new

woman. “What kind of split would you want?”“A third,” Tucker said.Meyers

winced, turned away, wheeled back again, rubbing his hands together

incessantly. “Hey, that's steep.”“It's the same thing that you'll be getting.”

Tucker gave him the folded diagram, chiefly to keep him from lathering his

hands. “We'll need only one more man for this, and we'll divide the take three

ways, even shares for everybody.”“One more man?”“Someone to break the safe,

two safes if necessary,” Tucker said.“But we can't pull this off with less

than four or five men,” Meyers insisted.Tucker smiled. “Just watch us.”

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Surrounded“”[Version2.0byBuddyDk–Oktober92003][Easyread,easyprint][Completelynewscan][frontflap:]Thesecondfast-movingthrillerbyBrianCoffeyfeaturingMikeTucker,artdealer,heirtoavastunobtainablefortuneandhighlysuccessfulprofessionalthief.HeispersuadedtoleadMeyersandBatesintherobberyofanexclusiveCalifor...

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