Duke City Split Read Online Free Page B

the back wall. Mick looked it over carefully. The wooden box was covered by a fine layer of dust, and its padlock appeared untouched. He opened the footlocker and made sure nothing inside—guns, disguises, masks—had been disturbed.
    He pulled a black trash bag out of his pocket and popped it open, then began selecting the items he thought they’d need. He put them in the trash bag, one after another, then twisted the top closed and hefted the bag into the trunk of the Charger. Then he locked up the footlocker and the storage unit and drove home.
    Mick lived in a furnished apartment in central Albuquerque, in an area where the streets were named after presidents. Only eight units in his quiet complex, mostly occupied by senior citizens. Across the street, a bare-dirt lot populated only by weeds. He had lived in number 6 for nearly a year, which meant he’d be moving again soon. He never stayed in one place for long, a habit picked up when he was a kid, bumming around the desert Southwest with his dad, a shiftless, violent drunk. The only family Mick had, and he was long dead now. Best day of his life had been when he buried the son of a bitch.
    The only time Mick had kept the same address for long was four years in the NewMexico correctional system, starting when he was nineteen years old. He’d stuck up a gas station and walked outside right into the waiting arms of a state cop. The usual whirlwind followed: an armed robbery charge, his picture in the newspaper, a public defender, a judge with a chip on his shoulder. Next thing he knew, he was spending all his time fending off amorous cellmates. It wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat.
    Once Mick got paroled, he’d quickly learned that life wasn’t much easier on the outside for an ex-con. Nobody would hire him, and most landlords slammed their doors in his face. After a year of trying to go straight, he hooked up with an old bandit named Art Durante, who taught him how to knock over banks. Art’s other apprentice had been a car thief named Bud Knox. Wasn’t long before Art retired and moved to Florida. Mick and Bud had been partners ever since. Fourteen years. Nearly thirty banks.
    Bud was settled now, happy in the shady suburban house Linda picked in the Northeast Heights, but Mick kept on the move, restless, cautious. He’d lived in three apartments in the past five years, each in a different part of Albuquerque.
    He liked the current place, with its quiet tenants and its well-tended flower beds. Inside, the furnished apartment looked almost exactly the same as it did the day he’d arrived. Mick kept personal possessions to a minimum; nothing there he couldn’t leave behind.
    He carried the trash bag through the living room and set it on the floor inside the bedroom closet. Didn’t bother to look inside again. The rest could wait until Sunday night.

Chapter 9
    Bud waited until his daughters were in bed on Sunday before calling Mick and giving him the all-clear. As he hung up the phone, Linda said behind him, “Are you sure about this?”
    He plastered a smile on his face as he turned to her. “It’ll be fine. Try not to worry. By this time tomorrow it’ll be over, and we’ll be sitting on a nice fat retirement fund.”
    She frowned. “I don’t know, Bud. I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”
    “Don’t say that, hon. You don’t want to jinx us.”
    “You always say you don’t believe in luck, good or bad.”
    “True. I believe in preparation. We’ve got everything in place. Right on schedule.”
    “But why do you need to spend the night with Mick?”
    “Last minute stuff. And we’ve got to be ready when the bank opens tomorrow.”
    He looked past her, down the hall, to make sure one of the girls hadn’t sneaked within earshot.
    “We don’t want the girls to see me putting on a disguise in the morning,” he said.
    Linda frowned at him.
    “I’ll call you as soon as we’re clear,” he said.
    “I’ve got to see a client at