Page 36 of Dirty Reads

TEN

Dick

STEALING drug money is one of the easiest ways to get killed, but the cash return for the typical job is tenfold what any bank job would produce.

Contrary to what is shown on television shows and movies, most banks don’t keep much more than $100,000 on hand. Smaller neighborhood banks may not have $10,000. Robbing a bank of their cash on hand is a huge risk with minimal return.

Safe deposit boxes often provide a much better return versus risk, but unless someone has provided information regarding a particular box’s contents, knowing what’s inside prior to the theft is impossible.

I needed the money I lost in the diamond deal, and a little more.

A million more.

According to my sources, the one-bedroom shack in the barrio was going to have two million dollars in cash in it with one person guarding the money between 9:00 and 10:00 pm.

If they were wrong, and there was more than one person, I’d be dead in a matter of seconds. A certain portion of the successes a thief has must be attributed to blind luck, and I was hoping mine hadn’t run out.

The small house was amongst many others like it in a prominently poor neighborhood in the barrio. It wasn’t uncommon for homes such as the one I was going to raid to be used for a one-time drug deal, and more often than not they weren’t even owned. They were abandoned homes that were used by the dealers for the amount of time it took to obtain the drugs, distribute them, and haul out the proceeds.

Often without running water or electricity, they used candles and battery powered lights for illumination.

Based on the dim flicker around the edge of the window covering, my guess was this particular home was using candles.

I just hoped there wasn’t more than one person present.

Dressed in black SWAT gear and carrying a Heckler and Koch MP5 9mm submachine gun, I looked like a police officer. The backpack I carried didn’t make me look very official, but it would aid me in a quick escape. The fake business cards in my wallet identified me as a Federal Drug Enforcement Agent. The badge on my vest was as close to official as could ever be produced.

But if the home was full of occupants, credentials wouldn’t matter.

Gunshots would be fired long before I would ever have an opportunity to produce them.

I lowered my shoulders and hustled through the yard. Once at the back door, I listened for voices and heard nothing. One deep breath, half exhaled, and…

Holding the machinegun at the ready, I kicked the door in.

A Hispanic man standing in the dimly lit kitchen pulled a revolver from his holster but didn’t point it at me. He appeared to be no more than 17 years old. There was no doubt in my mind the bulletproof vest I wore would stop the caliber of slug the revolver would fire, but I wasn’t in the risk taking business.

“No se mueven, yo soy un agente federal!” I shouted.

Don’t move, I’m a federal agent!

His eyes shot wide.

He raised the pistol.

I fired one round into his shoulder, knocking him to the floor.

“Es nadie en la casa?” I asked as I reached for his pistol.

Is anyone else here?

He shook his head and groaned.

I pointed the silenced submachinegun at his head. “Tu dinero o tu vida,” I warned.

Your money or your life.

His eyes motioned to the adjoining room.